Professor Sarojini Bharadwaj arrived at the house a couple of hours after Mohan had left. Jiwan Ram and the bearer took her cases to the guest room.

After the servants had left, she looked round the room. Her eyes fell on the envelope on the pillow. She tore it open. She felt the thick wad of currency notes. For a moment she felt ashamed of herself, then put the money in her handbag. She read the note. It said nothing about the money. He had fulfilled his part of the contract in advance; he was a gentleman, true to his word. She had no option but to fulfil her part of the deal.

Sarojini unpacked; arranged her clothes in the empty wardrobes, laid out her books on the working table. By the time she had finished her bath, it was 10 a.m. She had toast and a cup of coffee for breakfast, then told the bearer she was going out to do some shopping and would be back in time for lunch.

Sarojini was not familiar with New Delhi’s shopping areas but had heard that the best saris were to be found in South Extension market. The chauffeur knew exactly where to take her. They made slow progress on the Ring Road choked with overcrowded buses and more cars and two-wheelers than she had ever seen. At the Moolchand traffic light, a fancy steel-grey car stopped next to the Mercedes. Sarojini found herself examining the woman in the back seat. She had her hair permed, had her lips painted a bright red, and rouge on her cheeks. She wore a sleeveless blouse with a plunging neckline. There was a prosperous looking man sitting next to her, with gold rings on his fingers. The man put his arm around her, pulled her to him and said something in her ear. The woman threw her head back and laughed, a manicured hand at her cleavage. ‘Slut,’ hissed Sarojini under her breath. It was only after the lights had changed and the cars were moving that Sarojini realized what she had done. She had condemned a woman who perhaps was doing nothing worse than what she herself had agreed to do. Only, she, Sarojini Bharadwaj, Professor of English, did not look the type. For the second time that morning she felt ashamed of herself. But the feeling soon died. Only a vague apprehension remained.

The market was crowded, but the chauffeur took her to a shop where it did not take her long to find what she wanted. She bought herself a beige coloured cotton sari—beige suited her best—and a pink dressing gown. The two cost her a little over a thousand rupees. While paying for them, she counted the notes. The purchases and what remained amounted to exactly ten thousand rupees.

She was back in time for lunch. The bearer laid out an elaborate meal of cucumber soup, vegetable pilaf, daal and vegetable curry, followed by rice-pudding. She sampled everything but ate very little. She locked herself in her room and tried to get some sleep.

Sleep would not come to her. Her mind was agitated. She dozed off for a few minutes, woke up to check the time. Dozed off again, woke up with a start and again looked at her watch. It seemed as if time had come to a stop. She switched on her bedside lamp and tried to read, but her mind was too disturbed to take in anything. She gave up, closed her eyes and resumed her battle with sleep. So passed the restless afternoon. She heard the servants return from their quarters. By the time she came out to have tea it was 5 p.m. She found herself looking at her wristwatch every few minutes. As it came closer to 6 p.m., the time when Mohan left office, her nervousness increased. She went back to her room and had yet another bath—her third of the day. She lit sticks of agar and put them in a tumbler that she placed in front of a figurine of Saraswati, her patron goddesss, which she always carried with her. She sat down on the carpet, joined the palms of her hands in prayer and chanted an invocation to Saraswati. Her prayers said, she changed into the beige sari she had bought that morning, put a fresh bindi on her forehead and a light dab of colour on her lips, and splashed cologne on her neck and breasts. She put on her pearl necklace and examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Still nervous, she went out and sat in the balcony to await Mohan’s arrival.

The days had begun to shorten; daylight faded away sooner than in the summer months. By half past six the brief twilight had given way to the dark. The evening star twinkled in the darkening sky beside a half moon. Not long afterwards Sarojini heard the car drive up to the gate. The driver got out of the car, opened the iron gate and drove in the sleek black Mercedes with its lights dimmed. Saroj heard Mohan respond to the driver’s ‘Good night, sir’ in English. She heard him come up the stairs. ‘What’s the smell?’ he asked loudly. ‘Hello,’ said he as he walked out to the balcony and took the chair next to hers. ‘Everything okay? Lunch, tea, bedroom?’

‘Hello,’ she replied, standing up. ‘Everything’s fine. That’s the aroma of the agar I lit for Saraswati. I do Saraswatipuja every evening. Do you mind the smell?’

‘Not at all, just not used to it. Please sit down. So what did you do all day?’

‘A little shopping. I bought this sari, thanks to you.’ She held up the hem of the sari to show him.

‘Very nice. And what else?’

‘Unpacked, arranged my clothes and books, had lunch, read a little, slept a little, and the day was gone.’

They had nothing more to say to each other. Mohan got up. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll take a quick shower and change. The office is a very sweaty place. Too many hands to shake. Too many dirty files to read.’ He loosened his collar and took off his tie.

The first thing he did was to turn on his answering machine. It had recorded no incoming calls. He shaved himself, took a shower and splashed on some after-shave. He got into a sports shirt and slacks and joined Sarojini on the balcony. The bearer brought out his Scotch, soda and the bucket of ice cubes. ‘Have you never had a drink?’ he asked.

‘You mean alcohol? My husband-for-a-month made me try whisky. I didn’t like the taste and spat it out. Then he gave me some kind of sweet wine which I did not mind. It didn’t do anything to me.’

‘It must have been sherry. I have some very good Spanish Oloroso, a ladies drink. You’ll like it.’

He got up and pulled out a wine glass and a bottle of Oloroso from his drinks cabinet. He poured out the sherry for her and a stiff Scotch for himself.

