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name suggested. It was dark and dank, and smelt of stale sweat and fermented coconut sap. But there was Baby George, dishing up the finest food. All I needed was one mouthful of beef olarthiyathe to know that this was the man for Near-the-Nila.
    ‘You are wasting your talent here; come to my restaurant and you’ll be appreciated,’ I said, offering him three times his pay, with full benefits.
    Baby George agreed instantly. All was set, I thought. The only thing I had to watch out for was that Baby George didn’t get too friendly with Chef Mathew.
    Chef Mathew had been to catering college; he knew how to make soufflés and puddings, soups and steaks—everything a guest might want, but seldom asked for. Mostly they preferred to dine on Baby George’s creations. And yet, I paid Chef Mathew twelve times more than what I paid Baby George. If Baby George ever found out …I shudder at the thought of his leaving.
    At first, I wanted to call the restaurant Baby George’s Kitchen. Then it occurred to me that Chef Mathew might be offended. Besides, Baby George after a few days might stake a claim to the ownership of the restaurant. This is Kerala after all, where even squatters have rights. So I decided to take a cue from the toddy shop where I found Baby George and called my restaurant Mulla Pandal.
    I trained jasmine to creep along a trellis and scent the air. On every table, we placed a little card that explained the legend of the mulla pandal—the jasmine bower.
     
    ‘Baby George, you forgot the coconut oil,’ I say again.
    Baby George grins. ‘Sir, you scared me,’ he says and takes a special can of coconut oil reserved for this purpose. ‘I didn’t forget. I thought I’d wait for the guests to come in. No point in wasting oil.’
    He drizzles coconut oil into a saucepan. The oil heats and slowly an aroma spreads, filling the kitchen and percolating into the restaurant.
    Just a faint whiff. Too much, and it would turn their stomachs. Just a faint whiff to conjure images of wood fires and bronze cooking pots, rustic life and discovery. Usually the guests would let it trickle up their noses and instead of settling for a frugal breakfast would
ask for a full Kerala spread.
    It isn’t easy managing a resort. I have to think ahead of my guests all the time.
    I let the aroma trickle up my nose. My stomach rumbles. ‘Baby George, I’ll eat here this morning,’ I tell him and am rewarded with a beam.
    Would Radha want to join me? It’s been so long since we ate a meal together at the resort.
     
    The table overlooking the river, my favourite table, is unoccupied. The others have gone, leaving as their signature bread crumbs, shards of eggshell and three used coffee cups. I wonder where they are: Uncle, Radha and the Sahiv.
    In my mind, I have begun to think of Christopher as the Sahiv. Where has he spirited my family to?
    The steward pads to my side. I look up. It’s Pradeep.
    I run a small, tight ship. Fifteen employees in all, and each one of them handpicked by me. Anyone who shows the slightest inclination to laziness or an unwillingness to do more than the scope of his job has to go. I can’t afford it otherwise.
    ‘Look at Unni,’ I tell them. ‘He is a prince, but he doesn’t mind being reception clerk, postcard vendor and travel agent. He even carries the baggage to the room or the car if the doorman is busy with another guest’s bags! I know this is not how other resorts run, but you must understand that there is nothing to this town. And the guests are not as many as we might like. I can’t hire too many people and have them sitting around twiddling their thumbs. I’d have to close this place down. This way, you can be sure of a regular salary. It’s up to you, of course.’
    Pradeep helps in the kitchen and during meal times dons a uniform and transforms into steward. ‘Sir,’ he says. ‘Madam said they’ll wait at the reception.’
    Then he looks around and says softly, ‘The Sahiv at table