part0013

The episode I am about to relate to you came to pass through a simple decision—the decisions by the parent organisation in the south of India to send one of its buses to its newly-opened depot at Srinagar—a journey by road of over 2500 miles.

A regular driver was assigned to drive the vehicle, and an officer of the company was deputed to accompany it. Also two mechanics were allotted to travel with the bus in the event of a breakdown, and to be of general help.

This officer’s name was Othi. He was a North Indian, and came from the Punjab. A man of genial disposition and good heart, he felt the assignment would prove a tough one if undertaken alone. So he decided to throw open the invitation of a free bus journey to the enhanting land of Kashmir to two of his bosom friends, both of them also officers serving in the same organisation.

Of course, since these two officers were not travelling on company’s duty, they were obliged to apply for leave for the occasion and obtained special permission to travel in the bus going to Srinagar in their private and unofficial capacities.

The younger of the two officers was an Indian Christian; a tall, handsome youth whose name was Percy Rahu. The remaining officer was a middle-aged and stocky orthodox South Indian Brahmin, a person who came from a highly-placed and respected family, and who made it very clear from the start that he was fully prepared to share in the adventure wholeheartedly on one strict proviso; namely, that he cooked his own meals or ate exclusively at Brahmin restaurants. Absolutely cosmopolitan in every other respect, he strictly clung to his orthodox Brahmin custom of only eating food prepared by one of his own caste and community, failing which he would prepare it himself. This man’s name was Seshagiri.

The disposition of Othi, who was carefree and wanted to enjoy life to the maximum, matched well with that of Rahu, the handsome youth who had an eye for the ladies and felt that, as life was lived but once, it should be enjoyed to the fullest extent. Seshagiri sometimes had proved to be a brake on their exuberance in the past, but at the same time, Othi and Rahu recognised that their more sober companion would be a valuable asset to the party, if only to keep them out of getting into too serious trouble at times, and to remind them of the fact that they had to complete the present assignment of delivering the bus at Srinagar on schedule, and then return to their home station by air, and on time.

We are not concerned with their adventures on the way, which is another story; but one afternoon found the bus halted at the ferry-crossing on the Chambal River. The time was 3.45 p.m., and the ferry-boat, a flat-bottomed, raft-like affair, was away at the opposite bank of the river, having just taken across a load.

There was nothing to it but wait till the ferry-boat returned.

The nearest road bridge across the river was over fifty miles away. The party might have driven the bus that way and had the benefit of crossing over by the bridge, but for the fact that all of them were strangers to the roads and had never been to this part of India before, road signs had been few and far between, and they had been inquiring their way all along. Hence they had been directed by short-cut routes and had finally come to a halt where the road had terminated and the river rolled smoothly past before them.

‘Now what do we do?’ asked Seshagiri, whom his friends called ‘Sesh’ for short, blankly. ‘How do we cross the river from here?’ By nature he was always a bit of a pessimist.

‘Arre baba, don’t let that worry you,’ spoke up the optimistic Othi, ‘there must be some way.’ And then, turning to Rahu, who had been driving, he said, ‘Percy, hop out and try to find somebody, and ask him how the hell we are to cross this river.’

Percy switched off the ignition, stuck out his long legs before him, leaned back and stretched his arms. It took a lot to worry Percy.

‘Nothing doing, Othi old boy,’ he replied at length, ‘I cannot speak this lingo in any case. You come from this part of India or at least from the north, so you do the finding, and talking—provided there is somebody to talk to. I can’t see a soul anywhere.’

‘Arre baba,’ Othi complained again, as he heaved his great bulk out of the second seat and descended to the ground. Then, ‘There is nobody here,’ he announced, ‘I shall walk up yonder hillock, a hundred yards away, and see if there is anyone in sight.’

‘Do so, laddie, do so,’ agreed Percy, ‘while Sesh and I take a nap. I have been driving this cumbersome rattletrap for the last two hundred miles and am feeling drowsy.’ With these words, he got down from the driver’s seat, walked to the rear of the vehicle, got in again and laid himself out on the bunk that ran along the full length of the bus.

The regular driver and the two mechanics got down also, sat by the riverbank, and commenced smoking beedies.

Seshagiri remained alone in the front of the vehicle. Some minutes later, he turned around and addressed the recumbent Rahu.

‘I say, Percy, I don’t like this at all. Where has that fool, Othi, gone to? Isn’t this the area we have been reading so often about in the newspapers where dacoits abound controlled by somebody by the name of Man Singh, who has been called the ‘king of dacoits’, or some such name? ’

But Percy had fallen asleep.

Seshagiri faced towards the driver and the two mechanics, all three of them South Indians like himself, and called out in Tamil, ‘Do you know fellers, that this area is infested with dacoits who raid at night and cut one’s throat from ear to ear?’

Nobody waited to answer that question. All three of them scrambled to their feet and hastened back into the bus and slammed the door behind them.

The noise of the slamming door awoke Percy.

‘Can’t you blighters allow a man to have forty winks, without getting out and then scrambling in again, like blue-arsed flies. Make up your minds for heaven’s sake. Stay in; or stay out.’

And with those words, Percy turned on his side and prepared to fall asleep again.

But Sesh saw his chance and put his question afresh, ‘Wake up, Percy,’ he called from his seat in front, ‘do you know we are in the area where Man Singh and his dacoits hang out?’

