My cook-bearer went on his annual leave and never came back. I have to fend for myself. Living alone is not so hard as I thought it would be. Between and electric kettle and toaster I make tea, boil eggs and eat toasted sandwiches. The Bhai’s loudspeaker wakes me up at 4 a.m. I make myself a mug of tea and go into my study where the Bhai’s unmelodious voice cannot pursue me. I switch on the BBC news at 4.30 a.m. Thereafter I can choose between the Bible Society’s Service in Hindi or the morning service from the Golden Temple in Amritsar. I usually opt for the Golden Temple because I am familiar with the morning hymnal. Perhaps suppressed religiosity is rearing its head. Perhaps I will make my peace with the Great Guru as the time of confrontation with Truth draws near.

As the light comes on I go for a walk in Lodhi Gardens. Most of the walkers here know each other. Some deign to answer my namaskar. Back in my apartment I make myself another mug of tea and a couple of pieces of toast. I read the papers while the sweeper woman sweeps the floor. Then I do not know what to do. I cannot afford to run my rickety old car more than a couple of miles a day; but I have to drive it a little to keep the battery going. At times I run it to the Coffee House. It is not much fun to hear people say: ‘This old man has been coming here for over fifty years.’ I spend my afternoons at the India International Centre library of which I fortunately took a life membership in my more affluent days. Sometimes someone asks me to join him over a cup of tea. There is always some lecture, cinema show or dance-recital which I can attend free of charge. So pass the long evenings. On my way back to my apartment I buy chop suey or seekh kabab from a take-away joint in Khan Market. The only thing I really look forward to is whisky (now, alas, Indian stuff) which I sip listening to old tapes of ghazals of Mehdi Hassan or Iqbal Bano or Farida Khanum. I sleep badly. I am beset by nightmares. What will happen if I am taken ill? There is not one to look after me. It would be nice if I went one night in my sleep and next morning the sweeper girl found me dead in my bed. She could take everything she wanted from my flat: transistor radio, cassette player, watches, clocks, ball-point pens, cash and deposit them in her home before she came back and screamed that the old man was dead and would somebody do something about him. It wouldn’t be too bad if a thug broke into my flat and did me in. It would save a lot of people a lot of trouble. And save me all the bother of finding a bed in hospital and paying doctor’s bills.