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A piece of a song, isn’t it?’
    ‘Aussie company, Auntie-ji. Makes surfer gear, and …’
    ‘Anand is an expert on certain aspects of popular culture,’ said Auntie Lakshmi, smiling. ‘Now look at this,’ she said, holding up Eli’s favourite T-shirt, fronted by a long-haired rock guitarist in a top hat. ‘I’m sure you know who this is, isn’t it! Ten seconds for your answer, Anand!’
    Anand shook his head and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. ‘Everybody knows this, Auntie-ji,’ he laughed. ‘That’s Slash of Guns N’ Roses – look at him … he could be an Indian with that nose ring of his!’
    The two of them laughed hysterically, cackling. Eli wanted to smash them. He could feel rage pressing against his ribs, and gripped the edge of his chair so hard his knuckles whitened. Rage quickly turned to terror when the woman fixed her eyes on him again.
    ‘
Achha, achha!
’ Auntie Lakshmi said, calming down but staring at him intently. ‘We must be serious now. What have we here? iPod, iPhone, Canon PowerShot … You are a very lucky boy, Eli! Somebody loves you.’
    Somebody loves me. Loves me not. His mother’s tired face flashed before him, from that last night in Jaisalmer in that dingy guest house room, fading fast. He tried to conjure up an image of his father.
    ‘My father will find me!’ he told them, defiantly.
    ‘And just who is your father?’ Auntie Lakshmi asked. ‘“De Villiers” is what sort of name, exactly?’
    ‘My father knows the King of Nepal! He knows the men in government, the army, the Mow …’
    ‘The Maoists?’ Anand asked. ‘Your father knows the bloody guerrillas?’
    ‘And your father’s good name is?’ Auntie Lakshmi eyed him suspiciously.
    ‘Anton de Villiers.’
    ‘And he is living where?’
    ‘Kathmandu.’
    Auntie Lakshmi looked at Anand, then back at Eli. ‘Do you know people in Kathmandu?’
    ‘Just my father.’
    Anand picked up the iPhone and started to press buttons. ‘Is his number in here?’
    ‘Shame on you, Anand, give that here!’ said Auntie Lakshmi, grabbing the phone from him. ‘I’m sure we’ll speak to his father in good time.’
    ‘What are you doing with me?’ Eli asked.
    ‘That depends, I suppose,’ said Auntie Lakshmi, tossing her hair back over her shoulders, first one side then the other, ‘on what you’re good at. What are you good at, Eli
chutiya
?’
    Playing guitar. He used to be good at baseball, he wasn’t bad at bodyboarding. He was a loyal friend but not very good with girls. Lookingat the pathetically few tokens of his life on the red carpet in front of him, he said: ‘I can take photos.’
    Auntie Lakshmi bent over her ample stomach and picked up the Canon PowerShot, staring at it as though the small silver rectangle with the rounded edges held a great secret. ‘Stand up, Eli,’ she said, bringing the camera up to take a shot.
    ‘Get up, yaar!’ Anand kicked his chair, hard. ‘Just point and shoot, Auntie-ji!’
    ‘Closer,
chutiya
.’ Her ringed fingers summoned him. ‘I can’t see your face.’ She stood and came towards him, sickly sweet in her perfume, and tried to brush his hair out of his eyes. He swerved. ‘Stand still,
chut
,’ she said, and fondled a golden strand, seemingly mesmerised, before sitting down again.
    Raise your chin. Turn your face. Sideways. Look at me. Don’t look at me. Put your leg out. Pull up your chest. Unfold your hands. Smile.
Each photo she took robbed him of something.
    Humiliated, he followed her orders and listened to the music. The strains of the Mozart Clarinet Concerto, still playing, promised to carry him away, so light and ethereal were they, otherworldly. But then Auntie Lakshmi put the camera down, fell sullen; he could feel the chill coming from her.
    ‘Take him to his room, Anand,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. Not in the mood for a massage.’
    Before Eli could ask
what massage?
Anand had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out the door. He