‘Indeed I do. Also a sense of foreboding. We are amongst the poorest of the poor, the most ignorant of ignoramuses of the world. We breed like rabbits. Soon we will be more than we can feed, clothe, or shelter. Then we will resume fighting each other like dogs on a dung heap. We are also the corruptest of the corrupt. Everyone from the Prime Minister down to the poorest-paid police constable has his price. And we are more prone to violence than the most violent races of the world. What we saw in the summer and autumn of 1947 when we slew each other like goats unveiled our real nature. You will see much worse in the years to come. Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, Buddhists will go on killing each other in greater numbers. Your Ganghi and his ahimsa are as dead as . . . . as dead as . . . . Whatever the dead bird is called.’

‘Dodo.’

‘That’s right! Dead as the dodo.’

‘So are people like you. The last of your tribe will go with you. India is a great nation, that is the truth. And you may or may not know that our national motto is truth will forever be triumphant—Satyamev Jayate.

Bhagmati

Bhagmati’s great passion other than me (as I like to think) is mangoes. It’s been a good year for mangoes but a bad one for the monsoons. That often happens in Delhi. The first crop of mangoes start coming in from Tamil Nadu some time in April. Fat, pulpy stuff without any character. In May the much-fancied Alfonsos from Maharashtra make their appearance in Delhi’s markets. Delicious but murderously expensive. More so since Delhi’s foreign community cultivated a taste for mangoes. I only get to taste Alfonsos when some industrialist or minister of government sends me a crate. I send a few to my neighbours in the hope they will return the gift when mangoes from Uttar Pradesh start coming in. These days I have to scout around for more and more mangoes for the way Bhagmati tucks in I wouldn’t get to eat any. Without as much as a by your leave she will eat three or four at a time, suck their kernels with great relish till there’s nothing left on them. She ends her feasting with a loud belch, washes her hands and face—then proceeds to tie up whatever fruit remains on the table in the folds of her sari to take home. ‘I know you haven’t paid for them,’ she tells me. ‘My poor family hasn’t tasted a mango this season,’ she says as she leaves.

Nothing in the world of fruit compares with Dussehris, Langdas and Ratauls from the orchards of Uttar Pradesh. Of the nearly thousand varieties of mangoes, these are the three I relish the most. Unfortunately they also happen to be Bhagmati’s favourites. During the mango season her visits are more frequent. When she comes she makes a meal of my mangoes and takes away what she can’t eat. She says they are good for her digestion, the best thing to take for constipation. She is not bothered about putting on weight.