The cook slapped the proud face over and over again and Govinda felt shivers run up and down his spine. Govinda felt sorry for the hijra as he stumbled and fell. But the hijra did not seem upset about being knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his ambiguous face split into a wide menacing smile and he said in a husky voice, ‘Nothing would please me more than to curse you and your family and that spoilt Calcutta Maharajah and his family. I am rejoicing in your impending misery.’ The hijra knelt down, reached out and held Mumbles’ forearm, touching the skin, feeling the muscle. He was interpreting the size and shape of the cook from this fragment of his body. The mesmerising face, with feminine eyes, long eyelashes and sensual lips, covered with stubble then went to kiss the cook’s hand. His mouth was bleeding. The blood dripped on the hijra’s saree and fell on the earth. The cook tried to drag his hand away but the striking face with its eyebrows plucked to a fine arch looked more threatening. The hijra held on. In the confusion, as Mumbles laid his hand on the hijra’s throat Govinda’s father appeared, he called them down from the rubbish heap, looking somewhat stooped but strong, with sad, wistful eyes. He intervened and pushed the hijra out of the way. He called to the cook to leave the hijra, who was now able to disentangle himself and stand up. They were all in the laneway now.

‘Let us calm down and say goodnight,’ the headmaster said, his voice lowered. The glittering strength in it was thick and unnerving.

‘Some charity,’ the hijra said approaching and Mumbles once again grabbed him by the throat.

‘Let him go,’ Sunil Seth said confidently but quietly. ‘Troublesome people help us remember God.’ The headmaster was serious and thoughtful as he sought to calm the situation. No one moved. Listening, Mumbles unhooked his fingers, then moved away from the hijra. He threatened to beat him if he saw him nearby.

‘Doomed!’ the hijra wailed. ‘This house will fall.’ In his rage he poked out his bloody tongue at Mumbles as if he were Kali. He lifted one foot in the air, stomped the ground and declared that the house was unlucky and he had no interest in any of them. Turning again to Govinda the hijra said, ‘Perhaps you or I should teach this Maharajah it’s rude to stare.’ He lifted up his saree and exposed himself.

‘Nunga, chi chi,’ gasped a boy in the crowd, packed into the tiny lane, as the hijra swung his penis by circling his hips.

‘Stop glaring then,’ the hijra said. And with that he walked off.

‘I want no more trouble,’ the headmaster said simply.

‘You are right, Sir. That is correct Sir,’ said Mumbles.