‘Oh, they found him,’ the hijra said joyfully. ‘He betrayed this country. They all did. When the men found him and dragged him out he fell to his knees and cried. Out into the open, he was crying like a woman.’ The hijra pretended to cry in a high-pitched voice. He presented his news as though he were performing in a play. None of it seemed real. He continued. ‘They pushed and hit him. It made little difference that he had cut his hair. It was so easy to see through the charade.’ He paused and took in their faces. When he saw he had their attention he clapped his hands and continued once more. ‘They kicked the coward and set him alight. And so it was ended for him! With him crying and yelling...finished. Now we all have blood on our hands.’ He bit his finger and drew blood. He rubbed the blood on his forehead, into his hair, and clapped his hands.

Govinda watched his mother as she howled. ‘No! No, no, no, no. Get this devil monster, this messenger of death, away from me.’ He watched how his father stood back and observed the scene. His mother rushed towards the hijra, and pushed him so hard he went reeling back.

‘Yes,’ said the breathless hijra sucking the blood from his finger. ‘It is so. Now I will go. Your house is done with.’ The hijra walked elegantly in heels, clip-clop, his hips swayed provocatively from side to side, out the gate and into the lane. For a while no one said anything. As his eyes adjusted, Govinda noticed clusters of Sikh families in the school grounds hiding in the darkness. They had their palms in silent thanks to the headmaster for letting them hide there. A number of the men and women suddenly stood in a line and did something Govinda had seen many others do: they bent down and touched his father’s feet.

Upstairs in the main house, Govinda saw that the suitcases they were meant to have taken with them to Australia had been brought up. They had been filled with smart, new clothes. He kicked them over. For the first time he really wanted to go to Australia. He doubled over and dry-heaved on the floor.

When he had recovered, Govinda listened to the sirens and gunshots in the distance. While all these crazy things were taking place outside, he could hear Gitanjali and his father in the next room arguing.

‘You bloody bitch!’ his father was screaming at Gitanjali. ‘What had you in mind?’ He heard a slap and something crash.

From the doorway he saw his father reach across, and grab both of his mother’s wrists in a painful hold.

‘Leave me,’ she cried.

‘Damn you!’