Once having embarked on the bloody business, Sher Singh could not stop half way. He walked up to the injured bird and put his right foot on its neck. The crane began to kick violently and gasp for breath. Its beak opened wide showing its thin, long tongue. Sher Singh took out his revolver and fired two shots into its body. The bird’s dying gurgle was stifled in its throat. Its legs clawed the air and then slowly came to a stop in an attitude of prayer. Blood started trickling from its beak and a film covered its small black eyes.

‘This one is finished. Let us take it to the jeep and baptize our weapons in its blood.’

Two of the boys caught the crane by the wings from either end and dragged it out of the swamp. Dyer sniffed at the dead bird’s head dangling between its trailing legs and began to run round in circles yapping deliriously. Sher Singh saw his handiwork and a lump came up in his throat. He did not respond to the backslapping and hilarity of his companions.

Before they got clear of the swamp the other crane flew back and started circling over them. They saw it high above in the deep blue sky catch the light of the setting sun; then heard its cries piercing the stillness of the dusk. Sher Singh ignored requests to have another go at the flying bird; in any case it was too high and the light was failing fast. When they got to the canal bank, it became dark. The crane flew lower and lower till they could see its gray from with its long legs almost above their heads. They shoo’d it off. The bird disappeared in the dark only to come back again and again. Its crying told them it was there all the time, trying to reclaim its dead mate. Sher Singh wanted to get away from the place as fast as his jeep could take him. That was not to be.

When they got to the jeep, they saw a Sikh peasant talking to the boy they had left behind. He was obviously waiting for them. When the man saw what the boys had brought, he spat on the ground: ‘Sardarji, why did you have to take the life of this poor creature? Is anyone going to eat it?’ He spoke to Sher Singh as Sher Singh was the only one carrying a gun.

‘Oi Sardara, what do you know about these things? Be on your way,’ answered the boy holding one end of the crane’s wings.

The peasant spat again, the spittle fell near the foot of the boy who had spoken rudely. ‘The shooting season closed two months ago and you are still going about killing birds. Have you a licence?’ he asked.

‘Oi, who do you think you are?’