Sabhrai shook her head. ‘Read me the passage for the month. I was ill and nobody read it out to me.’

Shunno fumbled with the pages of the prayer book, found the month of Magh, and began to read loudly:

The Lord hath entered my being;

I make pilgrimage within myself and am purified.

I met Him

He found me good

And let me lose myself in Him.

Beloved! If Thou findest me fair

My pilgrimage is made,

My ablution done.

More than the sacred waters of the Ganga

Of the Yamuna and Tribeni mingled

at the Sangam;

More than the seven seas.

More than all these, charity, almsgiving, and prayer,

Is the knowledge of eternity that is the Lord.

Spake the Guru:

He that hath worshipped the great giver of life

Hath done more than bathe in the sixty and eight

places of pilgrimage.

‘Shall I read anything else?’ asked Shunno coming closer to her mistress.

Sabhrai shook her head again. ‘When is the first of Phaggan?’

‘I don’t know. Many days yet.’

‘Don’t forget to clean the Gurudwara and make the pershad. Wake up everyone in time and ask my Sardarji to read the prayer.’

Shunno began to sob. ‘Beybey, why do you talk like this? You will read it yourself. We will sit and listen.’

Sabhrai ignored her sobs. She put her hand on her servant’s shoulder. ‘Now read the morning prayer to me.’

Shunno drew a chair beside her mistress’s pillow. She never sat on a chair in the house but that was the only way she could get close to her. She picked up the prayer book and began to recite. Sabhrai lay back on her pillow and shut her eyes. She folded her hands across her navel and began telling the beads of her rosary.

Buta Singh was the first to arrive. ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’ he asked Shunno in an agitated tone. Sabhrai opened her eyes and spoke to her husband. ‘I don’t need a doctor, she whispered. ‘Let me go to my Guru with your blessings.’

Buta Singh began to sniff. A few minutes later Beena turned up. She saw the pallor on her mother’s face and heard her father sobbing in his handkerchief. Sabhrai opened her eyes again and put her hands on her daughter’s head.

‘May the Guru keep you from evil.’

‘Mummy, don’t talk like this. In the name of the Guru, don’t,’ she sobbed.

The tears gave way to a gloomy silence. Buta Singh and Beena sat on Sabhrai’s bed and pressed her arms and feet. Sabhrai fell asleep utterly exhausted. Sher Singh was the last to arrive. Sabhrai woke up as soon as he came in—just as if she had been waiting for him all the time. She smiled and beckoned him to come close to her. She whispered in his ear: ‘I shall not hear the nightingales, my son. May the Guru give you long life.’