Also in the crowd is a crackpot friend of mine called Shaka, who boasts of being some kind of functionary in the Communist Party. He has long hair and always wears a red bandanna on his forehead. Before Barkha can go to anyone else, he snatches the mike from her hand. 'This country has gone to the dogs. The rich imperialists are breaking the law with impunity. I say shoot them all. Only a revolution can save this country. Only a revolution. Inquilab Zindabad!' he declares and pumps his fists in the air.

Barkha Das snatches the mike back from Shaka and glares at him briefly. 'Do you think we need a revolution, maaji?' she turns to Mother suddenly.

Mother shrinks back, but Barkha corners her. 'You have to answer, maaji.'

'Revolution will not solve our problems, beti,' Mother speaks into the mike in her gravelly voice. 'We have to work hard, do good deeds in this life so that our misdeeds in the previous life can be forgiven by God. Only then will we be born rich in the next life.'

I shake my head at Mother. This has always been a sore point between us. She believes in good karma and rebirth. I believe only in the accident of birth and the currency of the present. And that idiot Shaka is also wrong. There will be no revolution. The rich can sleep easy. Our revolutions last only until we miss our next meal.

Actually I shouldn't be saying all this. After all, I myself have joined the ranks of the rich imperialists. Thanks to a certain briefcase!

Ritu calls me the next morning, sounding a little upset. 'Vijay, can we meet today? Some place quiet. And far from here.'

'I know just the place. Let's meet in Lodhi Garden. It's on the other side of the city.'

'Yes. I know Lodhi Garden. I'll meet you there at two o'clock.'

I have a gut feeling that today I will finally score with this rich chick. In the salubrious environs of Delhi's most famous park.

I take a taxi to Lodhi Garden and wait for her near the entrance. She arrives fifteen minutes late in an auto-rickshaw, wearing a pink salwar kameez. I like her choice of colour. But what I like even more is the fact that she has ditched the family car and the personal guard. Definitely a good omen.

Lodhi Garden is a wide open green space full of tombs and trees. It is famous for two things: jogging and snogging. In the mornings the park is full of fitness enthusiasts who can be seen running around in soaked T-shirts, and in the afternoons the lovers take over, making out in recessed alcoves of crumbling monuments, kissing behind bushes, groping on strategically situated park benches.

At two o'clock, the park resembles a zoo for lovelorn couples. I can see that Ritu is a bit uncomfortable at the public displays of affection going on all over the park. In small-town Lucknow the necking couples would probably be in jail by now.

'Should we go to another park?' she asks me, glancing around with trepidation.

'You will see the same thing in every other park in Delhi,' I answer and gently guide her to a corner bench which has just been vacated by a couple.

We sit down side by side. Ritu is still jumpy, as though expecting her father to pop up behind the next bush. I try to put her at ease. 'Don't worry. You won't see any of your family members here. At this time of the day the park is reserved only for lovers.'

She blushes and I gently take her hand in mine. She neither resists nor encourages me. I doubt whether she will allow me to kiss her in a public place, but this is the time to find out. I lean over and give her a gentle peck on the cheek, not so much a kiss as a probing gambit. She immediately covers her face with her hands, but I prise them open and discover that she is smiling shyly. I look her in the eye, wink and kiss her again, this time on the lips. She kisses me back. I taste the lipstick on her lips, inhale the perfume of her skin and discover that the rich even kiss differently. The warm, measured kiss from Ritu is quite unlike the slobbering mouth-lock I used to get from the mohalla girls. And the delicious tingling sensation it leaves in my mouth spreads all the way to my brain, dissolving all doubt and leaving me only with the heady feeling of success.

'I love you, Ritu,' I say with the earnest expression of a romantic hero.

'I love you too, Vijay,' she whispers, and then and there I feel like standing up and taking a bow. Not because this is the first time in my life that a girl has said these words to me. I've heard plenty of terms of endearment, but they were uttered by the dark, coarse girls from the Sanjay Gandhi slum, who smelt of cheap talcum powder and Boroline. To hear these words from the lips of a fair, svelte beauty who drives in a Mercedes and is protected by a commando is a different experience altogether. I decide to go for broke.

'Come, let us go somewhere more private.' I get up from the bench.

'Where to?' she asks.

'I know a good place.'

She does not demur as I lead her out of Lodhi Garden to a taxi stand. I can easily afford to take her to one of the deluxe five-star hotels, but they ask too many questions which might scare her off. Better to go to one of those cheap, nondescript hotels where the manager is not fussy and rooms are charged by the hour. 'Take us to Paharganj,' I tell the driver.

Decent Hotel is located in one of the narrow alleys of Paharganj, within walking distance of the railway station. A grey, threestoreyed building with fading plaster and a cracked sign-board, I realize soon enough that the only thing which inspires confidence about it is the name. The reception has mildewed walls and an atmosphere of fake cheer. The bellboys appraise Ritu and me from head to toe and go into a huddle. They begin conversing in low whispers, as though hatching some conspiracy against us. The manager leers at me in a knowing way when I ask for a room. 'One hour or one day?' he asks.

'One hour,' I say and he promptly charges me five hundred rupees and hands over a clunky key. 'Room 515, fifth floor. The lift is round the corner.'

I can sense Ritu's increasing discomfort as I usher her into the lift. Room Number 515 turns out to be at the fag end of the corridor and there are cockroaches scurrying across the frayed and dusty red carpet. I am already regretting my decision to come to this dump. But it is too late to backtrack. I open the door and am pleasantly surprised by its neat and efficient orderliness. There is a large double bed with a crisp white sheet and fluffy pillows. The walls are painted a pastel pink, matching Ritu's dress, and adorned with framed pictures of scenes from Delhi. There is even a wall clock, busy ticking the seconds. A small wooden desk and chair are placed near the far wall. The red curtains, made of some kind of rough fabric, look brand new but are not thick enough to keep out the ambient sounds of traffic and trade. The lingering smell of a faint rose perfume enters my nose, either left behind by the previous occupants or sprayed by the management as a romantic touch. But the icing on the cake is the packet of Nirodh condoms left discreetly on the lower shelf of the bedside table.

Locking the door behind me, I take Ritu in my arms. She accepts my embrace willingly but there is a new stiffness in her body. She grimaces slightly as I kiss her again on the lips, more hungrily this time.

My hands get rid of her chunni and commence their descent down her back, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her kameez. She begins shivering as I unbutton her shirt and lift it over her head, uncovering her from the waist up. Only a white lace bra remains and its sight serves only to inflame me further. That is when Ritu does a peculiar thing. She does not try to stop me, does not demurely cover her chest with her hands; she simply starts sobbing. I have been with enough girls to suspect that her tears are not so much a mark of protest as an appeal for caution – this is probably her first time – yet they make me distraught. I know I can ignore this minor hiccup and continue my conquest. But Ritu seems so utterly defenceless, her face so guileless, that my raging desire begins to seem crass and vulgar. Taking advantage of her would be as reprehensible as taking a coin from a blind beggar. So I wipe her tears with my fingers and hand back her kameez. Then, fully clothed, we sit down on the bed and simply hold hands. I don't remember for how long we do this, but a curious change begins to come over me. Gradually my eyes lose focus. They don't see the bed and the headboard and the walls and the pictures. My ears stop registering all sounds. They don't hear the honks of the auto-rickshaws, the cries of the fruit-sellers or the screeching of crows. As the clock ticks off the seconds, all I notice is the slight trembling of my skin and the warm beating of my heart. I look into Ritu's moist eyes and feel as if the whole world is contained in their glistening depths.