The young girl spat out the betel saliva and cleared her throat with a series of deep chesty coughs that brought up phlegm. The old woman spoke:

‘Cherisher of the poor. What does your honour fancy? Something classical—pukka—or a love song?’

‘No, nothing pukka. Something from the films. Some good film song—preferably Punjabi.’

The young girl salaamed. ‘As you order.’

The musicians put their heads together and after a brief consultation with the girl they began to play. The drums beat a preliminary tattoo and then softened down for the harmonium to join in. The two played for some time while the girl sat silently, looking bored and indifferent. When they finished the introductory piece, she blew her nose and cleared her throat again. She put her left hand on her ear and stretched the other toward the magistrate, addressing him in a shrill falsetto:

O lover mine, O lover that art gone,

I live but would rather die,

I see not for the tears that flow,

I breathe not, for I sigh.

As a moth that loves the flame,

By that flame is done to death,

Within myself have I lit a fire

That now robs me of my breath.

The nights I spend in counting stars,

The days in dreams of days to be

When homewards thou thy reins shall turn

Thy moon-fair face I again shall see.

The girl paused. The musicians started to play again for her to sing the refrain:

O letter, let my lover learn

How the fires of separation burn.

When the girl had finished her song, Hukum Chand flung a five-rupee note on the carpet. The girl and the musicians bowed their heads. The hag picked up the money and put it in her wallet, proclaiming: ‘May you ever rule. May your pen write hundreds of thousands. May . . . ’

The singing began again. Hukum Chand poured himself a stiff whisky and drank it in one gulp. He wiped his moustache with his hand. He did not have the nerve to take a good look at the girl. She was singing a song he knew well; he had heard his daughter humming it:

In the breeze is flying

My veil of red muslin

Ho Sir, Ho Sir.

Hukum Chand felt uneasy. He took another whisky and dismissed his conscience. Life was too short for people to have consciences. He started to beat time to the song by snapping his fingers and slapping his thighs to each ‘Ho Sir. Ho Sir.’