‘How are you?’ he asked the image.

Suddenly he saw someone else in the mirror. ‘Please save me, Madhav,’ said the image. Madhav jerked back, terrified, and fell to the floor. He stood up and looked at the mirror. The image was erect and staring at him. He tried to speak, despite his swollen tongue.

‘Why are you here?’

‘Because I will always be with you.’

‘Please leave me alone, please . . . please,’ he said to himself, hunched on the floor, until the whisky took its toll and he fell asleep. His mother, who later came to check on him, peeked through the keyhole and found him lying on the floor.

Madhav woke up the next morning to the sound of the housemaid shouting. ‘A hundred times I’ve told him not to shove the garbage behind his bed. He’s completely out of control,’ she complained to Madhav’s mother. Snigdha Mehra, Madhav’s mother, was a housewife. She used to be a banker like her husband, but being in the same office had created friction between the couple and so she eventually quit. Madhav’s parents had sent him and his elder sister, Vihana, to different boarding schools when they were quite young. Somehow, even on their return to Delhi, the family had never really reconciled as a whole. They lived under the same roof, struggling with each other, every single day.

His mother placed his breakfast on the table in his room and left. Last night had been his parents’ anniversary. He hadn’t attended the family dinner, choosing, instead, to lock himself in this room, as he had done so often these past few months.

Madhav realized he’d forgotten to put the whisky bottle back in his cupboard, but his mother had ignored its presence, just as she had ignored all his other misdoings. He once used to be famous for his good looks, dark poems and gold medals. But he had always felt incomplete. And now he repeatedly suffered from blackouts and fits of violent anger. His parents were worried for him as they knew there was something strange about him.

He took a quick shower and slipped into his formal clothes. He picked up all his certificates and put them in a sling bag. Walking towards the door, he felt as though his limbs were being controlled by an unseen puppeteer.

‘I have an interview today,’ Madhav announced to his father, mother and sister who sat at the dining table. His father, Yashveer Mehra, was one of those typical dads who’d spent a lifetime earning money and only realized later in life how much he valued his family. His beautiful sister, Vihana, was a PR manager in the US. She lived abroad with her boyfriend; she was in Delhi for a project.

‘Which company?’ his father asked, his eyes still fixed on the front page of the Economic Times.

‘Ernst & Mark,’ Madhav replied and sat down on the couch. His father adjusted his glasses and looked at him.