A new hoarding, roughly ten feet by five, has gone up at the corner of the junction, exhorting the whole square, as it were, to do its bidding. Sharada lets her eyes wander over it as she waits for the red man to turn green on the traffic lights. At the centre of the hoarding stands a political leader in a crisply starched white kurta pyjama. He has pink lips—the hoarding painter's flight of fancy. Ranged around him like buzzing flies waiting for a ride on a buffalo's back are several gentlemen named Pednekar, Bhagwat, Bhure, Gangan, Boite, Sheikh and suchlike. They wear triumphant smiles. The leader's right hand is raised, four fingers folded in, the forefinger jabbing the blue sky angrily. Inscribed at the bottom, in bold green and saffron letters, is the order: ‘Come, march to Shivaji Park.’

On the pavement below it, a ragged child is beating up a younger, even more ragged child with a supple twig. As soon as the signal turns green, Sharada hurries across the road and instinctively grabs the hand that holds the twig. The child looks at her with moist, hollow eyes. A fly alights on the corner of his open mouth. He jerks his head to shake it off. Sharada's grip around the child's sticklike hand is as tight as the child's on the younger child's hand. The younger child stares at her with dumb hope.

‘Why are you beating the poor thing?’ Sharada asks the older child sternly. The older child says in an expressionless voice, ‘Aunty, he won’t sing.’ His mouth hangs open after he has spoken. It is made that way.

Sharada is still holding the older child's hand, uncertain what to do with it. She sees how idiotic she must appear, standing on the corner of a square looking blankly at two children, who in turn look at her in silence. She must say something. Or do something. Fed up with waiting, the older child intones yet again, ‘Aunty, he won’t sing.’ He looks at her and explains, ‘He won’t sing to get money. He won’t sing to get food.’ The two children stare at her again.

Sharada is embarrassed. The older child probably expects her to tell the younger one, ‘You must listen to your elder brother. You must sing.’ The younger child probably expects her to free him from the older child's control. She can do neither. She should never have meddled. Passers-by stare at her. They probably expect her to set up a cry: ‘This child has stolen my purse.’ They will then help her beat up the child to extract the truth and the purse from him. Her palms grow sweaty. Her grip on the boy's wrist loosens. He worms his hand free. Defeated, she pats him on the head and says, ‘Don’t beat him. He's so small.’

‘If he doesn’t sing, they’ll beat him.’