Nala had the look of a runner who had panted all the way to the finishing line without realizing he had won the race. ‘Did I?’ he mumbled, still jolted, his collar bone aching as he turned to see the beam that had fallen.

‘Everyone back into line!’ the guards shouted as servants bustled about to remove the debris.

A man in an expensive robe, with a well-oiled moustache, shambled over to where they stood. ‘What in the name of-How can this happen in something I designed?’ he cried.

‘You can ask the coin you embezzled instead of creating sturdy roofs!’ a man in the queue called out.

The robed one had turned red. ‘I am Purochana, Architect to Kings. This…this does not happen to my buildings!’ he fumed. ‘Guards! Take that man out of the line and out of the Mansion! And find out where that god awful smell of lac is coming from!’ Saying which, he huffed and puffed out of the room.

It was after two more hours of slow shuffling that Nala found himself seated in the dining space, next to the Namin he had saved. The serving women put a leaf plate before his crossed legs and tossed a spatula of rice onto it. Nala’s stomach growled in anticipation. He carefully tilted a few drops from the small earthen pot of drinking water into his right palm, and rubbed his hands in three circular motions. He then shifted the water pot to his left.

Another group of serving women arrived, with an assortment of food in large copper buckets and straw baskets piled high with crispy treats and breads. It was a meal like no other. Onion fritters and succulent goat kebabs, followed by a healthy mound of curd rice topped with eggplant curry. Spicy roasted potato and stir-fried okra were placed on the side. Sweet of tooth, Nala helped himself to the ghee-laden saffron balls filled with rich dry fruits and cardamom.

The serving women continued serving, but Nala politely refused second serves of the same dish, despite violent protests by his stomach and soul. Instead, Nala was served with dessert, even as the rest of his fellow diners had barely satiated themselves with the second course. The last dish before him was milk; except it was not milk. The cream colour was that of a dusty old robe. Nala could smell saffron but was suspicious of the concoction.

‘Do not concern yourself with the colour, boy,’ the Namin said, as if reading his mind. His face was hidden under the cowl of his robe but he looked rather well built for a Namin. ‘It is condensed milk…stirred over a low flame for so long that it has changed colour.’

‘I did not mean to offend, Reverend One.’

‘One should never apologize for careful paranoia. It’s the least that can be expected of a student of the Meru.’

Nala gaped. ‘How did you know?’