‘Of course I could have come alone. I’ve told you several times he was most keen to meet you. He certainly isn’t the sort who would be frightened of people like us. You know what Sikh peasants think of city dwellers! And this chap, you might remember, is a few inches taller than Madan and fat and full of hair; he looks like a gorilla. I wouldn’t like to meet him alone in the dark.’ Sher Singh laughed a little nervously. ‘If he doesn’t turn up in another ten minutes, we will go back. He can have his mother raped.’

They all hoped the ten minutes would pass quickly and they could go to their homes.

Suddenly, the Lambardar appeared from behind them. The boys jumped when he greeted them with a loud ‘Wah guru ji ka Khalsa, Wah guru ji ki Fateh.’ A leather belt charged with cartridge ran down from his shoulder to the waist. At the lower end was a holster with the black butt of a revolver sticking out. ‘The entire congregation is here,’ he said cheerfully and sat down beside them.

‘You said you wanted to meet them; that is why they are here. I said to myself, ‘If my brother asks a favour, I should do it for him.’ Sher Singh introduced the boys—this time with their correct names.

The headman shook hands with the three boys. ‘What have I to do with names? All I want to know is that they are my brother’s friends and that is enough for me,’ he said with a broad smile.

The twilight was fading rapidly and, as usual, it was the peasant who was more at ease. ‘Tell me some news,’ he said quite unconcerned and slapped Sher Singh on the thigh.

‘What news? Life just goes on.’

Madan changed the tone of polite humbug.

‘Lambardara, you said your bullock had broken its leg in a hole in the bridge. There are no holes in the bridge.’

The headman was quick to react to the rude tone; ‘What do you know about bullocks, Babuji? You stick to your shopkeeping and account books.’

‘You want us to pay you three hundred rupees for a damaged bullock. We have brought the money but we must have proof before we pay. Show us the hole in the bridge and your lame bull.’

For a moment the headman believed the money was in his grasp. Then his shrewd rustic sense told him they were bluffing. ‘I don’t give any proofs. This is not a court of law.’

The tone cleared the atmosphere. They all stood up.

‘In one breath you call Sher Singh “brother”, said Madan sharply, ‘in the other you want to make money off him. What sort of bastardy is this?’

‘Keep your tongue in check. You know who you are speaking to?’

‘Yes. A police informer. The son of a pig . . . A raper of his mother.’