We chat for an hour. It seems as if we have known each other for years. I have little doubt that I can extract more out of the deal.

I drop her outside the army mess, an old building raised during the war to house American G.I.s. She agrees to meet me at the Centre the following Sunday to be driven round the sites I had shown on TV. ‘Better the Centre than the mess. Too many prying eyes and bitchy wives,’ she says as she waves good-bye.

She is there waiting for me at the gate with a small basket containing two thermos flasks and a box of sandwiches. ‘Much better to carry your own stuff than go to those crowded cafeterias or dhabas,’ she explains.

I give her a miniature jade Ganapati that I had lying with me. ‘It is my good luck totem. I always carry one in my wallet. This one is to see nothing goes wrong with our friendship.’

She cradles the figurine in both he palms and kisses it. ‘Thank you. I am sure it will bring me luck.’

As we pass the Qutub Minar, she remarks: ‘I believe that the latest research has proved that this is a Hindu monument.’

‘So is the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort,’ I add sarcastically. ‘Where did you pick up this bullshit. All these buildings have the names of the builders and the dates of completion inscribed on them in Arabic. You’ve been reading Hindu fascist propaganda?’

We spend the morning in Mehrauli. I park the car alongside Auliya Masjid. We walk along the Shamsi Talab, past Jahaz Mahal into the crowded streets. I take her to the mausoleum of Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki and show her the tombs to Mughal kings in the neighbouring graveyard. At Emperor Bahadur Shah’s tomb I tell her about the execution of Banda Bairagi and 700 of his Sikh followers. ‘He was ordered to kill his own child before they hacked him to pieces, limb by limb.’

‘When?’

‘Sunday, 19 June 1716.’

‘You must hate Muslims,’ she mutters. ‘You remember the day and date as if it was your birthday.’

‘No, I don’t hate Muslims,’ I protest. ‘Banda had slaughtered them by the thousands before they caught him and his bands. Those were savage times.’

I take her to Jamali-Kamali’s mosque. She pours out the coffee, gives me a sandwich. She takes out a notebook and a ball-point pen. ‘Tell me of the places we’ve seen this morning. If I don’t write it down I’ll forget everything.’

I go over the itinerary while she makes notes and sips her coffee. When I come to Banda, she repeats, ‘I don’t believe you like Muslims.’

Once again I lodge a protest: ‘Most of my friends are Muslims, not Hindus or Sikhs.’