The next day, in the library period, Rachna invites me to sit next to her. I hesitate for a moment. I know there are spies in our class. Mishra will get to know immediately. ‘Come here, sit with me,’ repeats Rachna. Her hair smells of lemon, her hands are tiny and pretty, her eyes are lined with kohl—I allow myself to be seduced. We open a Sportstar and have our first proper conversation. ‘Why did you have to pass a card? Couldn’t you have just said it . . . like with your mouth?’

‘If you don’t like my card you are most welcome to return it.’

There is a pause in the conversation. She decides to overlook my offer. ‘I heard Anand Mishra came to school yesterday,’ she giggles. I look up from the Sportstar, an expression of surprise on my face. ‘What did he say?’ I don’t reply. ‘If you want I will have a word with him,’ she offers, and then, without waiting for a reply, she decides the matter for me. ‘In fact, I will have a word with him. He won’t touch you. You don’t worry. Call me in the evening.’ I dig out the school diary from my bag and write down her number. The bell goes. While we are walking out, Rachna turns to me and says, ‘That card. You know what? You bought it from my shop. The stock came in from Delhi on Saturday. I put it on the display rack on Monday morning.’

The librarian is staring at us. She’s got a squarish face and an oily nose. One can sense her mind is in turmoil. She feels the world is coming to a premature and violent end. Her gaze latches on to our backs like a fish hook and refuses to let go even when we are back in our dingy and damp classroom.

I graduate to calling Rachna up every evening at 5. I have her backing. I never graduate to taking her to the tila, which is a desolate mound on the outskirts of town, at the very edge of the cantonment, overlooking mustard fields. Serious couples come here to plot elopement and discover the sense of touch. There is no place for them on the main drag. They exist on the fringes, away from prying eyes.

I call Rachna every day after my accounts tuition. There is no phone at home so I bicycle down to Kohinoor Chemist in Civil Lines. In the age of the PCO, he is one of the last to have a black, one-rupee slot phone. Drop a one-rupee coin and talk for as long as you like. I usually talk for around three quarters of an hour, then go home. The Babri Masjid has been brought down in Ayodhya. There have been riots across the country. Allahabad is ‘tense but under control’. Like my adolescent dick. My parents want me home before sundown.