He was very cold by now. He had forgotten to bring his jacket and cap. The fog formed a thick curtain. Angad could hardly see. He was mumbling to himself. Strange, incoherent thoughts kept popping into his head and out of his mouth: ‘Baby, do you remember,’ he muttered, ‘when your father threw you on a gas stove. You had a black eye, burn marks on your forearm . . . I kissed you there . . . chutiya Sai Baba . . . how could you? You didn’t need to . . . she’s into Sai Bai—that Slash look alike . . . no, no the other one, the one with the bandana . . . that’s right, the Axl Rose look alike . . . let’s do a nose rub, boo . . . we could have . . . why did you?’ By now Angad had left the main road and turned into a lane. His steps stubbornly refused to trace a straight line.

His head was a spinning top, a mad jumble of broken bangles—a kaleidoscope gone awry. And no amount of turning was going to produce the neat geometrical figures that used to fall into place so effortlessly in the past.

He heard footsteps behind him. He wasn’t sure. His brainpan concealed all kinds of voices and sounds. Then he stopped and turned around. There seemed to be two people standing in front of him. ‘Hello,’ said Angad, ‘we’re all in it together, mate. It happens to you, it happens to me. My father’s a very nice guy, you know. You should meet him sometime.’ Then, sensing that something was wrong, Angad said, ‘Website. You guys want a website? No problem. I’ll give you as many as you want. Flowers too. All the way from Holland. But whatever you do please don’t go to the train station. You hear me? Never go to the train station.’

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.