on one side. Buta Singh and Wazir Chand dropped their voices to a conspiratorial whisper to discuss office gossip and politics. They are getting a hell of a beating these English, aren’t they? Four of their aircraft-carriers have been sunk, the Germans have swallowed most of Europe and Russia, the Japanese have them on the run in the East. How long do you think they can hold out?’
‘One can never tell,’ answered Wazir Chand cautiously. ‘So far they seem to be getting the worst of it. But their broadcasts always talk of victories.’
‘Don’t believe a word! You think they would be willing to talk of a settlement with us if all were going well?’
‘You maintain that the English always win in the end,’ said Wazir Chand with a mischievous smile. ‘Have you begun to change your views?’
Buta Singh felt cornered. ‘You will agree that so far they have always won the decisive battles. One never knows how things will turn out, they may still turn defeat into victory.’ Buta Singh realized that Wazir Chand had made him contradict himself. He tried to retrieve the situation. ‘What is more important than the fate of the English or the Germans or the Japanese is the future of this country. How can our leaders persuade the English to give us freedom if the Muslims do not side with us?’
Buta Singh’s zeal in collecting war funds was a popular subject of discussion in magisterial circles. Words like ‘freedom,’ ‘our leaders,’ were new in his vocabulary. Wazir Chand decided to keep Buta Singh on the defensive. ‘What does Taylor have to say about it? You see more of him than anyone else.’
‘Sends for me morning and evening,’ complained Buta Singh. ‘You can see he is worried. He is always asking me about British proposals and my views on the Muslim demand for Pakistan. I tell him quite frankly what I think.’
‘Your position is different,’ conceded Wazir Chand. ‘You are the only one he really confides in.’
‘You are making fun of me,’ said Buta Singh, thoroughly flattered. ‘Believe me, he listens to what I say because he gets things straight from me; I don’t butter my chapatis for him. He has sent for me again this morning.’ Buta Singh glanced at his watch: ‘Actually we came to discuss this matter of sharing the house in Simla; I believe you have rented a large one.’
‘Sardar Sahib, it is your house; you are most welcome. What could give us greater pleasure?’
‘That is very kind of you, but we must share the rent.’
‘No, no,’ protested Wazir Chand, taking Buta Singh’s hands in his. The two magistrates squeezed each other’s hands with great affection. Buta Singh looked at his watch again. The conversation died down.
Wazir Chand’s wife spoke in a timid, low voice: ‘Sherji, you don’t ever come to see us.’
‘What a thing to say!’ said Madan before Sher Singh could answer. ‘He is busy being a leader; he has no timefor social calls.’ He turned to Buta Singh’s wife and added: ‘Auntie, we are going to ask you for sweets the day Sherji becomes a Minister; he is bound to become one one day. I’ve got sister Champak to promise us that already.’
‘If brothers like you wish him well, then he will achieve everything,’ answered Sabhrai. She turned the conversation to what was uppermost in her mind: Madan’s relationship with his wife. ‘How is our daughter-in-law keeping? You get good news of her?’
‘She is with her mother and you know how daughters are in their mothers’ homes!’ answered Wazir Chand’s wife.
Sabhrai was not satisfied. ‘I hope she will be going to Simla. It should be good for her health.’
Wazir Chand came to his wife’s rescue: ‘Of course! The plans are that Madan will first take up his sisters. After he has made all the arrangements for their comfort, he will go and fetch his wife. By then, I hope I will be there or Sherji or Sardar Sahib. There ought to be some man there all the time. Don’t you think
‘One can never tell,’ answered Wazir Chand cautiously. ‘So far they seem to be getting the worst of it. But their broadcasts always talk of victories.’
‘Don’t believe a word! You think they would be willing to talk of a settlement with us if all were going well?’
‘You maintain that the English always win in the end,’ said Wazir Chand with a mischievous smile. ‘Have you begun to change your views?’
Buta Singh felt cornered. ‘You will agree that so far they have always won the decisive battles. One never knows how things will turn out, they may still turn defeat into victory.’ Buta Singh realized that Wazir Chand had made him contradict himself. He tried to retrieve the situation. ‘What is more important than the fate of the English or the Germans or the Japanese is the future of this country. How can our leaders persuade the English to give us freedom if the Muslims do not side with us?’
Buta Singh’s zeal in collecting war funds was a popular subject of discussion in magisterial circles. Words like ‘freedom,’ ‘our leaders,’ were new in his vocabulary. Wazir Chand decided to keep Buta Singh on the defensive. ‘What does Taylor have to say about it? You see more of him than anyone else.’
‘Sends for me morning and evening,’ complained Buta Singh. ‘You can see he is worried. He is always asking me about British proposals and my views on the Muslim demand for Pakistan. I tell him quite frankly what I think.’
‘Your position is different,’ conceded Wazir Chand. ‘You are the only one he really confides in.’
‘You are making fun of me,’ said Buta Singh, thoroughly flattered. ‘Believe me, he listens to what I say because he gets things straight from me; I don’t butter my chapatis for him. He has sent for me again this morning.’ Buta Singh glanced at his watch: ‘Actually we came to discuss this matter of sharing the house in Simla; I believe you have rented a large one.’
‘Sardar Sahib, it is your house; you are most welcome. What could give us greater pleasure?’
‘That is very kind of you, but we must share the rent.’
‘No, no,’ protested Wazir Chand, taking Buta Singh’s hands in his. The two magistrates squeezed each other’s hands with great affection. Buta Singh looked at his watch again. The conversation died down.
Wazir Chand’s wife spoke in a timid, low voice: ‘Sherji, you don’t ever come to see us.’
‘What a thing to say!’ said Madan before Sher Singh could answer. ‘He is busy being a leader; he has no timefor social calls.’ He turned to Buta Singh’s wife and added: ‘Auntie, we are going to ask you for sweets the day Sherji becomes a Minister; he is bound to become one one day. I’ve got sister Champak to promise us that already.’
‘If brothers like you wish him well, then he will achieve everything,’ answered Sabhrai. She turned the conversation to what was uppermost in her mind: Madan’s relationship with his wife. ‘How is our daughter-in-law keeping? You get good news of her?’
‘She is with her mother and you know how daughters are in their mothers’ homes!’ answered Wazir Chand’s wife.
Sabhrai was not satisfied. ‘I hope she will be going to Simla. It should be good for her health.’
Wazir Chand came to his wife’s rescue: ‘Of course! The plans are that Madan will first take up his sisters. After he has made all the arrangements for their comfort, he will go and fetch his wife. By then, I hope I will be there or Sherji or Sardar Sahib. There ought to be some man there all the time. Don’t you think
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