Buta Singh looked up from his plate and wiped the egg off his mustache with his napkin. ‘Sounds like a wedding procession. They have started early.’ Beena sat still. She heard the shouting of slogans. ‘Couldn’t be a wedding party; sounds more like a political procession.’ The music and the shouting came nearer and nearer till it was inside the house. They got up and hurried out of the room. The band was playing in their porch. The garden, the driveway, and road were jammed with boys chanting ‘Long live the Revolution.’ As Buta Singh appeared on the scene the chanting changed to ‘Long Live Buta Singh. Long live Sher Singh.’ A dozen young men rushed forward to congratulate the magistrate. It was then he noticed his son loaded with garlands. The father and son fell into each other’s arms. All differences of opinion, all rancour which had poisoned their relationship over the past months were submerged in the applause of triumph.

It was Sabhrai’s ninth day in bed. On the ninth day the fever usually subsides and the patient is on the mend—unless, of course, there is a relapse. In which case, the process starts all over again. Nobody could say that the family had not done their best in looking after her. They never left her bedside for a moment. Her husband and daughter took turns to watch over her all through the night. During the day, there were other relations or servants always present. Shunno showed great endurance in keeping the house going and also being with the mistress at all hours; pressing her tired limbs, talking to her when she mumbled in her delirium, comforting her with words in baby language and with prayer. The doctor’s instructions about the medicine and diet were also strictly carried out. As books of medicine prescribed, Sabhrai sweated profusely all night and in the morning her temperature was down by four degrees. She was obviously turning the corner.

She was awakened from her half delirious sleep by Beena embracing her and shouting in her ears that Sher Singh was back home. She heard the band and the slogans and the people talking excitedly. She saw many strange faces in her room till it was full of bright eyes and glistening teeth. She vaguely guessed what could have happened. Or was it another dream which would end in the nightmare of awakening?

Then her son appeared. His sister had reloaded him with garlands. He came and fell on her and smothered her with tears, kisses, and crushed flowers. His sister gently pushed him away; Mrs Taylor had said ‘No excitement.’ The physical touch of her son convinced Sabhrai that her son was free. She could not reason out why he was free. She had herself urged him on the way to death but merciful God had sent him back to her. Her lips quivered but no words came: only a long drawn moan and then a flood of tears.