"It's so that my master can call me and give me instructions on where to pick him up. I just have to keep it here-in my pocket-wherever I go."

He took the phone back from me, rubbed it clean, and put it in his pocket. Until this evening, his status in the drivers' circle had been low: his master drove only a Maruti-Suzuki Zen, a small car. Today he was being as bossy as he wanted. The drivers were passing his cell phone from hand to hand and gazing at it like monkeys gaze at something shiny they have picked up. There was the smell of ammonia in the air; one of the drivers was pissing not far from us.

Vitiligo-Lips was watching me from a corner.

"Country-Mouse," he said. "You look like a fellow who wants to say something."

I shook my head.

The traffic grew worse by the day. There seemed to be more cars every evening. As the jams grew worse, so did Pinky Madam's temper. One evening, when we were just crawling down M.G. Road into Gurgaon, she lost it completely. She began screaming.

"Why can't we go back, Ashoky? Look at this fucking traffic jam. It's like this every other day now."

"Please don't begin that again. Please."

"Why not? You promised me, Ashoky, we'll be in Delhi just three months and get some paperwork done and go back. But I'm starting to think you only came here to deal with this income-tax problem. Were you lying to me the whole time?"

It wasn't his fault, what happened between them-I will insist on that, even in a court of law. He was a good husband, always coming up with plans to make her happy. On her birthday, for instance, he had me dress up as a maharaja, with a red turban and dark cooling glasses, and serve them their food in this costume. I'm not talking of any ordinary home cooking, either-he got me to serve her some of that stinking stuff that comes in cardboard boxes and drives all the rich absolutely crazy.

She laughed and laughed and laughed when she saw me in my costume, bowing low to her with the cardboard box. I served them, and then, as Mr. Ashok had instructed, stood near the portrait of Cuddles and Puddles with folded hands and waited.

"Ashok," she said. "Now hear this. Balram, what is it we're eating?"

I knew it was a trap, but what could I do?-I answered. The two of them burst into giggles.

"Say it again, Balram."

They laughed again.

"It's not piJJA. It's piZZa. Say it properly."

"Wait-you're mispronouncing it too. There's a T in the middle. Peet. Zah."

"Don't correct my English, Ashok. There's no T in pizza. Look at the box."

I had to hold my breath as I stood there waiting for them to finish. The stuff smelled so awful.

"He's cut the pizza so badly. I just don't understand how he can come from a caste of cooks."

"You've just dismissed the cook. Please don't fire this fellow too-he's an honest one."

When they were done, I scraped the food off the plates and washed them. From the kitchen window, I could see the main road of Gurgaon, full of the lights of the shopping malls. A new mall had just opened up at the end of the road, and the cars were streaming into its gates.

I pulled the window shade down and went back to washing dishes.

"Pijja."

"Pzijja."

"Zippja."

"Pizja."

I wiped the sink with my palm and turned off the lights.

The two of them had gone into their bedroom. I heard shouting from inside. On tiptoe, I went to the closed door. I put my ear to the wood.

Shouting rose from both sides-followed by a scream-followed by the sound of man's flesh slapping woman's flesh.

About time you took charge, O Lamb-that-was-born-from-the-loins-of-a-landlord. I locked the door behind me and took the elevator down.

Half an hour later, just when I was about to fall asleep, another of the servants came and yelled for me. The bell was ringing! I put on my pants, washed my hands again and again at the common tap, and drove the car up to the entrance of the building.

"Drive us into the city."

"Yes, sir. Where in the city?"

"Any place you want to go, Pinky?"

No word from her.

"Take us to Connaught Place, Balram."

Neither husband nor wife talked as I drove. I still had the maharaja outfit on. Mr. Ashok looked at Pinky Madam nervously half a dozen times.

"You're right, Pinky," he said in a husky voice. "I didn't mean to challenge you on what you said. But I told you, there's only one thing wrong with this place-we have this fucked-up system called parliamentary democracy. Otherwise, we'd be just like China -"

"Ashok. I have a headache. Please."

"We'll have some fun tonight. There's a good T.G.I. Friday's here. You'll like it."

When we got to Connaught Place, he made me stop in front of a big red neon light.

"Wait for us here, Balram. We'll be back in twenty minutes."

They had been gone for an hour and I was still inside the car, watching the lights of Connaught Place.

I punched the fluffy black ogre a dozen times. I looked at the magnetic stickers of goddess Kali with her skulls and her long red tongue-I stuck my tongue out at the old witch. I yawned.

It was well past midnight and very cold.

I would have loved to play some music to pass the time, but of course the Mongoose had forbidden that.

I opened the door of the car: there was an acrid smell in the air. The other drivers had made a fire for themselves, which they kept going by shoving bits of plastic into it.

The rich of Delhi, to survive the winter, keep electrical heaters, or gas heaters, or even burn logs of wood in their fireplaces. When the homeless, or servants like night watchmen and drivers who are forced to spend time outside in winter, want to keep warm, they burn whatever they find on the ground. One of the best things to put in the fire is cellophane, the kind used to wrap fruits, vegetables, and business books in: inside the flame, it changes its nature and melts into a clear fuel. The only problem is that while burning, it gives off a white smoke that makes your stomach churn.

Vitiligo-Lips was feeding bags of cellophane into the fire; with his free hand he waved to me.

"Country-Mouse, don't sit there by yourself! That leads to bad thoughts!"

The warmth was so tempting.

But no. My mouth would tickle if I went near them, and I would ask for paan.

"Look at the snob! He's even dressed like a maharaja today!"

"Come join us, maharaja of Buckingham!"

Away from the warmth, away from temptation I walked, down the pathways of Connaught Place, until the smell of churned mud filled the air.

There is construction work in any direction you look in Delhi. Glass skeletons being raised for malls or office blocks; rows of gigantic T-shaped concrete supports, like a line of anvils, where the new bridges or overpasses are coming up; huge craters being dug for new mansions for the rich. And here too, in the heart of Connaught Place, even in the middle of the night, under the glare of immense spotlights, construction went on. A giant pit had been excavated. Machines were rumbling from inside it.

I had heard of this work: they were putting a railway under the ground of Delhi. The pit they had made for this work was as large as any of the coal mines I'd seen in Dhanbad. Another man was watching the pit with me-a well-dressed man in a shirt and tie and pants with nice pleats. Normally his kind would never talk to me, but maybe my maharaja tunic confused him.

"This city is going to be like Dubai in five years, isn't it?"

"Five?" I said contemptuously. "In two years!"

"Look at that yellow crane. It's a monster."

It was a monster, sitting at the top of the pit with huge metal jaws alternately gorging and disgorging immense quantities of mud. Like creatures that had to obey it, men with troughs of mud on their heads walked in circles around the machine; they did not look much bigger than mice. Even in the winter night the sweat had made their shirts stick to their glistening black bodies.