‘Wasser that?’ mumbled Percy sleepily, without moving.

‘Wake up, you lazy bugger,’ said Seshagiri once more, ‘I am trying to tell you, for the third time, that this is the area where Man Singh and his cut-throat ruffians, hang out.’

Rahu sat up and ran a hand through his tousled hair. ‘Do you mean the Man Singh we read so much about in the papers?’ he queried, incredulously.

‘I certainly do,’ replied Sesh emphatically, ‘him, and nobody else.’

‘Oh boy, what luck!’ exclaimed Percy, now thoroughly awake. ‘I do wish I could meet the blighter. It would be an interesting experience. I believe he has many wives.’

‘Who would cut your throat,’ finished Sesh, sarcastically.

‘From here—to there,’ put in Percy, not to be outdone.

Their further conversation was interrupted by the return of Othi, who was accompanied by a tall, old man. He was a commanding figure, with high forehead, long beard and whiskers, and a most truculent-looking moustache. He wore trousers that were tight-fitting below the knees and baggy above. A faded brown cotton coat covered his dirty shirt. And he had a piercing pair of steel-grey eyes.

‘I found this feller sitting on the other side of the hillock,’ announced Othi with triumph. ‘He says he is a Sikh, and that a ‘ferry boat will take the whole bus across. He told me it has gone to the other side, and will return in half-an-hour.’

Then, addressing the old Sikh, he asked in Punjabi, ‘What did you say your name was Singh-ji?’

‘Ranjit Singh,’ replied the old man.

His voice was melodious and strangely firm for his age.

‘Get in, Ranjit Singh-ji,’ invited Othi hospitably, ‘Would you care for some tea? We have a little left in the thermos flask.’ The old man politely refused the tea, but got into the bus.

Othi went on to explain to him in Punjabi, ‘All my friends are from southern India and hence cannot understand this language.’

‘Then we shall speak in Hindustani,’ volunteered the ancient, graciously, ‘do they understand that?’

‘Certainly,’ broke in Percy. ‘In the part of India from which we come, we speak Tamil and Kanarese generally; and of course, English. But we all understand Hindustani.’

The old man smiled happily.

Then he queried, using Hindustani, ‘Tell me about yourselves and how come you to be here? Obviously you are strangers to these parts. Are you servants of the “sarkar” (government)?’

Othi thereupon launched into a sketchy account, and explained the circumstances of their presence at the ferry.

As he finished his talk, Seshagiri spotted the ferry-boat returning and said in obvious relief, speaking in English, ‘Thank goodness, the ferry is returning.’

Hearing him, Percy explained to the Sikh, ‘My friend is most anxious to continue our journey. He has heard stories about a famous dacoit named Man Singh who inhabits these parts, and is much afraid of meeting him. ’

Then he asked the old man, ‘Are these stories true? Have you seen this Man Singh at any time?’

Into the Sikh’s eyes sprang a merry twinkle. But he never answered the question. Instead, he asked another, addressing all three of them conjointly.

‘Tell me, Sahibs, are stories of this rascally dacoit really reaching as far as southern India?’

‘Oh yes,’ Seshagiri answered that one, ‘and to other parts of the world also. We often read accounts in the newspapers about his daring raids, and of how the police have been trying for years to catch him, but failed.’

‘What do people think of him in your part of the country?’ pursued the old Sikh. He appeared to be very interested.

‘Well,’ broke in Percy Rahu with a chuckle, ‘that depends on the people. Fellows like my friend there,’ he indicated Seshagiri with a nod of his head, ‘consider him to be a bloodthirsty murderer who kills on sight, and are mortally afraid. Personally, I should very much like to meet and speak with him. I don’t know what my other friend Othi here thinks, but you can ask him for yourself.’

‘Splendid fellow,’ put in Othi, jocularly, ‘a man after my own heart. I wish I could join him. I really mean that, you know. I would like to rob a few people.’

‘I wonder how sincere you are,’ mused the old fellow softly, in an undertone. With all that the others heard him and speculated in silence as to the reason for that remark.

In the meantime the ferry-boat had arrived.

They noticed that its construction was simple, consisting of a platform made of bamboos about twenty-five feet long and half as wide, super-imposed upon two ordinary river-boats, held parallel to each other by the platform itself.

The ferry could not be brought close to the shore, but was halted about twenty feet out in the river. The crew consisted of four men and a leader. Two of these men stuck long bamboo poles into the mud of the river bottom. The edge of the raft was allowed to come to rest against the poles which prevented it from floating down the river with the force of the current.

The leader jumped into the water and waded ashore. Then he walked towards the bus.

Othi and Ranjit Singh had stepped outside again. Othi addressed the leader of the raft’s crew, in Punjabi.

‘Friend, we are in a hurry and want to get to the other side as soon as possible. What is the charge for taking this bus across?’

‘Ten rupees,’ replied the leader, briefly.

‘Okay,’ agreed Othi, ‘now, what is to be done?’

The man gazed at the bus with a professional look, as if to gauge its bulk and weight. Then he said, ‘The ferry cannot be brought closer to shore. The water is too shallow and the boats will ground in the sand. You will have to drive your bus out into the river to where the ferry is. Don’t be afraid; the water is barely two feet deep.’

Meanwhile all the inmates of the bus had alighted and were standing by the riverside, assessing the situation.

‘How will the wheels climb on to the platform on the ferry?’ asked Othi.