‘This is not at all bad,’ she said, taking a sip. ‘I hope it won’t make me drunk.’

‘A couple of glasses will do you no harm. There’s hardly any alcohol in it,’ he replied.

Their conversation became stilted.

‘So, tell me some more.’

‘No, you tell me more about yourself. I have done nothing really interesting today.’

And so on.

Sarojini kept pace with Mohan’s drinking and felt she was floating in the air. Mohan felt she was drinking to fortify herself against what was to come. They had dinner (vegetarian for both) without exchanging many words. The servants cleared the table, had their meal in the kitchen and left for their quarters. Mohan got up to lock the doors. Sarojini saw him chain and lock the front gate and then disappear into the house to lock the servants’ entrance door. He came out into the front garden, faced a hedge and unbuttoned his flies. She heard the splash of his jet of urine on the leaves. ‘Curious fellow!’ she said to herself. She went into her bedroom, took off her sari, petticoat and blouse and slipped on the new silk dressing gown. She was a little unsteady on her feet and slumped down in her chair. Mohan latched the rear door and came up to join her. He took her hand in his and asked, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Only a little tired. I should not have drunk all that sherry. I’m not used to alcohol. I’ll sleep it off,’ she said standing up.

‘Let me see you to your bedroom,’ he said putting his arm round her shoulder and directing her towards her bed. She put her head against his broad chest and murmured, ‘Be gentle with me. I have not been near a man for eleven years. I’m scared.’

He took her in a gentle bear hug to reassure her: ‘There’s nothing to be scared of; I’m not a sex maniac. If you don’t want it, we won’t do it. Just let me lie with you for a while and I’ll go back to my room.’

Sarojini felt reassured but clung to him. Mohan laid her on the bed and stretched himself beside her. She dug her face in his chest, clasped him by the waist and lay still. He slipped his hand under her dressing gown and gently rubbed her shoulders and the back of her neck. Then her spine and her little buttocks. The tension went out of her body and she faced him. ‘Switch off the table lamp,’ she said.

‘You don’t want me to see your body?’ he asked as he switched off the lamp.

‘There is not much to see,’ she replied. ‘I’m like any other woman of my age. Only plainer. And not as well endowed.’

‘Let’s have a dekho,’ he said as he undid the belt of her gown and cupped one of her breasts in his hand. Indeed, she was not as well endowed as his wife or Dhanno or any of the other women he had bedded. The difference made her more desirable. He kissed her nipples and took one breast in his mouth. She began to gurgle with pleasure. ‘Don’t neglect the other one,’ she murmured. He did the same to the other breast. He unbuttoned his trousers and she felt his stiff penis throb against her belly.

‘My God you are big!’ she exclaimed in alarm. ‘This thing will tear me to pieces.’ She clasped it between her thighs to prevent it piercing her. ‘Promise you won’t hurt me. Remember I’m very small and have had no sex for a very, very long time.’

He felt elated, powerfully macho and grandly overpowering. And more patient than he had been with other women. He sensed she was ready to receive him. She spread out her thighs and he entered her very slowly. ‘Oh God, you will split me into two,’ she said clasping him by the neck. She was fully aroused. In a hoarse voice she whispered urgently, ‘Ram it in.’ He did as he was told.

She screamed, not in agony but in the ecstasy of a multiple orgasm. She had never experienced it before nor believed it was possible. Her body quivered, relaxed … Then a fit of hysteria overtook her. She clawed Mohan’s face and arms and chest and began to sob. ‘I’m a whore, a common tart! I’m a bitch,’ she cried. Mohan held her closer and reassured her, ‘You are none of those; you are a nice gentle woman who has not known love.’

She knew his words meant nothing but they were strangely soothing. She rested her head on his arm and was soon snoring softly. Neither of them felt the need to wash and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Many hours later it was Sarojini who shook Mohan awake. ‘Better go to your own room and make your bed look as if it has been slept in.’

Mohan staggered out of her room. He did not know what time it was. He undid the latch of the servants’ entrance door and lay down on his bed. He was fast asleep within minutes.

Mohan was an hour later than his usual waking up time. He quickly brushed his teeth, got into his dressing gown (he had slept in his sports shirt and slacks) and came out for his morning tea. Sarojini was already there, calmly sipping from her cup and turning the pages of the morning paper. She looked neat and relaxed. He had expected to see her hair dishevelled and her lips bruised. She beamed a smile at him; she looked radiantly happy. Mohan was reminded of what some psychologists had said—that when it came to sex, women were much stronger than men. She was her bossy professorial self. ‘Bearer, get the sahib a fresh cup of coffee,’ she ordered. She put aside the paper and asked him, ‘How do you feel after last night?’

‘Grand! Top of the world. And you?’

‘Transported to seventh heaven. Back to earth with a thud. Do you come home for lunch?’

‘Only on weekends and holidays,’ he replied. ‘On working days I get something from the office canteen and doze on my sofa for half an hour. Often I have to entertain my business partners, I take them to the Gymkhana Club or the India International Centre. You can get reasonably good food at modest prices. It all goes as business expenses. The only meal I normally have at home is dinner.’

‘What would you like for dinner? You don’t have to suffer eating vegetarian stuff because of me. I can tell the cook to make you fish or chicken or whatever you fancy. I can eat what the servants cook for themselves,’ she said.

Mohan did not like her taking over the household. He administered a slight snub. ‘The cook knows what I like and from where to get it. I give him money every morning to buy provisions. He renders accounts to me. You don’t have to worry about the servants or my food. Just order whatever you like for yourself.’

