‘God made it,’ said Mumbles. ‘But it is water where life originated and it is water that sustains all life.’

‘No! Everything made it.’

‘How could everything make this chicken, Govinda?’

‘What it ate made it.’

‘That is correct,’ said Gitanjali. She scowled, as though unsympathetic to the idea, ‘Don’t argue when the little master of this house is right.’

‘It is water that produces grains, sugarcane, cotton and all forms of life,’ said Mumbles.

Mumbles cut open the chicken, ripped out the guts, and found a piece of the liver inside. It was the first time Govinda had seen a fresh liver. He prized these lessons at first. He realised later he was expected to leave and let Mumbles cook, but then his mother would stay, and this bothered him.

On a large table Mumbles would put everything he had to cook, and then he would chop – vegetables, meats, breads. ‘Cooked to a delicacy,’ he repeated. ‘Life in an unhappy kitchen is not a comfortable thing.’

Mumbles rejoiced in the kitchen, but occasionally talked of the day of the giant white horse, the train from Pakistan, when his grandparents were killed during partition. He recounted the story of how the train was held up by marauding gangs. His grandparents were doused in kerosene. Politicians refused to take responsibility. There was little reporting and no one was held accountable. And then he would get very dark. Gitanjali pulled Govinda out of the kitchen whenever that happened. She would make him drink water and together they would go to the market and buy sweets.

Mumbles would often grumble, he sounded gruff until you realised he always talked in an unabashed way about politics. Govinda could barely understand what he said, so he called him Mumbles. It made the cook seem lighter, less threatening, than he really was.

‘A hijra told me that water will come and take me away.’ ‘Is he still there, Govinda? I’ll chase him away.’ Mumbles walked down the stairs and outside the compound gate. He walked into Serpent Lane and took a quick turn, to the back of the compound. There was a tiny alleyway. Govinda followed the cook and together they climbed the large pile of rubbish. The gatekeeper followed them, a goat followed the gatekeeper and a dog in turn followed the goat. The hijra clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Go, leave me! I curse this house!’ He lifted a handful of dirt and threw it at the school wall.

Mumbles went up close to the effeminate yet masculine face wearing bright make-up. ‘Do you think I am going to pay any attention to your fretting?’ He slapped the hijra hard. At once a congregation of bicyclists and pedestrians gathered about the pile of rubbish. A tea seller started hawking his wares in the tiny lane.