‘We have taken many buses and lorries across before,’ said the leader, condescendingly. ‘I have two planks on board. We will wedge one end of each of them in the sand at the river bottom, and place the other end upon the raft. But do be careful to see all four of your wheels keep on the planks and don’t go off.’

So saying, he shouted to the other two raftsmen who had been squatting idly on board.

‘Oh fellers! bring the planks.’

Each of the men addressed stepped into one of the boats on which the raft’s platform was fixed and drew out a plank of wood. From where they were standing, they could see that each plank was about eight feet long, but less than eighteen inches wide.

The leader of the raftsmen paced off with his feet, toe to heel, the distance between the centres of the tyres on the front wheels of the bus. Then he waded across the water, stepped on to the platform on the raft, and carefully measured out the same distance again, heel to tow, marking the spot from where he had begun, and where he ended.

His assistants lifted the planks and shoved the ends into the water, taking care that the middle of the eighteen or so inches, representing the width of each plank, coincided with the places marked. That done, they stood on the planks in turn, to ensure the ends sank into the sand at the bottom of the river securely.

‘We are now ready’, announced the leader blandly, ‘the rest is your responsibility.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Othi, let the regular driver do the driving,’ counselled Percy Rahu, wisely. Then if he throws the blamed thing into the river, we won’t be responsible. If one of us handles it and anything misfires the driver is sure to say in headquarters, just as soon as he returns, that we didn’t let him do the driving. Then a hundred-and-one questions will be asked.’

Othi agreed, and called to the driver, ‘Sattar, you are the regular driver. So take charge of the vehicle and do your stuff.’

Sattar, the driver, looked at the bus and looked at the two narrow planks. Then he scratched his chin, dubiously.

‘Come along, man,’ said Othi, ‘let’s get a move on. Don’t be scared. It’s really quite simple. I could do it myself, in a jiffy.’

‘Then why don’t you, Sahib?’ asked the driver, pointedly.

‘Because you are the assigned driver, Sattar. Why should I take the responsibility,’ answered Othi, with a touch of annoyance in his voice.

Once again the driver studied the distance between the wheels of the bus and the narrow planks of wood facing him, leading on to the platform of the ferry.

Then he climbed into the driver’s seat.

He pressed the self-starter, allowed the engine to idle for a few moments, and then raced it. Letting it run slowly again, he depressed the clutch, engaged first gear, and revving the engine slightly, removed his foot gently from the clutch pedal .

Slowly the bus moved into the river and finally the front wheels reached the two planks. The spectators noticed the water was abreast of the footboards on both sides.

Then the front wheels began to climb the gradient of the two planks.

But the driver had given insufficient acceleration to the engine, which spluttered and came to a stop beneath the load. He declutched, and the front wheels rolled slowly backwards down the planks and into the water.

‘Accelerate more next time, Sattar,’ shouted Othi, ‘now try it again.’

Once more the driver started the engine and engaged first gear. Once again the front wheels climbed the plank. Then the engine cut out. The driver pressed the foot brake and held the bus in position.

‘Go on, race the engine. Don’t be afraid,’ advised Othi.

For the third time Sattar tried. But he was nervous and once again bungled it. On this occasion, in removing his foot from the brake pedal to the accelerator he wasted time. As he pressed the self-starter the front wheels rolled backwards into the water. The engine started, and stalled.

‘Damn it, man; what’s wrong with you?’ spluttered Othi. ‘Here, let me show you.’

Regardless of his shoes and socks he waded through the water, motioned to Sattar to move over, and climbed into the driver’s seat in his place.

Othi then started the engine, depressed the clutch, engaged first gear, raced the engine wickedly and let go the clutch.

The bus bounded forward with a jerk. The front wheels climbed the planks and came on to the floor of the raft. The rear wheels started to follow.

But in the various attempts that had been made, and with the front wheels moving back and forth, the plank to the right had gone askew. The right-hand rear wheel rolled off it and fell, with a mighty splash, into the water, dragging the left rear-wheel with it, which followed with a second splash .

The two front wheels of the bus now rested on the raft, while the two rear wheels were in the water. The uneven weight caused the nearer end of the raft to slightly submerge, while the further end was lifted clear above the surface.

‘Now you’ve done it,’ said Percy, unnecessarily.

Othi tried to start the engine which had once again cut out. But the end of the exhaust pipe was below the surface of the water, and the back-pressure so caused prevented it from starting.

He got out of the driver’s seat, scrambled over the front mudguard, and jumped on to the raft, from where he reviewed the situation.

After a minute he said, ‘Let’s replace the planks, boys, and try to push the damned bus up.’ They did that and pushed with might and main. But the weight of the bus was too great, combined with the gradient. They could not budge it an inch.

The time was exactly 5.30 p.m.

Othi spoke to the leader of the crew controlling the raft. ‘Is there no village nearby? Cannot you get some more people to help? I will pay you an extra ten rupees.’

That worthy smiled derisively. ‘The nearest village is seven miles away, Sahib. Besides it is too late now, and we must be getting home ourselves for nobody will stay out after dark in these parts. It is a dangerous area. Man Singh stays near here.’

And he laughed mirthlessly.

Percy thought he caught him exchanging glances with the old Sikh.

