In Ranbir Sidhu’s new novel about Delhi’s underbelly, everyone is one shade of grey or another

A diploma hangs on the wall behind the desk, from Syracuse University in New York, trapped inside an ornate, silverflecked frame. I can’t tell if it’s real or fake, but the subject, Civil Engineering, written in obviously overly bold italics, and the bright orange and prominent honours ribbon, makes me question. The only other wall decoration is a large framed photograph of the Golden Temple, glowing in the night like some monstrous syrup-drowned sundae. I’ve been deposited here by a lackey, who simply told me to sit and wait, but I walk through the room like I own it. There are photos of his children, three girls, and his wife, and also his mother, and a small white dog, all sitting on his desk, which is neat, everything precisely arranged. A few papers, a pen, a landline telephone, various trinkets on a shelf behind him. A window looks out onto an airshaft, opening like an entrance to an underworld. The air conditioner’s cracked housing is yellowed by age.

Mr Harbans Singh enters and greets me with a strong handshake and pulls me towards him, close enough that I smell his aftershave. He’s dressed casually, in a brown checkered sports jacket and...

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