At first, the caretaker glanced lazily in Jassi’s direction. Then seeing a well-built sardar walking towards the haveli, he stood up in a hurry and grabbed the bamboo sick. He rushed towards Jassi and inquired in a curt voice. ‘What do you want?’

Jassi smiled in return and said, ‘Is this Karim Zaid’s house?’

‘Yes, it is. Whom do you want to meet?’ replied the caretaker, sizing Jassi up.

But Jassi didn’t respond or wait any further. Extending his right arm, he reached out for the doorbell and rang it twice.

The watchman seemed confused by Jassi’s confidence. Not sure how to react, he waited for the door to open.

An old but well-built man with a white beard and well-oiled hair stepped out and looked at Jassi. He was wearing an off-white Pathani suit and looked like the family patriarch. Seeing a Sikh boy standing at his front gate, he glanced at the caretaker who shrugged. ‘Sahib, I kept asking him for his identity, but he did not listen. Instead he went ahead and rang the bell.’

The man dismissed the caretaker with a gentle movement of his hand and turned towards Jassi. He had an authoritarian manner. He looked every inch a zamindar or head of the panchayat. From his appearance, he didn’t look very amused, his body language indicating that he wished to send away the unwanted visitor at the earliest. He walked towards Jassi and stood in front of him like a bull preparing to charge.

‘Assalam Walekum,’ Jassi greeted and waited for his response.

‘Walekum Assalam?’ Qasim’s reply was a question. ‘My name is Qasim Zaid. What brings you here?’ he asked curtly.

There was a smile on Jassi’s face which irritated Qasim even more and made him impatient. He repeated his question. ‘Don’t just stand here and smile. I have other things to do. What do you want?’

Jassi extended his hand and said, ‘Sir, I am Jassi. I have driven all the way from Hassan Abdal to share important news with you.’

The word Hassan Abdal sent shivers down Qasim’s spine. His expression changed. He stepped forward and held Jassi by his shoulders. Shaking him slightly, he asked, ‘Are you Bibi Amrit Kaur’s son?’

Jassi had expected such a reaction, but still felt shaken up. The firmness of Qasim’s grip made him a little nervous. He managed to say, ‘No, Sir, I am not, but you could consider me one.’ He’d barely finished his sentence when the old man let go of his arm, turned and ran inside, screaming out aloud.

‘Karim, Karim. Come out. Bibi Ma has been located. Come quickly! Where are you?’

His leather sandals flapped against the marble floor. He stopped inches away from the big cot lying in the centre and shouted again, ‘Karim, where are you? Come quickly, hurry up, hurry up.’