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Just after dawn streaked the Mumbai sky Balraj Narayanan awoke. He stepped out and stretched, his head upturned to taste the sweet morning sky.

Two gaunt cats screeched as they pawed over a dead rat. A TV switched on, cutting the humidity, which was already pressing down on the slum like rotten breath. Silence was impossible. Even at midnight, sound pierced the walls: a man grunting with pleasure; insects scurrying; the beating of a woman; the hissing of urine; a child wailing.

He rolled his shoulders forwards and then backwards, vigorously working out kinks from sleeping on the mat stretched across the dirt floor of his father's hut. At fifteen, his joints were already becoming stiff.

Despite having eaten the previous night, his stomach gnawed ungratefully. He looked over again at the remnants of the rodent. He shrugged his shoulders. If only he had arisen five minutes earlier. His father would be horrified, his son scrounging like a scavenger, but Balraj couldn't bring himself to request even larger dinner portions. He took two helpings, his father one, and his mother half, saving a bit of leftovers to dole out to stray children. He would not destroy their illusion; the silent satisfaction his parents shared in providing for their son and affording extra for charity. Even his mother took some pride in knowing they weren't worst off in their slum.

One of the cats brushed up against his calf. Fur sagging over bones. Bending down, he rubbed his leg hard, erasing the sensation of soft vulnerability, the warm desperation.

Only shreds of the rodent remained. A few moments earlier, it must have been darting through the alley. He shuddered. In death there was sustenance, in hunger no shame. Something like that anyway was what his Dadaji, his father's father, had taught him, repeating the phrase as they skinned cows. The first time, Balraj had cried at tearing the flesh of a sacred animal that no other caste dared eat. Dadaji had consoled him. Cows were a blessing to the Untouchables in their own way; the shunning of this flesh by all other castes provided for them.

Slipping on rubber slippers, Balraj shuffled towards the main street. Auto-rickshaw horns blared as they swerved around pedestrians, cows and sharp corners. A mandir bell rang in the distance as temple visitors announced their arrival to God. Instinctively, his hand rose to his chest.

As a child, he had been forced to carry a bell around his neck, announcing his approach to higher castes. That was when they lived in a village, before their father had decided three years ago that they would migrate to the city and settle in Mumbai in search of a better life. They had made a stealthy journey, slipping away in the night like bats.

Before they had left, Dadaji had blessed them and handed over a handkerchief of money, mumbling something about doing something good with the medicine money. He had not wanted to come. He was too frail. He wanted to die in his own village, like his wife had, and his father and his grandfather.

Carrying their few possessions, the three of them walked through many nights, their feet exhausted and bleeding. When knowledge of their migration surfaced, an upper caste gang had raided their village and burned down the family hut. Dadaji had managed to escape the fire, but they caught him and threw acid on his hands and face. Who did his family think they were? Did they really believe they could tinker with their assigned destiny?

By the time the news of the attack reached them, they had already settled in Mumbai. It was too late. His mother had wept madly, pounding her fists against the ground. They were being punished for violating the divine laws of Manu.

"Times have changed. The president is an untouchable," his father had said over her wails. "My son will no longer warn of his presence like a four-legged animal. Instead, he's going to learn to sew."

"God help us," his mother had invoked. "We're unborn." She had never been in favour of the move to Mumbai.

Balraj weaved through the bustling morning traffic, as he did everyday, to collect morning drop-offs at his father's sewing stand. He arranged the articles in order of urgency.

"Here," his father handed him two bananas as he sat down on the pavement beside him. "You didn't eat this morning."

His father shifted through the clothes about him: stitch a fall on a sari; shift a seam to accommodate expanding thighs; sew a sari-blouse; mend minor tears. The pile had grown over three years, as word of his careful and quick work spread. His identity was swallowed up in the anonymity of Mumbai, where the residents preferred good cheap labour to upholding ancient caste laws. They could be Sudras, labourers born of the primordial being's feet, maybe even a true merchant Vaisyas, born of the thighs. Customers didn't care. Only his mother, terrified every morning of their daily transgression, prayed they would return unharmed. Every evening, she kissed his head thanking God, embracing Balraj so hard that he felt his ribs grind against hers.

Perhaps through this repeated greeting, her dread, her disbelief somehow leached into his body, slowly hardening into a sharp nugget of fear that occasionally threatened to pierce his heart, but mostly trimmed away the excitement his father expressed when reminding him of their opportunities, or rejoicing in their new freedom.

