He decided to throw everything into the well in the garden, then changed his mind because it was too obvious a place and the first thing anyone looking for the arms would do would be to send a man down into the well. He planned to put them in the jeep and dump them into the canal. Before he could do anything about it, the jeep was taken away. The driver said that it was wanted for emergency service elsewhere. He could not risk taking the stuff in a taxi or a tonga and once more he reverted to the plan of throwing them into the well. One evening he went out to reconnoiter. He discovered that the sentry who stood by the gate all day, slept by the parapet of the well at night. So the rifles, pistols, and hand grenades remained where they were. Sher Singh just tried to forget their existence.

Then the village headman came to call on him.

Buta Singh had strong views about people coming to see him in his house—particularly if they were unimportant. His principle was that the only place for business was the office: the home was for rest and the family. ‘Otherwise,’ he used to say, ‘fellows not worth the price of a broken shell could destroy the peace of the home.’ He had issued instructions to his servants to tell callers to see him at the law courts. Naturally he was angry when Mundoo casually announced at breakfast, ‘Sardarji, there is a peasant waiting to see you. He has been waiting since the morning. He says he has come all the way from his village.’

‘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.’