Beena translated this to her mother and they smiled gratefully at Mrs Taylor. Things must have changed for an English Deputy Commissioner’s wife to take the trouble to receive the family of an Indian subordinate. They were too bewildered to think that there might be other reasons. Beena gave the coolies more than twice their due to prevent them nagging and making a scene in front of the Englishwoman.

There was nothing at home to indicate a crisis. There were two policemen on duty, instead of one. They came to attention and saluted as the car went in. Nobody came out to receive them while they were unloading their luggage. That didn’t surprise them. Buta Singh was likely to be at the Courts; Sher Singh would be out somewhere and Champak in her room. But where was Dyer? He was always the first to greet members of the family returning home and had to be restrained from putting his paws on their shoulders and licking their faces. As soon as Mrs Taylor had said goodbye and left, Beena shouted for the dog. He came round the house, hopping on the three legs; the fourth was in plaster. There was a gash on his nose on which flies were clustered. He whined as he came to his mistress and let out a long piteous howl. ‘Hai, Dyer, what’s happened to you?’ Who’s hurt my little son?’ Sabhrai fanned the flies off with her headpiece and put her arms round the dog. ‘Didn’t Sher take you to the doctor?’

Champak came out of the wire gauze door. Her hair was scattered untidily on her face. Her eyes were red and swollen. She wore a plain white cotton sari without any make-up or jewellery—like a widow in mourning. Sabhrai’s heart sank. Was her son dead? Hadn’t the Englishwoman said he was in good health!

‘What has . . . ?’

Champak clasped her mother-in-law round the waist and burst out crying. Sabhrai, who had never particularly cared for Champak, stroked her head. ‘The True, The True, The Great Guru,’ she chanted.

Beena could not stand it any more. ‘What has happened? Why don’t you tell?’ she shrieked.

Buta Singh came out in the verandah. He, too, was shabbily dressed in a white shirt and pajamas. His beard had not been pressed and he wore no turban. ‘What is all this crying for?’ he asked at the top of his voice. ‘You behave as if he were dead. Perhaps that might have been better.’

‘The True, The True, The Great Guru. What words are these? Where is my son, my Moon, my little Ruby. Where is he?’ Tears streamed down Sabhrai’s face. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Even her tears did not appease Buta Singh’s temper. ‘My nose has been cut; I can no longer show my face to anyone.’

‘What has he done? Why don’t you tell me where he is.’