‘But I am back in Delhi,’ I remind him. He looks at me more intensely. ‘Okay! Forgive and forget.’

He assures me the apartment has been swept, furniture dusted. ‘All okay. Cold machine okay, air-condition okay. Come and look,’ he commands. I follow him to the bedroom and press the switch. Click. No result. Click, clock, click, clock. No result. ‘Excuse me, bulb fooze,’ explains Budh Singh. He presses another switch. The burst of light gives him a shock. He leaps in the air and pirouettes like a dancing dervish.

He puts a finger to his turban and explains. ‘Springtime something happen here. Don’t mind, salute!’

‘It will pass,’ I reassure him. He comes close to me till his beard almost touches mine. He says in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Excuse me! Your hijda come many time to enquire if you back.’

Budh Singh does not like my mistress Bhagmati because she called him Pagal (mad) Singh. Budh Singh has never forgiven her. He calls her a him or a hijda (hermaphrodite). Bhagmati has a small bosom and a heavy voice. ‘Excuse me,’ he confides to my beard, ‘everyone is talking about it. They say, take woman, take boy—okay! But a hijda! That’s not nice. Don’t mind my saying so!’

I say nothing. Budh Singh takes it as a reprimand. He stands stiffly to attention, salutes for the umpteenth time and orders himself: ‘Right turn!’ He turns right. ‘By the left, quick march.’ And marches out with measured steps.

Hah!

I peel off my clothes and go into the bathroom. I turn on the tap. A muddy ooze trickles down into the bucket. It is followed by a little muddy water. Then a fart. No water. I give up.

I go to my study, pick up the phone and dial the number of the caretaker on night duty. Two girls are on the line yakking away about their Daddyji and Uncleji. I put down the receiver, slap a mosquito against my paunch and try again. They are still at it; this time about their Mummyji and Auntyji. I put down the receiver, extract fluff out of my navel, inhale its shitty smell and try a third time. They are exulting over the piquancy of the chaat in Bengali market: ‘Yum! Yum!’ I lose my temper and tell them that it is almost midnight and they should be doing what their Mummyjis are doing to their Daddyjis. ‘Some dirty fellow on our line,’ says one. ‘Will buzz you later. Ta-ta.’

I dial my number. Engaged. Three minutes later I dial again. Engaged. I dial Complaints. The man at the other end tells me to dial Assistance. I dial Assistance. This operator tells me: ‘Number out of order please, dial Complaints.’ I give up.