A young woman approached. Although she wore Indian clothes and had long black hair, the confidence in her gait and her unabashed manner of meeting glances betrayed her identity as a foreigner.

"Please sir," she started in English and then switching to a halting Hindi, "This needs fixing." She held out a pant leg, the hem half undone.

Balraj started at being addressed as sir. The woman had thick lashes, an easy smile, and skin smooth and rich as churned butter.

"Can you fix it by tonight?" she asked, still holding out the pants.

His arms seemed to melt. He couldn't reach up to take the clothing from her. His tongue floundered uselessly, like a dying fish.

"Sure," his father answered. "Are you from America?"

"Canada." She smiled.

"Take the pants, Balraj." His father nudged him.

With a trembling hand, he reached out. In the exchange, he brushed her skin.

"Sorry," he stammered.

She raised her eyebrows quizzically and turned to his father. "For 5:00 pm?"

His father agreed. She left. Balraj busied himself with sorting, so that he could keep his face averted. After a while, though, his father broke the silence of their work.

"She was pretty," he said.

"Yes. But, no … I just … She's …"

"Cannot speak, huh?" His father chuckled and then lowered his voice, suddenly solemn. "No apologizing ok. Accidental touching, even a Canadian girl is okay. She didn't even seem to notice. The young generation abroad probably doesn't even care about such systems."

He nodded. His mother would be most upset with this advice of his father.

"Besides you share the name of a president, no?"

Balraj sighed. How many times must he be reminded? His father was fixated on names. He had purposely given Balraj a North Indian first name, just to cause enough confusion so that nobody could easily classify him. North and South Indian all in one. Unwilling to accept this imposed artificial duality, his mother refused to address him by name. Instead, she used terms of endearment. He hated his name; the significance of it all; the significance his father tried to avoid. Who was he pretending to be? A skinner and a tailor. A villager and a city slum dweller. When his mother greeted him each evening, dewy relief on her forehead, heat emanating from her underarms as she clutched him, he knew; that was the only time of day when he really knew.

"Who would have thought that a Dalit could be the president?"

"He's dead now," Balraj snapped. He ran the cut edge of a thread between his lips, moistening it into a fine point. "Besides, we're not related."

"His name, his life should offer you hope. Here," he said, handing him some rupees. "Buy some blue thread. No rush. Go see a movie with the change. You're useless in this condition, anyway." His father smiled.

Balraj stood up, grateful for his father's generosity. If his mother knew, she'd think it an unnecessary extravagance, taunting the Gods with pursuing leisure in the middle of a working day. He sighed.

"Be back before five." His father winked.

After buying the thread, Balraj headed to the cinema. He picked a film starring Kajol. The surprising brightness of her teeth, like the inside of a coconut, reminded him of the Canadian girl. Also, it was shot abroad - a growing trend in films - and he thought maybe he'd learn something about the Canadian girl's way of life.

When Kajol sang aarti, during her prayers, he smiled. So the Canadian girl could be pious. His mother would be pleased. But when Kajol danced, her hips swaying, bosom bouncing, hair flipping, he couldn't help himself. He slipped into the back row, ensuring his seat was buffered by empty ones on each side. Draping his jacket over his lap, he checked left and right. Down the row, another man was rocking in a rhythmic motion.

Balraj shook his head and flung off the jacket. What was he thinking? His parents would be shocked by such vile actions, debasing even to his kind. He would overcome this temptation learned from a stranger he'd once observed in a corner of darkness. The man's hand had worked himself quickly until his body suddenly shuddered and then slackened. The first time Balraj had experimented, he cursed himself. He thought his body had spit in revulsion, vomited from the hips. He had run to wash himself, fearing that the stickiness would stain his hand.

He would refrain now. This may be God's test. If he could overcome this, he would improve his karma, perhaps be born a Sudra in his next life. That would make his Dadaji proud. Also, as a Sudra, his mother would not have to fear so much.

He turned back to the screen, focusing on the movie. Kajol was still dancing. He stole another glance at the man. Lights flickered across his face. He was still now, almost smiling, in a sleepy sort of way. The girl flashed through his mind again: the smell of her hair; the brilliance of her smile; how she had not shrunk back at their contaminating exchange. Again, he arranged the jacket around himself. He unzipped his pants and began stroking himself, imagining the girl now as Kajol. He was the hero, inhaling her flowery perfume as he danced behind her. His lips softly brushed hers. Her breath would be minty, like his favourite Polo mint, not spiced with paan or cardamom seeds.