Sarojini felt she had been put in her place.

They had breakfast together. He left for his office. The car came back and was at her disposal for the day. She decided to stay at home in the morning to do some reading and get to know the servants. She went to the kitchen to chat with the cook. She stood at the entrance to the kitchen for a while, watching him clean up. She felt like an intruder. For all the discord, Mohan’s marriage had lasted thirteen years. There had been a mistress of the house who had managed his life—ordered the servants about, supervised the cooking and bought things for the house. Sarojini felt a sense of loss and regret taking hold of her. Mohan was right to snub her. She was a pro tem mistress, not mistress of the house. The cook saw her and asked if she needed anything. ‘No, I was just looking around, khansamaji,’ she replied. ‘What are you giving the sahib for dinner?’

‘Fish, memsahib. He likes fish and chicken on alternate days.’ The cook thought she looked a little nervous, and to make her feel at home, he spoke a little longer. ‘The sahib also likes king prawns and crab. I get them from INA market. It’s a long way from here but I like to keep the sahib happy. He’s a very kind master.’

The bearer was less communicative. He was gruff in his replies to her questions about his duties and made it clear that he resented her as an outsider. The jamadarni proved more difficult than the male servants. As she came in with her broom, pail of phenyl and a mop, she greeted Sarojini: ‘Namaste, bhainji.’

Sarojini responded and asked her name. ‘Dhanno,’ she replied, without looking at her. ‘I do the floors and the bathrooms. Memsahibji, how are you related to the sahib?’

‘I am his cousin,’ she replied, keeping up the lie Mohan had told her about.

‘And what do you do?’

‘I teach in a college. I’ve been transferred to Delhi. I’m here till I find a place of my own.’

The two women sized each other up. Sarojini noticed that the untouchable woman was a lot more desirable than herself: large protruding breasts, narrow waist and large hips. She was dark, poorly clad, but sexy. Dhanno saw the college teacher as a rival: sexless but brainy. She had everything Dhanno had but in smaller measure. Men were not discriminating, they took whatever was available. This woman he called his cousin was available to the sahib round the clock. Men set little store by fidelity. They soon tired of having one woman and went looking for another. Bastards, all of them.

Sarojini spent the morning reading. She had her lunch and a long siesta; sex had soothed her, relaxed her body, and now induced sleep. In the afternoon she had the driver take her out. ‘Show me the sahib’s office. I don’t want to go in but just see what it looks like. Then take me to a bookstore.’

‘Sahib’s office is in Nehru Place. The offices are in high rise buildings with many lifts. He has the two top storeys of a block, what will you see from the ground? And I don’t know of any bookstore. Sahib does not buy books. You give me the address and I’ll take you there.’

Sarojini did not know the names of any of Delhi’s bookstores but knew that there were a few in some place called Khan Market. ‘Take me to Khan Market,’ she ordered curtly, irritated with the chauffeur’s indifferent manners. She may be his master’s paid companion, but how was he to know that? She was determined to have them all respect her.

Khan Market was closer than she had thought. And crammed with cars. The driver dropped her in front of a bookstore, Bahri & Sons. This time he got out and opened the car door for her. Her curt tone had obviously made a difference. ‘I will find a place for parking, memsahib, and come back for you here after you have seen this and other bookstores.’

Sarojini looked at the books on display in the windows. Instead of going in she decided to take a look round the market to see what else there was she could buy. She went from one shop to the other looking at what they had to offer. There was just about everything anyone could want: six book stores, eight magazine stalls, shops selling saris and suit lengths and children’s garments. Shoe stores, chemists, green-grocer’s, butchers, halwais, paanwalas, a florist, an ice-cream parlour and a couple of restaurants. From a green-grocers she bought half a kilo of baby corn which she had never seen before. At the florist’s she picked up a dozen bright red gladioli—Mohan had no flowers in his house or garden. Her final purchase was from The Bookshop—an illustrated edition of Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar Khayyam’s rubais. It was as good a primer as any to introduce a man to English poetry.

Her arms full of flowers, two plastic bags in one hand, her hand-bag slung over her shoulder, Sarojini waited outside Bahri & Sons for her car. She was startled by a girl’s enthusiastic cry: ‘Aunty Saroj?! What are you doing here? Remember me? Sheetal?’ It was one of her old students now married and settled in Delhi. ‘Oh … Hi. I’m here for a few days to do some shopping and sightseeing,’ replied Sarojini, trying hard to keep the panic out of her voice.

‘You must come home, Aunty. My husband would love to meet you. Have lunch or dinner with us. Give me your address and telephone number.’

Sarojini felt cornered. ‘I’m not sure if I can make it this time, Sheetal. I don’t know the address or the telephone number of the people I’m staying with. You give me yours and I will ring you up.’

The girl quickly scribbled her telephone number on a slip of paper. ‘Please, please don’t forget to get in touch with me. Can I drop you somewhere?’

‘No, thanks, my host has lent me his car for the afternoon.’

Just then Mohan’s Mercedes pulled up. A line of cars lined up behind it and began to honk impatiently. Sarojini got into the car, waved the girl goodbye and was driven away. She sank into the seat and sighed with relief.

Sarojini reached home, and asked the bearer to put the gladioli in a vase. She took a shower, got into her nightie, and went through her ritual of lighting agarbatties and invoking the blessings of Saraswati. She folded her hands and began to chant:

Thou lady clad in celestial white
A garland of snow-white flowers round Thy neck
A stringed viol in one hand, royal sceptre in the other,
Thou Goddess divine seated on a lotus flower!
To Thee, The Creator, Preserver and Destroyer, I make obeisance
For Thou art the embodiment of learning;
With Thy sword of knowledge, slay the ignorance that is within me.
To Thee I pray and make my offering.

