‘Bhoom, bhoom, bhoom’ echo our cannon far away near Kashmiri Gate. Kites are quickly pulled down. Pigeons return to their lofts. Sound of singing and dancing dies out. ‘Bhoom, bhoom, bhoom,’ reply the rebels’ guns from the bastions near Kashmiri Gate and Mori Gate. Our trick has worked. While guns are hurling abuse at each other around Kashmiri and Mori Gate, we surround an area of Sabzi Mandi including a bazaar and a garden with a big house in its centre. The bugle sounds: ‘Hamla!’ Our cannon fires into the bazaar. Then we go in on the double—shooting at any face that appears at a window, bayonetting anyone—male, female or child that comes in our way. Only from the big house in the garden is our fire returned. We take cover behind the trees. Every time any one of our party tries to get closer, he is shot. We bring up our cannon. The first ball makes a hole in a wall; the second, another. A part of the ceiling comes crashing down. We fire a volley into the house, fix bayonets and charge. There is no one to face us. We do not take chances. We surround the house and tiptoe in single file. I lead one party through a big room and up a broad staircase. And what do I see? I’ll give you a thousand chances and you will not be able to guess right. A woman! There she stands on the top of the stairs with eyes bright as stars and a diamond glistening in her nose. And what do you think she is doing? Waving her sword at me.

‘Oi, Nathia!’ I shout to Natha Singh who is following me. Look what I’ve found!’

Natha Singh comes alongside and stares at the woman. ‘Bailey, balley!’ he exclaims. He shouts to the others. The staircase is full of Sikh soldiers armed with muskets and here is this woman waving an old talwar at us. She is no yesterday’s chicken either. At least forty, flabby and pale as these city women are. Her white hair is dyed red with henna. Her teeth stained with betel. Her big bosom sags beneath her thin muslin shirt.

‘Bibi, do you use that to pick your teeth?’ asks Natha pointing to her sword. Then he goes up boldly and takes the sword out of her hand. ‘Bibi, why do you want to kill us with this?’ he asks. ‘It is easier to do so with your eyes.’

‘Don’t jest with her; she is the age of your mother,’ I tell Natha.

‘Bhai, I am a renowned motherfucker,’ replies Natha.

We have a hearty laugh.

Hodson Sahib rides up and we stop laughing. Natha drags the woman down the stairs and flings her at the feet of the Sahib’s horse. The woman stands up and asks: ‘Do you want to shoot me?’ Not a tremor in her voice.

Hodson Sahib is taken aback. ‘Aurat!’ he exclaims.