Then he went on to add, ‘Sahib, we will be back tomorrow morning and will bring some men with us. But it will cost you one hundred rupees to get your bus out of the river and not just ten rupees. And you must do it soon. Otherwise, it will cost you more; for you have immobilised our raft and we shall be losing business. Keep your one hundred rupees ready—that is, if you are all still here and alive in the morning and the money is still with you.’

At these words he, and his four companions, laughed meaningly.

Then they commenced wading through the water to the shore. ‘Come back you blackguards,’ called Othi after them, ‘let us try once again to push the bus on to the raft.’

‘There are not enough of us and it will require another dozen people to do that,’ returned the leader, ‘besides, as I have just told you, it will be dark soon and we dare not be abroad at that time. Keep a careful watch during the night, Sahibs,’ he added, addressirig all of them, ‘and take my advice—stay awake! That is most essential.’

Once again the whole company of them tittered and then commenced walking away. Only old Ranjit Singh, the Sikh, remained.

The six men who had come in the bus looked at each other blankly.

‘I do not advise you to remain in the bus at night, Sahibs.’

It was the voice of the old Sikh speaking.

‘There are many dangers. For one thing, the river may rise suddenly and you will be drowned. Apart from that, there are other dangers, too.’ His voice trailed to an end.

‘What dangers?’ queried Othi, deliberately.

Ranjit Singh just smiled an enigmatic smile, but did not answer.

‘Are you referring to Man Singh and his bandits?’ asked Seshagiri, nervously.

‘Maybe to his bandits,’ answered the old man, vaguely. Then he chuckled aloud.

What the devil is he driving at, mused Seshagiri, in an abstracted fashion.

‘If you will be gracious enough to accept the shelter of my poor hut for this one night, Sahibs, and such food as my miserable hospitality is able to bestow, you will at least be safe. Tomorrow will see you on your way. It is but one mile from here,’ he added apologetically.

‘Percy! Othi!’ interrupted the frightened Seshagiri, in English, ‘for God’s sake let us accept. It is far too dangerous to spend the night in the open in this awful place.’

So they wrapped up their bedrolls, and each of the six of them, carrying his own suitcase, bedding and such other things as were left in the bus, started following the old man, who led the way walking downstream along the bank .

At least he was fairly correct as far as his estimate of distance was concerned, for they had gone just a mile when they saw a neem tree growing about two hundred yards from the water’s edge. Under the tree was a grass hut.

As they came closer, a man came out of the hut, which proved to be larger than they had first thought by looking at it from a distance. This individual was much younger, had piercing black eyes, rather a long, oval face and a medium-sized beard. He was tall and strappingly built, wore a turban like the Sikh and a similar type of trousers; but no coat. A long shirt hung outside his pants, reaching almost to his knees.

‘That is my servant,’ said Ranjit Singh by way of explanation. Then, addressing the man, he said, ‘Ganga, prepare some cha for the sahib and their attendants.’

‘It is already prepared, huzoor,’ answered the servant, promptly.

The hut was a rectangular affair, the roof of grass supported by a long bamboo held at either end by forked sticks, some ten feet high, planted in the ground. The roof itself sloped downwards on both sides. It appeared to be empty, except for a small steel trunk and some clothes bundled on top of the trunk, the lot being stored in a corner at the further end.

The newcomers also noticed that a smaller hut stood at the back. This had not been visible behind the larger construction up to now. From this second hut came the delicious smell of food being cooked.

‘Keep your samans (belongings) in that further corner, inside,’ invited the ancient. ‘Then you may go down to the river and wash; or bathe if you like. It is quite safe; there are no ‘mugger’ (crocodile) in this part of the river. After that, khanna (food) will be served. It is but poor fare, Sahibs,’ he apologised, ‘but such food as I have you are most welcome to share.’

‘Thank you very much, Singh-ji,’ returned Othi, ‘it is most kind of you. I really fear that we are putting you to a great deal of inconvenience, besides eating up your reserve store of food. Pray don’t bother. We have some tinned provisions with us that will serve the occasion and which we beg you to share. ’

Percy and Sesh joined in with their thanks.

‘It is very good of you, Sahibs,’ said their new friend, ‘but as long as you are the guests of Ranjit Singh, you must not refuse his hospitality.’

They could see that, if they persisted, it would cause the old man hurt, if not open offence. So they accepted with renewed thanks.

Just then the servant, Ganga, appeared from the hut at the rear, bearing a large kettle of tea and seven enamel mugs. He served his master first; then Othi, Seshagiri and Rahu; and lastly the bus driver and the two mechanics.

Greatly refreshed by the tea, the six of them took soap and towels and walked down to the river for a bath. Within half an hour they were back, and now another pleasant surprise awaited them.

A clean mat had been spread in front of the main hut. As it was rapidly growing dark, a lantern had been lighted and stood in the centre of this mat. Upon a large aluminium platter, to one side, had been heaped a pile of freshly-made chappatties—there must have been at last fifty of them; and beside the platter stood a large degchie (a deep aluminium utensil), containing something else. For a moment they did not know what it was, as the degchie was covered.

‘Please be seated, Sahibs,’ Ranjit Singh invited; and then, to his servant, ‘Ganga, spread another mat over there for the gentlemen’s attendants.’

The old man uncovered the degchie to reveal its contents—delicious looking, and delicious smelling, cauliflower and home-made cheese, made into a curry.

‘Here are plates,’ he offered, ‘but I am afraid you will have to eat with your hands. I have no spoons except the one large ladle for dishing out the curry. And, please take as many chappatties as you want, sahibs. There are plenty more in the kitchen, at the back.’