Having propitiated her patron goddess, she drew a chair to the balcony and awaited Mohan’s return from office. As on the evening before, she watched the sun go down, the evening star twinkling a little less brightly in the sky lit by the waxing moon. She had not noticed earlier that in the garden were two pine trees. She did not think pines could grow in the plains. But these two looked as lush and healthy as any she had seen in the Shivaliks. She must ask Mohan where he had got them from.

Exactly at 6.30 p.m. the iron front gate opened and the Mercedes slid in noiselessly. Coming up the stairs Mohan got a whiff of agar. As he came up onto the balcony he noticed the vase full of gladioli and an unopened parcel on the dining table.

‘I see you’ve been shopping,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘I went to Khan Market and got the flowers for you. And some baby corn, it will go nicely with your dinner. I’ve also bought you a book of poems.’

‘A book of poems?’ he asked in a tone of surprise. ‘I haven’t read poetry since I left school. Jack and Jill, Twinkle, twinkle little star, Mary had a little lamb—that kind of kid stuff. I don’t understand poetry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she replied, ‘I’ll read you some verses. If you don’t like them, I’ll take the book back to the shop.’

Mohan opened the parcel and was impressed with the binding and illustrations. ‘Bookstores don’t take back books they’ve sold. And you’ve inscribed it to me: “To Mohan—with love”, if you please. I’ll try to read it.’

He went to his room, had his second shave and shower, got into his sports shirt and slacks and joined her on the balcony. He took out bottles of sherry and Scotch from the drink cabinet.

‘Don’t give me more than a glass,’ pleaded Sarojini. ‘I was a bit tipsy last evening. I needed something to fortify myself. One will do me nicely today.’

Mohan handed her a glass of sherry and sat down with his Scotch.

‘What was your day like?’ she asked.

‘Not bad, I received a big order for readymade garments from the United States. Should bring me a lot of dollars. You’ve proved to be a grihalakshmi—’ he said and winked at her, ‘—the money-bringing goddess of the house.’

‘I may have brought you some lolly but can hardly be described as a housewife—that’s what griha means, you know.’

They both laughed. Sarojini opened the book of rubais and said, ‘Listen to this one. It’s my favourite!’ Her voice was professional—loud and clear:

Ah love, if thou and I could with fate conspire
To change this sorry scheme of things entire
Would we not shatter it to bits
And remould it nearer
To our hearts’ desire?

‘How do you like it?’

‘Very nice, who wrote it?’

‘Omar Khayyam, in Persian, translated by Fitzgerald. He wrote many lovely rubais on the joys of the tavern and the passage of time.’

‘One verse is enough for one evening,’ Mohan said in a tone of finality. ‘I won’t be able to digest more.’

They had their drinks. Sarojini was persuaded to take a second glass of sherry. They had dinner together. Then Mohan lit his Havana cigar. The impatience of the evening before had gone. With the cigar in his mouth he went down to lock the main gate and the doors, stood facing the hedge and went through his ritual evening urination. He came up, stubbed out his half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and went to the bathroom to gargle away the smell of tobacco from his mouth. When he returned, Sarojini stretched her hand out to him. He held it for some time; then pulled her up to her feet. ‘Time for bed,’ he announced.

She followed him to his bedroom. Mohan was pleased about the way in which the equation had changed within twenty-four hours: last evening he was the pursuer and she the frightened little doe dreading the hunter’s dart; this evening she was Diana, the huntress, pursuing the boar into its den.

This time she did not plead with him to be gentle nor show any fear of his oversized weapon. She gazed on it with admiration, caressed it lovingly with her fingers and directed it to its goal. Mohan found the second encounter as pleasurable as the first. The first was conquest, the second consolidation of what had been conquered. He slept so soundly that he did not know when Sarojini left his bed to return to her own.

The first few days went by pleasantly. However, Mohan sensed growing resentment among the servants. How was it that if the lady professor had been transferred to Delhi she did not go to teach in any college nor go round looking for a place of her own? They learnt from the driver Jiwan Ram that all she did in the afternoons was visit bookstores, museums, art exhibitions and historical monuments. Dhanno turned positively hostile. She said nothing but stopped even looking at Mohan. She swept and mopped the floors in sullen silence and then strode out with her broom, mop and bucket. Even when he gave her an extra two hundred rupees she took it without a gesture of thanks. And once he overheard her say to the cook while having the mug of tea he gave her every morning: ‘I don’t know what she is to the maalik, she does not behave like his sister.’ The cook snubbed her, ‘How does it matter to you? You do your work and don’t buk buk so much.’

Mohan’s ardour for the lady professor lessened. He did not follow her to her bedroom as often as he had done during the first week. Usually it was she who indicated by gestures while they were having their pre-dinner drinks what she had in mind. She would throw back her arms over her head to stretch herself; it was the traditional Indian angdaee, exposing her bosom with languor and wantonness. She developed a liking for sherry: three to four glasses every evening. She had Omar Khayyam to back her up. One evening she said, ‘You will like this one; it is in praise of wine.’ She read aloud:

Awake! And in the fire of spring
The winter garment of repentance fling;
The bird of time has a little way to go
And lo! the Bird is on the wing.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Mohan naively.

