At last she comes in and walks straight towards me, holds out her hand and says with a smile, ‘I am Kamala.’

I get up, take her hand and reply, ‘Pleased to meet you. Let’s have some coffee in the garden.’

She is small, dark and looks in her thirties. We find a table, I order coffee for two. I open the dialogue: ‘What is your full name, Kamala what?’

‘You are very curious. Okay, I am Kamala Gupta, wife of Brigadier Gupta. We have three school-going children—one girl, two boys.’

I express surprise. ‘Mother of three! You look young enough to be in college.’

She beams with pleasure. ‘Not as young as you think. I am over forty. Been married more than twenty years. People mistake my daughter to be my younger sister.’

‘Are you a Delhi girl?’

‘No. I am Tamil. My husband is from Delhi itself.’

The ‘itself’ is her first Indianism. It could as well have been ‘Delhi only’.

‘Convent of Jesus and Mary, Miranda House and arranged marriage.’ I guess.

‘Wrong on all three. Modern School and St Stephen’s College where I met my husband and eloped with him. Later forgiven by parents on either side for intercaste, interstate marriage. He is a Bania, I am a Mudaliar. He speaks Hindi; I speak Tamil. We speak English. Our children speak all three.’

‘Sounds wonderful! Where is the rest of the family?’

‘My husband is posted at a non-family station. The children are in boarding schools in Mussoorie. I’ve been allowed to stay on in the army mess. We get together during vacations.’

There is a lull in the dialogue. I try to size her up. She is lost in the depths of her coffee-cup. ‘A paisa for your thoughts,’ she says breaking the silence. ‘I can tell you what you are thinking—why did this woman want to meet me?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Well, I have nothing much to do. Can’t stand army wives. So I thought I’d write a book or something. Your programme on TV gave me an idea. Why not something on Delhi and its monuments? What do you think?’

‘There are hundreds of them in the market.’

‘Maybe. But they are all the same. None of them have those things you were showing on your programme. I know many old havelis lost in tiny lanes nobody knows about. My husband was born and brought up in Parathe Vali Gali. Ever heard of it?

‘Heard yes, seen never.’

‘There you see, even you don’t know! Ever heard of Gali Namak Haraman? I bet you haven’t. You show me what I have not seen. I’ll show you what you have not seen. And we do a book together. What do you say?’ She puts out her hand as her part of the deal. I take it as my part of the deal. ‘Done.’ And give it a gentle squeeze. It is firm but leathery.