On the point of principle, Sher Singh felt that his mind was quite clear: he was a Nationalist and although he had worn a silk suit and tie when he called on the Deputy Commissioner, that was to save Taylor’s feelings. Or was it the fear of his father? He could have told Taylor that he did not believe in the hocus-pocus of traditional Sikh loyalty to the British. In proportion to their numbers, more Sikhs had gone to jail and to the gallows in the freedom movements than those of any other community in India—Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. In any case, talk of loyalty might have made some sense in the 19th century, it was beside the point in 1942.

Britain had to get out of India herself, or be kicked out, and Sher Singh would say that to Taylor’s face. Could he? What about his father’s views, his career in the service, and his hope of finding his name in the next Honours list? And the unique honour he was getting in the way of an armed police guard outside his house—the sentry who sprang to attention and smacked the butt of his rifle even when Sher Singh passed by with his college friends? Couldn’t it somehow happen that these opposing factors would be combined into one harmonious whole? He visualized scenes where his Nationalist and terrorist colleagues honoured him as their beloved leader, where Taylor read an address of welcome, and his father proudly looked on. Such were the dreams with which Sher Singh tried to dope himself. They were based on the non-discovery of one party by the other.

Sher Singh tried to dismiss the cartridges on the Deputy Commissioner’s table from his mind. Taylor was known to shoot; they could be from his own rifle. And many people liked playing with empty shells. He tried to reassure himself that a village headman wouldn’t dare to report against the son of as powerful an officer as Buta Singh. Deep inside him he also knew that there were flaws in his reasoning. There was evidence to prove that he was being watched. A new sentry had replaced the old one.