I make her a cup of coffee and put a slug of rum in it. She is so involved in talking she doesn’t notice the smell or the difference in the taste. By the time she has drained the mug she is as warm inside as she is toasted on the outside. And I am possessed by the urge to celebrate gantantra divas. I get to the job with an adolescent eagerness. A minute later I lunge into an exultant cry of ‘Jai Hind’. A million Delhiwallas echo ‘Jai Hind’ over my radio. It’s all over in sixty seconds.

I would like Bhagmati to return to Lal Kuan. But Bhagmati has no intention of obliging me. She is disappointed with me and she is not the sort of person to spare my feelings. ‘So many lessons I have taught you but you have forgotten even the first one: patience. How can I get to the second lesson; consideration for the mashooka? Lesson three is also very important: when you light a fire, you must see that you put it out before going phut. While your mashooka is like Sri Lanka burning on Dassehra you are like a fire brigade hose with no water in it, hain?’

Horrible bitch! She will give me no peace till I dowse the fire I’ve lit in her body. She must cool off and I must re-warm myself. I mumble an apology and suggest that we go out before the millions start moving back to their homes. She is in a sulk. She throws up her hands and sighs.

The breeze is cold but the sun is warm. The world looks washed, clean and green. Delhi is at its best and saying it with flowers: roses, poinsettias and bougainvilleas. I drive to the zoo to show her the family of white tigers. Other people have had the same idea and the entrance is crowded. So we opt for the Purana Qila towering over the northern end of the zoo. It is deserted. I take her down the steps of the baoli (well) and touch the icy cold water. Then back into the sunlight to Sher Shah’s mosque. She covers her head with a scarf. Even after the years I have known her I am not sure whether she is a Muslim or Hindu. She says she is both—and more, because now she is also Sikh. We stroll about in the sunshine. I tell her about this being the site of Indraprastha, the first city of Delhi built by the Pandavas. That invites trouble because she knows all about Draupadi and her five hasbands. She remarks acidly, ‘Seeing what the men of today are like, every woman should have five husbands.’