In the tiny yard behind the hut, Smita helps Lalita to wash. The little girl stands submissively, not even protesting when the water gets in her eyes. Smita untangles her daughter’s waist-length hair. She has never cut it, here women keep their hair from birth, sometimes their whole lives. She divides the hair into three skeins, then braids them with expert hands. Then she holds out the sari she has stitched for Lalita, night after night. A neighbour gave her the fabric. She doesn’t have the money for the school uniform, but that doesn’t matter. Her daughter will look pretty on her first day, she tells herself.

She has been up since dawn, preparing her food – there are no meals in the little school, each child brings their own. Smita has prepared rice and added a little of the curry powder she keeps for special occasions. She hopes Lalita will have some appetite on her first day. She will need energy to learn to read and write. In place of a dabba, she has put her daughter’s rice in a carefully cleaned can, and she has even taken the trouble to decorate it. She doesn’t want Lalita to be ashamed in front of the others. She will learn to read, just like them. Like the Jatt children.

Put on some powder. See to the altar. Hurry.

In the hut’s only room – kitchen, bedroom and temple – Lalita is in charge of the little altar to the gods. She lights a candle and places it beside the sacred images. It’s her job to ring the bell when prayers are finished. Together, Smita and her daughter recite a prayer to Vishnu, the god of life and creation, protector of all humanity. When the order of the world is disrupted, he is made incarnate and comes down to Earth to set things straight, taking in turn the form of a fish, a turtle, a boar, a lion-man, even a man. Lalita likes to sit beside the small altar in the evening, after supper, and listen to her mother’s stories of the ten avatars of Vishnu. During his first human incarnation, he defended the Brahmins against the Kshatriyas, and filled five lakes with their blood. Lalita shudders every time she hears the story. In her games, she is careful never to crush even the tiniest ant, the tiniest spider; you never know, Vishnu may be there, right beside you, incarnate as the lowest of creatures. A god at the tip of your finger. The idea delights her and terrifies her at the same time. Nagarajan enjoys listening to Smita, too, beside the altar in the evenings. His wife is a wonderful storyteller, though she has never learned how to read.