‘I do not mean singing. Other things,’ explained Hukum Chand, looking away.

‘What do you mean, other things?’ asked the girl haughtily. ‘We do not go about doing other things for money. I am a singer and I dance. I do not suppose you know what dancing and singing are. You just know about other things. A bottle of whisky and other things. That is all!’

Hukum Chand cleared his throat with a nervous cough. ‘Well . . . I did not do anything.’

The girl laughed and pressed her hand on the magistrate’s face. ‘Poor Magistrate Sahib. You had evil intentions, but you were tired. You snored like a railway engine.’ The girl drew her breath in noisily and imitated his snoring. She laughed more loudly.

Hukum Chand stroked the girl’s hair. His daughter would have been sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen, if she had lived. But he had no feeling of guilt, only a vague sense of fulfilment. He did not want to sleep with the girl, or make love to her, or even to kiss her on the lips and feel her body. He simply wanted her to sleep in his lap with her head resting on his chest.

‘There you go again with your deep thoughts,’ said the girl, scratching his head with her finger. She poured out a cup of tea and then poured it into the saucer. ‘Have some tea. It will stop you thinking.’ She thrust the saucerful of tea at him.

‘No, no. I have had tea. You have it.’

‘All right. I will have tea and you have your thoughts.’

The girl began to sip the tea noisily.

‘Haseena.’ He liked repeating the name. ‘Haseena,’ he started again.

‘Yes. But Haseena is only my name. Why don’t you say something?’

Hukum Chand took the empty saucer from her hand and put it on the table. He drew the girl closer and pressed her head against his. He ran his fingers through her hair.

‘You are Muslim?’

‘Yes, I am Muslim. What else could Haseena Begum be? A bearded Sikh?’

‘I thought Muslims from Chundunnugger had been evacuated. How have you managed to stay on?’

‘Many have gone away, but the Inspector Sahib said we could stay till he told us to go. Singers are neither Hindu nor Muslim in that way. All communities come to hear me.’

‘Are there any other Muslims in Chundunnugger?’

‘Well . . . yes,’ she faltered. ‘You can call them Muslim, Hindu or Sikh or anything, male or female. A party of hijras (hermaphrodites) are still there.’ She blushed.

Hukum Chand put his hand across her eyes.

‘Poor Haseena is embarrassed. I promise I won’t laugh. You are not Hindu or Muslim, but not in the same way as a hijra is not a Hindu or Muslim.’

‘Do not tease me.’

‘I won’t tease you,’ he said removing his hand. She was still blushing. ‘Tell me why the hijras were spared.’

‘I will if you promise not to laugh at me.’