Sher Singh was escorted out by a couple of sub-inspectors. Camera bulbs flashed. The band leader ordered his men to attention. The drum beat a loud tattoo and then opened with the slow bars of ‘God Save the King.’ There was an uproar. The band leader had his baton snatched out of his hand. The anthem whimpered to a standstill amid roars of laughter. The crestfallen band leader started again. This time with ‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary.’

Sher Singh shook hands with his police escort and was immediately submerged in embraces and garlands. Madan led him to the car through a crowd cheering and yelling wildly. He stood beside Sher Singh in the open car, waved his hand and shouted, ‘Sher Singh.’ The crowd roared back, ‘Long live.’ Sher Singh raised both hands asking for silence. Everyone shushed everyone else. The band stopped—still a long, long way from Tipperary.

‘Comrades,’ said Sher Singh in a voice charged with emotion, ‘I will cherish the honour you have done me today for the rest of my life. I am proud that I was called upon to do a small duty to my country and I did it.’ The crowd interrupted him with loud cheers. He raised his hands, demanding attention. ‘I have been a guest of the King Emperor.’ The crowd roared with laughter. ‘You all know how well the King Emperor—may peace be upon him—looks after his guests. . . .‘ The crowd roared again. Sher Singh worked himself into a fury. He thumped his garland laden chest. ‘But they could not break the spirit of this son of India and God willing they never will.’ Madan hurled his voice across the sea of human heads, ‘Sher Singh’—the sea thundered back ‘Long live.’ Sher Singh joined his hands and bowed his head in humble acknowledgment. He was deeply moved by the affection of the crowd and by his own words. There were tears in his eyes.

The band struck up a slow march and the procession began to move. Sher Singh sat on the rear acknowledging the cheers and bowing to people who kept loading him with garlands and hurling rose petals at him.

On Christmas morning, Buta Singh and his daughter were having breakfast in Sabhrai’s bedroom. Mrs Taylor’s warning that she was to be left strictly alone had been ignored. It was an old custom to be by the bedside of a sick, person, and so they were—all the twenty-four hours—eating, sleeping, and gossiping. Sabhrai had remained in a state of delirium with the fever never falling below 104°. She opened her eyes sometimes and tried to speak, but only an inaudible whisper escaped her lips.