‘Oh, stop this whining,’ commanded the old woman sternly. ‘Why didn’t you think of it when you were at the mischief? I have already told you Jugga will get you as soon as he is out.’

Nooran stiffed her sobs.

‘Beybey, don’t let him be too long.’

‘He will hurry for his own sake. If he does not get you he will have to buy a wife and there is not a pice or trinket left with us. He will get you if he wants a wife. Have no fear.’

A vague hope filled Nooran’s being. She felt as if she belonged to the house and the house to her; the charpoy she sat on, the buffalo, Jugga’s mother, all were hers. She would come back even if Jugga failed to turn up. She could tell them she was married. The thought of her father came like a dark cloud over her lunar hopes. She would slip away without telling him. The moon shone again.

‘Beybey, if I get the chance I will come to say Sat Sri Akal in the morning. Sat Sri Akal. I must go and pack.’ Nooran hugged the old woman passionately. ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ she said a little breathlessly again and went out.

Jugga’s mother sat on her charpoy staring into the dark for several hours.

Not many people slept in Mano Majra that night. They went from house to house—talking, crying, swearing love and friendship, assuring each other that this would soon be over. Life, they said, would be as it always had been.

Imam Baksh came back from his round of Muslim homes before Nooran had returned. Nothing had been packed. He was too depressed to be angry with her. It was as hard on the young as the old. She must have gone to see some of her friends. He started pottering around looking for gunny bags, tin canisters and trunks. A few minutes later Nooran came in.

‘Have you seen all your girl friends? Let us get this done before we sleep,’ said Imam Baksh.

‘You go to bed. I will put the things in. there is not much to do—and you must be tired,’ she answered.

‘Yes, I am a little tired,’ he said sitting down on his charpoy. ‘You pack the clothes now. We can put in the cooking utensils in the morning after you have cooked something for the journey.’ Imam Baksh stretched himself on the bed and fell asleep.