All day I search for work at the offices on the quay. B.’s promise that he would find me a position as a translator from

In French, at the consulate, nothing is happening. I have about a hundred rupees left, though many people here owe me money. Harold is behaving very badly. I asked him to share his room with me, since from the 15th of the month I am forced to move, and he refuses for a stupid reason: that I am no longer a Christian! That he cannot sleep with an idolater!

The truth is that he knows everything by now, he knows I have no more money, nor any hope for a good salary. Mrs. Ribeiro, who sees my dirty shirt, has now forgotten all the good I did for her, despite my own poverty. She barely gives me a cup of tea when I go to see Harold. I have nothing left to sell. I am left with about six or seven shirts. A depressing day; many, too many annoyances.

...Meeting with Khokha. He brings me yet another letter from Maitreyi. I refuse to accept it; I tell him I gave my word (but did I really? Even now I do not know) to the engineer. Khokha insists that Maitreyi begs me to meet her just once, either in Bhowanipore Park or at a cinema; or to let her call me on the telephone. I refuse everything, flatly, stubbornly, suffering terribly. What is the use of starting over, when everything will end up in the same place, in tears, in madness?

"Tell her to forget me! Allan is dead! Who is she waiting for now?"

I wonder if there is some madness by which, if I accomplished it, Maitreyi would become mine again, forever. But I find nothing, I can imagine nothing. To run away with her into the world... But how to steal her, how to penetrate again into that Bhowanipore guarded by Sen?... And perhaps there is something else; perhaps I no longer deserve her. I know nothing, nothing. I wish she would forget me, that she would no longer suffer. Our love has stopped here.

...Since yesterday morning, phone calls every hour. "Where is Allan? I want to speak to Allan! Tell him it is something urgent from Maitreyi, from his beloved!" Mrs. Mctyre ends up rebelling. She tells me:

"Allan, come and finish once and for all with that black brute!"

I feel like slapping her across the mouth, but I smile savagely. Yes, yes, more, more cruelly, until I fall to my knees and scream: God, I have had enough...

...Evening, at Geurtie’s. She is a good girl, admirable, this Geurtie of mine. I tell her:

"Girl, I am doing terribly. I have no work..."

And she slips me a ten-rupee note under the table.

"Come on, Allan," she laughs, "how many of these have you spent on me!... What do you want to drink?"

"Whisky," I ask, "whisky, because only