‘It is very simple. Don’t ever regret what you are doing. You have only one life to live. Live it to the full. Time flies as fast as a bird on the wing.’

‘Makes good sense to me,’ said Mohan. ‘That’s exactly what we, you and I, are doing.’

‘Precisely!’ she replied in her didactic manner. ‘Follow the dictates of your heart and tell the world to go to hell.’

That night was made for loving. A full moon washed the garden with milky whiteness. Moonbeams filtered through the pine trees. When Mohan went out to urinate against the hedge she could see the stream pour from him. ‘Hey Mister!’ she shouted to him. ‘What do you think you are doing in my garden?’ He turned and shouted back, ‘You want to see what I’m doing? Have a good look.’ He thrust out his pelvis, pointed his member towards her and sent a jet of urine in her direction.

‘Shameless creature!’ she said flirtatiously as he came up to the balcony.

‘Shameless you! You asked me to show you what I have. Here, you can have a closer look.’

He sat down in his chair, legs apart, exposing himself to her. She undid her dressing gown and came over and sat astride him. She put her hands on his shoulder and leaned back, so they could both see and marvel at how a small opening like hers could swallow up his huge organ. All of it, down to its hairy roots. They made love not in the privacy of their bedrooms but in the moonlit balcony. Anyone peering over the boundary wall could have seen her bouncing in his lap. It was more gratifying for both than their previous encounters in bed.

‘Have you done this on the balcony before?’ she asked him as she got up and tied the cord of her dressing gown.

‘Never! You think I’m mad?’

‘We are both a little mad,’ she said laughing.

That night they slept in the same bed without a stitch of clothing between them. Mohan was woken by the cook banging on the rear door. He quickly slipped into his dressing gown and hurried downstairs. She simply picked up hers and ran stark naked to her bedroom and bolted it from the inside.

From almost the time their relationship began, both Mohan and Sarojini had known that it could not last very long; the world outside which they pretended did not exist would eventually catch up with them. But not in the nasty way it did.

Came the first of November. While Sarojini was having her bath, Mohan put an envelope with Rs 10,000 on her pillow. When she joined him for breakfast she just said one word, ‘Thanks.’ He said nothing.

The crisis came the next morning. Mohan was scanning the pages of The Hindustan Times. He had no interest in politics and the paper had little besides politics to fill its pages. The page he usually scanned casually to see if he could recognize the names or faces of the people in it was the one which carried obituaries. That morning there were lots of boxed items with photographs of the people who had died the day before and several ‘In Memoriam’ messages for people who had died that day some years earlier. He went down the columns and stopped midway. Right in the centre was a picture of his father-in-law. The accompanying text read:

‘We deeply regret to announce that our revered father Rai Bhadur Lala Achint Ramji suddenly left for his heavenly abode on the evening of 31 October. Cremation will take place at the Lodhi Road crematorium at 11 a.m. on 1 November. Chautha/Uthala will take place at Mata ka Mandir, Friends Colony East on Sunday, 7 November at 4 p.m.’

Under the line ‘Grief Stricken’ were the names of the family members, beginning with ‘Shobha Achint Ram—wife’. Then the three sons and their wives. His wife was listed singly as ‘Sonu—daughter’. At the end were the names of his children, Ranjit and Mohini. The only name missing in the list was his own—Mohan Kumar. Evidently he was no longer regarded a part of his wife’s family. The last item in the obituary was a list of the sugar mills and companies that the deceased had owned.

Mohan told Sarojini about it and said, ‘I am in two minds about going to the funeral. They obviously don’t regard me as a relation any more. But some members of my office staff are bound to go there to condole. What shall I do?’

‘It’s a very dicey situation,’ she replied. ‘But I think it is your duty to attend the cremation. Keep your distance from the family and come away as soon as the funeral pyre is lit. You don’t have to line up with your mother-in- law, wife and brothers-in-law to thank the people present.’

Mohan thought over the matter for some time and decided to accept her advice. And face the music. He rang up his secretary to give her the news. She had already read it in the paper and offered her condolences. ‘Tell the others that the office will remain closed today as a mark of respect for the deceased,’ he said. ‘Yes, sir, I will,’ she replied.

He told the servants that if they wanted to go to the memsahib to condole, they could do so. The professor lady would have her lunch in a restaurant.

At 10.30 a.m. he left for the Lodhi Road cremation ground. ‘Was memsahib’s father ill?’ the driver Jiwan Ram asked to show his concern. ‘I don’t know,’ replied Mohan. ‘I only read of his death in the paper this morning.’

There was quite a crowd at the cremation ground. The car park was full. Mohan asked Jiwan Ram to drop him outside the gate and park the car by the road as he would be leaving before the others. Some people came to condole with him; mostly his staff and friends. Mohan saw the hearse come in, followed by a line of cars carrying members of the family. As the corpse was taken out of the van by his wife’s brothers, there were emotional scenes: people embracing each other, women clasping the widow and Sonu and sobbing. They noticed Mohan, but no one came to talk to him. Sonu was in a white sari and wore dark glasses to hide her tears. Her brothers turned to look at him and as quickly turned away. Mercifully his children had been kept at home.

Lala Achint Ram’s body was placed on the ground and a pandit started chanting mantras. A few feet away some men were piling wood to make a pyre. In the cremation yard some pyres still smouldered; there were others reduced to heaps of ashes.

Mohan stood apart, watching the scene. Suddenly his wife’s youngest brother, whom he detested, broke away from the circle surrounding the corpse and came towards him. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked in a voice loaded with sarcasm.

Mohan did not reply.

