Even before Sher Singh arrived on the scene, there was a large crowd to receive him. The uniforms and smartness of the Students Corps impressed the peasants more than the volunteers of the Nationalist and Communist Parties in their slovenly shirts and loose pajamas. The S.V.C. also used modern techniques to draw the masses. Although they were largely Sikhs (hence Madan and the Hindu boys of the terrorist gang were not present), it was not Sikh religious songs they played over their microphone. They started off with the most popular songs from the films and large numbers of peasants came over from the other meetings which had nothing better to offer than political tirades or religious sermons. Thereafter they switched on to martial music. The Volunteers paraded up and down the fair grounds keeping step with the military march which blared from the microphone. Then Sher Singh arrived, like a field marshal coming to inspect his troops. There was much shouting of commands and saluting. He unfurled the S.V.C.’s black flag with silver sabers crossing on it. He took the salute at the march-post and went up to the rostrum to address the throng.

The fear of discovery of the activities of the day before, the sinister figure of the village headman, and the wrath of his father, receded into the dim background.

Sher Singh knew that there were police reporters in the audience and whatever he said would be reported to Mr Taylor by the evening. A war was on and the police were armed with powers to arrest and detain at will. He had to be cautious with his words. There was a limited range of subjects to choose from, but an infinite variety of forms of expression. He started in a tone of humility. He paid homage to the Gurus, repeated the well-known facts of the day they were commemorating, and then switched on to political problems. ‘Comrades, we meet at a critical time. The enemy is at our gates.’ He paused to let his words seep in then he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘Comrades, we not only have the enemy at our doorstep, we have enemies within our own house.’ He raised his voice: ‘Those who sacrifice the interests of the motherland for foreign countries are our enemy No.1. They have been rightly named as the Kaum nashts—destroyers of the race.’ He paused for applause. The audience had heard the pun on the word ‘Communist’ before so there was no response. Sher Singh went on: ‘There are also people who want to cut off the limbs of Mother India and make another state of Pakistan. They too are our enemies.’ Even this did not arouse any applause. His Volunteers were not doing their duty. Sher Singh worked himself into a fury and let his voice rise to a crescendo. ‘But we are Sikhs who do not fear any enemies. We shall destroy all those who stand in our way.’ A roar of applause went up. One of the Volunteers ran up to the mike and shouted, ‘Sher Singh,’ and the Volunteers in the crowd answered, ‘Long live.’ The crowd joined in. Sher Singh allowed the applause thirty seconds and then raised his hands demanding silence. He started again. ‘Comrades . . .’ He could not proceed further because of a clamour from the farther end of the marquee. People shouted to say that they could not hear. The mike was dead. Volunteers rushed up to test it. They tapped it, yelled, ‘Hullo, Hullo. One, two, three, four. Hullo, hullo, hullo.’ But the mike refused to respond. The mechanic fumbled with the battery and it suddenly came to life with a piercing boom. Sher Singh tried again. ‘Can you hear me now?’ The heads at the far end nodded. ‘Comrades,’ he started. Once more they waved their hands to say ‘No.’ The mike was dead again. This time even the mechanic’s fumbling with the wires did not bring it back to life. The meeting dispersed.