Several of the men in their section of the carriage were looking at them, Krishan could tell, a few of them studying him out of a kind of secondary interest, but most of them looking at Anjum, who was, he noted with discomfort, the only woman in the carriage. They looked at her not with that gaze with which men so often looked at women in Delhi, eyes reaching out like hands about to take hold of inert everyday objects, a glass of water or a remote control, but with a slightly more subdued, slightly more respectful gaze, a respect they gave only begrudgingly, Krishan knew, because of his
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