The surrounding buildings leaned in upon the winding lane, leaving it shadowed and cool. Thin balconies extended out overhead. Small shops rested against the St John’s Mission School which seemed protected from all the chaos outside by its high wall and large gate.

Stray cows wandered the perimeters of the school, on the other side of the wall and just outside the gate. Hawkers moved through the crowd, selling chaat. Men erected stages using bamboo and cloth.

It seemed as if artisans were working everywhere on idols of the gods they would later place on the stages and worship. Screechy Bollywood love songs played over tinny speakers. When Govinda turned, his friend was still with him like a shadow.

They watched as the artisans shaped clay figures into various moulds that formed the different gods and goddesses: Kali with her black skin and bloodied, dripping tongue; fat Ganesh with his plate of sweets and his rat friend; Shiva with his trident and Saraswati, the goddess of learning, with her musical instrument, the veena.

Govinda felt content roaming the lane watching the devoted artisans at work. Refugees from the towns and villages near Calcutta were pouring into the city. A few of the artisans were tribals who had come to make a living. One young man, his hair wild and with a beard to match, spoke to Govinda and Nitesh as he worked. He was making an idol of Kali and said he could not paint until he was in the right spirit. He would paint the enflamed eyes last. It was believed that eyes gave life to the clay figure. Once the two eyes, and the third eye on her forehead, were painted, the idol became infused with spirit.

In the midst of their conversation came the sound of an explosion.

‘Hai!’ said Nitesh. His face was lit with alarm. ‘There’s going to be trouble.’

‘What was that?’ asked Govinda.

‘Nothing terrible this time, it’s just a truck’s engine backfiring,’ said the tribal artisan. ‘Have you noticed how the Prime Minister is invoking primordial power, shakti, and her hair is winning, part dark and part light.’ He sipped water. ‘She is destructive.’

A group of young men stood near a nariyal wallah and his bicycle.

‘If you sat here long enough,’ said Govinda, ‘and saw all the people, you would learn to appreciate everybody in the world.’

The nariyal wallah hacked the top off a coconut with a machete, placed two straws inside to drink the sweet juice, and sold it to the boys. They sucked up the liquid and handed the coconut back. And then the nariyal wallah smacked the coconut in two with his machete for the soft, white meat to be eaten. The boys munched the tender, white flesh, threw the husks down on the pavement for the cows to finish, and started to whisper as group of school girls passed by.

‘That’s the thing about girls,’ said Nitesh.