‘OK, brother, OK,’ said Sher Singh in English and stood up. We must be quick. It will be dark in an hour.’ He collected the empty cases lying on the ground and put them in his pocket. The boys also stood up and brushed the dust off their clothes. They put their guns in the jeep. One of them volunteered to stay back.

Sher Singh loaded his rifle and led the party down the canal bank towards the marsh. Dyer ran ahead barking excitedly.

They crossed the stretch of chalky saltpetre and got to the edge of the swamp. There were no birds on the water. On the other side was a peepul tree on which there was a flock of white egrets. Right on the top was a king vulture with its bald red head hunched between its black shoulders. Beneath the tree were bitterns wading in the mud. The birds were over a hundred yards away; well beyond Sher Singh’s range of marksmanship.

The party surveyed the scene and considered the pros and cons of taking a shot from that distance. The vulture stuck out its head and the egrets began to show signs of nervousness. Suddenly there came the loud, raucous cry of a Sarus crane followed by another from its mate. They were in a cluster of bulrushes not fifty yards away. The boys sat down on their haunches and stopped talking. The cranes continued calling alternately for a few minutes and than resumed their search for frogs. The vulture and the egrets on the opposite bank went back to sleep.

‘Kill one of these. They are as big as any black buck,’ whispered the small boy.

‘Who kills cranes?’ asked Sher Singh. ‘They are no use to anyone. And I am told if one of a pair is killed, the other dies of grief.’

‘If you are going to funk shooting birds, you will not do much when it comes to shooting Englishmen,’ taunted Madan. ‘You will say, “Why kill this poor chap, his widow and children will weep”, or “His mother will be sad”. Sher Singhji, this is what is meant by baptism in blood; get used to the idea of shedding it. Steel your heart against sentiments of kindness and pity. They have been the undoing of our nation. We are too soft.’

That was enough to provoke Sher Singh—particularly as it came from Madan. ‘Oh no! nothing soft about me,’ he answered defiantly. ‘If it is a Sarus crane you want, a Sarus crane you will have. Come along Dyer—and if you bark, I’ll shoot you too.’

Sher Singh got down on his knees and crawled up behind the cover of the pampas grass, his dog following warily behind. He stopped after a few yards and parted the stalks with the muzzle of his rifle. One of the birds was busy digging in the mud with his long beak; the other was on guard turning its head in all directions, looking out for signs of danger. Sher Singh decided to be patient. He wanted to get a little closer and also get enough time to take aim. Missing a bird of that size would be bad for his reputation.