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feltlike lighting the pipe. But no. It was his policy never to smoke in front of his students. Or Mother. ‘For me, my teaching and my students are important,’ he continued. ‘And my doors are always open for my students. You can come to me any time.’ He paused to look at the clock and smiled at them. ‘Even if it’s the middle of the night.’
    Gurpreet and Jatin grinned.
    ‘So are you going to tell me?’ Raven asked.
    ‘Sir,’ replied Jatin, ‘in the grammar class yesterday, Sir O’Michael was—’
    ‘Who are these people, Raven?’ Mother asked as she came into the room. ‘Don’t they know you’re not well and shouldn’t be kept up so late?’
    ‘They’re my students, Mother,’ said Raven.
    ‘I don’t care who they are. Finish whatever you’re doing and go and rest.’
    ‘Mother, stop fussing, please’ said Raven, a slight irritation in his voice. When was Mother going to learn not to treat him as a little boy, especially in front of his students?
    ‘I just came to say goodnight,’ Mother grumbled as she straightened his blanket, threw an angry look at the two boys and left the room.
    ‘Goodnight, Mother,’ Raven called out as he smiled and shook his head. Mother found it difficult to trust anyone. She had not always been like that. It was after what happened with Father.
     
    Wednesday. Evening. The last three days had taught Mili that everything at STH ran by the bell. Dinner was served at 7 p.m. sharp in the refectory. It was bigger than thedining room in the palace. There were rows and rows of tables with uncomfortable wooden chairs.
    ‘I’m starving,’ Vicky declared as the food arrived.
    Mili looked at her plate – cutlets, boiled vegetables, mashed potatoes and bread pudding. That’s it? No roti? No rice? What kind of dinner was this? She thought of the dinners served at home. The thick yellow kadi, the cottage cheese with peas, fried brinjal, cauliflower cooked with potatoes and cumin seeds, the colourful pulao and her favourite – tadka daal. She could almost smell the cumin seeds being roasted, the mustard seeds popping and the sizzling sound accompanied with rising smoke as lentils were added to the dry-roasted spices and butter ghee.
    She glanced sideways at Vicky. She was wolfing down her food. She stole a look at the other hostellers. None of them were talking. All she could hear was the sound of cutlery. She looked at her plate in dismay. How was she expected to eat that? For the first time since she had left home, she felt homesick.
    She took a bite of the cutlet. It was bland. It had no taste. The vegetables were the same. So were the potatoes. It was as though the cook had held them under a tap after he finished cooking, to wash off all the spices and flavours. She pushed it aside. Even Bhoomi wouldn’t eat such food. She took a spoonful of the pudding. It was horrendous. True, there was a ration on sugar because of the war, but dessert with hardly any sugar in it? Who in Lord Kishan’s name had hired the cook? In Mohanagar he wouldn’t even get a job as the pets’ cook. She pushed her chair back and got up.
    Vicky looked at her. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
    ‘I’m not hungry,’ Mili replied. ‘I’m going to our room.’
    ‘I’ll see you in ten minutes,’ Vicky replied, stuffing herself.
    How could she eat that? Mili wondered as she left the refectory.
     
    She stood outside her room, looking at the little garden adjoining the hostel building. It was not tended. Some clothes lines with pegs stretched right across it. The grass was long, unruly. A potted plant had fallen over and the mud spilt out. She thought of the well-maintained gardens at the palace in Mohanagar. After all, they employed over sixty gardeners to take care of them.
    ‘Salaam saab,’ called Bahadur raising his right hand to his forehead. ‘Enjoy food?’
    ‘Enjoy?’ Mili pulled a face. ‘It was inedible.’
    ‘Memsaab, when you don’t like school food, go to Uncleji’s Tuck