Sabhrai’s sixth sense told her nothing about the drama that had taken place. She realized that nothing could be wrong with her husband because he had sent the telegram. Whatever had happened had happened to her son. If he were sick or had met with an accident, his wife was there to look after him. Why should Buta Singh send for her in this manner unless Sher Singh was dying or was already dead? The more she thought of it, the more certain she became that the telegram had something to do with her son; and that he was either in mortal danger or had succumbed to it. She sat up in her bed and prayed all through the night. Next day on her way down to the plains and again all night in the train, her thoughts and prayers were for her Shera.

It was still dark when she woke up Beena and asked her to wash, change, and roll up the beddings. She asked her to come and sit beside her. ‘Pray for your brother,’ she said to indicate that she had an inkling of what had happened. They sat cross-legged on the berth wrapped in their shawls and recited the morning prayer. The black nothingness outside the window pane became a dimly-lit landscape beyond continuous waves of telegraph wires which rose and fell from pole to pole. The sun came up over the flat land and lit up the yellow squares of mustard, the solid greens of sugarcane, and blocks of mud villages. They came to the suburbs of the city. Mud huts gave way to brick buildings, and open fields to evil smelling ditches where men sat on their haunches, shamelessly baring their bottoms and relieving themselves.

The train drew in on a noisy crowded platform full of coolies in red uniforms. Sabhrai and Beena looked for a familiar face, but could not recognize anyone. The orderly came from the servants’ compartment and took charge of the luggage. They were counting their pieces when an Englishwoman approached them. She touched Beena on the arm and asked, ‘Are you Sardar Buta Singh’s daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am Mrs Taylor. Good-morning. And this I presume is your mother. Sat Sri Akal, Sardarini Sahiba. We have met before.’

Sahrai joined her hands and answered the Englishwoman’s greeting. It took the mother and daughter some time to realize that the Deputy Commissioner’s wife had come to receive them. Sabhrai lost her composure and whispered agitatedly into her daughter’s ear. Joyce Taylor saw the consternation on their faces. ‘Don’t be alarmed Sardarini Sahiba, all is well,’ she said putting her hand on Sabhrai’s shoulder. ‘Your husband and son are in the best of health; you will see them soon. I had nothing to do this morning so I thought I’d come along to fetch you and spare you a long tonga ride.’