That night Govinda’s father was furious. ‘What is this place coming to? I have a gatekeeper who beats his wife and smokes opiates. I have a driver who almost loses the school car! I have a cook who makes tasteless food!’

The Land of Opportunity

The Land Of Opportunity

‘Australia is the best country in the world,’ the headmaster said as Ashok drove the car out of the school’s gates and onto Serpent Lane. The narrow, crowded lane blazed with light as they made their way through the press of people. Govinda and his parents were on their way to the Grand Hotel in Chowringhee for an interview with the Australian High Commissioner, who had come from Delhi to speak to families keen to emigrate. ‘Now your mother and I expect you to behave,’ he told Govinda as the car passed a long row of bicycles, each with a different-coloured seat. An open truck packed with onions and potatoes swerved in front of them. Ashok punched the Ambassador’s powerful horn.

‘Are we going to Australia for a holiday?’ Govinda asked.

Govinda’s parents looked at each other. Ashok drove slowly past lines of beggars and religious mendicants. Seizing his chance, a barefoot boy ran beside the car. He drummed his fists on the doors and held out his palms to Govinda, shouting the street cry of all Calcutta: ‘No sleep, no shower! No food, no power! Twenty-four hour! No mamma, no papa!’

‘You must not forget us,’ said Ashok, as he dodged a careering taxi. ‘So much mixing blood is happening. Americans are having babies with Chinese. Govinda must not forget his heritage. Who knows what traps await him in the jungles of the West. I could never leave here.’

The open windows of their Ambassador let in the smells of petrol fumes, spices, diesel smoke and cow manure. Cars, trucks, buses, scooters, bicycles, trams, oxcarts and pedestrians were bustling about, honking and hollering at each other under the big watchful eyes of Amitabh Bachchan and the all-star cast of the great Hindi film, Sholay. The eyes of Amitabh Bachchan were black and gigantic with irises smeared with pigeon and crow droppings. Neighbourhood gangsters had ensured the sign was never to be removed under any circumstances after the actor had had an accident while on a shoot and local people used the billboard as a place to pray for him. But the beloved actor’s eyes had dimmed with the bird droppings and recent rains.

The street was bound on one side by a foul gutter filled with excrement and litter. Rickshaw-pullers transported their customers, their veins and muscles bulging. Street vendors held up their best wares as they threaded through contesting enterprises. Govinda saw drum-sellers, chai-carriers, incense-wavers, ear-cleaners and monkey-men make their way under Amitabh Bachchan’s persistent stare. How strange it would be to leave all this, he thought.