‘Half anna,’ said the old woman who sat leaning against the three-foot high, crumbling pile of bricks that served as the temple wall. Beside her was a man in a long, dusty, cotton shirt, a dhoti and a red turban, selling two pomegranates, three guavas and one pineapple in a brown bamboo basket. The man sitting next to him was no different except for his spotless, white turban and razor-thin moustache that curled upwards. From six feet away it looked like he had one more pineapple in his basket. They weren’t convinced of any need to specialize in a fruit, or display, or price. They could have been brothers. Four others, in similar attire, except for a dash of earthy colours, sat around without any visible activity. They weren’t talking. The wall didn’t support them. By the time the wall reached them it was an uneven mound padded by fresh banana peels. Perhaps the mound comprised composted banana peels several days, even weeks, old. Word on the street was that the wall was a hurried attempt by the temple authorities to prevent government encroachment, common under the pretext of road extension programmes. The remaining three walls were not built. The whole structure had the stamp of Brahmin austerity.

‘Here, take a quarter. You aren’t doing any business anyway.’

‘Let that be my problem. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Take what you get old woman. Tomorrow the grass will dry up like your face.’ Natwarlal tossed the coin on to the woman’s tattered bamboo mat.

The cow, with the bell dangling from her neck, followed the three men.

‘We are taking her for a little while,’ said the officer to a man rolling tobacco underneath the same tree. The man raised his bag of tobacco. The officer waved at him. The man waved back. The officer pointed to the cow. The man waved again.

No one spoke for the entire duration of their walk on the promenade. The sea stood still. A solitary steamer chugged towards the harbour. Natwarlal began counting the floors of the newly built Taj Mahal Palace hotel on the right. A string of horse carriages lined both sides of the promenade.

‘From where do they get these horses? They’re like elephants,’ Battisi said. Despite her horns, the cow had dwarfed in his eyes. They reached the end of the promenade, beyond which was a cotton mill and some housing tenements. Beyond the tenements were the remnants of a fishing village.

When they reached the stairs of their office, the cow stopped abruptly. Natwarlal and Battisi began pushing her rump.

‘What’s going on?’ the guard came running behind them. ‘Where are you taking that cow?’

‘To Sir Thompson,’ said Natwarlal. ‘She refuses to walk up.’ The guard whacked the cow with his baton, hard. By the time they reached the second floor she had urinated on Natwarlal’s shirt and on the red carpet in the lobby. The officer laughed loudly.