Sher Singh saw the morning paper before his father. He read the news of the arrests of the Indian leaders and of the strikes and demonstrations taking place all over the country—except in the Punjab. At the breakfast table he read out the headlines to his father. They were discussing the consequences of the action taken by the Government when an orderly came with a message asking Buta Singh to come to Taylor’s bungalow at once.

Sher Singh took the paper to the sitting room and scanned the details. As he went from page to page he realized that everywhere in India the people were protesting; only the Punjab was peaceful. He thought of his own inactivity. He too was doing nothing except lie on the sofa and get worked up. Just then Mundoo brought the post and handed him a letter. It was a cyclostyled circular in English with the caption, ‘A Manifesto of the Hindustan Socialist Republican Army.’ It drew attention to the arrests of the leaders and asked the youth of India to arise and rid themselves of foreign rule. It did not mince its words. ‘Shoot English officials and the Indian toadies who serve them. Destroy roads and bridges; cut telegraph and telephone wires; create chaos and paralyze the administration. This is your sacred duty. Long live the revolution.’ Sher Singh examined the postmark. The letter had been posted the evening before from the city. He had heard of the terrorist organization which went under the name of the Hindustan Socialist Republican Army but had never met anyone who belonged to it. Could someone have told them that Sher Singh was a secret sympathizer?

Sher Singh stayed at home and brooded. He listened to the news over the radio each time it came on. Each time it was the same story—demonstrations, violence, arrests everywhere—except in the Punjab. Wasn’t it time for him to throw caution to the winds and strike a blow? He was like the rest of his countrymen, frittering away his energies in quarrelling with his colleagues. How could he get them to collaborate in any plan of action which required courage and daring for its execution? He spent that day and night in these thoughts and decided that the hour of trial had come. At some time or the other in their lives, men had to gamble with fortune. Those that won, became great; those that lost, lost; those that refused to take the chance, made up the mass of mediocrity.

Next morning one of the boys of his group turned up at the house. He walked straight into his room. ‘Sher Singhji,’ he said without a word of greeting or explanation, ‘the time for quarrels is over, we have to do something.’

‘Do what?’ asked Sher Singh sitting up.

‘Something or other. You are our leader, we will follow you.’