‘She is very ill,’ answered Beena. ‘She has been in a state of delirium for the last two days.’ Buta Singh realized that his daughter was contradicting his story of the oranges being sent by Sabhrai. He broke in quickly, ‘No, nothing, it is just a little cold and fever. The doctor said it would be controlled by the new American drug. It costs me thirty-five rupees each day. But I say, “Money does not matter.” Of course you can see her.’ He opened the door to usher her in.

‘I was a nurse before I married John,’ explained Mrs Taylor. ‘Perhaps I can be of some help.’

Buta Singh went on, ‘You have done enough of helping. We will not forget it all our lives.’

Sabhrai’s room was warm and dark. A fire smouldered in the chimney. The windows were shut and there was an oppressive odour of mint and eucalyptus. Under the table-lamp beside her bed were an assortment of bottles of medicine, a thermometer, and a tumbler of water. There was also a picture of the first Guru in a silver frame, and a rosary. Beside the bed on the floor was a basin of margosa leaves for her to be sick in. Shunno drew her veil across her face as her master came in and went on rubbing the soles of her mistress’s feet.

Joyce Taylor was surprised that in an educated Indian home there should be so much disregard of the elementary rules of hygiene. Her nursing past got the better of her recently acquired status as the wife of the Deputy Commissioner. ‘Why have you got the room so hot and stuffy?’

‘You see, madam, she has caught a cold and draughts are not good for her,’ explained Buta Singh.

‘Rubbish! Open the doors and windows at once. She needs fresh air. Have you kept a temperature chart?’

Joyce Taylor opened the windows herself and took the temperature chart which lay under the tumbler of water. She examined it carefully. Then she put her hand under the quilt and felt Sabhrai’s pulse.

Mrs Taylor put her cold hand on Sabhrai’s hot forehead and gently pushed back her eyelids. Sabhrai kept her eyes open but there was no look of recognition in them.

‘How are you, Sardarini?’

Sabhrai’s lips quivered; she was trying to say something.

‘Taylor’s Memsahib has come to call on you. Don’t you recognize her?’ asked Buta Singh loudly in Punjabi.

There was another quiver of her lips. Then tears welled in her eyes and rolled off into her ears. Joyce Taylor wiped Sabhrai’s tears with her handkerchief and gently pressed her hand on her eyes. ‘Go to sleep like a good girl. You’ll soon be well.’ She asked Buta Singh about the doctor and scrutinized the prescription he had made out.

‘Very expensive medicine this new thing,’ said Buta Singh.