Smita feels a hot current pulsing in her veins, as if millions of Dalits were kneeling with her, praying with her, there before the small altar. She makes Vishnu a promise: if they manage to get away, if the Brahmin’s wife fails to notice anything, if the Jatts don’t catch them, if they reach Varanasi, if they manage to get aboard a train, and if they finally reach the south alive, then they will pay tribute to him, in the Tirupati Temple. Smita has heard talk of this legendary place in the hill town of Tirumala, less than 200 kilometres from Chennai: the biggest pilgrimage site in the world. Millions come there every year, it is said, to make offerings to Shri Venkateswara, the Lord of the Mountain, one of Vishnu’s holiest forms. Her god, the protector god, will not abandon them, she is sure of that. She takes the small, dog-eared image before which she prays – a coloured picture of the god with his four arms – and tucks it against her body, beneath her sari. Nothing can harm her if he is with them. Suddenly, it is as if an invisible mantle has settled around her shoulders and enveloped her, protecting her from danger. Wrapped in its folds, Smita is invincible.

The village is swathed in darkness. Nagarajan’s breathing is regular now. He is snoring gently through his nose. Not an aggressive rasp, more a soft purr, like a baby tiger nestled against its mother’s belly. Smita feels a sharp pain in her heart. She has loved this man, become accustomed to his reassuring presence. She resents his lack of courage, the cloak of bitter resignation that he has thrown over their lives. She had so wanted to leave with him. She stopped loving him the moment he refused to fight. Love is fleeting, she tells herself, sometimes it leaves as quickly as it came, in the beat of a wing.

She pushes back the cover and feels suddenly dizzy. Is she mad to undertake this journey? If only she was not such a rebel, so unruly, if only the butterflies would stop fluttering in her stomach, then she could give up, accept her fate, like Nagarajan and their Dalit brethren. Go back to bed and await the dawn in a dreamless torpor, like an invalid waiting for death.