I could slap Budhoo Singh across his bearded face. Instead I gently shut the door behind me and fix myself a drink.

That’s Delhi. When life gets too much for you all you need to do is to spend an hour at Nigambodh Ghat, watch the dead being put to the flames and hear their kin wail for them. Then come home and down a couple of pegs of whisky. In Delhi, death and drink make life worth living.

Lady J.H.T.

I am nibbling my second sandwich with my second Scotch The phone rings. ‘Is that 420420?’ It is. ‘Sir, please speak to the Secretary, Ministry of Education.’

‘How are you, old cock?’ (The Secretary and I are on Delhi’s old cock network). He does not wait for an answer and proceeds. ‘This is about Lady Hoity-Toity. You must have read about her in the morning papers! Famous archaeologist, cousin of the Queen, Guest of the President, V.V.I.P. etc., etc. Good contact; maybe a good lay. She wants to examine some old sites to see if she can dig up something. Everything laid on. Limousine, caviar, champagne. Everything that our poor country can afford. Can you take her around?’

‘Sure!’

‘Fine! The car will pick you up at five in the morning. Don’t keep her Ladyship waiting. Have a nice fuck.’

Before I can explode ‘Five!’ he puts down the receiver. I reason with myself. One early morning compensated by a lifetime of name-dropping. How does it go? ‘Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife, throughout the sensual world proclaim, one crowded hour of lusty loving, is worth an age without a name.’ I’d have a whole day with a world celebrity, with a bit of luck, seduce her and go down in the pages of history as one of her lovers.

I could take her to Moti Mahal on Qawwali Nite. People would ogle, whisper, envy. And to my friends: ‘Jane said to me . . . ’ ‘Who is this Jane yaar . . . ?’ ‘You don’t know Lady Jane Hoity-Toity . . . ? Cousin of the Queen . . . renowned archaeologist! Well, we were digging for this grey earthenware pottery . . . we became close friends . . .’ I turn in early. I get little sleep. The scene at the cremation ground haunts me. I switch on the light often to see the time. The alarm clock bursts my eardrum at 4.30 a.m. Quick shit, quick shower and half-an-hour later I am standing outside my apartment.