Natasha aka Nats, my young neighbour with the red streaks in her hair, was back in Mumbai after a longish sojourn; her grimace was deep seated.

I could judge her mood by the music that permeated through the wall—when Nats was happy she cranked it up with Metallica, when she was angry, it was Eminem, but when she was angsty, or full of aggression  it was death metal—this morning it was death metal.