The brother-in-law persisted. ‘You need not have taken the trouble. And who is this cousin you have discovered to keep you company?’

‘Mind your own business,’ snapped Mohan and turned away. He left the cremation ground before the funeral pyre was lit.

His mind was in turmoil. He had no doubt his cook and bearer had been seeing his wife and had told her of the sahib’s ‘cousin’ staying at the house. She was not the kind to keep things to herself. He could hear her shrill voice screaming, ‘She is no cousin-vuzun, she is a randee! A whore who answered his advertisement in the papers for a part-time mistress.’

The servants had anyhow not bought the cousin story. ‘There is no rishta-vishta between them,’ they’d told Dhanno. ‘She’s not related to our sahib, she’s just a gold-digger exploiting the sahib. He is very bhola bhala, he does not understand the woman’s cunning.’

The Mohan-Sarojini honeymoon had been soured. Mohan spent the afternoon reading papers and magazines in the India International Centre library. He took a walk round the Lodhi gardens. The trees and the neat-looking tombs depressed him today. By the time he got home, it was dark. Sarojini was waiting for him—not in her nightie, but properly clad in salwar-kameez. He did not go to his room to take a shower and get into his sports outfit. He sat down beside her.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she asked taking his hand, ‘you look depressed.’

‘I have reason to be,’ he replied. ‘Give me time to collect my thoughts. Fix me a drink.’

Sarojini had never poured out a drink for anyone but knew roughly how much Mohan took. She held up his cut-glass tumbler in her left hand and tilted the bottle of Scotch with her right. ‘Tell me when.’

‘A Patiala,’ he replied, ‘quarter of a glass of whiskey, some soda and ice.’

She handed him his glass and poured out a sherry for herself. ‘Now tell me all and get it off your chest.’

He told her of his brother-in-law’s nastiness and that the servants knew she was no relation of his. ‘You don’t know my wife. She hates my guts and will do her utmost to hurt me. And you. So far she doesn’t know your name, because the servants don’t know it. Or in what college you teach. But she will ferret it out. Once she finds out she will persecute you, write to your principal, to your parents. Even to your son in his boarding school; she will stop at nothing.’

For the first time the enormity of the folly she had committed sank in. They sat silently holding hands, each working his or her way out of the predicament. ‘Let’s sleep over it,’ she said at last standing up. ‘Tomorrow may bring some ideas.’ They spent the night in the same bed. They had no sex nor much sleep.

The servants sensed that the sahib and his lady friend were upset. He was reading the paper; she was polishing her nails. They were not talking to each other. Nor to them. Something had transpired at the cremation ground which had put both of them in ill humour. They felt uneasy at their own role in the affair. When Dhanno came in, neither the sahib nor the memsahib as much as looked at her or acknowledged her greeting. After breakfast both left together, telling the servants that they would not be back till after dinner.

Mohan asked the driver to take them to Connaught Place. Sarojini did not want to spend the day at the house. In the car she put her hand on his and without turning towards him, said: ‘It was too good to last. We were living in a fool’s paradise of our own making. When would you like me to leave?’

‘Don’t talk like that!’ replied Mohan. ‘I was hoping you would be with me for at least three months till your college re-opened. Perhaps longer. You have been with me barely one month.’

‘One month, two days and two nights,’ she corrected him with a smile. ‘And you have paid me the second month’s wages in advance. I must return your money before I go.’ She sounded quite firm in her resolve. ‘If you allow me, I will stay another day or two. I’ll ring up my parents and ask them if I can spend the remainder of my leave with them. I’ll take my son to Mussoorie, come back to them and then return to Rewari. Will that be okay?’

He pressed her hand and replied: ‘You stay as long as you like, come back when you like.’

She got the message.

He asked her where she would like to have dinner. ‘Your favourite eating place,’ she replied. He gave her a list of his favourite haunts for French, Chinese, Italian, Thai and Indian cuisine. ‘Depends. What do you fancy this evening?’ he asked.

‘Somewhere quiet where we can talk undisturbed and unrecognized,’ she replied. ‘I’ve heard a lot about Le Meridien. I’m told it is very fancy and very expensive. I’ll never be able to go there on my professor’s salary.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ he agreed. ‘It has lots of bars with corners where other people cannot see you. Also many restaurants with different kinds of cuisine. We’ll decide where to eat when we have our drinks.’

Sarojini got off at the British Council Library, from where Mohan would pick her up for dinner.

Everyone in the office was very solicitous. Everyone also knew that his relations with his wife had been strained for quite some time and had finally broken down. Condoling with him was a formality they were expected to observe before getting down to work.

Before leaving the office, Mohan cashed a personal cheque for Rs 20,300. He put Rs 300 in one envelope and wrote on it: ‘Tips for servants’. In a second envelope he put Rs 10,000 and sealed it. He put no name or address on it. The remaining Rs 10,000 he put in his wallet. He asked Jiwan Lal to take him to a well-known jewellers’ shop in Connaught Circus, where he bought a gold ring and took a receipt stating it could be exchanged if it did not fit. A few moments after 7 p.m. the car pulled up outside the British Council Library. Saroj was standing there with an armful of books she had bought from Connaught Circus bookstores. ‘Haven’t you already got enough books to last you a lifetime?’ he asked.

‘When you have nothing better to do, you read books,’ she replied taking the seat beside him. ‘I will have nothing to do for some months to come besides eating and sleeping—alone, I may add—so I’ll read and read and read.’

‘Le Meridien,’ said Mohan to Jiwan Ram.

