She raises her arm and points, but I cannot see where. ‘Where are they?’ I repeat.

‘I’ve left them over there, out of the reach of the water.’

This worries me. ‘Who’s with them?’

‘No one.’

‘What! What if the little one falls in …’

She turns away without answering and begins to wade through the water, hurling abuse, possibly directed at her husband. ‘Couldn’t you get the sheets out of the water in time, you asshole?’ She spits twice into the same water she is wading through.

Suppressing my revulsion, I say, ‘Leave your daughters near the staircase. I’ll bring them upstairs. Take them back when the water goes down.’

This time she is genuinely surprised, and, craning her neck upwards, asks, ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, bring your daughters here …’ Throwing me a strange glance, she wades away.

She comes back a little later, splashing through the water with her babies in her arms. ‘Take this one,’ she says, ‘the other can’t do without my breast milk …’

The durwan and drivers clustered around the gate regard me with astonishment when I appear at the bottom of the stairs and collect the naked baby. Just a moment ago they were in an uproar over the water in the basement.

The first thing I do when I get back upstairs is call you to tell you what I’ve done. ‘Bad idea,’ you say, clearly annoyed. ‘It’s just not done. Experimenting with human beings? You’ll regret it. Although, why not try it out – at least then you’ll realise you’ve had it wrong. It’s always best to learn from your own mistakes …’

I bathe the child and feed her. I teach her to use the toilet, urinating in front of her to demonstrate. I trim her wild hair with a pair of scissors, and drape my chunni around her like a sari, whereupon she walks up to the mirror and stands there shyly, keeping her eyes on the floor. After much coaxing she looks up at me.

The water ebbs away the next day – unlike my boldness. With a look of terror, your man tells me, ‘Sahib will give us hell, Behenji, he’ll accuse us of not looking after you …’

‘Don’t worry,’ I comfort him, ‘you can go now. I’ve informed him of everything.’ A couple of days pass. I buy clothes, shoes, baby cream and baby soap. I am growing very fond of her. Her large eyes, dark pouting lips and snub nose work their magic on me, never failing to calm me down. I keep glancing over at her, expecting her to say something.

But she doesn’t. She communicates solely through gestures. Even the manner in which she looks for her mother is subtle. She goes out onto the balcony, either spots her mother and blushes or, if the woman is nowhere to be seen, lowers her eyes and picks at her nails, then comes away.

My hopes rise with every passing day. One day she eats some milk and cornflakes with a spoon. Another day, she comes to fetch me when the phone rings. Even you become accustomed to asking after her. While her parents no longer bother to enquire …