I arrive at the All India Cooperative Coffee House. More red flags. One banner says Give us our demands. A man hands me a leaflet listing the demands. I roll it up and return it to him with an obscene gesture. He returns the compliment. Nasty man!

I cast my eyes over the noisy throng. Can’t see anyone I’d care to be with. I buy a copy of Delhi Underworld from the news-stand, grab a table just as it is vacated and tilt three chairs against it. I plunge into my weekly ration of Delhi scandals. A Minister of Cabinet (name to be disclosed next week) has impregnated his daughter-in-law. There’s nepotism for you! Free service to the son! ‘Confessions of a Connaught Circus Girl.’ Poor thing complains of misuse by the Indian staff on an African embassy. She says Africans are better endowed than Indians. They also pay more money. A college lad writes a letter complaining that his step-mother raped him while his father was out on tour. Editor appends angry footnote in italics: ‘How can you put your instrument in the same place as your father’s which gave you birth? . . . . Your stepmother is disgrace to Indian womanhood.’ He promises to give advice on how to deal with such women in the next issue. I drool over drawings of ‘sex cats’ with bosoms like the protrusions on the fenders of American cars. The next issue also promises a full disclosure of goings-on in Tihar Jail (women’s section). Bhagmati has told me quite a lot about that. She’s been to Tihar many times.

I see two of our gang come in. One is a photographer, the other a journalist. Both claim to be Delhi’s champion womanizers. They see me and advance with their arms wide open. ‘Hullo, hullo. How’s the little one?’ asks the photographer, tapping my middle. ‘Did it do its duty to the memsahibs?’ I tap his fly: ‘And how’s Delhi’s champion stud bull?’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Fifteen days no action. I stick to my motto: when you find a woman, fornicate, when you do not, be celibate. No self-abuse, no boys, no hijdas.’ That’s hitting me below the belt.