MY MEMORY OF THAT EVENING IS FUZZY, and strangely cinematic, the way childhood memories often are. The play was over and we were in the lobby of the theatre, which throbbed with light and the familiar bustle of people at the end of a show. I’m not sure exactly how old I was. But I distinctly remember the chill that went through me as I stepped out of the lobby and saw, looming before me, a sandwich board of the kind restaurants place outside their entrances. On it was a strange sort of menu:

Bombaywalli: Rupees 900

Dilliwalli: Rupees 800