And the pahra could expect Bunda Ali to be generous: he was a fine-looking Mussulman, bearded, turbaned – a kazee perhaps, a law officer. He rode a fine-looking Marwari, and behind him, on ponies of quality led by clean-shaven syces, came a girl of fourteen and a woman with a child in her arms. Behind them were five more servants and a bullock cart laden with the appurtenances of a man of position. Few men travelled with a retinue so large, yet without escort. (And among his baggage was concealed a thousand rupees’ worth and more of jewels and coin – five years of savings – for his daughter’s wedding and dowry).

The sun had almost set, and Bunda Ali wished only to make camp in a safe and pleasant spot. He was content to part with ten rupees for favour of a grove of banyan close by the stream, where his servants swiftly pitched the tents and began preparing the evening meal, and the grooms took the horses to water and to wash off the dust of the road. People from the bustees came to sell them bread, fruit and sweetmeats. Bunda Ali was content indeed – for this one night at least. Thereafter, his caution must be the greater. While he travelled the dak road he felt secure enough, for there was many another traveller and frequent bodies of troops, although near the forest edge he was always on his guard, for as well as wild beasts there were dacoits – robbers, armed and rapacious – who, though he felt sure he and his syces could see them off (they carried swords, and he a pistol too), would distress his wife and daughter. Beyond the Company’s pale, however, he would have no such guarantee. The surest precaution would be to join another, larger party making for Haidarabad. Dacoits would fear to attack such large numbers of men, and it would be pleasant also to have travelling companions with whom he could relieve the tedium of this long journey. Agreeable also for his wife if there were female company. He was pleased therefore when soon after dark two men carrying lanterns came to his camp – one a policeman, he said, Ghufoor Khan, a Mussulman like himself, travelling to Haidarabad on official business; the other, Essuree, an officer of the magistrate’s court at Etawah in Hindoostan, returning with depositions from Vellore in a case of criminal conversation. (They wore their badge of office with the habitual pride of the native official.)

‘Huzoor,’ they began; ‘we have learned that you are travelling many days and must do so more. These roads are not as in the lands of Company-bahadur. Chintal people are not for trusting. We shall be honoured for you to join our party, which is more than fifty, all good and honest simple men. It will be our greatest pleasure to have travel with us an educated person.’

Bunda Ali was much relieved – al-hamdu li-llāh – and accepted at once. His servants brought sweetened coffee, and his two guests stayed an hour and more, hearing of the moonshee’s good fortune in his appointment at Fort St George and in finding so suitable a bridegroom for his daughter.