Deven shrank back in apology. ‘No, sir I teach in- in the Hindi department. I took my degree in Hindi because-’

But the poet was not listening. He was laughing and spitting as he laughed because he did it so rustily and unwillingly. Phlegm flew. ‘You see,’ he croaked, ‘what did I tell you? You are a slave. Perhaps a spy even if you don’t know it, sent to universities to destroy whatever remains of Urdu, hunt it out and kill it. And you tell me it is for an Urdu magazine you wish to interview me. If so, why are you teaching Hindi?’ he suddenly roared, fixing Deven with that small, turtle-lidded eye that had now become lethal, a bullet.

‘I studied Urdu, sir, as a boy, in Lucknow. My father, he was a schoolteacher, a scholar, and a lover of Urdu poetry. He taught me the language. But he died. He died and my mother brought me to Delhi to live with her relations here. I was sent to the nearest school, a Hindi-medium school, sir,’ Deven stumbled through the explanation. ‘I took my degree in Hindi, sir,and now I am temporary lecturer in Lala Ram Lal College at Mirpore. It is my living, sir. You see I am married man, a family man. But I still remember my lesson in Urdu, how my father taught me, how he used to read poetry to me. If it were not for the need to earn a living, I would – I would-’