For two days Sabhrai had no fever; she was exhausted and looked deathly pale. She lay all day long staring at the ceiling above her and slowly telling the beads of her rosary. If she wanted anything she would slowly raise her hand for Shunno and whisper instructions in her ears. On the third day she seemed well on the way to recovery and was allowed to sit up in bed propped up with pillows.

The fourth day started well. She was in better form than ever. The family were having their breakfast in her bedroom. Her husband was airing his views on politics. ‘This man Hitler must be an amazing character. He has raised the German people from defeat to such greatness. If India could produce a man like him, all would be well.’

Sher Singh took that sort of remark personally. ‘The crisis produces the man,’ he said pompously. ‘India can only be ruled by strong men. This democratic business of votes for everyone, elections, assemblies, committees, is nonsense. I don’t believe in it.’ After Sher Singh’s short detention his pronouncements on politics had acquired sanctity.

Buta Singh swallowed a mouthful of curry. A stringy bit of vegetable stuck to his walrus moustache and began to dance up and down as he poured out platitudes with great earnestness. ‘Absolutely right! What does a vote mean to illiterate semi-savage people! It may be all right in England, but not in India. What is the point of creating a jungle of committees and rules so that no one can see the way out? In our own administration they do the same. It doesn’t take me in. I don’t take any notice of committees. No red tape for me,’ he said sitting back. The stringy piece of curry also sat back on his moustache. It looked funny but Buta Singh was talking so seriously that no one could draw his attention to it. ‘If I had allowed myself to be fooled by files and rules of procedure I wouldn’t have got where I have. It takes a shrewd man to see through them.’

A faint smile came on Sabhrai’s pale face. She raised her hand with her rosary dangling between her fingers. Shunno got up and put her ear close to her mistress’s mouth; then put her hands on her mouth and went into an irrepressible giggle. The family looked round. After two months of sighing, sorrowing, and sickness, Sabhrai had cracked a joke.

‘What is it?’ asked Beena.

Shunno could not speak; she was convulsed with laughter. The smile still played on Sabhrai’s pallid face. Beena came close to her and she whispered the same words into her daughter’s ear. Beena also burst out laughing.

‘Tell us the joke too,’ said Buta Singh, smiling eagerly. Beena held her laughter. ‘Mama says there is a bulbul on the bough.’