I refused to look at her. ‘You could have chosen a better hour.’

‘Huzoor, your maidservant had an engagement at the Misri embassy. I thought I would leave some money with your honour and also offer my humble services. I see I have angered your honour. I must extract a pardon before I rid myself of your sight.’

She sat down at my feet and began to press my legs. ‘Your slave had only to turn her face the other side and you were unfaithful to her!’ Her hands stroked the insides of my thighs. ‘What was the giraffe like?’ she asked saucily.

‘I’ll show you,’ I replied and roughly hauled her up into my lap.

‘Arre!’ she exclaimed wagging her head, ‘All males of the species are the same. One minute one woman, next minute another.’

Today is the 15th of June. Delhi had its first pre-monsoon shower. It has cleansed the atmosphere of the dust that had been hanging in the air for the past three days. A fresh breeze drives snow-white clouds across the blue sky. The earth is fragrant. The air smells of more rain. How can anyone stay indoors on a day like this?

The choice is between Mehrauli and Okhla. Mehrauli has the Qutub Minar with its gardens, monuments and acres of mango orchards. Okhla has no monuments but it has lots of water. The Jamna has a weir from which a canal branches off. At monsoon time the river is an awesome sight. She is then Triyama, the sister of the ruler of Hades. Delhiwallas who have a death-wish come to Okhla during the monsoons to hurl themselves into the Jamna’s muddy arms. Those who have a zest for living come with baskets full of sucking mangoes. They suck them and see how far into the river they can throw their stones. Whether it is Mehrauli or Okhla you have to have a mashooka to share the experience: a mashooka in whose ears you can whisper: ‘I want to take you in the rain till your bottom is full of mud and mine full of the monsoon.’

I hear a tonga pull up outside, I hear argument between the tongawalla and the passenger. The tongawalla shouts, ‘There is more money in buggery than in plying a tonga.’ The passenger replies in a louder voice, ‘Abey ja! Who would want to bugger you! Nobody will spit on your dirty arse.’

Who could it be except Bhagmati!

Before she can ring the bell I open the door. She comes in swaying her hips and abusing the tongawalla, ‘Sala, bahinchod! I give the sister-fucker one rupee from Lal Kuan to this place and he wants to bugger me for more. There is no justice in the world.’ She turns on me. ‘Is this a day to sit indoors like a woman in a burqa? I thought you’d like to take me out in your motor car to eat some fresh air and mangoes.’