Things seemed to go as planned. Everyone turned up at the Gurudwara as told. Sher Singh looked fresh and cheerful. So did Champak. She wore a close fitting Punjabi dress which accentuated the largeness of her bosom and narrowness of her waist. It was odd, thought Buta Singh, how the girl he saw every day without taking much notice of her looked more fetching one morning than on another! There were several children outside, with Mundoo as usual bossing them and the dog. Shunno brought in the tray of pershad and placed it in front of the Granth. Buta Singh picked up the fly-whisk and began to wave it over his head with one hand; with the other, he looked for the right page to read. He was not used to conducting the prayer and it made him slightly nervous. He found the chapter and put the fly-whisk down. He removed his beard-band and brushed his mustache off his lips. He placed his forehead reverently against the Book and shut his eyes to say a private prayer for the fulfilment of his own wishes. His eyes were still shut when he became conscious of someone entering the Gurudwara. The man had prostrated himself before the Granth. He stood up and announced his arrival by greeting everyone at the top of his voice, ‘Wah guru ji ka Khalsa, Wah guru ji ki Fateh.’ (‘The Sikhs are the Chosen of God, Victory be to our God.’) It was the village headman.

Buta Singh’s face flushed with anger but he kept it under control. This was a temple where anyone could come and worship and there was nothing he could do about it. He read the passage for the month quietly to himself, made his obeisance, and left. Champak followed him.

At the breakfast table Buta Singh kept the newspaper in front of him to cover the scowl on his face. He did not want to be irritable with Champak, but he could not help saying with suppressed wrath: ‘I don’t understand the sort of people your husband mixes with! Low, third class types! He should use his intelligence a little more.’

Champak did not look up from her plate.

Buta Singh could not bring up the subject that morning. He swore to himself to do it in the evening even if it meant sitting up later than before.

That night Buta Singh waited a long time for his son to return home. Once again the vigil was in vain.

Sher Singh took the headman to the sitting room and ordered breakfast for him.

‘Sardarji, why do you put yourself to all this trouble?’ asked the headman, munching a thickly buttered toast. He wiped the butter off his mustache with the hem of his shirt and gave it a twirl. ‘You should not have bothered. This is like my own home.’

‘You’ve come from such a long distance,’ answered Sher Singh in the same tone, ‘this is nothing.’