Sher Singh knew it was no use losing his temper; in nine cases out of ten, meetings ended because of mechanical breakdowns. In any case he had said the two important things he wanted to say and the crowds had seen him and his S.V.C.

Sher Singh spent the morning with his Volunteer friends going round the stalls at the fair and standing them soda pop. In the afternoon he watched the procession pass by. It was over a mile long with brass bands, parties of singers, men demonstrating sword and stick play, more parties of singers on top of motor lorries, in trucks and bullock carts—ending with the flower-bedecked van which carried the Holy Granth guarded by five Sikhs with drawn swords. By then it was late and he was too tired to go to the temple. He decided to look up Madan and tell him about the big turnout at his meeting. He might also get to know Madan’s pretty sister whom he had seen but never met.

Sher Singh collected his bicycle from the stand at the fair ground and cycled down to Wazir Chhand’s house. He put the cycle against the pillar of the porch and went into the verandah. The wire-gauze door leading into the courtyard was bolted from the inside and the house seemed empty. Sher Singh rattled the door and shouted, ‘Koi Hai?’ He heard Madan’s mother shout to the servant to see who was at the door. The servant came up and without opening the door informed Sher Singh that no one was at home.

‘I have come for Beena. She came over to study with Sita Bibi.’

‘The Bibijis have gone to the cinema,’ answered the boy. ‘They went with our Babu. Will you come in and wait for them?’

‘I will come again.’

‘What is your name?’

Sher Singh did not answer. He picked up his bicycle and rode home.

Absence of privacy is a phenomenon that pervades all life in India, urban and rural, of the rich and the poor. It has been so for many centuries and the weight of tradition is heavy against those who live in society and still wish to be alone. Rooms of Indian palaces seldom had any doors and those that did could rarely be bolted from the inside. There was never any need for doors because the most intimate of relationships could apparently be consummated and enjoyed under public gaze. Examine any old painting depicting a love scene. There will be the prince and his paramour in different stages of disarray—one of his hands on her bosom, the other holding the pipe of his hookah. Standing by will be female servants fanning away flies, sprinkling scented water, or serving wine. In the background there will be a party of musicians and singers.

Amongst the poor, shortage of living space has always made privacy an expensive luxury.