‘Sardarji, there is no ours and yours; it is all given by the Great Guru, the True Emperor. You order me and I will bring you an excellent milch buffalo—twenty seers of milk a day and thick with cream. Next time I come I’ll get you a tin of pure clarified butter. Your heart will rejoice,’ He squeezed Sher Singh’s hands with great affection.

They talked of the joys of village life, of crops and cattle. Sher Singh got no closer to the real subject. His patience began to run out; he glanced at his watch.

‘You working people!’ exclaimed the headman giving Sher Singh another sympathetic squeeze. ‘You have to go somewhere. I only came to have a sight of you. Now I have been blessed with that, I can return happily.’

Sher Singh sniggered; then came to the point—first with the bait. ‘If you want my father to do anything for you, tell me. I can speak to him. If you want to be on the panel of assessors in Sessions trials, or entitled to a seat at the Commissioner’s durbars, or anything like a gun licence . .. just anything.’

‘Sardarji, all I want is your kindness. The Great Guru, the True Emperor, has given me all I want. I am a headman and an assessor; I am entitled to sit on a chair at formal occasions; I also have a gun and a pistol. I have cows and buffaloes; plenty to eat and drink and no debts to pay. If I want anything who else can I go to except you! All I want is your kindness.’ He smacked Sher Singh on the thigh and added, ‘All right, you go to your important business.’

‘It isn’t all that important,’ answered Sher Singh. He knew he was losing the game; he had grossly underestimated the peasant’s cunning. He made a headlong plunge. ‘Friend,’ he whispered, ‘You didn’t by any means tell Taylor Sahib about our shooting party of the other day?’

‘I tell Taylor Sahib about you? Sardarji, how can you say such a thing?’ The headman looked utterly scandalized.

‘I know you couldn’t have told against your brother. Taylor had empty bullets lying on his table and I thought they might have been mine.’

‘Here, Sardarji, are the bullet cases,’ said the headman untying the knot of a dirty handkerchief. There were three: on Taylor’s table there were also three. Sher Singh had emptied his magazine which took six bullets. He stretched out his hand to take the cases. The headman withdrew the handkerchief and retied the knot. ‘No, Sardarji, they are my property. They remind me of the lucky day when I met you.’

Sher Singh felt cornered and helpless. And that in an encounter with a slovenly Sikh peasant with a shaggy, unkempt beard; a rustic whose clothes were full of grease, whose skin had layers of dirt on it and whose head was undoubtedly full of lice.