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?’

The peasant stood up. He was a big man standing well over six feet. He was also broad and hairy. Long strands of hair trickled out from all sides of his clumsily-tied turban. A thick, black beard covered most of his chest. He carried a bamboo staff shod with iron at either end.

‘Keep quiet,’ said Sher Singh angrily silencing his companion; then turned calmly to the peasant. ‘There is no open or closed season for birds like these; that is only for game.’

‘Nevertheless you have to have a gun licence,’ continued the other truculently. ‘I am the headman of the village beyond the swamp. I heard the firing. It sounded like machine-gun practice. You have to show me all your arms licences.’

‘There is only one gun,’ said Sher Singh with presence of mind. ‘I will show you mine.’

He fished out his father’s shot-gun licence from his pocket and wrapped a five rupee note in its folds. He put his arm around the peasant’s shoulder and took him aside: ‘Come along, Lambardar Sahib, you have become angry for no reason. You can see the licence and anything else you like.’