‘Hey, Yam?’

‘Mmm?’

The Yam took her recreational drug use seriously and continued inspecting the blunt for flaws.

‘You ever have, like, fat days?’

The Yam, satisfied with her work, stood up and executed a perfect half-pirouette.

‘Check me out, yo. I’m a big girl. Every day is a fat day. Let’s blaze.’

They took a couple of cane chairs out to the balcony adjoining the Yam’s bedroom. Through the falling rain they could see the watery outline of nearby Rajabai Clock Tower, an impressive architectural imitation of the Big Ben in London.

‘You know,’ said the Yam, exhaling a cloud of smoke, ‘I’ve lived opposite that thing all my life and never once been inside. I should go visit. Say hello.’

‘Too late. They closed it to the public after a bunch of ’em tried to jump off the top of it.’

‘Holy shit. For real? Why do you even know this?’

Gehna plucked the joint from the Yam’s fingers. ‘It’s a fascinating insight into the human condition. Think about it. These people were in despair. Maybe they were crushed by debt, or heartbroken, or mentally ill. As their last act in this world, they bought a ticket to the tower, had a look at all that gorgeous Venetian–Gothic architecture and stained glass, and thought I will now kill myself.’ Gehna shrugged. ‘What can I say? I’m a collector of the macabre.’

‘You’re a chutiya.’

That transported them both into the giggles. Sunderajan, the Yam’s dense-bodied British bulldog, came out on to the balcony to investigate the fuss. After verifying that there were no snacks involved, he collapsed on the stone floor. Gehna tucked her toes under the beast’s belly for comfort. Sunderajan wheezed mightily, but other than that seemed okay with it.

There was still half a J left. The Yam offered it to Gehna, but she waved it away. She didn’t have the other girl’s tolerance for the stuff and already her face was beginning to feel like a Cubist painting. She touched her nose just to make sure that it was still in the regular place.

The Yam was tripping. ‘Listen to me, son. You’re graduating in a month. Have you decided what you want to make of your life? Your mother and I only want what’s best for you, and you know we’ll support you no matter which profession you choose, so long as you choose medicine, law or accounting. What’s that you say? You’re getting a first-class degree in English literature? Is that even a thing? Well, obviously we’re disappointed, but you can make it up to us by marrying as soon as possible. In fact, how about next month? Do you have some time next month to get married? It doesn’t even matter who you get married to, beta, the important thing is . . .’

Gehna zoned out. Her parents had in fact always told their children they could do whatever they wanted in life. It was what you were supposed to say when you were an upper-class liberal in a big city. But the truth was they expected the boys to do more, to have loftier ambitions. When Varun had said half in jest that he would like to get an MBA, everybody rushed around in high gear to make sure he got to go to a B-school in the States. It wasn’t that she had disappointed her parents by taking up an English literature course at the local university; what made her sad was that she hadn’t. They would have been equally content if she had stayed at home and practised the cross-stitch for two years.