It was a choice Smita could not accept. She was too attached to the gods her parents had venerated before her. More than anything, she believed in the protection of Vishnu, to whom she had addressed all her prayers, morning and night, since childhood. She confided her dreams, her doubts, her hopes, to him. To abandon him would bring too much suffering. Vishnu’s absence would leave a gaping void, impossible to fill. She would feel more orphaned even than at the deaths of her parents.

But she feels no attachment to the village where she grew up. The filth that she must clean relentlessly, day after day, has given her nothing. Nothing but the scrawny rats – the sad trophies that Nagarajan brings home at night.

They must leave, flee this place, it is the only way.

Smita wakes Nagarajan in the morning. He has slept deeply, while she has lain awake. She envies her husband’s peaceful sleep. At night, he is a still lake, its surface untroubled, while she tosses and turns for hours. The darkness offers no respite from her torments. No, the dark only makes them echo, louder, more hideous than ever. In the dead of night, everything seems tragic, and final. Often, she prays that it will stop: the swirl of thoughts that leaves her no peace. Sometimes, she spends whole nights awake, her eyes wide open. People are not made equal when it comes to sleep, she thinks. People are not made equal at all.

Nagarajan grumbles as he wakes. Smita pulls him up from his bed. She has been thinking: they must leave. They can expect nothing from this life, the life that has robbed them of their dignity. It is not too late for Lalita, hers is just beginning. Everything is possible. Smita will not let the others take that from her.

My wife is raving, thinks Nagarajan. She has had another restless night. Smita insists: they must leave Badlapur. They say that in the city, there are places reserved for Dalits at school and university, places for people like them. They would have a chance there. Nagarajan shakes his head. The city is an illusion, a false dream. The Dalits are homeless there, huddled on the street or in the squatter camps that cluster all around, like verrucas on the soles of your feet. At least here, they have a roof over their heads and food to eat. Smita’s anger flares: they eat rat-meat, and they collect shit. In the city, they would find work, they would have dignity. She is ready to rise to the challenge, she has courage, she is tough, she’ll take whatever is offered, anything rather than this life. She begs him. For herself, for him. For Lalita.