They continued walking in silence, and Govinda wondered if Mumbles knew he had dropped the letter. Govinda asked him if the letter was important.

‘Yes, very,’ he said. ‘It is to my guru.’ ‘You dropped it back there,’ said Govinda. Mumbles ran back and picked it up. Govinda could see he was angry about dropping the letter and couldn’t be bothered keeping up the pretence. Govinda was pleased to see Mumbles agitated. He wanted the cook to feel uneasy and to be punished for taking up so much of his mother’s time and attention. He did not like the cook’s turban or his lips or anything about him.

The Golden Temple

The Golden Temple

All over the house, there was packing and preparations for departure going on, the sound of the servants cleaning, cooking and washing with a calm resolve in their work. The cook treated the household like his own. He sang love songs from a popular Bollywood musical while he worked. He walked into various rooms where he had no business. Not only did he prepare their meals, he handled their clothes as well. Govinda knew that he touched Gitanjali’s underwear. He was too familiar with the entire household.

From outside Govinda heard the familiar, everyday sounds of car horns, children playing, birds, salesmen peddling their wares. Walking past his father’s study, He stopped near a window, where he caught a glimpse of the neem tree outside. The leaves on the tree looked limp and irregular. The monsoon rain was now long gone but it was hot. The door to the study was closed and Govinda heard his parents’ voices. He stood at the door and listened. The study was normally a quiet place, where his father did not like being disturbed. Govinda overheard his father deep in an uneasy conversation. His voice was rising in anger.

‘The papers have arrived and we are going, Gitanjali,’ he was saying.

‘And what will that change?’ His mother sounded irritable.

‘Enough! Some things are best left alone.’

‘Why don’t you accept?’ said Gitanjali agitated. ‘You can’t keep running. We can only go so far. Eventually you have to face things.’

Govinda thought this an extraordinary thing to say. Why would his mother tell his father, ‘You can’t keep running’?

‘I’m not scared of anything,’ his father continued boastfully, ‘not even death.’

‘I am hurting, Sunil. I feel angry. I feel resentment.’

‘I have to remain focused, Gitanjali. The days are speeding up.’

‘You are not listening to me, Sunil. What I am scared of is the breakdown of this marriage.’

Sunil Seth’s head poked out of his study all of a sudden, and then his arm followed. He grabbed Govinda’s wrist and pulled him into the room. His mother looked as though she had been crying, her eyes were red and beside her a broken cup lay on the floor.