Chapter Seven

She had asked the maid, who incidentally was Kakka’s wife to return to their quarters, and was at that time in the kitchen, dropping chicken thighs into the boiling oil. I wandered in. The Peter Scot, a few bottles of soda and a crystal glass were arranged on the burgundy granite kitchen platform that ran along the festooned wall.

She turned and smiled, “Had your shower?”

Nodding, I climbed on to the platform and sat cross legged on it. In spite of the astringent cold outside, I was in a lungi and a T- shirt as I felt more comfortable in them. Anyway, the kitchen was warm.

“You look handsome in this attire,” she tittered.

I watched her, moving around in a lime-green negligee, opening and closing jars and bottles before replacing them in the appointed places. I could see that she was not new to kitchen duties. She droned around like an exultant bee.

“Who told you I drink?” leaning against t