From Chapter 2:

Gauri Ma’am’s husky voice thunders from across the office. “Rakhi! Have you cleaned up the empty desk for the new intern?”

“Ji, Ma’am. Almost done.”

With a damp blue towel, I wipe specks of dirt from what’s supposed to be Alex’s computer mouse. Bombay grit gets everywhere. It blows through the windows daily, caking furniture, lodging itself under your fingernails.

She calls out to me again. “Where did he go?”

“Sitting in the waiting area.” I peek out from behind the computer to see him standing before a faded prisoners’ rights poster by the front door, stroking his chin. We printed those posters a few years back, when we still had money to waste on things like that.

Gauri Ma’am grunts something about how the new intern was supposed to arrive much later in the morning. “So eager, these Canadians.”

I set down the mouse, now several shades lighter than how I found it. A vinegary scent swells as I wring the towel out in the morning light. Last Monday, one of our other foreign interns, Saskia, found five newborn kittens taking shelter beneath her desk. I used this same towel to scoop the kittens up while a raging Saskia shrieked about everything that was wrong with India. I left the kittens outside on a piece of cardboard behind a parked bicycle, hoping their mother would turn up before the rats.

Showing the foreign interns around when they first arrive is one of my jobs. This year, we have Saskia and Merel, two Dutch graduate students who have been with us since the middle of May. For Saskia, the office is too hot, the tea is too sweet, and she complains of employee abuse whenever one of the senior lawyers asks her to go to court to file documents. Merel is always taking photos of herself with her digital camera. A few weeks back they returned from a mini holiday in Rajasthan, and Merel showed everyone pictures from their trip: Saskia winking beside two villagers in bright pink turbans; Merel raising an eyebrow and frowning into a beer bottle by the hotel pool in Udaipur; both girls in the middle of the desert, riding creaky old camels dripping with faded multicoloured pompoms.

I work the musty towel over the computer screen, leaving sideways streaks that won’t go away no matter how hard I wipe.

“Hey, Rakhi?”

Startled, I turn around to find Alex behind me. Who told him to come in?

“Are there other interns working here? Or is it just going to be me?”

“Yes,” I say. “Two girls.”

He lowers himself onto an office chair a few feet away. It’s off balance, so he tilts down on one side. In his starched white shirt and shiny leather shoes, he looks like he should be working at a bank with sparkling white tiles and glass doors. Not a human rights law office cluttered with lopsided chairs and stacks of yellowing papers bundled with string, and dusty cobwebs fluttering from the ceiling fans.

“Where are these girls?” he asks, fiddling with the knobs under his seat.

I shrug. How should I know where they are? I haven’t spoken to Merel and Saskia since the kitten drama. “Pata nahin,” I mutter to myself.

“Sorry,” he says with a laugh. “My Hindi’s a little rusty. Can you say that in English?”

How do I reply? I am not know? I do not know? “I . . . no know,” I offer.

Alex gives me one of those polite nods that’s meant to show he understands, even though he doesn’t. Firanghi classic.

Lately, Merel and Saskia have been showing up three days a week only. A year ago, Gauri Ma’am might have cared. These days, though, she has more to worry about than a couple of unpaid interns bunking off. Her funding agency in England is only giving her half the money she needs for the next year. Back in April, after everyone had left for the evening, I overheard Ma’am on her phone. “I understand you want us to make cuts,” she said, her voice straining, “but the need for our work is critical—I simply cannot scale back.” The conversation ended soon after, and Ma’am stayed at her desk for a long time, rubbing her temples. The next morning, she fired three of the junior lawyers, shut down our satellite offices in Assam, Gujarat, and Tamil Nadu, then lectured everyone else about something called “efficiency.” I didn’t bother asking what it meant.

“Rakhi,” Gauri Ma’am shouts from her office. “Show him around the office, na? Do I have to tell you how to do everything myself?”

“Ji, Ma’am,” I call back. Turning to Alex, I stand up. “You come? See office?”

“Sure, that’s great.”

“Building old. Lift no working,” I say, opening the doors leading into the corridor. “Men’s toilet this way.”

He peeks his head out into the hallway.

I lead Alex back through the waiting area, past the interns’ desks, and into the lawyers’ workspace, a U-shape formation of desks pushed up against the wall at the front of the office. It’s separated from the interns’ workspace—a unanimous request from the lawyers once Justice For All started hiring firanghis to work for free.

“All lawyers working this space,” I say, and a few of them turn their heads toward us, eyeing him.

I’ve steered Alex back to his workstation and left him there when Bhavana, the lead lawyer in Justice For All’s anti-human-trafficking cases, calls me to her desk. “So,” she says in a low voice. “Who’s that guy?”

“I don’t know. Some firanghi.”

She studies me carefully, flipping her shoulder-length hair to reveal a grey streak that grows wider every week. “Arre, you were talking to him, weren’t you?”

“He’s an intern from Canada, I don’t know anything else.”

“The interns always start in May. Why would Gauri Ma’am hire one in July?” Bhavana asks, resting a finger on her chin. “And why wouldn’t she tell any of us?”

How should I know?