It's 6.30 pm, at a place called Net Land, in Mumbai. I walk in and find 10 cubicles, six of which are occupied. A teenager walks in, glances sideways at the man behind a counter and moves, as if under a spell, to one computer, in one little cubicle.

Sliding into his chair, clicking on the big blue E, he stops for just a moment, looking around carelessly, listening to Bryan Adams playing somewhere in the background. Then, his attention is back on the screen. The browser window is open, and nothing can distract him from it.

He seems to know exactly where he's drifting, opening about seven to eight windows in a couple of minutes. Chatting? Maybe. Pornography? Maybe. I'd hate to be caught looking at the screen. The cubicle is a private thing too, and that makes me guilty.

As for the attendant, he's anything but a private person. He paces the room constantly, looking at everyone's screen. I stop him. "Can I ask you a question?" He looks me up, then replies, "Ya."
"What are people surfing?"
"Not surfing, chatting." (Oh yes! How stupid of me). "With friends?"
"No, chat rooms."
"Oh, making new friends?"
"Friends? No friends." Then chuckling, "Everyone wants girlfriends."
"Dating and sex." he elaborates. "Excuse me."

Then, he's gone. There's a newcomer that needs attending to.

All is quiet. A slight buzz could break the spell and shatter these individual worlds. You might even remember, suddenly, that you're going to have to pay and decide to wind up. For now though, mum's the word.

I slink back into my chair, as a young girl walks in, briskly. She moves to a computer -- same spell, only more purpose. Probably email. Out in 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, there's some commotion near the printer. A recent graduate (I presume) is anxiously waiting for her resume to emerge. She can't seem to figure out what's keeping it. Maybe the technical bafflement attributed to women really is biological, after all. Anyways, there's a slight sputter, and her resume is out. But what's this, she asks, loudly: "Yeh colour mein kyu hai?"

The attendant rushes to her side, anticipating an argument.
"Madam, you must have chosen colour."
"I didn't."
"Maybe the person before you did."
"So?"
"You should've changed it while printing."
"I didn't know all that. I just pressed OK."
"Okay. Pay only half."

That's it. Everyone is distracted. The spell is broken.

Two people stretch. One gets up to pay and leave. I look at my watch and decide to leave, too. While I walk to the counter, a guy starts minimising his browser windows, albeit awkwardly.

I ask the attendant: "Do women surf porn as much as men?"
"We don't allow porn," he says, head buried in the cash counter.
"Why would you do that? You'd lose clientele."
"No, we allow…. but only if it's late night or if the adjacent cubicle is empty."
"Fair enough."

At least Indian men still minimise the windows when a lady walks by. Thank God for small mercies.

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