A late moon rose over the line of trees and the day’s heat was slowly wafted away by a cool breeze. Buta Singh, Sabhrai, and Beena had their charpoys on the roof. The father and daughter were asleep; Sabhrai sat cross-legged on her bed saying her bed-time prayer. The sound of footsteps coming up distracted her attention. Dyer began to growl but as the steps came closer he recognized them and began to wag his tail. Shunno heaved herself up the stairs invoking the assistance of the Guru at each step. She sat down on her haunches beside Sabhrai’s bed and began to press her mistress’s legs. Sabhrai finished her prayer, made her obeisance, and spoke to the maid-servant in an undertone, ‘Where have you been all day? I went to look for you in the servants’ quarters in the morning and afternoon.’

‘Don’t ask me anything,’ moaned Shunno. ‘It was written in my kismet.’ She slapped her forehead and sighed. ‘Stretch your legs, I can press them better.’

‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Sabhrai lying down and stretching her legs.

‘Hai, Hai, Hai. Ho, Ho, Ho,’ wailed Shunno. ‘It would be better if you didn’t ask. I have died of shame.’

‘What is the matter?’ asked Sabhrai impatiently.

‘Bibiji, I am so ashamed, I can’t even talk.’ Shunno explained her ailment at length.

‘How old are you?’

‘I don’t know; between forty-five and fifty-five.’

‘It may be more serious than you think! Bleeding at this age can be dangerous. Did you go to a doctor?’

‘It is all right. If it is written that I have to die, I will die.’

‘Have you been to a doctor?’

‘What do doctors know? Only God knows. I went to the Peer Sahib. He has some miraculous prescriptions which his ancestors have left him. Many women, who had remained barren for years and whose husbands threatened to take other wives, have been cured by Peer Sahib. He is a magician—a divine magician. Sometimes he writes verses from the Quran Sharif and makes people swallow the paper; sometimes he just blows magic formulas in their ears. There is a big crowd there every day—Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs—everyone. I had to wait till I got a chance to speak to him alone. You can’t mention such things before others, can you, Bibiji?’

‘Did he give you a magic potion?’ asked Sabhrai, sarcastically.

‘No, Bibiji, he said he couldn’t find out the trouble by feeling my pulse. He has asked me to come another day when there is no one and he can examine me carefully.’

‘Won’t you be ashamed showing yourself to a Muslim rascal?’ hissed Sabhrai.

‘Na, na,’ protested Shunno. ‘Don’t use such words for him; he is a man of God. He doesn’t charge any fee.’

‘Go to sleep. I don’t want any pressing.’