He bursts into loud laughter, ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ I join him, ‘Hi, hi, hi.’

The doorbell rings again. It is Bhagmati. ‘What is the big joke?’ she asks me.

‘You tell her,’ replies my journalist friend, looking at his watch ‘I must go to the Coffee House at 11 a.m.’ And breezes out of the apartment.

‘What was he saying?’ demands Bhagmati as she flops on the sofa. How can I tell her?

After the rains come months of dew and mists. Every dawn when I set out for a game of tennis I have to wipe dew off the windscreen of my car. The duster turns soggy and black with soot. One morning I return home to see Budh Singh sitting on his haunches with his head between his knees. He looks up. His eyes are bloodshot. He glowers at me with murderous intent. ‘What is the matter, Budh Singh?’ I ask him in as kindly a tone as I can manage.

‘My eyes have come,’ he mumbles wiping them with the back of his hand.

‘You should see a doctor.’

He takes no notice of my suggestion and puts his head back between his knees.

I go into my apartment. My cook is lying on the carpet and groaning. ‘What is the matter?’ I ask him.

‘My body is breaking.’

I ring up the doctor. His home-clinic is in the neighbouring block. He comes over, takes one look at Budh Singh and pronounces, ‘Conjunctivitis, everyone in Delhi is getting it.’ He prescribes on ointment.

Then he asks the cook to open his mouth and say ‘aah’. The cook opens his mouth and says ‘Aah’. The doctor turns up his eyelids and peers into his eyes. He sticks a thermometer in his mouth. Temperature: 102 degrees. He asks him if he is having loose motions or vomiting. ‘No,’ replies the cook. ‘My body is breaking.’

The doctor turns to me and says, ‘It is not hepatitis or cholera; lots of it around in Delhi. It is probably malaria or dengue-fly fever or perhaps viral fever. Everyone in Delhi is down with something or the other. I’ll have to examine samples of his blood, urine and faeces to make sure.’

He prescribes analgesic tablets for the cook, malaria preventive pills for me. I fork out one-hundred-and-fifty rupees for the visit. I go to the chemist, get the prescriptions and hand medicines to Budh Singh and the cook. I tell them to stay in their quarters. ‘These diseases are very catching. Don’t come back till you are well.’

I have the apartment all to myself. It would be nice if Bhagmati were to come over. We could have some nice conjunctivitis together. Probably the bitch has already contracted one or the other ailment from her diseased patrons.