Hodson Sahib goes red in the face. I have never seen him in such a rage before. He cannot even speak. The woman goes on as if she did not care what anyone did to her: ‘And Sahib, now with your own hands you are going to spill the blood of a woman.’

She’s a cunning whore. She wants to find out what the Sahib intends to do to her. Sahib remains silent for some time. He becomes cool again. He says to me: ‘When a woman bears arms she has no right to expect to be treated any different from any other soldier. Take her away. I do not wish to hear anything more about her.’

I grab the woman by the arm and take her out.

The sun is about to set. It will soon be dark. I will have her first as I am the Sahib’s orderly. Then I will have some sleep and let the others take their turns. Then I will have her a second time; then a third time. In the early hours, I will take her to the dump and shoot her. We have a saying: first quench your thirst, then spit in the well.

I bring the woman to our tent. The men are munching their chappaties. They resume their bawdy jests: ‘Makhan pher! What about it! Will you let us or shall we take you to the police lock-up?’

‘Oi, oi, let her be, she is an old buddhi . . . . ’

‘I bet her oven is still warm. We can bake our loaves before putting it out.’

‘Oi, she’s a whore. She must have run an army kitchen on her oven . . . I bet many regiments have passed between her thighs.’

‘Nihalia,’ says one of the youngsters, ‘you scrub your weapon in her first, then we can also get rid of our surplus of semen.’

The woman pretends to be deaf. She turns to me and says, ‘Sardarji, if I have your permission, I would like to say my evening prayer. Then you can do what you like with me.’ She says this as coolly as if she were asking me to cook her an aubergine.

There is a chorus of approval. ‘Nihalia, let her pray to her Allah. If it lightens her heart, she will lighten ours.’

‘All right,’ I reply. ‘But make it quick—phuta phut.’ I join the others over our ration of rum.

The whore spreads her dupatta on the muddy ground and sits down on her knees with her face towards the setting sun. The diamond in her nose sparkles.

‘Who’s going to get her nose-ring?’ asks Natha.

No one answers. ‘She’s also got gold in her ears and on her arms,’ says Lehna. ‘Let Nihal Singh sell them and we can share the money.’

The whore stands up. Her eyes are closed, her lips keep moving. She bends down. Through her muslin shirt I can see her breasts hanging down like over-ripe marrows.