He was about to hand Faleiro his glass when the power went off. Goel’s servant materialized from the kitchen, holding a lit candle. Changing the subject, Faleiro said he had always been interested in Hindustani classical but it seemed to him the kind of thing which required some help—one couldn’t start off just like that, the way one did with rock music.

Goel said he’d be happy to lend his CDs. They could spend some time listening to ragas together. He could point things out to Faleiro. There were good concerts coming up in Delhi in October. Maybe they could go for those.

Faleiro nodded but didn’t say anything. He was thinking about something else. Goel wondered if he had said too much.

Dinner was a quiet affair. There were few customers, probably because of the rain. A lady at the adjoining table complained loudly that the Thai green curry was not as good as last time, that standards were slipping. Goel ordered a plate of fish and chips and Faleiro, a club sandwich. They ate in silence. At one point Goel said the fish was very fresh; would Faleiro like to try some? ‘Sure,’ said Faleiro, extending his fork across the table.

They drove back through wet, empty streets. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Faleiro asked if he could smoke in the car. ‘Smoke as many as you want,’ Goel said, rolling down his window, ‘I used to smoke till very recently. Then I quit.’

‘Really? Was it difficult?’

‘Yes and no. My servant used to go every morning to get me a pack of Marlboro Lights. One day, when he was handing me the pack after breakfast, I thought to myself: screw it! I told him to keep the cigarettes. He’s a smoker himself. Bas, that was it. I haven’t smoked since.’

Faleiro lit a second cigarette. Goel looked at his watch, then turned his head to gaze at the empty roads. Not even eleven, yet not a soul in sight. The shops all shuttered. Very few streetlights. Darkness everywhere. He turned to Faleiro and said, ‘You know something? I really admire you at times. How have you managed to live here for so long? I’ll die if I don’t get a transfer to Delhi soon. This town is such a fucking shithole.’

The Nick of Time

Mayank woke at two in the morning and thought it was closer to two in the afternoon. This happened to him often.

He had been in Oxford for a year. Twelve months down the line he was still struggling to come to terms with the weather. The sky remained overcast for weeks on end, an untiring drizzle fell over scowling gargoyles and the tops of umbrellas, slid off the shoulders of raincoats. A uniform light coloured the day, regardless of the hour.