Madan smiled and sat down in the armchair facing the sofa. ‘Have I your permission?’ he asked, taking out a cigarette from the case. He lit it without waiting for a reply. He sent a jet of smoke straight at Champak; then tried to fan it away with his hands.

‘Where does cricket get you? In five years I will be forgotten. Sher will be the Chief Minister of the Province and you his great lady. When I come to your door you will ask your servant: ‘Madan? Who is Madan? I don’t know any Madan. Send him away.’

‘You are making fun of me. How can anyone forget the great cricketer, Madan! You know, Bhraji, one of the sixers you hit, the ball came flying towards me. I thought it would hit me right here in the middle.’ She dug her finger in the center of her low cut shirt to indicate the spot. She flung away her thin muslin head-covering, put her arms behind her head and smiled.

Madan looked from the spot between her breasts to her face. Their eyes met and were fixed on each other for a few seconds.

‘My husband,’ said Champak looking away, ‘takes no exercise and has started to get a paunch. You should teach him cricket.’

‘I will teach him anything you command; I will be always at your service,’ replied Madan putting his hand across his chest and bowing slightly.

‘If you make fun of me, I will not talk to you.’ Champak took off her shoes and tucked her feet under her on the sofa. She put aside her knitting and said with a deep sigh, ‘This will never get done and you know whose fault it will be!’

‘I am a great sinner,’ answered Madan bowing again. They both laughed. They sat and talked of many things: Sher Singh’s election, the growing friendship between the families, the hot weather, films and film-stars. Then the clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve and Champak got up; one of her knitting needles fell on the floor. Madan picked it up and came near her to hand it back. ‘You are wearing khas? On a hot day it reminds one of rain. I think it is the best perfume in the world; better than anything made in France.’

‘Is that all you know of perfumes, Mr Madan?’ she answered coyly. ‘For your information this is French and is called “chasse garde”, which means “hunting forbidden”. So there!’ She tapped him on his chest. One of the buttons of his shirt was open; she buttoned it, then picked a piece of thread off his sleeve and slowly released it in the air.

‘Hunting forbidden! What does it mean?’

‘Find out for yourself.’

‘It’s a silly name for a perfume.’

‘Isn’t it? I am sure the girls have done enough work for the morning. We must get home now. Namaste.’