Through the hole, Govinda saw a very tall woman getting rid of hungry, stray dogs in search of scraps. He noticed the first sign of something peculiar when she hummed as she climbed to the very top of the rubbish pile and proceeded to lift her saree, exposing her bare legs, thighs and buttocks. Squatting on her haunches she defecated. Shocked, at first Govinda didn’t realise the woman was looking straight at him. He felt pathetic and vulnerable.

As he got up from behind the crumbling wall and turned to run away in embarrassment, his head could be seen and the woman called to him in a deep voice, ‘Calcutta Maharajah, Calcutta Maharajah, why you go? Stay and watch. Stay, child, and I will tell you some truth you do not yet know.’

He froze. He could hear the sound of the flowing tap in the kitchen growing louder. Was she the wicked witch his mother spoke of when she was cross? Was she the one who could see into the future and into the past? Would she know if he was good or bad, naughty or sad? Govinda feared that she could really make life miserable.

‘Stay, Calcutta Maharajah, don’t go. I know what you think. You are thinking about what will be. What will become of you, a fancy Calcutta Maharajah who stares at poor women from above?’

He nodded.

‘Look closely, Calcutta Maharajah; let me stare at your eyes.’ She remained squatting, looking up, hardly conscious of where she sat and how, but clearly aware that she had Govinda under her spell. ‘You were involved in the shooting of an elephant.’ Hatred was in her voice and eyes. As Govinda looked closer he saw the person was blind and not really a woman after all but a hijra, a third-gender person. He was frightened and wanted to turn away but curiosity compelled him to look. ‘I see danger. Water everywhere, lots of water. There is water near you coming to take you away. Water, water, lots of it will wash away everything clouding of your perception of truth. I can see it like a prophecy,’ said the hijra.

The hijra disgusted him. How could a man wear women’s clothing? He could see the hijra’s rude parts, his so-and-so, and Govinda couldn’t stop staring.

A voice inside the house called, ‘Govinda, come and have a talk with your father.’

‘Run away, Calcutta Maharajah, your father needs you. Run, you spoilt brat and be careful you don’t keep running.’ The hijra looked satisfied.

The Seths’ cook, Mumbles Singh, who wore a dastar to cover his long uncut hair, called out to Govinda, ‘What is happening out there?’ Mumbles’ large orange turban was like a flaming mane. He was a solidly built man, only about five feet eight or nine in height, broad-chested, but a bit thin in the legs.