The Bhai and most Sikhs seen on the road have taken to wearing black turbans. After a few days I also have a couple of my turbans dyed black. Yes, I am one of them.

Budh Singh has turned more rabid. Everytime a Hindu passes by my apartment he yells: ‘Sant Bhindranwale zindabad.’ They laugh at him. If he is too absorbed in himself, they provoke him: ‘O son of Bhindranwale! Let’s have the slogan again!’

So passes the hot summer. And the torrid months of rains and clouds we call the monsoon. September gives way to October. And comes the autumn season of festivals.

It is the last day of October. I am in low spirits. No reason whatsoever. Slept soundly. Long relieving fart while peeing. Pee no longer a powerful jet but an intermittent spray. Enlarged prostate. To be expected when you are seventy. A mug of hot Ginseng and bowels as clean as the inside of a gun barrel. News no worse than other days. Weather has changed for the better—neither too warm nor too cool. Fragrant madhumalati and hibiscus about the windows in full flower. Two chorizzias on the lawn covered in pink and white. Moonbeam hedge along the face like a green wall speckled with stars as in the milky way. Dew on the grass sparkling like diamonds in the early sun. What more can Allah do to assure me that He is up there in His heavenly abode and pleased with His handiwork?

My spirits refuse to lift. Read the headlines of papers and toss them in the grate. Stretch my legs on a moorha and doze off. Dream of Bhagmati. Since she has become a once-a-year visitor she makes up by often coming into my dreams. We haven’t had sex for the last ten years but in my dreams she is still very bawdy and very lusty. I wake up with a start. Bell rings non-stop; thumping on the door. Bhagmati? I run up and upon the door. It’s Budh Singh. Eyes madder than ever; nostrils flared. He yells in my face sending a spray of spit from his beard to mine: ‘Indira Gandhi shot dead! Long live Sant Jarnail Singhji Bhindranwale!’