The curry was delicious and the chappatties soft and fried to perfection. Nobody spoke for the next ten minutes, as they were too busy with the food spread before them. In spite of Seshagiri’s oft-repeated assertions that he would not eat anything that had not been prepared by a Brahmin like himself, he was so hungry that he ate heartily with the rest of his companions.

Meanwhile the servant, Ganga, served the driver and the two mechanics who had seated themselves upon the second mat he had spread for them.

Now and again the Sikh looked up and smiled a half-smile of contentment as he regarded with satisfaction the obvious relish with which his guests were consuming the curry and chappatties.

Fifteen minutes or so, later, they slowed down their eating. Almost all the curry was gone; and the chappatties, too. They had more than done justice to the meal.

Finally, with a bucket of water held in his hand a few feet away, Ganga beckoned to them. One by one they washed their hands as he sloshed the water over them.

Now that his stomach was full, Percy had been thinking, and the course of his thoughts apparently worned him a bit. Once or twice he made as if to speak to Ranjit Singh, but hesitated at the last moment. At last he came out with what was on his mind.

‘Tell me, Singh-ji,’ he asked innocently, speaking in Hindustani and addressing the old man, ‘how comes it that you appear to have so much food—and cha, too—ready on hand to serve, when there is just yourself and your servant here? Do you often have guests or people like us dropping in?’

Just for a fleeting instant his habitual half-smile died from the old Sikh’s face. But only for an instant. Then it was back again, as benign and as pleasant, as before.

‘No, Sahib; very rarely guests like yourselves. But frequently many buses and convoys of lorries pass this way and are held up because of the ferry. The drivers are hungry and come here to eat my food. Of course, I make a business of it then, by selling.’

Percy remembered that at the crossing-point the number of vehicle tracks showing in the soft sand had been comparatively few. Also the ferry crew had clearly said that remaining out after dark in this region was considered a highly dangerous undertaking and never done. Was their host deliberately lying? The traffic at the ferry-point was scarce; they had not seen a vehicle of any kind for the last hour.

‘I see, Ranjit-ji,’ broke in Othi, ‘then you must really permit us to pay you for the excellent fare you put before us and that we have enjoyed so heartily.’

The old man held up his hand in protest. ‘No, Sahib. This time you are my guests,’ he explained, ‘but perhaps if you pass this way again I might charge you with a little interest thrown in,’ and he laughed softly at what he considered a good joke.

After they had washed their hands, they sat down for some more tea.

Then from the steel trunk inside the hut the old man took a straight and much-blackened clay pipe, together with a small cloth bag filled with powdered tobacco. He loaded his pipe, lit it, and drew on it contentedly, exhaling a stream of blue smoke from his nostrils and lips.

He said to them, ‘Tell me some more about yourselves, Sahibs. Do you not work for the Government? Are you not the servants of the sarkar?’

Othi began speaking in Punjabi and told the old man all over again that they were employees of a private industrial organisation in the south of India, and had been entrusted to drive the bus to the new branch opened by the company at Srinagar.

Ranjit Singh seemed very interested in all Othi told him, and asked a great many questions as to what sort of work the company to which they belonged was doing in the south, what work they were doing, what was their pay and positions, and so forth. Othi answered his questions fully and was pleased that the Sikh was such an attentive listener.

Then the old man said, ‘A little while ago, while seated, in the bus by the riverside, you mentioned that this sahib,’ here indicating Seshagiri with the stem of his clay pipe, ‘was very afraid of the bandit, Man Singh. Why is that so? What rumours are circulating about him in southern India?’

Was it their imagination, or did his voice hold an aggrieved tone?

Percy heard the question and again began to ponder .

Othi answered with a laugh, slapping Sesh good-humouredly on his knee. ‘You see, Singh-ji, this friend of mine has never left his part of the country before. He is a voracious reader of the newspapers, which make out that this Man Singh is a cruel and bloodthirsty outlaw who murders everyone he sees for money. Naturally, when our bus fell in the river, he was afraid that this brigand might come at night and slit all our throats,’ and he chuckled.

But Ranjit Singh seemed far from amused. His smile faded and his face grew serious. There was a noticeably peculiar expression on it now. It was a look of resentment, mixed with sorrow; an aspect of apology, as of one striving greatly to be understood; a manifestation of hurt, struggling to give vent to its own excuses and wanting to offer its own explanations.

Seeing these changing expositions in the ancient’s eyes and face, Percy commenced to ponder more deeply than ever before.

Whatever thoughts came to his mind did not appear to be very satisfactory or comforting, though. For Percy glanced around him, and noticed the utter blackness of the night that had set in by now and began just outside the narrow circle of light cast by the feeble and flickering glow of the lantern on the mat.

Some minutes later, Seshagiri said, ‘It’s half-past nine and I am feeling sleepy. Do you mind if I turn in? But you chaps can continue talking. It won’t disturb me.’

Although he had so far given no indication of being able to understand or speak English, Ranjit Singh evidently guessed what had just been said. For he broke in, ‘If this gentleman, or all of you are tired, let us go to bed then.’

‘I think it is an excellent idea,’ said Othi, climbing to his feet.

They all got up. In the meantime, having finished their dinner, the bus driver and the two mechanics had curled themselves up on the other mat and were already fast asleep.

