Their knees shake as they slip down their pantaloon-type pyjamas. These Mussalmans not only cut the ends of their cocks, they also shave their pubic hair. I have never seen sadder looking penises hanging their circumcized heads as if in shame!

‘You Abu Bakr, step out in front,’ orders Hodson Sahib.

A heavily built man of about thirty-five comes up a few faltering steps. He covers his nakedness with his hands.

‘Nihal Singh, take that thing off this man’s arm,’ he orders pointing to a charm tied round Abu Bakr’s arm.

I wrench off the amulet and put it in my pocket.

‘Hand me your carbine.’

I give my carbine to the Sahib.

‘Sahib, mat maro—don’t kill,’ wails Abu Bakr, clasping his hands in prayer.

Hodson Sahib aims at his chest. Thah. Abu Bakr cries ‘Hai Allah’ and collapses in a pool of blood.

The crowd is struck dumb with terror. Not one person moves. The other two prisoners are more dead than alive when Hodson Sahib shoots them through their heads.

We have three naked corpses sprawled in the dust; blood gushing from their wounds, saliva oozing from their gaping mouths, eyes turning to grey marbles. The thousands of armed men who watched the executions look as dead as the three lying at our feet.

Subedar Man Singh raises his kirpan and shouts: ‘Jo Boley So Nihal.’ We draw our kirpans and reply: ‘Sat Sri Akal.’

The corpses are loaded on the cart. We resume our ride back to the city. The crowd melts before us as the mist melts before the rays of the sun. We ride through Daryaganj. At Chandni Chowk we wheel left till we come to our gurdwara. We throw the three corpses on the steps of the gurdwara. We return to the Jamia Masjid to drink rum and eat goat’s meat. Lehna sings of the little old man who wanted to copulate with a she-camel.

Next morning I go to congratulate my Sahib for his great courage. I enter his room and salute. He is writing a letter (he writes a letter to his memsahib every day). ‘Well, Nihal Singh!’ he says as if nothing had happened. When I don’t reply he asks, ‘What do you want?’

‘Sahib, I came to pay my respects and congratulate you for your great bahaduri.’

He nods his head and goes on writing, as if I am not there. I stand where I am not knowing what to do next. Then I ask: ‘Does Sahib require me for anything.’

He puts his letter inside an envelope, seals it and hands it to me. ‘Dak.’

I take the letter. Suddenly he looks a little happier. ‘Ask Subedar Man Singh to tell the sowars that the Sahib is very khush. Give them as much rum as they like. No more work for some time.’ After a pause he asks: ‘What are they saying in the camp?’