Savitri—most ironic name ever, God, the affairs the woman has—takes her to the NGO, deaf to all protestations of time and effort and inclination, and shoves her at her mentor—the manager? how does it work, anyway, what’s the hierarchy?—while she’s still trying to squirm away.
(It’s a horrible day—so many are, these days, with B.A. finals looming close, and Bhau’s elections filling the house with respectfully-leering boys—and she’s very near writing it off as entirely wasted.)
“Glad you’re volunteering, Miss…” the man asks, politely impatient.
“Sweety Shekhar,” she says, and swallows the Bhope whole.