The Sikh journalist is a joker. He tells me an old joke as if it were the latest one. ‘When Rama, Sita and Lakshmana were leaving Ayodhya for their fourteen year exile, the citizens came to see them off. At the city gate Ramachandraji begged them to return to their homes: “Ladies and gentlemen, thus far but no further.” The citizens obeyed his orders and went back. Fourteen years later when the exiles returned to Ayodhya they met a party sitting outside the city gates. “You did not give us permission to return to our homes, they said. “You only allowed the men and women to go back. We are neither because we are hijdas.” Sri Ramchandraji was so overcome by their devotion that he blessed them: “In the year 1947 I grant you hijdas the empire of Hindustan.”’

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.’