Mumbles was thirty-four years old, once part of a Sikh regiment in the Army. He was now a cook and had joined Govinda’s family when he turned thirty. He always headed into the kitchen with confidence, with the brazenness of a lion king, full of action and aplomb. His muscles bulged and he appeared lean and hard.

Mumbles loved to see Hindi movies. His favourite films were the ones where the rich heroine runs off with the poor servant.

‘A tiger will slink through the forest unseen,’ he would say, ‘but a lion stands its ground, curious and unafraid.’ Mumbles had good looks, he took care of his appearance, and he cooked extremely well. He was particular but refused to be prim and proper for anyone. He had joined the school as a cook. In the house, he spent most of the time prowling unnoticed.

Govinda’s favourite meal that Mumbles cooked was a giant white bowl full of Mulligatawny soup and rice and pepper water and vegetable subji – and, for desert, custard and an orange cake. On the table, along with the meal there was a jug of water and freshly sliced lime. His mother was always noticeably impressed.

Mumbles, Ashok the driver, and Tenzing, the intoxicated-gatekeeper, were known as ‘the holy trinity’ because of their uncanny ability to keep menial things within the school compound running efficiently even if the headmaster and his wife were in fact falling apart.

‘Life in an unhappy kitchen is not a comfortable thing,’ said Mumbles. It was his mantra.

Gitanjali gave Mumbles an English and Hindi cookbook with the words, ‘Cooked to a delicacy’ emblazoned on the front cover. He adored this book; thought it was the best of all the cookbooks in the entire house. After Mumbles had been with them a year, Govinda’s mother, started learning to cook from him, and sometimes Govinda watched and learned too. If they were killing a chicken or separating its joints he would be there trying to dismantle it with them. There was a bucket of water that they used to wash away the blood.

Mumbles had to dismantle another chicken to show Govinda how it was done.

‘The fools argue about flesh and meat, but they know nothing about meditation and spiritual wisdom,’ said Mumbles as he held the live chicken. ‘What is called meat, and what is called green vegetables? What leads to sin?’

Govinda watched in awe. The cook sliced the chicken’s neck and drained the blood. ‘Those who renounce meat, and hold their noses when sitting near it, devour men at night,’ said Mumbles. ‘They practise hypocrisy,’ he continued, as life in the animal passed, ‘and make a show before other people, but they do not understand anything. Oh Nanak, what can be said to the blind people?’

Mumbles had said a chicken was more than a physical animal, you had to consider that somebody had made it.

‘Who made it?’