The car went up to Connaught Circus and turned back along Janpath, past Imperial Hotel, round Windsor Circle and went up through the hotel gates to its plate-glassed entrance. Two huge Sikh commissionaires in blue uniforms opened the car doors and greeted them. They escorted the two up four black marble stairs, opened the doors to let them in. Sarojini stopped in the reception hall to take in the grandeur of the glossy black marble floor and the huge chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling. She watched the coming and going of foreign tourists, pretty girls flitting about, and page boys in forage caps, buttoned coats and tight pants which made their buttocks stick out. They went past a row of glass elevators which shot up at rocket speed to the seventeenth floor and dived down to what appeared to be a gurgling pool of water. Mohan led Sarojini past a dark-skinned girl crooning in a husky voice to the strumming of a guitar. They found a cosy little alcove for two and ordered their drinks. ‘The lady is vegetarian,’ Mohan told the waiter, ‘so only vegetarian canapes and potato chips.’

The waiter served him Scotch and placed a glass of sherry before Sarojini. Then he brought a silver salver full of canapes. ‘Leave them on the table,’ Mohan ordered, ‘we’ll help ourselves.’ The waiter understood they wanted to be left alone.

Mohan fortified himself with a second Scotch before he took out the two envelopes from his pocket and pressed them into her hands. ‘Put them in your handbag,’ he said.

‘What is in them?’ she asked.

‘Three hundred in one for you to tip the servants, a hundred each. The other has what I still owe you over the deal.’

‘You don’t owe me anything. It is I who have to return the advance you gave me two days ago,’ she replied.

‘It is no longer a commercial deal,’ he said taking her hand. ‘This is to assure you that I value your friendship more than your body.’ He took out a small blue velvet box from his pocket and opened it. He took out the gold ring and slipped it on her third finger.

She looked puzzled. ‘You seem to be anxious to get rid of me and at the same time you want me to remain with you. I don’t understand you.’

‘It’s not very complicated. Your staying with me will hurt your career and your reputation. I don’t want that to happen.’ With a meaningful smile he added, ‘You still owe me almost two months in services to be rendered. I will avail of them if and when you feel like clearing your debt. I can always put you up in this hotel; I get a hefty rebate as I bring my business partners here. We can spend our holidays together in some unknown place where no one knows us. You will keep in touch with me, won’t you?’ She nodded her head without committing herself in words.

Mohan finished his third Scotch. She a second sherry. He handed the waiter his credit card and placed two ten-rupee notes on the table for him.

‘I have no appetite,’ said Sarojini getting up, ‘I’ll sit with you while you have your dinner.’

‘Me neither,’ he replied, ‘let’s go home.’

On his way out he handed ten-rupee notes to the Sikh commissionaires who saluted him again. ‘You squander your money without much concern,’ she said as they got into the car.

‘What else do you do with it?’ he said. He half-expected a stern little lecture from her in response, in her best lady professor tone. He wanted to hear it. But she said nothing. He knew he would miss her badly.

The servants were still waiting for them when they got home. It was not yet 9 p.m. Mohan went through his ritual of locking the gate and latching the doors. For some reason he did not go to urinate in the garden.

‘May I use your phone to ring up my parents?’ She said.

‘By all means, go ahead.’

She dialled the code and number. When her mother picked up the phone, she asked, ‘Mama, can I come over for a few weeks before my college re-opens?’ Her mother must have replied, ‘Of course. When will you come?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ Sarojini said, ‘I’ll take the first train on which I can get a seat and let you know. How’s my Munna?’ She listened for a while, then said ‘Good night’ and put the phone down.

‘All is well with everyone. Tomorrow I’ll try to book my seat on the Dehra Dun Shatabdi Express. I believe it leaves New Delhi railway station very early in the morning—six or thereabouts.’

‘Not to worry,’ he replied. ‘I’ll have the office get your ticket and the reservation. No matter what time it leaves, I’ll drive you to the railway station.’

‘That will be kind,’ she replied, ‘but the reservation people will want my name, age and sex. You don’t want to divulge all that to your staff, do you?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll ask my travel agent to do the booking and have the bill directed to me at my home address. He’ll let me know tomorrow when he can get a berth. There should not be much traffic on this sector at this time of the year.’

Sarojini had been careful, yet somehow she had begun to feel that Mohan’s house was hers to share as long as she liked. Now the bitter truth confronted her. She felt deserted and forlorn; the tedium of college routine in Rewari was all the reality she would know now. She put both her hands on her face and began to cry. Her mood sparked off a similar emotion in Mohan. He went down on his knees, put his head in her lap and started sobbing. They cried for some time. Sarojini ran her fingers through Mohan’s hair and said very gently, ‘We don’t have to cry like babies; let’s behave like grown ups. You know this is going to be much harder for me than for you. The world is more forgiving towards men. You will be envied; I will be condemned as a slut. But nevermind that. For me it was a memorable experience.’

They stood up together. He took her in a tight embrace and in a hoarse voice said, ‘Saroj, I love you.’

‘Mohan, I too love you more than you can imagine.’

It was the first time in their month-long relationship that they had used the word love with each other. All night they lay in each other’s arms; neither made any attempt to undress. The word love had made lust profane.

The next morning after Mohan left for the office, Sarojini started packing her clothes and books. The bearer and the sweeper woman were anxious to help but she turned down their offers and told them that she had very little to pack and did not want to be disturbed till lunch time. She had a frugal meal and asked Jiwan Ram to take her to Birla Temple. At the entrance she bought several leaf cups of rose petals to make offerings to all the gods and goddesses installed in different parts of the temple complex. She sat a long time, her eyes closed, in front of the idol of her favourite goddess, Saraswati, and chanted hymns in her praise.

