He followed her inside, into the school building and up the flight of stairs. On the second floor on the right-hand side of the building facing the playground, was their apartment. From the balcony he could see the pyre still burning. He stood there for some time. The inspector’s gun still boomed in his head. The heat, the police sirens, the rumble and scream of traffic that never seemed to stop, it all appeared to be closing in. Surely there could have been another way. The fire was nothing now but a funeral of smoke, dead and dying simultaneously, leaving only white ashes.

He took off his shirt and got ready for his bath. His mother led him towards the back of the house, away from the verandah facing the playground, past the lounge and dining area, through a guest bedroom, and into the bathroom where the smell of the rubbish from behind the school came wafting over.

His father was built like a former boxer – right down to the punched-in nose. Govinda was often mystified by how unrelated they looked. He was small and chubby, had a pointed chin, slightly protruding teeth, and ears pressed flat against his head. Govinda didn’t look like his mother either. She was fair-skinned and slim and she was a mystery to him because she often told him scary stories of magical women who could see into the future and visited palmists and Sufi fortunetellers. Once she had been warned she would drown, and this made her afraid of the water. She taught girls in Class One and Two at Little Sisters, the most prestigious Catholic school in Calcutta. At work, Mrs Gitanjali Seth was expected to wear a saree or a salwar kameez but away from school she wore Western dresses. He thought of her as mysterious and beautiful, like a unicorn. She was blessed and gorgeous, spending most of her time near the Victoria Memorial that lies on the maidan by the banks of the Hooghly River, with her rich and stylish friends. She made it a point to go out whenever and wherever she liked and Govinda always looked forward to her coming home from Flurys, his favourite tea room, where they served shortbread, chocolate cakes and rum balls. At night, when she came back from work, his mother often slipped out of her shoes and stood in a bucket of cool water. She would stand there for a while and then walk wet-footed to bed.

‘Come – you will bathe,’ she said, tying the dupatta of her salwaar. ‘No!’ said Govinda. The elephant was on his mind.

She headed for the tap on the wall, her gold earrings jostling back and forth, her gold bangles clashed against each other. Govinda burst out crying as the water poured on him. His mother stood outside the shower area talking.

‘Look at your beautiful arms,’ said Gitanjali in her melodious, soft voice. ‘Nothing like your father.’