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have two months left.’

‘I’ll let you know in case I spot someone.’
‘That would be helpful.’
‘I don’t have your number.’

We shared contacts. She recommended other bars.

‘Here,’ she passed me a tissue she had scribbled names on. ’These
are places that give new singers a chance.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘She’s a lucky girl,’ Erica said.

‘It’s me who needs some luck now,’ I said.
*

One and a half months later
‘See you at Pylos then. At 7th Street and First Avenue. Eight

o’clock.’ Shailesh ended the call.
Pylos is a high-end Greek restaurant located in the East Village.

Earthen terracotta pots with spotlights dangled from the ceiling. In

Bihar, nobody would think that the humble matki could play
chandelier.
Shailesh and Jyoti had invited me out to dinner. Jyoti had brought

her friend Priya along, without warning me.

‘Priya is a journalist with Al Jazeera in New York. We went to high
school together,’ Jyoti said. Priya looked like she was in her early

twenties. Fashionable glasses, slim figure, attractive. She wore a navy-
blue top with a white pencil skirt and a long silver chain that dangled

down till her navel, which was visible when she stretched.
‘This is Madhav. He’s here on a United Nations project,’ Shailesh

said. Cue for Priya and me to shake hands and smile.
I told her about my internship and what I did back home in India.

‘You run a rural Indian school? That is so cool,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ I said.

We ordered a bottle of Greek wine. We also asked for motissaka,
which is sauteed eggplant and tomato layered with caramelised onions,

herbs and a cheese sauce. A mountain-shaped dish, piled with