Gitanjali continued, ‘Krishna had more than 16,000 lovers. His lovers worked all day taking care of their homes and families, and after dark they sneaked out and made love to him.’

‘I am not a Hindu. I am a Sikh,’ protested Mumbles, wide-eyed. ‘We Sikhs have not been treated fairly in this country. Hindus have Hindustan. Muslims have Pakistan. We have nothing even though we fought hardest for independence,’ Mumbles proclaimed.

Gitanjali and Mumbles rolled patches of dough against the back of their forks until there were hundreds of little doughy shells ready to be deep fried. They layered icing on the kul kuls that were already cooked and cooled. After preparing the kul kuls, Gitanjali tipped her head back and squeezed some icing on her tongue.

She looked at Govinda. ‘Mumbles is a Sikh. He is not a Hindu. He doesn’t understand what I am saying.’

Mumbles put his fingers on the hot stove accidentally and cried aloud.

‘I am concerned for my family,’ complained Mumbles. ‘I have saved some money. I had planned to take them to the Golden Temple so we could celebrate with the other pilgrims, but now all this trouble is starting we can’t go.’

‘Would you like some tea, Govinda?’ His mother put water on the fire to boil. Mumbles continued to glaze the kul kuls with the sugary syrup. He seemed annoyed. His fingers looked sore.

Later, Mumbles said he wanted to write a letter. Govinda reluctantly walked with him to the scribe; he wished he was invisible and would not make eye contact with him. Each year they would go to an old scribe and ask him to write a letter but this year Govinda was suspicious of the cook and simply wanted to keep him in sight. He was so overwhelmed with the new feeling he could not think properly. He went along as if he was being directed by some other power apart from himself. Every year the scribe failed to remember they had done the same thing the previous year. To Govinda the scribe, who had a big beard, bad teeth and wide eyes, seemed to be either really stupid or really old or both. ‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ he would murmur under his breath. But Govinda knew he didn’t. The scribe never listened properly to anything anyone said. He was always distracted, lost in his own thoughts. It was as if he had more important conversations going on internally while he spoke to other people.

The scribe and the other letter writers usually set up shop against the school wall in the lane. The old scribe with his moist eyes and vast grey beard was the most conspicuous. Govinda observed his appearance with suspicion and wondered what the scribe thought about as he stroked his beard.

Mumbles asked the scribe, ‘Will you write a letter for me?’