That makes sense to the mob. It makes its way past the Bhai’s funeral pyre towards the cab-rank. I can hear the exchange of abuse. The cab-drivers are defiant. I stagger to the other side of the garden with Bhagmati tugging at my arms and pleading with me to get back into the room. Six unarmed cabbies face an armed mob which has grown to over two hundred. Abuse changes to hurling of stones. A posse of armed constabulary watch the unequal combat without moving from their places. Stones smash into the cab-drivers kiosk and the window-panes of the cabs. The fellows nevertheless keep the mob at bay. A shot rings out and a driver crumples down beside his cab. The other five run away as fast as they can. Armed police form a ring round the cabs, take out wallets, transistors, cassette players. Then they let the mob set them on fire. The policemen direct the mob to sikh shops in the market. They move away from my apartment. Bhagmati tells me to change my trousers. I feel ashamed of myself.

Pins and needles down my legs. Bhagmati stares vacantly at the wall without saying a word. I get out my last bottle of Scotch (which I had kept for an emergency) and pour out a stiff one. ‘The best thing in times of trouble,’ I announce to her.

‘And nothing for your old buddhia woman?’ asks Bhagmati. ’I have never touched the stuff; but today give me poison or give me wine.’ I pour her a generous portion and mix it with Campa Cola to sweeten its taste. She gulps it down as if it were a glass of buttermilk. A glow spreads over her wrinkled, toothless face. ‘More,’ she orders.

‘Not so fast, you’ll get sick.’

I help myself to a second, a third. She eyes me banefully while she shakes her empty glass. I take a fourth and give her another smaller one. ‘Don’t gulp it down; learn to drink like a lady.’

‘Lady be buggered!’ she replies. She is her old self. ‘What’s happened to that mad Sikh you had? What was his name? Buddhoo or something like that.’

‘Budh Singh. He was around this morning. Raving like a lunatic. If these fellows lay their hands on him, they will make a seekh kabab of him. If he comes round, we must lock him up in a room.’

I empty a packet of cheese crackers on a plate and put it before her. ‘This is all I have at home,’ I tell her. She picks up one and feels its texture. ‘How can I eat wooden biscuits? I have no teeth.’ She soaks one in her scotch and cola till it turns soggy and pops it in her mouth. She eats up the entire packet without bothering to find out if there is anything left for me. In any case I have no appetite for food. I tell her to sleep in my bed while I sleep on the sofa. She accepts my offer and waddles into the bedroom. A few minutes later I hear her belch, snore and break wind.