Gehna too had expected a major shitstorm, but all her mom had said was how could you do this to me in a hissy sort of way before leaving the dining room. Her mother had real talent for making everything about herself. Ajay Rai, once the first shock passed, had pointed his steak knife at Eram and demanded to know if he was responsible. Gehna had felt like laughing at that, since having unprotected sex was supposed to be the opposite of responsible.

‘Poor Eram. He didn’t sign up to have a knife waved at him. And I was, like, even if he was the guy, which he’s not, why would you stab him?’

The Yam snorted. ‘Mm-hmm. I don’t know ’bout dat. Muhfucker don’t use no condom ’cause it too hard to get on, muhfucker deserve a good stabbing. Do the guy know?’

‘Nope. It was just a random hook-up. I’m not going to be that cliché of a girl who delivers the bad news to the guy and waits hopefully for him to take charge. I’m in charge,’ Gehna said. ‘Oh, and you’re doing that thing again.’

‘What thang, yo?’

‘That “thang” where you’re down two drinks and start rappin’ like you is back in da ’hood. And you know what that means. That means it’s time to—’

‘No way, G. Uh-unh. There is no fucking way.’

‘Oh yes. Mos def. Haul that gorgeous ass, woman.’

(Not Just) Jazz by the Bay, formerly Jazz by the Bay, had renamed itself after opening a lounge bar at the back of the restaurant. Separated from each other by only a thin double-door, the two parts of the property couldn’t have been more different. The diner was chicken soup, the lounge was dark liquor. Recessed ambient lighting, heavy silk drapes and a bar counter that stretched from one end of the room to the other. A stage in one corner hosted a variety of semi-professional bands most nights, except on Karaoke Monday, when they put up a projector screen and threw the mic open.

The Yam insisted on ordering another margarita and working her way through it while Gehna writhed with impatience. She much preferred embarrassing herself to watching other people do it. The Yam was shy to begin with, but once she was good and pickled, she could murder a song as horribly as anyone. They chose Meredith Brooks’ girl-power anthem ‘Bitch’ and yelled out the refrain, giggling when they got the words all mixed up because neither of them was watching the screen. The crowd was easy that night and they got cheered off the stage, except for some asshole in a suit who threw a crumpled cocktail napkin at them. The Yam was furious and would have absolutely punched him had Gehna not steered her firmly out the back exit.

The weather had turned while they were inside. Monsoon was still a minute away, but Mumbai always liked to surprise with a preview of things to come. A gust of cool wind blew Gehna’s hair out behind her before tearing down the street towards Churchgate station. Beggar children capered after it in their bare feet, howling nonsense rhymes. People walking on pavements stopped to squint up at the sky or out towards the bay. Already in the orange glow from a street lamp, you could see flecks of moisture floating down like flour dust. Strangers set aside their habitual, big-city irritability and grinned at each other instead.