When Samir finally left, Blake and I were uneasy with each other. Whatever balance we had created for ourselves had been pulled apart.

Now when I look at Samir it is as though he became that sloth who slept on our couch simply to prod me out my own inertness. Because here in Madras he is transformed – clean-shaven, ripply with muscles, forehead shiny with sweat. He serves mojitos and gets broody only when he is stoned and listening to Leonard Cohen. He is always saying how moving back to India was a premonition, that even in the darkest moments he knew that life was eventually going to go right. ‘I didn’t know, but I knew, you know? Coming home was the beginning of that. Rohini was the continuation.’

‘So are you guys going to have kids or what?’ Gauri asks Rohini.

Gauri, who because she has just vomited her story, expects some recompense.

‘Why are people so obsessed with kids? My God!’ Rohini says. ‘I mean we just got married. What’s the hurry?’

‘Just asking, ya. No need to get uptight.’

‘I know, but everyone just asks. It’s like an epidemic. What if I don’t want to have kids? What if I don’t want to have to go through all that …’

Tanya, the jilted neighbour, stiffens. ‘For sure,’ she says, wanting to sound equable. ‘It’s not for everyone. It’s a huge thing to have a child. I mean, look at me.’ She trails off somewhat sadly, not able to get past the plea for us to look at her.

Praveen comes back in from the balcony, where he’s been smoking. ‘Your man is here,’ he says.

A few minutes later the doorbell rings, and it is Vik.

He is already drunk and smiling. An open bottle of red in his hands. I teeter over to collapse into him.

I’m surprised that Praveen and Vik know each other. They are friends, even though there must be twenty years between them. It’s a curious thing about this city. Some men never retire from the party circuit. They may marry or remain bachelors like Praveen, but come Saturday night they strike out, stags about town. Their circle widens with new entrants – precocious high-school kids and college boys, mostly wealthy, with gelled hair and slim-fit shirts damp with cologne. They call each other machan. There is a looseness about them. I envy it.

I watch Praveen and Vik standing together, and I imagine they are saying something about me. The novelty of having met someone new, of having talked as a person to another with no bind – that has gone. He already knew about me. Of course he did. Your man is here.

‘Grace, can you help?’ Rohini says, dragging me into the kitchen.

It is one of those narrow apartment kitchens designed for a maid who comes for a few hours to do all the kitchen work and then disappears. Two women are standing next to the water filter and talking, blocking the path.