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    ‘What job?’ all the curious and nosy people in Shahkot asked.
    To these people, Mr Chawla said, ‘He is in government service.’
    Government service! People thought of afternoon siestas. Of tea boys running up and down with glasses of steaming milky tea all day long. They thought of free medicines at the dispensary and pensions. Of ration cards and telephones. Of gas connections that could be had so easily. They thought of how this was a country with many festivals and holidays. Of how the government offices closed for each one. They imagined a job where, even if your boss turned out to be unpleasant, there were always plenty of people to shout at, people whom you could shout at even louder than your boss had shouted at you. The sweeper or the messenger boy, for example. You could say: ‘Where is your mind? Did it fall out on your way to work?’ Or: ‘Watch out or I’ll give you a good kick that will send you from Shahkot all the way into the Bay of Bengal.’ What pleasure there was to be had in a job like that! Really, it was a fine thing to have a son in the government. Peoplethought of the Ministry of Finance. Of Industry. Of Forestry and Ladies’ Welfare. Of Fisheries. Of Art and Culture. Of Transport.
    Sampath, working at the back desk in the Shahkot post office, however, did not consider himself to be so terribly lucky.
    Mr Chawla swallowed a whole clove of blood-cleansing garlic with a mouthful of water and a loud gulp. His son was so very annoying. He remembered how, as a young man himself, he had been so full of promise and efficiency. He had been smart, nimble and quick, the opposite of his son, who, now that the fly was dead, sat contemplating the mushrooming of milky clouds in his tea with a blank and hopeless expression on his face.
    ‘A job,’ he said to him, launching into one of the lectures he felt compelled to give Sampath every now and then, ‘a job has two major sides to it. And it is of no significance if you are the prime minister or the sweeper boy, they are the same two points. First, the work itself. Put your best foot forward always. Even if it involves something a little extra, such as making railway bookings for your boss, don’t complain. It is only a small thing.’
    Ammaji came in from the kitchen where she was preparing the lunch boxes. Kulfi cooked only when inspiration overtook her; she left the humdrum cooking to Ammaji. ‘Do you want plain parathas for your tiffin, or would you rather have parathas with radish?’ asked Ammaji.
    ‘I would like peacocks and pomegranates,’ said Kulfi, so softly that nobody heard her.
    Mr Chawla flapped his hand in impatience at his mother as he answered for both himself and Sampath. ‘Radish,’ he said and waved Ammaji away. ‘When your boss speaks toyou, stand up always – there is no harm in showing respect – and say: “I will see to it right now, sir.” This brings us to the second major point.’
    His mother came in again. ‘I could make you aloo bhaji,’ she said, ‘if the parathas will not be enough.’
    ‘Pheasants, peacocks, pomegranates,’ said Kulfi.
    But again nobody heard her and Mr Chawla addressed his mother: ‘We are having an important discussion, and you are interrupting us with your talk of tiffin boxes! Do you want aloo bhaji, do you want radishes … here we are trying to talk about Sampath’s career prospects.’
    ‘But what am I talking about?’ she protested. ‘I am also talking about Sampath’s career prospects. If he didn’t eat properly, he would not even reach the office. He would fall into the gutter from hunger. Anyway, how can you sit all day and add up numbers when in your stomach there is a zero amount of food?’ she asked triumphantly.
    ‘Put whatever you want in the lunch boxes,’ he shouted back at her, bad-tempered. ‘What does it matter? Why don’t you think of something else for a change? What do you care if the sky falls on your grandson’s head so long as he has a gulab