‘You can find examples like that everywhere. Most white people are anti-semitic. It’s not only Hitler who has been putting Jews in gas chambers, the Russians have killed many. Everywhere in Europe and America there is prejudice against them and only because they have better brains and talent than the others. We do not have any racial discrimination.’

‘No? What is untouchability if not racial?

‘We do not kill our untouchables.’

‘Because they have never had the courage to revolt. What religion of the world other than the Hindu—and I include the Sikhs in the Hindus—has degraded humanity in the same way?’

The friendly family discussion turned into an acrimonious debate. Sabhrai did not like it. ‘Why must you start arguing at home? Don’t you get enough from the lawyers in the courts?’ she asked angrily.

‘One must not get things wrong,’ answered Buta Singh lamely and got up. ‘One should be able to see one’s faults and learn from other people. Being contented with one’s lot is not good enough.’

Sher Singh did not reply. He knew anything he said would irritate his father more and occasion another long sermon. But as soon as Buta Singh left, Sabhrai provoked him into another argument. ‘Why do you have to contradict your father in everything he says?’ she asked him aggressively. ‘It is not nice to argue with one’s elders; you should listen to what they have to say.’

‘I wasn’t arguing. I was . . .’

‘Sherji never argues,’ interrupted Beena. ‘Other people argue with him.’

They started laughing.

‘And why are you so much against the English? What have they done to you?’ asked Sabhrai coming back to the subject.

‘I am not against them; I am for my own country. If they stayed in England, I would have nothing against them.’

‘Is that what you say at your meetings? Do you tell the British Government to go back to England?’

‘That, and other things.’

‘Well, don’t say them in this house. We eat their salt, and as long as we eat it, we will remain loyal.’

Sher Singh’s temper shot up. ‘Who eats whose salt? They suck our blood.’

‘This is no way to talk, son,’ remonstrated Sabhrai gently. ‘You are welcome to your views, but do not say things which you know may embarrass your father. At least we eat his salt.’

Sher Singh got up. Sabhrai felt she had upset her son. ‘Tell me, son,’ she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder, ‘what will you get if the English leave this country?’

‘I? Nothing. But we will be free.’

‘Then what will happen? What sweetmeats will we get?’

Sher Singh could not answer simple questions like these; at least not in words his illiterate mother could understand.

He became lyrical—’Spring will come to our barren land once more . . . once more the nightingales will sing.’

Chapter III