It’s a question I am asked often. I was once chased in Connaught Place by a man shouting, Money change? Young boys? Manali Cream? I’ll always remember him as some sort of an illegitimate supermarket on wheels. Pooja, like most people, seems surprised, even disappointed, on learning of my native origins.

My beer is finished by now. I get up to get another. She is standing next to my chair, looking at the books again. I brush against her deliberately. She looks at her watch.

Are you sure you don’t want a drink? I ask again.

She turns around and smiles at me: How much do you drink? Then, without waiting for an answer, she says: My boyfriend Raj drinks quite a bit. Especially, when he is not in a good mood. She finds this funny and bursts into giggles. Anyway, what do you have apart from beer? Momentarily unsettled by the mention of a boyfriend, I stare at her blankly. What else do you have to drink apart from beer, silly? she repeats, laughing for the first time since she stepped into the room.

Some gin and some vodka, I state blandly. She wants to see the bottles. I fetch them from the top of the refrigerator. Now she wants to smell the booze. I open both bottles and she brings the mouth of each to her nose, gingerly, gracefully, as if she is smelling carnations. Having decided on the gin, she demands a glass and some water. I give her the glass; she fixes herself a stiff one. I find the 5 litre Bisleri dispenser and pour some water into the tumbler. She laughs at the size of the dispenser—it’s the size of a bucket—and comments on how absurd it looks in comparison to the glass. She gulps the drink down in one go. She asks for a repeat and gulps that down as well. Then she goes back to the magazine with Michelle on the cover. I return to the chair and start rolling a joint.

What’s that? she asks, suddenly sounding very serious and proper.

Ganja. You are most welcome to have some.

She refuses. I light the joint, lean back, and ask if Raj smokes as well.

No, he doesn’t, says Pooja, turning a page in the magazine.

Is the guy who brought you here Raj?

She is clearly bemused by the suggestion. Raj, she says, is not a skinny wimp like the tout. He is tall and handsome and has broad shoulders.

I wonder if Raj really exists or is a mere invention, an imagined saviour, a useful idea.

Meanwhile, Pooja, her tongue loosened by the alcohol, continues talking. She tells me Raj is going to marry her in two months’ time. That’s also when she plans to stop whoring and get a decent job.