Both men stared at each other. ‘And what about cutting your hair?’ said the headmaster. ‘Just the other day I was eating and found a long hair in my food. It must have been yours!’

Govinda recognised how callous his father was to say this. He had accepted what the turban, hair and beard meant to Mumbles. These traditions, he knew, dated from the seventeenth century, when the last Sikh guru, Gobind Singh, decided that followers should allow their hair to grow as a sign of respect for God, whom they knew as Kesh. Taking away his Sikh dress would be a travesty, because it would disconnect Mumbles from all his principles. Sometimes, Govinda decided, his father could be very thoughtless.

‘Often people ask us to choose between practising our religion and serving them,’ said Mumbles. ‘But a Sikh will never cut off his hair and beard. For me that’s not an option.’

‘You would gladly sacrifice your life?’

A look of pain, like a fleeting shadow, crossed the cook’s face. ‘I am a Sikh…My grandparents were killed solely because they were Sikhs. Do not put me at odds with this, Sir.’

‘What do your activities put you at odds with? Pray tell?

‘I could not cut my hair and remove my turban, Sir. They’re not mine to give. They belong to my God.’

‘We will see about that,’ said Govinda’s father.

‘Life in an unhappy kitchen is not a comfortable thing,’ replied Mumbles, repeating his mantra.

Neither said anything more for some time. Mumbles kicked the ground. Govinda watched his father. His father was grey-haired and taller than Mumbles but Mumbles was a proud Sikh whose orange turban represented courage, self-respect and honour.

‘I make five-star food, Sir.’

Govinda lifted his head and smiled at the cook. Mumbles loved to cook but hated to leave his kitchen. He made pickles and pakoras, curries and cakes, lassies and ladoos.

‘You know I previously worked as a cook in the Indian Army. I make you five-star food, Sir.’

Govinda liked Mumbles, but in the last few months their friendship had strained.

Darkness was setting in as Govinda and his father walked back to the school together. They left Mumbles in the lane to gather his thoughts. They wandered through the gate, past the gatekeeper Tenzing, who acknowledged them humbly by pressing his palms together. Govinda’s father didn’t seem to notice.

In the school grounds, the entire compound appeared to be without electricity. It was dark, Govinda could not see his father’s face and his figure was only vaguely discernible. He had to grope for his father’s arm when they climbed the stairs. At the top of the flight of steps leading to their apartment, Sunil Seth stood still. Govinda looked at him, then yielded, and they moved away from the dark staircase and approached the door. His father turned the door handle and they walked into the apartment.