When Dewa steps out on to State Bank Road she sees into the lives of families in their thatched and woven dwellings. They have the minimum of furnishings and furniture. Cool, smooth-floored, with rolled up mats and cooking vessels, the alponas drawn at the entrance. Bared open to the onlookers gaze, there is nothing to hide. No one would want to take their simple belongings. A mat to sleep on. Vessels for water, for cooking. These people are no refugees. This is home for them. It is they, the three of them, wandering along these streets, who are refugees but they cannot pitch their tents here. They are passersby. The sacred cows stand in the wasteland on the outskirts of the township, feeding on the refuse that is thrown there. The flies buzz and rise in clouds. All life is sacred here and nothing interferes with it. The cows wander freely about the streets and the black swarms of flies savour the sweet cane syrup, the fruit and the sweetmeats as freely as humans do—the people on the streets of Tiruchy or Dewa or Anna or Sri.

Dewa walks into the bathroom for the rituals of cleansing. The day must begin like this. She wakes early, the call to prayer from the muezzin and the Hindu thevarams from the temple fill the whole city with waves of sound. There is no contradiction, no argument between gods and prophets, only reminders of man’s sinfulness and his need for both hope and penance. In the heart of the town, at Main Guard Gate, there is an impressive church, but the sound of its bells does not reach as far as their hotel room.

A room becomes home for them. It is here that they renew themselves for the next strenuous exploration. At Madurai it is difficult to find accommodation. College House is where they want to be, the buildings set within a green quadrangle, but there is no room. Another hotel nearby is recommended to them. The proprietor is very polite, asks them to first go up the lift and inspect the room to see whether it is to their satisfaction. The lift does not work. They go up the stairs. Their decision is made, all they want is to stretch out, rest. The fan stirs the sluggish air above them. The room has just been vacated, the linen not yet changed. Sri lifts the telephone and begins to make what will be the first in a series of calls to the manager.

‘Please change the linen. Send someone please.’

‘Yes sir, now he will come.’

Little boys in shorts, barefooted, who look as if they have just been lifted off the streets, run about the corridors. Sri rings again.

‘No one has come to change the linen.’

‘Yes sir, now it will be done. We are waiting for the laundry to come.’