‘Sahibs, you must all sleep inside the hut. Yes, and your servants, too. I will sleep across the entrance and keep the lantern burning dimly outside. ’

Othi hesitated for a second. Then he said, ‘Singh-ji, I am afraid it will be frightfully hot inside at this time of the year. I think, if you don’t mind, I should prefer to sleep out here on this very mat. It will be cooler.’

The Sikh turned on him, rather impatiently it seemed. ‘Please do as I ask, Sahib; it is not safe for you to sleep outside. No, nor your servants either. They must also sleep inside the hut, along with the three of you. There is enough room.’

Momentarily, Othi felt like contesting the point. He did not want to be cooped up in the confines of a hut with five other human beings on a hot summer night like this one. But the old Sikh had already turned away apparently taking it for granted that he would be obeyed. He walked across to the three men sleeping on the other mat, and awoke each in turn by gently shaking his shoulder. As the three of them ‘sat up drowsily, he pointed with his right hand towards the large grass hut and said in Hindustani, ‘Un-dher chalo’ (get inside).

Obediently the three of them got up and came to the grass hut.

In the meanwhile Percy closed his hand over Othi’s left elbow and whispered into his ear, in English, ‘We have got to listen to him and sleep inside. I think I can guess the reason, but there is no time to tell you now. God knows if the old devil understands English or not.’

By this time Ranjit Singh was walking back. He laid down the mat on which they had just dined to one side of the rectangular hut, and indicated that the three of them should sleep upon it, their heads to the centre and feet towards the outside.

Then he told the bus driver to fetch the other mat on which they had just been sleeping. The driver obeyed him. Ranjit Singh said that it should be spread along the opposite side of the rectangular hut and instructed the three of them to sleep upon it, their head also towards the centre and feet to the outside.

In a very few minutes the six men had laid out their respective bedrolls on the two mats. They then lay down upon them in the positions the old man had pointed out. Percy was nearest the entrance to the hut, Seshagiri next to him, and Othi furthest away .

Meanwhile Ranjit Singh had spread his own simple bed across the entrance. Before lying down himself he lowered the wick of the lantern to a dim glow and placed it just outside the hut within his reach. As he settled down for the night he told them to sleep soundly without fear.

Percy was dog-tired and wanted, badly, to sleep. But he struggled against the feeling and strove to keep himself awake. Within a few minutes Othi, on the distant side, began to snore—a loud, gurgling sound with the exhalation of each breath; followed by a deep, rasping intake.

Sesh was breathing evenly, indicating that he, too, had fallen asleep.

One of the mechanics began to mutter in his slumber. No sound came from the other two men, or from Ranjit Singh at the doorway.

Percy began to think that he was grateful to Othi for the loud noise he was making. It would help to keep him awake. Because, at all costs, he at least should remain so. It would give rum a chance to warn the other two when danger eventually threatened.

For he was convinced above everything else that the six of them were in very real danger.

But tired Nature invariably asserts herself. At least she did so that night. After a vain struggle lasting for perhaps half an hour, Percy himself fell fast asleep.

He had no means of telling how long after that he suddenly woke up, or why. But he did; abruptly and very completely.

The lantern, which had been burning dimly at the entrance, had gone out and they were in Stygian darkness. Percy sensed there was somebody standing in the hut.

Then came a faint scratching sound and a match was struck. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, but contrived to keep the eyelids of his left eye ever so slightly apart to see what was going on.

And he saw the face of Ranjit Singh, with match held aloft above his head, peering at each of them in turn. Then the match went out.

This time, Percy made a better job of it at keeping awake, and remained so. There was no other sound from the Sikh. But he momentarily expected to feel the sharp blade of a knife stick into his chest, or perhaps its edge run across his throat. Involuntarily, he drew his chin inwards.

Quite some time after that, he did not know how long, Percy heard the deep, booming ‘Who—o—o’ of a homed owl calling some distance away. It hooted thrice and was silent.

Immediately it was answered by another owl. But this bird must have been very very close to the hut, mused young Rahu. Perhaps it was even seated on the top. Twice it hooted weirdly, dismally in reply, like a lost soul answering its mate. Then it was silent.

The minutes dragged by and Percy grew more and more nervous. A sixth sense kept pounding into his brain the message that they were in very great danger. He thought of awakening Seshagiri first, and then Othi; but considered that the noise they might make in getting up would surely give them all away.

Then he heard the faint whisper of voices speaking in a hushed undertone. It appeared to come from just outside the hut.

Percy turned his head ever so slowly, opened his eyes and strained to see out into the darkness. But he could make out nothing more than the faint outline of the entrance.

Two or three men were talking in whispers. He could hear their words. They were speaking in some language that he did not know. Punjabi perhaps; or maybe some other dialect. Of the six of them, Othi would be the only one who might understand what was being said.

But he was sleeping on the other side of Seshagiri, and he was snoring again.

Percy wondered what he should do. Then an idea came to him. Sitting up, on hands and knees he gently crossed over the slumbering Sesh and crouched down beside Othi.

Now came the problem of awakening him without causing him to make any sound.

Leaning forward on his right elbow, Percy blew air through pursed lips, gently but persistently, into Othi’s face .

The rhythm of Othi’s steady snore was broken. He gurgled and groaned. Then he turned on his right side, away from that annoying draught, and continued snoring.

