‘I’m not mad at all. I’m waiting to make a home. I’ve taught myself how to make besan chapattis. I’m even waiting for you to scold me, so loud it makes the windowpanes ring, for all the things I haven’t yet learned.’

‘You won’t get a home from me. I can only give you the life you have now. It’s too late for me to give you anything more.’

She fell silent. You said ‘Hello? Hello?’, a couple of times and then hung up. She broke down in tears, thinking she’d gone mad. And kept saying, ‘So I’ve gone mad now, so I’ve gone mad now.’ She repeated the words in an attempt to prove to herself that she was insane. She decided not to talk to anyone any more. She would not eat, would not sleep, would not even bathe. She would just sit staring at the floor. She knew that you would send her to a lunatic asylum then. You would visit her once or twice. Once or twice, then no more. No one would ask you anything about her because everyone believed that your relationship would sink into the darkness at any moment. This was natural. Or, more likely, no one else was aware that any such relationship existed.

Feeling overcome by complete insanity, she fell to the floor and wept – crawling back into the bedroom. Spittle trickled out of her mouth. The bell rang. The doorbell.

Lunatics don’t answer the doorbell, she thought. But she decided it would be best to avoid unnecessary harassment. Lunatics never wipe away their spit, either, but she dried her mouth before opening the door. She assumed that she wouldn’t have to look or listen too closely to whoever was there.

When she opens the door you, yes you, step forwards and put your arms around her. She tries to free herself, but that only makes you tighten your grip. ‘Really, you do look like you’ve gone mad,’ you say.

‘Yes, I have, but I won’t go to the asylum,’ she answers.

This makes you laugh. ‘Asylum? Can your mad­ness ever be cured? Why would the asylum make room for you?’

‘Then where do you want to dump me?’ she bursts into tears. ‘Let’s go there, today, right now.’

You crush her to your ribs. ‘What is it? Why are you so unhappy?’

Your voice grows moist. You feel her body turning limp in your arms.

You drag her to the bed and make her lie down, realising just how deep your involvement is, your fondness, affection, love and lust. So you kiss her, helplessly. You think of god in your passion. Your lips descend upon hers, then move to her neck. Then, when you remove her clothes and her right breast fills your hand, you see the swollen nipple. You frown, pinching it between two fingers, feeling the intense heat radiating from it. ‘What’s this? What’s happened?’ you exclaim.

She lies there with her eyes closed, tears streaming down her face. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I’ve had a tingling ache since this morning. It’s absorbed all the pain that this desolate, shut-off room, this loneliness, can inflict. It’s brought a pinpoint of agony to my body, destroying all the numbness.’ She thrusts the nipple towards your lips. ‘This was why I asked you to come. Because it hurts – and I can’t scratch it …’