She joined the congregation of worshippers at the Krishna temple where a keertan was going on. She fixed her gaze on Lord Krishna’s graceful statue. The gentle blue god with both tenderness and mischief in his eyes, holding a flute to his lips. He was the one deity above all others in the pantheon of gods and goddesses who understood the physical compulsions of human beings and forgave them by setting an example. He had a lifelong love affair with his aunt, Radha, and innumerable village girls, married and unmarried. People worshipped him and no one dared to call him a womanizer or the women in his life harlots. And here was she, abandoned by her husband for no fault of hers, who had briefly found physical fulfilment with another man—what great sin had she committed?

Sarojini left the temple light of heart. She knew this chapter of her life was over. She would forge her future destiny with her own hands.

She was back in Mohan’s house well before sunset. Jivan Ram went to fetch his boss. The first thing Mohan did as he came up to the balcony where she was sitting in silence watching the sunset was to fish out an envelope from his pocket and place it on the table beside her. ‘Your ticket. The travel agent was able to get you a seat on tomorrow morning’s Shatabdi. Better ring up your father straightaway and tell him to pick you up at the station. I think it gets to Dehra Dun around eleven.’

Sarojini rang up Dehra Dun and got her son on the line. She sounded happy. ‘Hello, beta, I’ll be with you tomorrow morning. Come with your nana to pick me up at the station. He knows the time the Delhi Shatabdi gets in.’

She put the phone down and came and sat next to Mohan. He thought he should say something but then saw that she was content. The sound of her son’s voice had comforted her. And then he thought of his own loss. Sonu would now make sure he got to see as little of the children as possible. And she would turn them against him. When the bearer came to lay out the drinks, Sarojini gave him a hundred-rupee note. ‘This is for you; I’ll be leaving very early tomorrow morning. Send the cook and the jamadarni.’ The bearer took the note and touched her feet. ‘If I have erred in any way, please forgive me,’ he said humbly. Sarojini knew he did not refer to any error on his part; it was the standard formula used by servants to express thanks. The cook and the jamadarni accepted their tips with both hands without saying anything. Sarojini examined her railway ticket. The computer print described her as Dr S. Bharadwaj, 37, F. It was as nondescript as could be. She put the ticket in her handbag.

They had their drinks and dinner without much conversation. The servants bade her goodbye and left for their quarters. Mohan went down to lock the gate and latch the doors. He marked another corner of the garden with his urine and came up to join her. ‘I think we should go to bed early. I’ve set the alarm for four. It will give us plenty of time to wash up and get ready.’

They got up together. ‘Can I spend this last night with you?’ he asked.

‘As you wish, I have a lot owing to you,’ she replied.

‘Don’t make it sound so businesslike.’

She took his hand and led him to her bed. ‘I’ll do whatever you want me to do,’ she said, taking off her clothes.

‘I want you to do nothing except lie with me till the alarm clock wakes us up.’

They got into a tight embrace. She noticed that Mohan had no desire for sex; he only wanted the warmth of her body against his. They dozed off into a light sleep, turning away from each other, then turned round to encircle each other in their arms. The shrill ringing of the alarm clock roused Mohan in more ways than one. He found Sarojini awake and receptive. They rocked and buffetted against each other as if it was the last time in their lives they would savour each other’s bodies. For both of them it was a farewell celebration.

They showered together. Sarojini changed, put the old clothes into her suitcase and declared that she was ready to leave. She did this firmly, determined not to give herself any chance to dawdle; there was still a temptation to delay the departure, but she should not succumb to it. The heavier case containing her books had been put in the boot of the car the night before. Mohan picked up the other suitcase and put it on the rear seat. He unlocked the front gate. They drove out into a deserted street with the street lights glowing eerily in the early dawn. The headlights caught an occasional newspaper vendor on his bicycle, tossing papers into peoples’ houses and balconies, or a milk-seller, weaving his bicycle through non-existent traffic, cans dangling from the handle bars and the pillion seat. They drove past India Gate into Connaught Circus, past early morning walkers doing their rounds, wearing sweaters or shawls as the mornings had become quite chilly.

Despite the early hour, around the railway station there was bedlam—an unruly jumble of buses, cars, scooters, cyclists and pedestrians. They were assaulted by the ceaseless blowing of horns, the harsh glare of neon lights and people yelling at each other. It took Mohan some time to find a place in the parking lot and a coolie to carry Sarojini’s two cases. They wove their way through the jostling crowd, up an overbridge and down to the designated platform. Mohan found Sarojini her coach and seat. The coolie placed both cases on the rack, took the ten-rupee note Mohan gave him. There were only a handful of passengers in the coach. Sarojini took her seat by the window. He sat beside her. While he held her hand, he kept an eye on his wrist-watch—these Shatabdis were notoriously punctual and picked up speed very quickly. Tears welled up in Sarojini’s eyes. Mohan held her face in his hands and wiped the tears off with his thumbs. ‘This is not the end,’ he assured her. ‘We will keep in touch and meet whenever we can.’ His assurance sounded hollow to him. And to her. A minute before the train was due to leave, he stood up. She also stood up. Without bothering about the other passengers they kissed passionately. As he came out of the compartment, he overheard a woman passenger hiss, ‘Besharam (shameless)!’

That was the last Mohan saw of Sarojini. She did not call up or write. It took a few days for it to sink in that the Sarojini chapter of his life was over.