That last dinner, exceptionally gifted foodie Raji had toyed with his Spartan mulligatawny soup with black pepper just so, whispering to Chhotu, his indefatigable, cheerful Nepali handyman that he felt it in his bones—his time was up. Peppy Chotu straightened his Sahib’s swollen feet instead, rubbing them gently. ‘You sleep better when I massage your feet, sir,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I’ll make your favourite muesli; eggs sunny side up with cheddar cheese, a rind of bacon, crisp marmalade toast and black coffee.’ Raji drifted off to sleep, his back turned to the blue night-light, gently murmuring ‘liar’.

Engaged in a daylong TED^x programme far away, I was numbed by Chotu’s telephonic choking: “Sahib nahi rahe… Mujhe bola tha General sahib ko batana. Voh mere sanskar ke liye zuroor aayenge”. (Inform the General about my death. I know he will attend my funeral).