When Sunil Seth let Govinda go, his eyes were large with tears as he squirmed out of his father’s room full of papers and files. He hoped for a blessing. He prayed for an intervention, a miracle, that would allow them to stay in India. He closed his eyes and made a wish. Then he opened them and walked onto the balcony, from there he saw Nitesh buying a kite from a street seller.

Govinda wiped his tears and ran down the stairs and out onto the playground to greet his friend. He breathed in the air. The sky was littered with kites.

‘Hi Nitesh.’

‘Butt-scratcher, now you want to talk to me?’ Nitesh looked fresh and clean. He had been scrubbed and his hair was trimmed and combed with Brylcreem. He wore a yellow T-shirt and jeans.

‘Can I fly your kite, Nitesh?’

‘No!’

‘C’mon, share. Please.’

Nitesh gave him a chance to fly the kite, and Govinda sent it high into the sky, where it was joined by the other kites soaring over the city. He wondered if the other kite flyers were sure about anything. He wondered if his family would remain intact. A loud speaker was turned on. He listened to the music then a man made an announcement; he told the children to go find their parents.

Inside Govinda heard confusing news on his father’s wireless. ‘I am not interested in a long life,’ said the Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi. ‘I am not afraid of these things. I don’t mind if my life goes in the service of this nation. If I die today, every drop of my blood will invigorate the nation.’ Govinda pictured her blood falling and landing on the nation. Each time a drop of blood hit the earth he pictured a tree sprout. As more blood fell more plants sprouted. This went on and on.

Afterwards he returned to sit alone on the balcony. He did not want to speak to anyone. He thought about his father who wanted so desperately to try a new life someplace else. His father constantly spoke about the lure of Australia. Meanwhile, he wondered if his mother and father were even suited. They argued a lot. His mother seemed more comfortable around Mumbles than with his father. Yet his father was the headmaster and Mumbles was their cook. He felt angry that their papers had arrived and that they were soon leaving for Australia. He didn’t like the packing and the preparations that were taking place to hand over their home to somebody else. It felt like he was being severed in two. He looked out onto Serpent Lane and heard the sound of a man’s voice that came and went. He heard the man say, ‘We live in a socialist democracy...’ And then he heard his mother’s melodious voice.

‘Govinda, where are you? What are you doing? It’s time for your bath.’