An hour went by and Tripathi didn’t even realize it. The food remained untouched. Had he ordered all of this? The 29.5 cm paneer tikka ’n’ green chilli pizza, the spicy chicken fillet burger, the capsicum onion mushroom footlong, the chicken kathi roll, the pint glass full of hot chocolate fudge. He picked up the fork and began playing with the jalapeño peppers on his pizza.

He was worried for Jyoti. Did she really have to do this? She had failed the paper last year. The news of the leaked paper and the ordering of the re-examination had come as a godsend. Now, it was all over. Yadav was his enemy and he would make sure things didn’t get any easier.

How on earth was he supposed to marry her off now? Her oily skin was not going to transform overnight, was it? The pimples on the face were not going to vanish just like that, were they? The frizzy hair, well, she got that from her mother. And the complexion, dark as night . . . now where did that come from? Who would want to marry her? Ugly, 12th pass, Hindi medium. With a BA degree there was a chance that an educated family might accept her. A widower with baggage was the only hope now. Even he wasn’t going to come easy. Tripathi groaned loudly, audibly, at the thought of the huge dowry he would have to raise in order to clinch a deal with this notional widower.

The minutes ticked by in the crowded restaurant. Tripathi’s mind felt numb. He was unable to think any thoughts. His hearing, on the other hand, had become very acute, as if his entire being had transformed itself into a highly sensitive microphone. He could hear the cooks squabbling in the kitchen, the man at the counter whispering orders into a mike, a customer at the next table complaining about the cheese, a group of boys—their voices vaguely familiar—talking about condoms. The last conversation held his attention.

One of the boys had gone into the grocer’s store next door and asked for a packet of Kamasutra condoms, ‘Bhainchod, sun na. I asked him for KS condoms, OK? This fucker gets a ladder, squirrels up to the top shelf, comes down clutching a jar of something. I’m like, “What’s this, dude?” He replies, “Kayam churan, sir, isn’t that what you asked for?”’ The entire group erupted with laughter at the punch line. They stomped their shoes on the floor and banged their fists on the table. They roared loudly, inadvertently shooting tiny globules of spit into the air.