‘Why nothing, Sardarji? This is everything! All I want is your kindness.’ He picked up the tumbler of buttermilk, cleared his lips of his billowing mustache, and drank it up it one long gulp. He emitted a loud belch which tapered off into praise of the Great Guru, the True Emperor. He combed his beard with his fingers and placed a heavy hand on Sher Singh’s knee. ‘Tell me some news.’

‘What news? Life just goes on.’

The headman belched again and stroked his beard patiently. ‘Oh, congratulations!’ he said as if he had just recalled something.

‘Congratulations for what?’

‘Congratulations for what! This is no way to talk to friends. You know very well; the gun licence. Taylor Sahib’s clerk told me he had issued one for you and given it to your revered father.’

‘Oh, when?’

‘Again you hide things from friends! When we first met you said you had a licence and now I discover you have been given one only fifteen days ago. You ask the big Sardar, your father.’

Sher Singh wondered why Buta Singh had not questioned him about the rifle. Nor had he handed him the licence given by Taylor. Did he know that the rifle was already in the house? In any case Sher Singh was relieved that the headman would not be able to blackmail him any more.

‘Here, friend, what do you say! You were worried about these things.’ The headman thrust the three empty rifle bullets in his hand. Sher Singh wanted to fling them in the peasant’s face, call him a dirty pig, spit at him, and kick him out of the house. But he quietly took the shells and put them on the table. This was the last time he was going to see this fellow, why not let the meeting end peacefully?

The headman gave no indication of wanting to leave. He combed his beard, twirled his mustache, and slapped Sher Singh’s knee. ‘Tell me some news.’

‘What news? Life just goes on.’

‘Wah ji wah! Great men do great deeds.’ The peasant smiled mischievously and pinched Sher Singh’s thigh. What was he up to now? ‘Great deeds, great men,’ he said with a sigh. He continued after a significant pause: ‘Tell me, you know how to make bombs?’

‘Bombs?’

‘Bombs?’

‘How should I know anything about making bombs. Why, do you need some?’ asked Sher Singh, laughing nervously.

‘Is this friendship or a chaff of chick-peas? Our little canal bridge is full of holes. Had the poor thing done any harm to anyone? My best bullock broke its leg in one of the holes. It had cost me three hundred rupees. I said, it doesn’t matter if my three hundred are drowned; this is my friend’s hobby! But these canal chaps have been trying to find out. They came to ask me You see, the bridge is within the area of my village. I said nothing to them.’