We – Evita and I – party, we boogie, we stay out late in the night where jazz and rock play to the clinking of a million glasses, in semi-darkness, where ghostly shapes flit about in shiny evening clothes – pointed shoes, tight trousers, belts, cummerbunds, shirts open to navel, skirts so short I could see panties, tops through which bulge the luscious forbidden fruit, the vision that made Screw, Jimmy, Johnny and Veereshbhai slaves of the skirt for ever, its eternal ravager. Screw, he who made women want him so much, he was like Casanova and Don Juan in one. Those days were Kama-Atura, affected by my great love for her, almost a sickness of the lovelorn. We would seek out fun and would be its slave in the dark recesses of five-star hotels where the hedonism of the rich prevailed. Those were a series of concupiscent days where I lost my way, didn't care what I did, and didn't bother what people would say. I would sit for hours surveying the scene from my office cabin on rainy afternoons – when the rain fell like stippled spheres of incandescent light – from whence the grey dullness of the wet afternoon would magically fade into the deeper shades of dusk and my meeting with Evita would begin again with renewed passion. My escape from responsibility, darling, my escape from being your dadda, I am contrite, I am sorry to say, this was my second period of innocence. How can I say it: I was corrupted by love. On a positive note I could feel me evolving, as if I have transformed from the ugly larva into a colourful butterfly inside the chrysalis. I stopped believing in my work; it was for me just a hindrance; whatever grandiose plans I had were sacrified at the altar of her love. Maybe, it was her witchery, her alleged para-normal powers that were to blame.
 Affected by Kama, love.