The man was wrong. When they turned for the final straight, Dishoom Dishoom miraculously took the lead. As it catapulted past the finish line Ashok erupted into hurrahs. He pumped his fist and clapped Govinda hard on the back. The losing mounts returned dispirited. Ashok got his money and then picked his way through the melee of punters, argumentative bookies and ice-cream and cool-drink vendors, as he looked for the owner to thank him.

Ashok grabbed Govinda by the arm and together they wandered around the track. He seemed desperate to find the owner of the horse. He saw an attendant he recognised who guarded the entrance to the members’ area. Ashok handed the attendant two hundred rupees and bribed their way in. Govinda trailed behind.

The owner was a large man; even though he was surrounded by a coterie of people, he stood out. He wore a white turban and an olive-green kurta. Govinda thought he recognised the man, and that he had seen him at another time.

The big man stared questioningly at him. ‘Now, aren’t you Sunil Seth’s son?’

‘Yes Sir,’ said Govinda.

‘You wouldn’t remember, I guess,’ the man said. His skin sagged under his chin. It drooped onto his chest, as he leaned into Govinda.

Govinda looked at him.

‘Oh! Mr Ali Khan,’ Govinda said in a high-pitched voice, slightly afraid and embarrassed.

‘Of course it is Mr Ali Khan,’ replied Ashok. ‘He is surely the best man in West Bengal.’ He said this loud enough for Ali Khan to hear.

The big man turned slowly. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and smiled. He acknowledged the driver and looked down at Govinda as though he was inspecting a new species of monkey.

‘So the driver comes to the racetrack with the headmaster’s boy,’ remarked Ali Khan. He smiled and his full lips revealed great white teeth. ‘No crime in wanting a little more. Wanting more is our fundamental right as Indians.’

‘Ali Khan, thank you,’ said Ashok. ‘I have won today.’

Up close Ali Khan’s skin looked leathery and tough and the corners of his eyes were coagulated with yellow and grey muck. Govinda smelled mint and horseshit.

‘So you enjoy gambling.’

‘Of course, I live for the track and I always bet on your horses.’

‘So you will bet again?’

‘Naturally,’ croaked the driver, as a murder of crows flew up and away from a blossoming balam khira tree, its maroon-red flowers hanging in long pendulous panicles and were surrounded by gourd-like fruit.

‘What about the next race? Will you accept a wager?’ asked Ali Khan.

But why…It was not as if…Or was it? A nasty little idea began to grow in Govinda’s head. He wondered if Ali Khan was about to trick Ashok. A strange smile flicked across Ali Khan’s face. It was ridiculous, but what else could it be?