‘Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to allow peasants in the house! Tell him to see me at the courts.’

‘Not you, Sardarji. He wants to see the small Sardarji,’ answered Mundoo turning to Sher Singh.

‘Me? What peasant wants to see me?’ Sher Singh got up from the table and went out to the verandah. He saw the village headman sitting by the gate talking to the sentry. After a few moments of reflection he went back to join his parents at the breakfast table. Before they could ask him any questions, he ordered Mundoo to take a tumbler of buttermilk and some chapattis for the visitor.

‘Who is the man?’ asked Buta Singh.

‘Just a villager we met when we were out on the canal bank one day. He was very good to us and gave us tea and food.’

‘We? Who’s we?’

‘Madan and I.’

‘Of course! One should always return hospitality,’ said Sabhrai, backing her son.

‘That is all right,’ said Buta Singh, ‘but one should not encourage these people too much. They always try to take advantage.’

Buta Singh went off to the law courts and Sabhrai to the kitchen. Sher Singh stayed on to plan his line of approach. He felt cross with Madan for having got him into this mess and having gone away to Simla. But there it was and he had to face the situation alone. At least he could find out whether or not this fellow had told the police or Taylor about the shooting of the crane and given the Deputy Commissioner the fired bullets. He would have to be tactful. Perhaps the best approach would be to give him hope of getting something or other from Buta Singh and keep him hoping till things were easier.

Sher Singh opened the offensive with an enthusiastic greeting. ‘Wah, wah,’ he exploded warmly, ‘you are sitting outside and this your own home! Come inside.’

The headman had just finished the tumbler of buttermilk that Mundoo had brought him. He belched loudly and brushed his moustache with the back of his hand. He got up and made a quick move to touch Sher Singh’s feet. Sher Singh stopped him half-way, put his arm round the other’s shoulders, and conducted him to the sitting room. The headman left his shoes by the threshold and went in. He smoothed the sofa with his hands and slowly sank into it. Sher Singh sat down beside him. The headman took his host’s hand in his. ‘What wonderful palaces you live in,’ he exclaimed, looking from the carpet, to the pictures on the walls, the radio set covered in embroidered velvet, up to the whirring ceiling fan.

‘What palace? This is our poor home that you have blessed by putting your feet in it. Tell me what service I can do for you. More buttermilk or tea? Our buttermilk is not as good as yours. You get the best milk, butter, and yogurt.’