I’m waiting for an excuse to get out. There is no one I’d like to be with more than Bhagmati. But not with her dressed in that red and blue sari and her head looking like a nest of butterflies. I’ve bought her a pair of stretch-pants and an open collared shirt which she keeps in my apartment. ‘I’ll change into my vilayati clothes,’ she says as she strides on into my bedroom.

She washes off the powder, rouge and lipstick. She plucks out the butterfly-clips from her hair, combs out the waves and ties it up in a bun at the back of her head. Now it is a different Bhagmati: a sprightly little gamine in a canvas kepi, half-sleeved sports shirt and bum-tight stretch-pants. Very chic! No one can tell whether she is a hijda or a boy who looks like a girl.

We start with an argument. Bhagmati says, ‘It’s a day for Okhla. When it rains the entire world goes to suck mangoes by the weir.’

‘Not Okhla,’ I reply. ‘I don’t like crowds: least of all Punjabis. There will be a crowd there screaming, shouting, eating, making litter everywhere.’

‘If you are ashamed of being seen with me, I’ll stay in the motor car,’ retorts Bhagmati. It’s true. But I am not going to spoil her day. ‘I swear by the Guru that is not true! Okhla has too many people, too many monkeys, too many snakes. Once I killed five snuggling behind the water-gauge. Five! One after the other.’

Snakes settle the argument in favour of Mehrauli.

The road to Mehrauli has an endless procession of cycles, tongas, scooters, cars and people on foot. Everyone is shouting ho, ho or singing film songs.

A two-wheeled open cart jammed with women in veils and children comes tearing through the crowd and passes us. The driver puts the handle of his whip on the spokes of the wheel to make them rattle. He yells to everyone to get out of his way. He almost knocks down a Sikh with his wife and four children piled on one bicycle. The Sikh is very shaken. He lets out the foulest abuse he can for a family of Mussalmans. ‘Progeny of pigs! You want to kill us?’ Out of the huddle of burqas rises a six-year-old David. He loosens his red jock strap, sticks out his pelvis and flourishes his tiny circumcised penis. He hurls back abuse like pellets from a sling. ‘Abey Sikhrey! Harami (bastard), you want to sit on my Qutub Minar?’

Daood Mian’s Qutub is a mighty two-and-a-half inches long. The other Qutub only 283 feet!

Bhagmati breaks into a helpless giggle. ‘What a lovely little penis he has! So much nicer than the tapering things of the Hindus. Is your fellow circumcised?’

‘You should know.’

They all look the same when they are up. Next time I will look when it is asleep.’