What? The two of us? Since when did you become a part of this, boss? I protested. Soumik seemed irritated. Look, he said, trying to sound reasonable, why can’t you be a little more flexible? And then, sounding more and more like a father speaking to an obstinate son, he proposed a deal: Let’s go fifty-fifty on this. I’ll do her in the loo. By now I was angry, almost seething. No, Soumik, I said, in as calm and steady a voice as possible, I’m not sharing her with anyone. Let that be absolutely clear.

I walked to the cupboard and took out a thousand rupees in cash. It was money I could ill afford to spend, but the events of the last few days had shaped up such that I didn’t much care about anything really. I stuffed ten hundred-rupee notes into Roxy’s hands, which, I noticed, were surprisingly well-manicured. He wanted extra money for the auto ride back; I gave him another fifty. He mumbled for some more; I stomped my foot like a child and ordered everyone—except the girl—out. Before Soumik could give me a hurt look I had banged the door shut.

So here we are, the two of us, locked inside my room. My tiny bed-sit which overlooks a service lane on one side, and a small, decrepit park on the other. I sit on a chair made of cane and rope; Pooja takes the chatai, cross-legged. I put the big fluorescent light off and turn on the table lamp. The light falls on her face from behind, lighting up half of it. She looks like a witch, I think. I walk to the fridge and get myself a Kingfisher. I drink straight from the bottle.

An awkward silence descends on the room. I take a sip of the beer and try and think of something to say.

Do you want a drink?

No, she says, shaking her head. She does not look at me. Instead, she runs a finger around the edges of a diamond-shaped pattern on the chatai. I stare at the bottle in my hand.

When I look up she is flipping through a magazine. An issue of Cosmopolitan which has an old schoolmate of mine, Michelle, on the cover. Michelle and I were together when we were fourteen. She was incredibly pretty even then, so beautiful that I never had the courage to talk to her.

Pooja is walking around by now. She looks at the books on my shelf, the CDs on the table, and then, turning to me, exclaims: But they are all in English! I nod my head, confused by her tone of voice, not sure if I should apologize.

Are you and your friend from abroad? she asks, picking up a Pulp CD.