The two boys, both around nineteen, went for him. They punched him in the stomach, then the mouth. As he doubled over they pushed him to the ground from behind. Angad’s head hit the side of the pavement. The boys took his wristwatch and emptied out his wallet. They searched the bag but finding nothing inside left it behind.

At around four in the morning, a Delhi Police Gypsy drew up next to where Angad lay face down on the pavement. Two cops got out. One of them began to kick Angad, but, to be fair, he only kicked at the shins and the ankles—he was being kind. The other picked up Angad’s bag and, without bothering to check inside, said, ‘Chalo, chalo, let’s go. It’s too cold here.’

When Angad opened his eyes, he felt a hot tongue on his forehead, he tasted blood on his own tongue. There were dogs all around him, drawn, no doubt, by the sight of his crumpled body, intrigued by the smell of his blood. When he tried to pick himself up they backed away snarling.

Back in Okhla Basti, it was seven in the morning. People were spitting, shitting, having sweet, milky tea, getting ready for a new day. Ilyas was smoking his first chillum. ‘Jai, jai, Shiv Shankar, na kaanta lage na kankar,’ he chanted, before taking the mother of all pulls. A sadhu—Tiger Baba—sat next to him, sharing the chillum and coughing his tubercular cough. The morning lot had begun to arrive for their fix. Opposite Nasir bhai’s parlour, the old man who bred racing pigeons pottered about outside his shack, cleaning his teeth with a neem twig. At night he covered the cages with gunnysack in order to keep the pigeons warm. He walked up and down, neem twig in mouth, single-handedly removing the sacks. The pigeons hopped about randomly, setting up a huge racket as soon as they felt the first rays of the sun on their backs. The old man’s wife stood framed in the kitchen window. A pressure cooker blew steam in her face.

By now Dheeraj had joined Ilyas and Tiger Baba. They watched the old man at work with his pigeons. Soon he would open the doors to the cages and the birds would be all over him. ‘Where’s Angad?’ asked Dheeraj, ‘I woke up at six and he wasn’t there.’ ‘Must have gone home at some point,’ said Ilyas. ‘Must have taken a cab. One night in the slum probably proved too much for babyface. Left behind his jacket and cap though.’