The tonga turns left. I see the ramparts of the Red Fort. The tonga turns right into Dariba. Herds of Hindu women in white carrying brass plates full of flowers and coconuts are shuffling along towards the Jamna. We emerge from Dariba with the Jamia Masjid towering above us. The sun has just caught the eastern minaret in its noose. Hundreds of figures wrapped in sheets sleep on the broad steps. A weary oil-lamp flickers on the headstone of Sarmad’s grave. It has been given a fresh coat of green; withered jasmine and marigold are strewn over it. We go through a very smelly Urdu Bazaar, past the lane leading to Razia Sultana’s grave, the high-plinthed Kali Masjid and out of the old walled city through Turkman Gate. The air is fresher. Hundreds of RSS boys drill with staves under the podium in the wide acres of the Ram Leela ground. Middle-aged Punjabis take their walking-sticks for brisk walks. We pass the massive equestrian statue of Shivaji brandishing his sword towards New Delhi. ‘When did they put this up?’ I ask the tongawalla. ‘Two years ago,’ he mumbles as he gives the statue a baleful look. We go down below the Minto rail bridge and up again into Connaught Circus. ‘Drop me at the Coffee House on the other side,’ I tell him. We drive round the colonnaded shopping centres and pull up outside the Coffee House. ‘How much?’ I ask him as he hands me my valise. ‘Whatever pleases you, you are doing the boni; and I have yet to feed my son,’ he says patting the flanks of his horse. The horse has apparently had plenty to drink; it sends a powerful jet of wine-coloured fluid splashing on to the asphalt road. I hand him a tenner. He fumbles for change in his pocket. ‘Keep it; give your son a good feed.’ He invokes Allah’s blessings on me, my kith and kin and drives off.

I buy the six English daily papers published in the city. It is a waste of fifty paise six times over. But old habits die hard. I flip through pages to read the announcements of citizens who have ‘left for their heavenly abode’. Quite a few have. I don’t know any of them. Nor any whose loss is mourned in verse and syrupy prose in the Memoriam columns. Delhi Diary states it is a sectional holiday for the Sikhs on account of the anniversary of the martyrdom of Guru Tegh Bahadur. And the column alongside mentions the promulgation of Section 144 of the C P C forbidding the assembly of more than five persons in certain areas. The Inspector General of Police states that ‘goondas, miscreants and anti-social elements have been rounded up.’ You don’t have to read between lines to know that trouble is anticipated.