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“Yes, it’s so foggy,” Sai said. “I don’t think the tutor will come.” She jigsawed the cups, saucers, teapot, milk, sugar, strainer, and Marie and Delite biscuits all to fit upon the tray.“I’ll take it,” she offered.

“Careful, careful,” he said scoldingly, following with an enamel basin of milk for Mutt. Seeing Sai swim forth, spoons making jittery music upon the warped sheet of tin, Mutt raised her head. “Teatime?” said her eyes as her tail came alive.

“Why is there nothing to eat?” the judge asked, irritated, lifting his nose from a muddle of pawns in the center of the chessboard.

He looked, then, at the sugar in the pot: dirty, micalike glinting granules. The biscuits looked like cardboard and there were dark finger marks on the white saucers.

Never ever was the tea served the way it should be, but he demanded at least a cake or scones, macaroons, or cheese straws.

Something sweet and something salty. This was a travesty and it undid the very concept of teatime. “Only biscuits,” said Sai to his expression. “The baker left for his daughter’s wedding.”

“I don’t want biscuits.” Sai sighed. “How dare he go for a wedding? Is that the way to run a business? The fool.
Why can’t the cook make something?”

“There’s no more gas, no kerosene.” “Why the hell can’t he make it over wood? All these old cooks can make
cakes perfectly fine by building coals around a tin box.

Do you think they used to have gas stoves, or kerosene stoves, before? Just too lazy now.” The cook came hurrying out with the leftover chocolate pudding warmed on the fire in a frying pan, and the judge ate the lovely brown puddle and gradually his face took on an expression of grudging pudding contentment.

They sipped and ate, all of the existence passed over by nonexistence, the gate leading nowhere, and they watched the tea spill copious ribbony curls of vapor, watched their breath join the mist slowly twisting and turning, twisting and turning.

“Who wants to kill you?” they said to the cook. “We’re just hungry, that’s all. Here, your sahib will help you. Go on,” they said to the judge, “you know how it should be done properly.” The judge didn’t move, so the boy pointed the
at Mutt again.

The judge grabbed her and put her behind him. “Too softhearted, sahib. You should show this kind side to your guests, also.

Go on, prepare the table.” The judge found himself in the kitchen where he had never been, not once,
Mutt wobbling about his toes, Sai and the cook too scared to look, averted their gaze.

It came to them that they might all die with the judge in the kitchen; the world was upside down and absolutely anything could happen.

“Nothing to eat?” “Only biscuits,” said Sai for the second time that day. “La! What kind of sahib?” the leader asked the judge. “No snacks! Make something, then.

Think we can continue on empty stomachs?” Wailing and pleading for his life, the cook fried pakoras, batter hitting the hot oil, this sound of violence seeming an appropriate accompaniment to the situation.

The judge fumbled for a tablecloth in a drawer stuffed with yellowed curtains, sheets, and rags. Sai, her hands shaking, stewed tea in a pan and strained it, although she had no idea how to properly make tea this way, the
Indian way.

She only knew the English way. The boys carried out a survey of the house with some interest. The atmosphere, they noted, was of intense solitude.

A few bits of rickety furniture overlaid with a termite cuneiform stood isolated in the shadows along with some
cheap metal-tube folding chairs.

Their noses wrinkled from the gamy mouse and the stench of a small place, although the ceiling had the reach of a public monument and the rooms were spacious in the old manner of wealth, windows placed for snow views.

They peered at a certificate issued by Cambridge University that had almost vanished into an overlay of brown stains blooming upon walls that had swelled with moisture and billowed forth like sails.

The door had been closed forever on a storeroom where the floor had caved in. The storeroom supplies and what seemed like an unreasonable number of emptied tuna fish cans had been piled on a broken Ping-Pong table in the kitchen, and only a corner of the kitchen was being used since it was meant originally for the slaving minions, not the one leftover servant.

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