Smita sits Lalita on the bag rack and climbs onto her bicycle. With her arms around her mother’s hips, the little girl clings like a terrified gecko – the tiny green lizards that are so common in the houses here, and so beloved of children. Smita is determined that Lalita will not feel her mother’s body shake. Tata trucks – of which there are a huge number on this narrow road – overtake them with a deafening racket. There are no rules here: the biggest, most powerful vehicle has priority. Smita trembles, gripping the handlebars – any fall would be catastrophic. She must pedal hard: a little further, and they will join the NH56 that connects Lucknow to Varanasi.

Now they are sitting by the side of the road. Smita wipes a cloth over her daughter’s face, and her own. They are covered in dust. They have been waiting for the bus for two hours. Will it come at all, today? The timetables are erratic, even hypothetical, here. When the vehicle comes into sight, at last, a dense crowd presses around its doors. The bus is already full. Getting on board is a tough business. Some prefer to climb up onto the roof and travel in the open air, clinging to the bars along the side. Smita clutches Lalita’s hand and manages somehow to pull herself up inside. They find half a seat for them both, right at the back. It will do. Now Smita tries to fight her way back down the bus to fetch her bicycle, which she has left outside. It’s a risky undertaking. Dozens of passengers cram the aisle. Some have nowhere to sit, some holler angrily at one another. A woman has brought chickens on board, sparking fury from a neighbouring passenger. Lalita shouts, and points at the bicycle through the window: a man is riding it away, pedalling hard. Smita is pale-faced. If she chases after him, the bus will leave without her. The driver has just fired the ignition, the engine is roaring. Smita is forced to return to her seat, dead at heart. She watches the rickety frame that she bought a lifetime ago disappear. She had planned to sell it for food.

The bus shudders. Lalita presses her face to the rear window, eager to see everything along the way. Suddenly she springs to life.

Papa!

Smita is startled and turns to look: Nagarajan is there on the road. He runs towards the bus, which has just pulled out. Smita feels her strength desert her. Her husband is running after them, and the expression on his face is impossible to read: regret, confusion, love, rage? Very quickly, the bus outstrips him and accelerates away. Lalita begins to cry. She beats on the window, turns to her mother, begging her to help.

Mama, tell them to stop!