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.
The spell is broken only by incessant knocking on the door. 'Time is up, Sir. We need the room back,' I hear the manager's voice.
Glancing at the clock, it is a shock to discover that we have been in the room for over an hour. I get up quickly from the bed and unlock the door. The manager seems apologetic but it is the sight of a maid, armed with a fresh sheet, which brings me up short. I hear the sound of the lift opening and a middle-aged couple steps into the corridor, probably the next hourly tenants of the room. The man, dressed like an office clerk, sniggers at me; the woman, heavy set, but fashionably dressed in trousers and shirt, giggles like an adolescent schoolgirl as Ritu and I pass her, her face shining with unrestrained longing.
The encounter with this lusty-eyed couple shames me. But it makes Ritu clutch my hand with a fierce new possessiveness.
When we step back into the street dusk is falling, draping the surroundings in a misty grey light. The quiet murmur of the afternoon has given way to the din of evening traffic, the cacophony of car horns and the revving of bus engines on the main road.
'I am late,' Ritu frets. 'I must return immediately or Ram Singh will come looking for me.'
'When will I see you again?'
'I don't know. I am going back to Lucknow tonight.'
'But how will I live without seeing you?' I cry.
'Love doesn't end just because we don't see each other,' she replies.
'At least give me some idea of when you will return to Delhi.'
'In three weeks. Just in time for my birthday.'
'Your birthday? When is it?'
'On the tenth of March.'
'Then I must get you a present.'
'But you have already given me a present.'
'What are you saying?' I ask, mystified. 'I have not given you anything.'
She smiles. 'You have given me the best possible gift. You have given me respect. See you soon, Vijay.' She gently squeezes my hand in a goodbye gesture and gets into an auto-rickshaw.
As the auto-rickshaw departs, trailing a plume of smoke, a pang of sadness squeezes my heart with such force that I almost cry out. And a new realization dawns on me. I had come to Paharganj a boy, looking for a tawdry thrill. I was leaving it a man, madly in love.
Lying in bed that night I am tormented with dreams of Ritu. She began as an object of desire for me, a seemingly unattainable fantasy, and then somewhere along the way she became real. I am all too painfully aware of the wide gap between us. She is the daughter of an upper-caste, upper-class business tycoon and I am the uncouth son of a temple sweeper. The chasm between us is so wide that it can only be bridged in dreams. But I pinch myself and regain confidence with the knowledge that Ritu returns my love. And, as they say in Hindi film songs, pyaar respects no boundaries. Our love will bridge the chasm. With a little bit of help from a black VIP briefcase.
I decide to use the three weeks until Ritu comes back to Delhi to make myself worthy of her. I start going to a private tutor for English lessons. I meet a property agent to discuss renting a fourbedroom flat on Ramoji Road. I visit the box factory on MG Road to familiarize myself with its operation. And then I decide to buy a birthday gift for her. A diamond engagement ring. It seems like the best way to convince her family of my richie-rich credentials and seal our relationship.
I go to a swanky jewellery showroom on Janpath and sit in air-conditioned comfort as a sales girl in a pink top shows me one magnificent ring after another. The glittering diamonds are all shapes and sizes, some as small as a grain of salt and some as big as a thumbtack, but all of them carry indecently large price tags. The cheapest diamond ring in the store costs fifty thousand rupees. What disturbs me is that similar rings, shining just as brilliantly, are available in plenty of roadside shops in Janpath for as little as five hundred rupees. 'Those are not diamonds, Sir,' the sales girl titters. 'They are cubic zirconium pieces, totally fake. Under a microscope you can spot the difference immediately.' For a moment I am tempted to buy a fake diamond ring. It feels silly to be blowing all this money on a piece of rock. And Ritu is not going to examine it under a microscope. But the very next moment I chide myself for thinking like a slum-dweller and select a shiny, one-carat ring costing a whopping 120,000 rupees. I pay cash, have it nicely gift-wrapped, and then call Ritu on her mobile. 'I have a surprise present for you. Can we meet on 10 March?'
'That is the day I arrive in Delhi. My family will not allow me to go out on my birthday.'
'But it is absolutely critical that we meet. How about the Nehru Park at three o'clock?'
'It's going to be very difficult, but I'll do my best to come,' she promises.
On 10 March, I proceed to Nehru Park with the costliest gift of my life in my pocket, my palms clammy with sweat. Ritu arrives on time and alone. We sit down on a secluded bench underneath a shady tree.
I take out the gift-wrapped packet from my breast pocket and place it gently in her palm. 'Open it,' I say. She begins unwrapping the golden paper till the red velvet box is revealed. She slowly raises the lid. I expect her eyes to be dazzled by the glittering diamond and a look of shocked delight to appear on her face, but what I get instead is a pained and pensive expression. 'This looks like an engagement ring,' she says in a shocked voice.
'It is,' I reply. 'Ritu, will you marry me?'
'But I am already engaged,' she whispers.
'What?'
'Yes. My father has got me engaged to Kunwar Inder Singh, the crown prince of Pratapgarh princely State. I have managed to put off the wedding till after my graduation, but I could not prevent the engagement.'