Lalita searches through her things and takes out a small bottle of nail varnish she found one day when she was playing by the side of a path. A lady had dropped her bag, and the bottle had fallen out. Lalita didn’t dare tell her mother she had taken it. The bottle had rolled into the ditch, and the child had retrieved it, clutching it tight like a piece of treasure and keeping it hidden from sight. She had brought the booty home that evening and pretended she had found it. Her heart had swelled with joy, and with shame. What if Vishnu knew …

Smita takes the bottle from her daughter and draws a bright scarlet spot on her forehead. The circle must be perfect, it’s a delicate technique, it takes practice. She taps the varnish gently with the tip of her finger, then fixes it with powder. The bindi, the ‘third eye’, retains energy and enhances one’s concentration. Lalita will need it today, Smita tells herself. She looks at the small, evenly shaped circle on her daughter’s forehead, and smiles. Lalita is pretty. She has regular features, dark eyes. Her mouth has the delicate outline of a petal. She is lovely in her green sari. Smita is filled with pride at the sight of her daughter, the schoolgirl. She may eat rat-meat, but she will learn how to read, she thinks to herself, as she takes Lalita by the hand and leads her to the main road. She will help her. The trucks thunder past from early in the morning and there are no traffic lights, nowhere safe to cross.

Lalita looks up anxiously at her mother as they walk: she’s not frightened of the trucks, but of this new world, completely unknown to her parents, which she must enter alone. Smita senses the little girl’s imploring look; it would be so easy to turn around, pick up the rush basket and take her along with her … But no, she will not see Lalita vomit into the ditch. Her daughter will go to school. She will learn how to read, write and do sums.

Do your best.

Do as you’re told.

Listen to the teacher.

The little girl looks suddenly lost, and so fragile that Smita wants to take her in her arms and never let her go. She must fight the urge, however hard it hurts. The teacher had said ‘yes’ when Nagarajan went to see him. He had seen the box into which Smita had put all their savings – coins carefully set aside for months on end for Lalita’s schooling. He had taken it and said, ‘All right.’ Smita knows that’s how everything works. Money has the power of persuasion. Nagarajan had come home to announce the good news to his wife and daughter, and they had all rejoiced.