Suddenly, a man's raucous laughter sliced through the theatre, prematurely truncating Balraj's reverie. Although he believed the sound came from a few rows ahead, he cast his head down in shame fearing that someone had observed his dirty act. Gathering the jacket, he slunk out the aisle to the washroom. He pressed the foot pump. Water ran over his hands. He lathered and washed, rubbing vigorously.

When he stepped outside, the heat slammed up against him like the solid whack of a cricket bat. All-knowing nature was punishing him. He shifted to the wall, suddenly aware of his polluting shadow.

Just before reaching his father, he stepped into the middle of the walkway, his shadow falling at will. His father briefly smiled at him before turning back to work. Instead of sitting down to fold the clothes now completed, he skulked around the corner, unable to bear his father's proud encouragement. He was filthy and unworthy. He would contaminate even his own father, who was trying to move up the caste ladder.

Balraj walked aimlessly against the walls, kicking stray rocks, scuffing the rubber slippers that his father had recently purchased. If he continued, they would snap, and his father would have to replace them quicker than expected. His mother would be most upset. Maybe he ought to walk around barefoot, that would be more appropriate for his kind.

He wandered into a residential neighbourhood. Children played on the street, splashing a puddle with sticks. A cow on a short tether nuzzled through rubbish piled upon a small patch of wild grass. A bicycle rickshaw rode by, the cart heaped high with boxes secured with worn rope. A squatted dhobi slapped wet soapy clothes against a flat stone.

A woman stepped out from a home, "Stupid washer-woman, have you no sense? I told you …" A blaring horn interrupted her tirade. The children scampered. The vehicle passed. The children returned. The woman was still shouting over the slap-slap of the clothes the washerwoman had dared not stop beating.

Balraj sighed at the normalcy of this scene God had sent along his path. The world had been righted. He turned back.

Down the road, a uniformed man stood at a sewer. Women at windows two floors above shrieked about a clog. As Balraj neared, the stench accosted him. He gripped his stomach and quickened his pace.

"Aaaay," the uniformed man called.

Balraj lowered his head, but kept walking.

"Aaaay, boy. You deaf?" The man yelled, pulling out his baton. "Your name?" He approached.

Balraj continued without answering.

"What is your name?" The man was clapping the baton in his hand.

"Narayanan," he answered softly.

"Like the old president?"

He bit his lip. Why hadn't he given some other name? This man wouldn't know the difference. Why had he given a name that signified so much, a name with impact, sometimes good, mostly bad? No good would come of it this time.

"No, sir," he said, forcing himself to maintain a steady pace. Show no fear. Show no anger.

"Then you think you are better than a president?"

"No sir." Maybe he should run? No that could aggravate him.

"So you're an untouchable."

Without answering, he began to run.

"Where are you going, you filthy ill-omened rat?" He cursed and began chasing him.

His steps were not too far behind. If he could just keep the lead, round the next corner. More traffic there. He would be safe. Safer. How many times had his mother warned him to be careful and still he had been so careless in his wanderings.

The man's boots nipped his heel. His lead was lost. Just the next corner. All he needed was the next corner. He heard the snap of a button, the sliding of the baton, his breath, the man's huffing. Faster. And then his right foot, now behind his left, wouldn't lift. Pressure on his foot. The man's boot, hard and strong, on his skin. Pain.

"I should beat you now." The man seized him and brought his baton down hard. Balraj heard the sharp crack. His body crumpled. His cheek scraped the ground. His mouth filled with blood and sand. Vomit arose in his throat, but he swallowed it back, terrified. "Get up, now. Follow me."

His body felt unstable, wobbly, but somehow it rose, obeying the man, like a dog. Maybe he should run again? As if reading his mind, the man swung around, clapping his baton in his palm. "Don't even think of playing smart."

Images flickered in his mind: his father, the Canadian girl, his mother, the man in the theatre, the man in front, the baton. And then suddenly, he couldn't form distinct thoughts. His body kept shuffling forward. But his mind was melting in the afternoon sun, dripping away with his tears.

The man stopped. They were back at the same place, like time quickly rewound.

"You belong underground with your kind." He kicked a bucket towards Balraj.

"Please just …"

"Clear out the blockage." The man pointed at the sewer.

Balraj's body shook violently. He couldn't move.

"Do it and I won't kill you." The man spat at him.

