I feel suffocated. The dance floor doesn't seem rocking any more. That is when I notice that behind the dance floor there is another screened-off area. I push my way through the packed, jostling mass of bodies and enter yet another lounge, which is much more informal. Instead of sofas and bar stools it has carpets and cushions. There is a widescreen TV and a few artificial plants. There is also a small bar with a bartender who is yawning. Only a handful of people are in the lounge – a couple sitting in a corner exchanging whispered confidences, a bored-looking girl with an older guy, trying to send a text message from her mobile phone, and a group of foreigners with long hair taking turns smoking a hookah.

I see a girl sitting all alone, with her back towards me, watching the TV, which is tuned to NDTV instead of MTV. She is slender, with long black hair, and is probably the only girl in the entire club wearing a desi dress, a blue salwar kameez.

I step closer to her. She senses my presence and turns around. I glimpse an oval face, a well-shaped nose, full lips and a pair of dark eyes which look like they will break into tears at any minute. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have seen in my life.

'Hi!' I say, because rich people speak only in English.

She looks at me with a helpless expression and does not respond. I notice she is biting her lip.

Another girl, wearing tight jeans and a studded belt, appears suddenly by her side. She has put on crimson lipstick to match her red-striped T-shirt, whose deep V-neck clearly displays her cleavage. 'Ritu, I hope you are not getting terribly bored, yaar,' she says in Hindi. 'Bas,Tony and I will have a couple more dances and then we'll leave.'

Then she notices me standing behind Ritu. 'Hello, Mister. Aren't you going to buy my friend a drink?' she says in English.

By now I have exhausted all the English I know. 'I prefer to speak Hindi,' I tell her, sounding sheepish.

'Cool,' says the girl and offers her hand. 'My name is Malini. This is my friend Ritu. She also speaks only chaste Hindi.'

As Malini disappears back to the dance floor, I extend my hand and this time Ritu grasps it. Her grip is soft and delicate. I sit down next to her.

'You know my name. What is yours?' she asks in Hindi.

I realize instantly that Munna Mobile will cut no ice in this upmarket club. I need a powerful new name and I need it fast. The most powerful person I know is the Butcher of Mehrauli, Inspector Vijay Singh Yadav, and before I know it, I have blurted out that name. 'Vijay Singh, my name is Vijay Singh.'

She brightens up. 'Are you also a Thakur, like me?'

'Yes,' I nod. 'I am also a Thakur.'

'What do you do, Vijay?'

That's easy. I do what every tin-pot trader does in this city.

'Import-Export.'

'Where do you live?'

That's tougher. I dare not say Kholi Number One. 'Here and there.' I wave my hands. Before she can cross-examine me any further, I launch my own offensive. 'What about you? Where do you live?'

'Oh, I am not from Delhi. I live in Lucknow. I am just visiting.'

That explains her dress and her language. 'What do you do?'

'I am a final-year BA student at Lucknow University. Doing my honours in Home Science. When did you graduate?' she asks.

'A couple of years ago,' I reply.

'Where from?' she persists.

'Delhi University,' I say glibly, conveniently glossing over the fact that it was a correspondence course and that I took four years to pass – and only then with a third-class degree.

We manage to string together a conversation for the next couple of hours, speaking of this and that. She asks me what books I have read and I gently steer her on to the topic of films I have seen. She tells me about Lucknow. I tell her about Delhi. It emerges that we have much in common. We share a distrust of politicians; we decry the arrogance of money and we are both fans of Shabnam Saxena.

Around eleven o'clock, Ritu prepares to leave. 'It was good talking to you, Vijay. I hope we meet again,' she says and passes me a slip of paper. It has her mobile phone number.

I follow Ritu and her friend out of the club. The queue outside the door has become even longer. A black chauffeur-driven BMW draws up and a tall moustachioed black-cat commando carrying an AK-47 opens the door for her. Ritu studiously avoids looking at me as she gets into the back seat with Malini. The car drives away, leaving me standing on the kerb. Throughout the evening Ritu had tactfully evaded answering personal questions about her family, but that uniformed gunman makes me wonder. Who is this mysterious girl and why has she given me her mobile number?

Before I can ponder the question any further I am accosted by a smelly beggar with a bent arm who grips my leg like a leech, a telling reminder that I have stepped back into India. 'I have not eaten for three days. Please give me some money. Kuch dede baba!' he implores. I search my pockets and come up with a couple of one-rupee coins. I get rid of him, and then duck into a quiet alley to change into my regular clothes. Vijay Singh has had his fun. Now it is time for Munna Mobile to hit the sack.

I catch a bus back to the temple. Mother is asleep but Champi is still awake. 'You smell different,' she says as soon as I enter, making me freeze. This is the thing about Champi. She may be blind, but she sees more than people with both eyes.

'Yes, I have put on some perfume.'

'Seems expensive. Looks like you have started blowing the money.'

'Well, ten days have passed.'

'Did you meet a girl?'

'What?'

'You are also carrying her smell with you.'

I am left speechless by Champi's powers of intuition.

I wait for her to go to sleep before taking out the briefcase and opening it, both to receive that special thrill again and to count the remaining wads of notes. But once again, the enterprise proves unsuccessful. Not because I cannot count, but because tonight my concentration is broken by another ten-digit number buzzing in my brain. Ritu's mobile.

There is no doubt that I am smitten by her beauty. That old suppressed desire to seduce a rich memsahib rears up in my mind like a coiled snake. I debate when to call her. If I call her tomorrow, I might appear too eager and impatient and it could spoil my chances. On the other hand, if I delay too much she might consider me arrogant and uninterested.

Even as I am thinking what to do, it dawns on me that I don't actually have a mobile phone. So the next morning I go to Delite Phone Mart and purchase a basic Nokia 1110, so as not to rouse any suspicion. It is the same cheap phone that the corner tobacconist and the neighbourhood washerman use. It feels funny paying for a mobile phone for the first time with my own money. Well, it is my money now, isn't it?

Try as I might, I cannot resist calling Ritu. Within ten minutes of inserting the SIM card, I am punching in her number. She seems to be expecting my call, picking it up on the first ring.

'Hello, Ritu. Vijay Singh speaking,' I say somewhat lamely.

'Hello, Vijay,' she replies, somewhat coyly.

There is an awkward silence as I think of what to say. I have never had occasion before to chat up a rich girl on the phone. I try to think what girls like her like to do and the only thing that comes to mind is shopping.

'Would you like to go shopping?' I ask.

There is another pause as Ritu ponders what to make of this request. 'Yes. That would be nice. Where do you suggest we go?'

'Where are you staying?'

'Mehrauli,' she answers, surprising me.

'What a coincidence! I live in Mehrauli too! So how about meeting up at the Ambawata Complex? It has all the designer shops.'