Before I can say ‘Okay,’ another boy turns up. ‘Sahib, it is my turn. He looked after the last car; didn’t you?’

They begin to quarrel, ‘Sahib, didn’t I ask you first? Sahib, it’s not his turn—you decide.’ More urchins come along and clamour for the right to guard my car. I step out, take one by the scruff of his neck. ‘This fellow will look after my car. He’s the only one I will give money to.’

That settles it. Or does it? Four boys follow us up the path leading to the gate of Tughlakabad fort.

‘Sahib, we will show you round the ruins of Tughlakabad.’

‘I know them quite well,’ I reply. ‘We don’t need a guide.’

‘Sahib this is the main gate of the fort.’

‘I know. You don’t have to tell me, jao.’

‘This hollow on the left was a tank; it used to supply drinking water to Tughlakabad.’

‘I’ve told you once, I do not need a guide. Go away.’

‘Sahib, these are the remains of the Meena Bazaar, the women’s market’

I turn on them. ‘Bugger off!’

They run away a little distance and shout back at me: ‘Bugger off.’ Bhagmati and I proceed up the paved pathway through the ruins: gun emplacements, mosques, markets and up to the highest point. We survey the landscape: the Qutub Minar to the west, Ghiasuddin Tughlak’s tomb to the south, the ruins of the Qasr-i-hazaar-Sutoon palace and Shahr-i-Nau to the east. We retrace our steps and turn off on a path, thread our way through the debris and goats nibbling at vasicka bushes. We are at the edge of the battlement. A hundred feet below us is a pool full of water buffaloes. This is all that remains of what was once a moat encircling the citadel of Tughlakabad. And what goes by the name of Tughlakabad today is a huddle of flat-roofed brick-houses and mud-huts. The rest of the landscape is a rocky, treeless plain dotted with ruins among which new buildings are erupting like red fungus.

Bhagmati takes my hand.

‘Arre! She’s taken the Sardar’s hand.’ The bastards are still there. Bhagmati takes over. ‘Will you get away from here or do you want a rod up your arses?’ she asks striding towards them. They run away as fast as they can with the goats scampering after them. Bhagmati comes back triumphantly. We sit down on the rampart. She nestles her head on my chest. ‘Tell me why are some monkeys’ balls and behinds red?’

‘I don’t know. I am told they become red when they are randy.’

‘Do your balls become red when chotey mian (the little gentleman) becomes badey mian (big gentleman)?’

It takes me a while to catch on. ‘I have never looked; besides I am not a monkey.’

‘Our fathers’ fathers were,’ she pronounces very scholar-like. ‘I must look next time. I’ll bring a flashlight with me.’