Percy propped himself up on his knees, lent over the stout figure, and continued to blow air gently, but steadily, on the sleeper’s face. The snoring stopped; then started again. Othi gurgled and grumbled in his sleep.

Would this fat fool never wake up, Percy began to wonder, anxiously? Was he going to snore all night?

So he blew harder than ever before.

The snoring stopped abruptly.

Percy knew that Othi was awake at last.

Leaning over still further, Percy whispered very softly into his ear, ‘Othi, Othi; wake up and listen. There are voices whispering outside. What are they saying?’

‘Where? Who? Why is it so dark? Where are we?’ Although Othi also spoke in a whisper, his voice seemed inordinately loud. Clearly he was confused; and also afraid.

Re-assuringly, Percy pressed his arm; then whispered again, ‘Hush! Be very careful. Make no sound, whatever. Listen; what are they saying?’

Othi sat upright, so as to be able to hear better.

The voices were murmuring in Punjabi, and he could understand what was being said. He listened in silence for awhile.

Percy, who could not follow, was becoming increasingly anxious and impatient. At last he whispered, ‘For God’s sake; what are they saying?’

Othi whispered back, ‘Two men are questioning a third. They say they saw our bus at the river and were about to set fire to it because it looked to be a Government vehicle. Then they decided to consult the old man and so came here.’

‘Where is the old man?’ inquired Percy.

‘It is he who is talking to them. Keep quiet now, and let me listen.’

The whispering continued and Othi hearkened .

Then he breathed excitedly, ‘Percy, they are dacoits.

I just heard them say so. Wake up Sesh and our men. We must escape from here while the going is good. Hurry.’ Rahu turned and started blowing air against Seshagiri’s face to awaken him, as he had done to Othi.

Sesh did not awaken immediately. Then, quite unexpectedly, he said irritably and aloud, in English, ‘What the devil are you trying to do? Let me sleep.’

The whispering outside stopped immediately, and they heard approaching footsteps.

In a few seconds they made out the tall form of Ranjit Singh at the doorway. This time he shone the beam of an electric torch in their faces. He saw all three of them sitting up on the ground, and noticed Percy was now in another place.

‘So you are awake, Sahibs?’ he queried, an amused jilt in his voice, ‘and you have been listening no doubt, eh?’

They did not answer.

‘Sometimes it is very dangerous for one to hear things not intended for him to hear,’ he continued, seriously; ‘but it doesn’t matter this time. We will excuse you.’

Turning his head, he called out, ‘Oh, my brothers and children; our guests are wide awake. Would you like to speak to them?’

There was an unintelligible murmur from outside which they could not make out.

Ranjit Singh addressed them again, ‘Alright, Sahibs; bring your mat with you and come outside. It is cooler here and we shall talk.’

Without thinking of disobeying they walked outside, Seshagiri carrying the mat they had all been lying on.

The reflection from the stars, scintillating in myriads in the clear sky above them, cast a diffused glow over the entire scene. In that dim light they saw many figures standing around them.

‘Spread the mat and sit down, gentlemen,’ invited Ranjit Singh.

‘Well sirs,’ he went on, ‘one of you, earlier this evening, expressed fear of meeting the dacoits of this region. Another one of you said he would very much like to meet them. In fact, two of you said that. Those men’s wish has been granted. Around you,’ and here his voice assumed a dramatic touch, tinged with pride, ‘are all dacoits.’

‘And who are you?’ It was Sesh who blurted out the question.

‘I? Well, I am Man Singh, of course.’

There was a gasp of incredulous surprise from both Othi and Sesh. But Percy murmured, ‘I thought so. I might have known it all along.’

Man Singh addressed him seriously. ‘Young man, I had strong doubts about you from the beginning. From your demeanour, I know you suspected something. Then, when I came into the hut after midnight and struck a match to see if you were all asleep, I found you pretending to be so while peeping at me with one eye half-opened. Death stood very close to you at that moment, Sahib. I began to think you might be a police spy. Don’t do it again, young man. You might not be so lucky the next time. Remember, men do not sleep with one eye closed and one eye opened.

‘However, I have decided to spare your lives and let you go free, as I think you are all harmless and innocent. Also, I want you to do me a favour. I want you to take a personal message from me, and when you go back I want you to tell as many people as you can what I am now about to say to you. Tell it to the Government; tell it to big people; tell it to the newspapers; tell it to the poor; tell it to the rich; tell it far and wide.

‘In fact, give my message to the whole of India and to the whole world.’

Man Singh’s voice rose in crescendo and vibrated with earnestness.

‘Listen carefully, then. This is the message I am about to give you.

‘Man Singh Rathore, the dacoit, sends his greetings and this message to the Government and the people of India and to the people of the world.

‘He was an honest, upright man, coming from an honest family, till some wicked people besmirched his honour and disgraced his family. The law was powerless to punish the evil individual who had first accused this innocent man and dragged his family’s name into the dust. So I, Man Singh, who was that innocent man, punished that wrongdoer for the evil he had performed.

‘Because I destroyed him and his vagabond brood, the law calls me a murderer. Why did it not punish him for what he did? Then it would have been a just law. Now it is an unjust law; seeking only to protect the rich and powerful against the poor and weak.

‘I, Man Singh, am here to oppose this unjust law. I seek to help the poor and weak against the rich and powerful.

‘Was I such a bad man as people sometimes say, I could kill and rob all of you right now. I know you each have money with you. I could also burn your bus to ashes.

