Govinda’s father would stop at certain shops to exchange greetings with the owners. Nearby a gregarious society lady surrounded by her servants wallowed in a mountain of fabrics.

While his father and Ashok bought fish, vegetables and bags of rice and lentils, Govinda watched on quietly. He was frightened.

Ashok had a bruise over his left eye.

‘Last night, I had a small problem,’ Ashok said. ‘I owed a man money that I lost in gambling. I did not have it. So he hit me.’

‘Do you enjoy working for me?’ asked the headmaster.

‘Of course Sir.’

‘Then look at yourself. Give up all this gambling nonsense. Think of your family, your son, Nitesh.’ Sunil Seth shook his head in frustration, as if hoping his driver would see some sense.

The overworked storm drains had flooded with the recent rains, and nine months of muck had made its way into the bazaar. The rain and the flooding were hard on the porters, shopkeepers, beggars – the people who relied on making a living on the streets and in the markets. As Govinda and his father worked their way through the throng, often wading in ankle-deep water, porters competed to get their attention. Sunil Seth had his regular men to whom he signalled for help with carrying groceries. Three porters helped to carry their shopping to the car.

The Ambassador conked out just as it made it past the cinema on Serpent Lane. A bullock cart, a donkey, bicycles, rickshaws and cars swerved past the car. A young man on a scooter bumped into them. He looked like a university student. As the rider took off his helmet, revealing an orange turban underneath, a crowd gathered.

A tight circle milled around the accident. There were smiles on the onlooking faces. Ashok and the rider faced each other. Car horns blared. Some drivers slowed down, content to watch, and angered others who tooted their horns, screamed out their windows, then accelerated and waved their fists as they went past. Govinda watched as the grown-ups yelled at each other.

‘Idiot!’ the student cried. ‘What damage you have caused! If only…’ And then he whirled with annoyance, thrusting out a furious finger, brandishing it, an inch away from Ashok’s nose.

The crowd glared, anticipating trouble, waiting for blood.

‘Fool! You need to look!’ Ashok screamed back. His glasses slid down his nose, his face went red and he grabbed at his chest. He was spluttering for breath. ‘No need for a spectacle.’

Shaking his head and waving his hands, the student sprang on him and said: ‘I was right in front of you. Are you blind or stupid?’