Gursharanji: The trouble with prime ministers, Manmohanji, is that they use sau, 100, words, when one will do. So your grade at the moment is 6 minus 2, or chaar, four. Teeja savaal, third question. When are you going to assert yourself in the party, haan? I am sick of hearing log, people, tell me that you have become na ghar da, na ghat da, neither fish nor fowl.

PMji (stung to the quick): Gursharanji, that is enough. As the PM of this house, I am telling you to maintain your silence.

Gursharanji: So tussi, you, don’t want to answer that question, I take it. That is four minus two. Manmohanji, if twadi voti cannot hold a mirror up to you, who can? As the kahaavat, saying, goes: Bina sewa, meva nahi milta. No gain without pain. Ji, my grade for you is 2 upon 10.

PMji had no words in response. From the corner of his eye he could see his wife write the words, ‘‘Could do better’’, in bold, and underline it three times. He huddled in the sofa, clutching his empty glass. Being prime minister of India was the loneliest job in the world.