His body doubled over. Back on the ground. Dark boots approaching. Baton swinging. Fear allowed him to crawl towards the bucket. For an instant, he looked up and saw the small crowd of children across the road watching. The women were silent now, their eyes averted. He had no allies. If he ran and the man caught him, surely he'd kill him or beat him to a cripple.

Balraj lifted the sewer cap. A terrible odour wafted up. He vomited.

"Get in."

Shaking, Balraj lowered himself. The sludge was cool and mushy. Pretend it's a fresh river, he ordered himself.

The fumes seared his eyes. It was dark. He could not breathe. He coughed. It was a river. A river. But no, he needed air, a clean breath. He reached up and pulled himself out. He gasped and gulped one breath and then another.

"You'll get used to it." The man said gruffly and kicked over another pail. "Empty into this one. Spill nothing."

Again he dropped his body into blackness. His eyes were being bored out. Cockroaches scuttled along his body. The fumes scorched his throat like he was swallowing fire. He cried out. His body swayed. Suddenly, he thought of his father and his hopes for their future. He couldn't disappoint him, not like this. He wouldn't die in here, without seeing his mother again. He wouldn't. Holding onto their images, he lowered the bucket. He filled, lifted and poured with mechanical detachment.

Finally, the man called out. "It should be cleared."

Balraj heaved himself out.

"Put the cover back on." And then he turned, flicking a bar of soap at Balraj. "Downstream is that way." The man pointed in the distance.

Soaked and filthy, sludge dripping from his body, Balraj headed in the indicated direction. Despite the heat, he was shaking. His father would be so ashamed seeing his son soiled and wet like a sewer rat, declaring their hidden caste to everyone. All they'd worked for would be lost. He stripped and washed himself, between his toes, in the crack of his anus, even the inside of his mouth. And then, he scrubbed his clothes, mimicking the slap-slap action of the dhobi.

At last, he headed back. He asked someone for the time. Learning it was 4:30pm, he slowed his pace. He didn't need to see her and be reminded of his stupid childish fantasy. She was so far above him, as unreachable as the clouds. God had taught him that today. It was better to miss her. Not because he'd again be ensnared by fantasy, but to signal to his father that he was a man, ready to confront life as it was.

An hour later, his father greeted him with a concerned expression. "You missed her."

Balraj sat down silently and began folding.

"You're late. What happened?"

Balraj said nothing.

"Are you alright?" he patted Balraj's arm.

Balraj jerked back. "Don't touch me. I'll contaminate you."

"What? I have not raised you to believe this, have I?"

Balraj stared at the ground.

"What has happened to make you say this?" His father held Balraj's face between his hands. Staring him squarely in the eyes, he said, "You could never contaminate me. No matter what. Do you understand?"

Balraj swallowed hard and exhaled short jagged breaths. He looked down.

His father gently lifted his chin again. "You don't have to tell me what happened. But I want to tell you something. Once, when I was young, a Brahmin came to your grandmother. He was in great pain, coughing and burning up. He let her treat him, touch his body, not just his feet, but his head, his chest, his stomach; he even took the medicine from her hand.

"That is when I realized they're no different than us. When sick, they are just as vulnerable. Only skin and blood and soul, just like you, just like me. She was allowed to touch him because she offered them something, her healing skills."

"But I am no medicine man, no powers like her." Balraj tried to picture his grandmother, but she was only a hazy image of curly grey hair and watery eyes. She had died when he was a toddler.

"Nor have I. But your grandparents ensured that with their extra money, I learned a valuable trade."

"That is how you learned to sew?" He remembered the handkerchief, the bundle they had tied against his chest when they had escaped. If his parents were captured, and he got away, he would have something.

"And buy the machine. Now you too know how to sew."

"And skin cows."

"Not anymore. Look, you touch their clothes. You offer them something too. Mended garments, beautiful fittings stroke their vanity. This in some ways is even more powerful than medicine."

"Mummy doesn't think that. She imagines we'll be punished."

He sighed. "Yes, it's true."

"Maybe she's right."

"I don't believe that. And you can choose yours from the best of both of us."

"You don't know what happened today.

His father nodded. "Do you want to tell me?"

He shook his head.

"No matter. You can't contaminate me, or a priest, or even that Canadian girl. Okay?"

Balraj's lips quivered. The clothing slipped from his grip.

"You're my son." His father wrapped his arms around him and held him against his chest until Balraj ceased trembling and the tears stopped spilling. "You're my son," he repeated.