But in the end, Bunda Ali would not present himself. Something stayed him, the uncomfortable thought that perhaps these Angreze might not be welcoming, for they might not be like Colonel Matthew Hervey-sahib and the officers of the dragoons. He had sometimes found that officers of the Honourable East India Company, having learned their languages for many years at their seminary in England, did not wish to treat with him in the same way. Oh, they were very good and fine gentlemen, but they were of very serious mind, and this perhaps made them a little unbending. That, at least, had been his experience at Madras.

Besides, as the hour approached eight (which he knew because not only was it darkling, but also, unlike any other of his acquaintance who was not Angreze, he carried a watch – a most handsome gold watch with a sentiment engraved on the inside of the cover, given him ten years ago by a general no less, in gratitude for his teaching), the khansamah brought him a washing bowl, and Bunda Ali turned instead to the Maghrib, the sunset prayer.

His wife and daughter had already retired. They shared the best of the tents, where they could eat in proper seclusion. He himself would take his khana later, in the great peace of the day when the cicadas and the crickets had at last hushed; and afterwards perhaps he would have one of his men play and sing a little, for he liked the sound of the sitar at evening. Meanwhile, the voices drifting from the soldiers’ camp would please him.

After Bunda Ali had said his prayers and settled himself among cushions outside his tent, some of his new travelling companions joined him – Ghufoor Khan and three or four others who had paid him respects during the day, two of them with sitars. Their playing proved a little too unruly for his liking – his own people made sweeter music – but he would not object to it; not when they’d been so obliging as to let him accompany them on the road (indeed, he thought his bullock cart must have slowed them considerably). It certainly seemed to please Ghufoor Khan’s party, for soon there were two dozen of them gathered by the tent, clapping in time with the increasingly erratic strumming. A dozen more strolled down towards the stream, where Bunda Ali’s grooms would spend the night with the horses. And in the gathering darkness on the edge of the grove stood Essuree, the officer of the magistrate’s court, watching, not pleased enough with the music perhaps to venture any closer.

In a quarter of an hour more it was black night, and Bunda Ali had become uneasy. These men could not be dacoits – surely? – for they’d had ample opportunity to rob him and be off … And yet they were crowding in a little too much for his comfort – and he could no longer see his own servants.