He's got his secondary school certificate, this Saurabh guy. And a lot of attitude. Enough to run the joint, he tells me. I nod, asking him if I can surf for a bit. 'Take any PC,' he replies, adding with an innocent smile, 'but if naked girls you want to see, please take last computer in that corner.'

I thank him, and surreptitiously avoid the corner.

Behind me, the adolescents giggle over a PC they both share. 'That Catherine-Zeta Jones is hot, yaar,' says teenager A to teenager B. 'She married Sean Connery, na?' His friend replies, 'Yeah, man. Kya lucky aadmi hai.'

For a minute or two they surf in silence, probably poring over thumbnails of Miss Jones' beautiful navel. I thank the unseen God, and look around. The café is small, with around fifteen PCs ensconced in as many cubicles. Along the side of each are A4 sheets of paper with addresses of popular Web sites for email, chatting, news, wallpapers , and those all-important Bollywood portals.

The place is empty, with just the adolescents and two older men; Saurabh surveying all with an indulgent look on his face. Surfing is easy, thanks to an ISDN line, though most other cafes use dial-up connections and proxy servers, distributing their time between PSTN and ISDN lines.

'What do people normally surf for?,' I ask Saurabh, casually. 'Girls,' he replies. I suspect that's pretty much all he thinks about himself, but prudently keep my mouth shut. 'Email,' he adds, 'and chatting. Some young young girls, yaar, they come for three-fours hours, yaar, and chat, chat, chat. Parents have lots of money, I think.'

The charge here is a nominal Rs. 25 per hour, though some cafes still charge an exorbitant Rs.50. Exorbitant because even Rs. 10 per hour is no longer a surprising rate.

I leave, and walk in again at 6 pm. All fifteen seats are taken now, by approximately 21 people. Saurabh still surveys all, the look of indulgence exchanged for one of undisguised boredom. I don't blame him.

If I remember correctly, the cybercafe culture happened some time in 1999, when everyone and their neighbour's dog jumped on the bandwagon to set one up. Prior to that frenzied year, there were barely a dozen cafes in Mumbai.

At the cybercafe, there are more teenagers now, more noise, and around five middle-aged women. Above the din, I hear a loud voice. 'Ashwini? Hello? Hello? Ashu...?'

'Do you run a PCO too?' I ask Saurabh. 'Nahin yaar, it's just a Net call to the US,' he tells me. 'Isn't that illegal?' I ask. He shrugs. While I finally get a PC, the yelling continues. Why do they do it if having a conversation is so difficult, I wonder. How do they handle the Net congestion, the constant stutter of static and a complete lack of privacy?

The answer arrives at once. If it's cheap, it's good. No questions asked.

My sources - read guys who have nothing much to do, and therefore spend most waking hours at cybercafes like these - tell me that, on an average, the place gets between forty to two hundred people daily. The ration of men to women is 70:30 with the largest chunk formed by people between 19 and 35.

Taking a quick peek at the cubicles alongside, all I see are chat windows, flashing, popping up, glowing on taskbars. You can tell the chatters from e-mailers. The latter come in, log on, type furiously, and leave quickly. The former walk in leisurely, exchange knowing smiles, stretch, sit down, and await pre-determined liaisons.

All I can do is sigh, thinking about college days when evenings were spent with friends over a cup of coffee at the canteen. Evenings meant people back then. Now they mean pop-up windows and simulated sex.

Still feeling old, I pay Saurabh his 25 bucks and leave.

It's 11 pm now. Saurabh has left. There's another guy hanging around with a bored expression. There are still people, looking at PCs intently, taking time out only to stare at me. A college kid is busy copying stuff on to a notebook. He seems friendly, so I walk up to him.

Me: Do you come here often?
Kid: Yeah
Me: What do you do here?
Kid: Copy stuff, print, and use it for research papers at college.
Me: Isn't that a bad thing to do?
Kid: Who're you? A cop?
Me: Bye.

Saurabh's substitute is even more taciturn, ignoring all my questions. He only replies when I ask him if his cybercafe will survive. 'It has a bright future,' he growls. 'Everyone wants email. If you don't like, you go please.'

I shrug, controlling an urge to tell him exactly what I think of him and his caber café. Then, remembering teachers in school who drilled politeness into me, I say nothing, and walk out slowly.

All around me, keyboards go click, click, click.