He stepped forward and held out a hand. ‘Mir Adnan Akbar Khan,’ he said, in mock-grandiose tones. ‘But my friends call me Ed.’

‘Nicknames and friendship rarely go together,’ I said, taking his hand, and trying not to show how startled I was to have found a stranger wearing an expression I thought of as mine alone. He seemed to have no desire to let go of my hand, and as I pulled my fingers out of his grasp I wasn’t sure if that was flattering or sleazy. He was one of those men who straddled the line between dazzlingly sexy and somewhat repulsive. All due to the heavy hoods of those Mughal eyes. ‘My name is Aasmaani Inqalab. My friends call me Arse-Many Inflagrante.’

He laughed — dazzlingly — and beckoned me towards the office out of which he’d just walked. ‘You’re expected.’

Inside the office, a portly man sat behind a large, cluttered desk. He nodded as I walked in, placed both hands on the arms of his chair and pressed down with them, leaning forward at the same time. It was clearly his way of expressing that while he would like to rise and greet me, the effort was overwhelming — so I did what was expected of me, and said, ‘No, please,’ while patting down the air with both my hands to indicate he should stay seated.

‘So,’ he said, after we’d finished the formalities of whether I wanted tea or coffee, and how exactly I knew his sister-in-law, and why it had been necessary to move the interview up by a few hours, ‘so you’re looking for employment.’

‘Yes—’ and then I realized how unprepared I was for this meeting. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t bring a CV or references.’

He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘If you want a job here, that’s all the reference you need. We’re in no position to be fussy. And as for a CV,’ he smiled and picked at his teeth with the corner of an envelope, ‘your background is CV enough.’ He leaned forward again with that anticipation I knew so well, and said, We’re starting up a political talk show. Hard-hitting stuff, one-on-one interviews with our newly elected ministers. You could be ideal to host. If you have even a fraction of your mother’s fire, the camera will just lick you up.’

‘I’m entirely anti-flammable, I’m afraid. And I’d like to stay unlicked while at work if that’s OK.’ The CEO of STD held up his hands as though warding off an accusation. ‘Is there anything off-camera I could do? And nothing about politics, please. It’s not really something I’m interested in.’

He looked offended, as though I had made my way into his office under false pretences. ‘I suppose you’re not interested in poetry either.’ Then he turned red, as strangers often did when they alluded to the Poet’s position in my life.

I shrugged. ‘I occasionally write haiku. Munchkin verse is how I think of the form, ergo I’m working on a Wizard of Oz series.’

So this is who I was planning to be in my media incarnation. A woman who penned constipated verse and who could use the word ‘ergo’ before her morning cup of coffee. This could be the most insufferable version of me yet.

The CEO’s face brightened — not from any poetic feelings, I was sure, but merely because he was grateful to be past the awkward moment. He made a clumsy gesture of appeal, and my mind worked furiously, counting syllables and reaching for the most obvious way out.

‘Follow the yellow/Brick road, follow the yellow/Brick road. Follow it.’

From behind his desk, he looked uncertainly at me, obviously unable to decide whether this was humour or an appalling lack of talent.

Someone behind me cleared his throat. I turned, and it was Mir Adnan Akbar Khan, known to his friends as Ed, standing in the doorway.

‘There is wit in straw/Courage in fear. Love echoes/In vast tin caverns.’

He had his eyes fixed on me as he spoke. I kept my hands hidden beneath the desk as I counted syllables on my fingertips, unaccountably hoping that he’d got it wrong.

The man behind the desk had lost all interest in poetry — and me — by now, and indicated this by hiring me on the spot. ‘Ed will show you your office. Wait in there until someone comes to talk to you about a contract and then you can leave. Or stay. Whichever suits you.’ He raised his bulk out of his chair.

‘But what’s my job description?’ I asked.

‘Bit of this and bit of that. Same as most people here. You do actually want to work, don’t you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re not one of the eye-liner girls? The ones who come here to find husbands.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Because if you are, I’ve got this nephew…’

Mir Adnan Akbar Khan cleared his throat again. ‘Do you have any particular talents or abilities we should be taking advantage of?’ he asked.

‘Not really. Except, facts. I have many of them in my head. About all sorts of things. I don’t know if that’s at all useful. I take some pride in it not being useful, actually.’

‘That’s perfect,’ the CEO said, smiling a gold-capped smile. ‘We need a research assistant for our new quiz show. You have to come up with questions in different categories, and list four possible answers. Quiz show researcher. That’s your official designation, but you’ll soon find everyone here does a little bit of everything.’ He addressed himself to the man behind me. ‘I’ll be at the golf course, Ed. Deal with anything that needs dealing with. That includes finding someone to read the five o’clock news. Amina has to leave at four — there’s a tea at her place and her mother needs her to hand out pakoras. You, haiku girl, how do you feel about cockroaches?’

‘The sight of their antennae makes me sneeze.’

‘Well, then you can’t be our newsreader,’ he said, and waved me away.

I followed Mir Adnan Akbar Khan out of the office and up the staircase at the end of the hall. The ground floor’s buzz of activity fell away as we stepped on to the landing which led into a lemon-yellow hallway with a window at the far end, framing a bough clustered with pink blossoms set against the pale sky. ‘The creatives are on the ground floor,’ Mir Adnan Akbar Khan said. ‘Along with the CEO, of course, but only because he’s too lazy to walk up stairs. The studio is in the basement. There’s a lone cockroach living there at the moment, resisting all attempts to take him dead or alive — we call him Osama Bin Roach. He makes some of our live shows far more interesting than they would otherwise be. And up on this floor you’ve got producers, researchers, analysts and other people who prefer quiet. My office is down the end. This is yours—’ He pointed to a door halfway down the hallway.

I pushed open the door and entered. A glass-topped desk and computer took up the bulk of space in the tiny room. It was hard to imagine being able to move in there without bumping into something — the desk, a computer peripheral, your own ribs. There was no window, only four blue walls and a duct for central air-conditioning, which didn’t seem to be turned on.

‘A room with a vent. How charming.’

‘If it’s luxury you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong place.’ Mir Adnan Akbar Khan squeezed in past me, and reached under the desk for a pedestal fan, which he deposited on the desk. He reached down again, and pulled out a pile of books. He stacked the books vertically against the wall, and put the fan on top. The blades were rimmed with blackness. He turned to face me, amused. ‘Think you can handle it?’

I walked around the other side of the desk, and sat down in the worn, leather chair, elbows propped on the armrests. My mother would tell me to count myself fortunate. She’d work out how many political prisoners could be squeezed, like pomfiret, into prison cells this size. She’d refuse to say, ‘Like sardines,’ because sardines are a colonial residue.

‘So, Mir Adnan Akbar Khan—’

‘It’s Ed. Short for Eddy. As in, a whirling current. And there’s no need to laugh — it’s a childhood name which just stuck.’

‘Don’t get so defensive, Eddy.’ He looked annoyed and I waved my hand in a gesture of peace. ‘It’s just that I woke up thinking of seas and currents, and now here you are.’