In the crisis, the Englishman seemed to have become Buta Singh’s only hope. It would be Christmas in three days. Perhaps he should make the Taylors some gesture of gratitude for what they had done. He knew they were very particular about accepting gifts from subordinates. His case was different; he was a friend as well. Besides, the circumstances warranted a symbolic expression of thanks. Christmas was a good opportunity to do so. In any case he would send it from his wife to Mrs Taylor.

After the doctor had come and gone, Buta Singh asked his orderly to go to the bazaar and buy three dozen of the best Malta oranges with blood-red centers. He busied himself in composing a letter to go with the gift.

Respected Mrs Taylor,

Pray accept this humble gift of oranges for Christmas Day. They are the first pick of the year from our garden. I hope you will like them. To you and your noble husband, our most respected Deputy Commissioner, my husband and children owe their all. Madam will do us an honour by receiving this very little gift on the auspicious occasion of the birthday of the World Savior, Lord Jesus Christ.

Your humble servant,             
Sabhrai                       
(Sardarini Buta Singh)            
wife of                        
Sardar Buta Singh, B.A. (Hons),    
Magistrate First Class.

Buta Singh read the letter over several times. Did it sound too servile? No, he decided, nothing sounds too obsequious to the recipient. The only important thing was that the gift should not be returned because a snub in these circumstances would be hard to take. Also, other people should not get to know about it and make fun of him.

The basket of oranges and the letter were sent off three days before Christmas. To Buta Singh’s great relief, it was not returned. Mrs Taylor accepted the gift and, in accordance with Indian custom, left two oranges and a five rupee note as tip for the orderly. She held the orderly to inform his mistress that she would come over personally to thank the Sardarini.

Mrs Taylor came to call next morning. Buta Singh had already told his daughter about the oranges. ‘I said they came from our garden because it sounds better,’ he explained blandly. ‘I sent them from your mother. Mrs Taylor has been specially good to her.’

‘How extremely kind of you to send us the first pick from your garden,’ said Mrs Taylor as she stepped out of the car and held out her hand.

‘Oh nothing, Mrs Taylor. A very humble gift. It was most kind of you to accept.’

‘And this is your daughter? We met at the station. How are you? Where is the Sardarini Sahiba? I must thank her for the wonderful oranges. I’ll try my Hindustani.’