He was standing by the entrance when Jia arrived, his portly body reminding her of a wholemeal dough ball waiting to be dusted and flattened and rolled into a chapatti. Mubarak Khan was bound by a deep loyalty. His empire was built on the foundations of the Khan brotherhood that some called ‘biraderi’, but as with all great patriarchal cultures, his family business was in fact started by a woman for her one great love, her son.

Despite his success, Mubarak Khan had not forgotten his debt, or his place in the Khan brotherhood. His feet were planted firmly on the ground and ready to follow the Khan into battle. After all, it was his money that had enabled the uneducated but ambitious baker to start the venture; it was his guiding hand that had helped it prove, and his insistence on ‘taking care’ of competitors that had allowed it to rise and become golden. Mubarak’s mother had baked the code of the ‘Old Country’ into everything she made, and that included her son. It was mixed in with the red clay of his ovens, the salt that seasoned his flour and the blood that ran through his veins. And so Akbar Khan’s daughter was now Mubarak’s daughter; her wishes were his command and her honour was now his duty. He greeted her warmly, kissing her forehead, tears in his eyes.

Jia hadn’t visited the bakery since she was a child. She reached out to touch the walls, letting her fingers move across the once-peeling paint, and saw that they had been restored with care.

Mubarak Khan led her through the building, the fragrance of hot naan and cinnamon swirling through the air as they walked the length of the corridor. He pushed open a door at the end and together they entered a shiny stainless-steel kitchen where men wearing black cotton aprons and matching linen hats were mixing and kneading and baking. Light dustings of flour covered their faces and everything around them. Jia watched as three men took pieces of dough and plied them into balls, rolling each one out into a circle before placing it on a kind of cooking cushion. A fourth man picked up the cushion and reached into the burning tandoor, pressing the uncooked naan against the hot clay wall to make it stick. She thought of her father’s words the last time she had been here. ‘Respect these men,’ he had said. ‘Every day they put their hands into the depths of hellfire to bring you food.’ Watching the men work, Jia wondered how deep into those hellfires Akbar Khan now found himself.