The pyre was made up of a huge amount of wood that had now been placed on top, around and under the animal’s body. Govinda watched as the flame was lit. With the heat and the flames came the cries of all the Hindus, Buddhists, Jains, Muslims, Christians and Sikhs in Serpent Lane. Govinda watched in dismay as the body of the elephant was engulfed in flames and the insatiable fire churned out ashes. It was worse than seeing the elephant shot. The stench of burning flesh and the billowing black cloud of smoke would last for several hours, and he could not stop watching.

It was a great bonfire but the smell of dung and crackling elephant flesh made him queasy. ‘Why, Dad?’ The fire choked his words.

‘The dangerous animal had to be killed,’ said the headmaster, looking at Govinda, pressing his face up close, putting his large, veined hand against the boy’s back. ‘There is nothing more to it.’ Govinda’s nose leaked a little. A few yards away a group of mourners chanted prayers.

Through wet little stars in his eyes, Govinda saw that the mourners, led by the Hindu priests, were not happy. As a sudden gust of wind rustled the trees, orange and red embers from the fire floated up into the sky and blew against windows, in the school yard and beyond, and onto freshly washed clothes. He could see why people revered the elephant, marvelled at its majesty, its towering size and strength, and its death appalled him.

‘Why did the elephant have to die, Dad?’

‘It was damaged,’ said the headmaster, his face reddened by the warmth of the fire.

‘Will you and I die because we are damaged for letting the elephant die?’

‘No. Not for a long time to come, Govinda. Not until you have had children of your own and they have had children and you have watched them grow up.’

‘And then I will be damaged?’ Govinda felt more hot tears in his eyes. He angrily rubbed them away.

His father laughed and again said, ‘No.’

Govinda found it hard being the headmaster’s son and he lived rather a lonesome life, but he was never filled with pity for himself. Although he didn’t blend in, he was trying hard to accumulate more friends. Nobody bullied him or called him names, but Govinda found it hard to turn acquaintances into friends. He was a strange boy, the way an elephant’s tail or Kali’s face is strange. He existed, and was perfectly made in every way...but he seemed not quite right for the world.

The headmaster called to his wife, Gitanjali, who had been standing nearby. ‘Listen what our son’s saying.’ Then he told her about Govinda’s reaction. She gazed at Govinda with pity and held him tight. ‘You won’t die, honey. You won’t.’