‘But I will not do it as you have harmed no one and I have no quarrel with you.

‘Tell the people of India when you go away from here, Sahibs, that Man Singh is a true son of India and brother of theirs. He loves the country and is proud of being an Indian; and he loves them, too. But he hates oppression and injustice in any form, whatever.

‘Therefore, Man Singh will continue to fight such oppression and injustice to the very end till he conquers them; or, maybe, till they conquer him; who knows?

‘That is my message, Sahibs; and I entrust the three of you, on your word of honour as gentlemen, to deliver it to India, and, through India, to the rest of the world.

‘At dawn today, before the crew of the raft returns, my men will put your bus on board. Rajah Man Singh Rathore, has spoken.’

And so it came to pass that, when the leader and the four members of the crew of the raft, accompanied by many other men from the village, turned up at about seven o’clock that morning, expecting to make at least one hundred rupees from the stranded strangers by pushing their bus on to the raft, they were petrified with amazement to find the work already accomplished and the bus safe and sound on board the raft, with all six of the men who had travelled in it sitting unconcernedly inside, smoking cigarettes .

Now would any of the six tell them how that miracle had been accomplished.

And they only received ten rupees for themselves, which was the normal fee for ferrying any bus or lorry across the river.

Othi and his two companions returned by air to their headquarters in the south after leaving the bus at Srinagar; the driver and the two mechanics travelling by the slower train route.

Once back, all six of them as might have been expected kept to their promise and gave wide propaganda to their adventure, and Man Singh’s personal message was repeated far and wide.

Most people did not believe them and felt their story was but an ingenious improvement on the usual fisherman’s yarn. Could it be possible that the notorious murderer Man Singh who had spent so many years of his lifetime slitting people’s jugulars, had not only spared them but had refrained from robbing them and well, in addition to feeding them and putting their vehicle safely on the ferry-boat? It was far too much to believe and should be taken with more than the proverbial pinch of salt!

But here and there, few and far between, people did believe them and the reputation for nobleness of Rajah Man Singh became enhanced.

And thus it came to pass that an American journalist, touring India in his private capacity, came to hear the story.

He did not know whether to credit it or not. So like most Yanks, he decided to do the common sense, plain thinking thing.

He made up his mind to first meet the men who had brought the story, and judge for himself whether they appeared to be reliable types of people or just obvious liars.

And he decided that, if he felt they were telling the truth, he would visit Man Singh if possible himself, and get the message at first hand from his lips to convey it himself to the people of the United States of America.

Thus he made it his business to trace the story to its origin and met Othi, Rahu and Seshagiri. All three of them assured him they had been speaking the plain truth, and produced the bus driver, Sattar, and the two mechanics who had been with them, as further evidence.

The journalist was satisfied. He waited just long enough to find out where all this had happened and what would be the shortest route to the ferry-crossing where the bus had been held up.

Let us hand it to this Yank for being a brave man. Bear in mind he was a total stranger to India and could not speak a single word of any dialect. Yet he proposed to call upon Man Singh at his own headquarters in the midst of the Chambal ravines.

Now Johnny Carter, which was the American’s name, had plenty of common sense and grit to make up for the handicaps of not knowing the people, country or language. Also, like all Yanks, he appeared to have a fair amount of money.

He hired three interpreters who could speak English, and through them came to learn all the current stories and rumours about Man Singh that were afloat, in order to find out all he could about the outlaw chief.

Thus it came to pass that, amongst other things, he found out that the bandit leader was easily accessible through his hundreds of spies, informers and secret agents, to all who sought him for good and sufficient reasons.

Next, he told his three assistants to go into the marketplaces of the towns in the area, and into the villages too, and spread his message to the dacoit leader among all the people.

‘Tell Rajah Man Singh Rathore that an American journalist craves audience with him. This American has heard and received the message the Rajah gave to the six men who came by bus and were stranded at the ferry, to give to the people of India. The American Sahib would hear it himself from the Rajah’s own lips so as to be able to deliver it with assurance to the millions of people in his own country of America far beyond the seas. For this purpose the American is prepared to entrust the Rajah with his life and to come alone and unarmed to whatever place the Rajah may bid him.’

Having sent out the message through his interpreters, John Carter camped in a certain Travellers’ Bungalow to await results.

These came on the third day. One of his interpreters brought the news.

He was highly excited. ‘Carter Sahib,’ he said, ‘last night there came a tapping at the window of the room in which I was sleeping. Wondering who it could be, I glanced at the clock. It showed one o’clock in the morning. I opened the window but saw nobody. Then from the darkness in front of me a voice said, ‘Tell the American Sahib that the Rajah has received his message and will gladly give him audience. If he is speaking the truth, not a hair of his head shall be harmed. If this is a police trap or he is lying, he will not see another sunrise. Tell him to start walking on the main road which leads to the town of Bhind at midnight tomorrow night. He is to tell nobody—not a single soul. The Rajah will find his own means of contacting the American. And there is one other thing. Should any ambush or trap be laid due to this message, both the American and you will be killed. That is the message of Rajah Man Singh Rathore.’

‘That is all, Carter Sahib. For God’s sake be careful and tell nobody else what I have said. If you do, we shall surely both be killed.’

Johnny smiled very happily. He would tell nobody. And he would certainly keep the appointment.

At midnight the following day he left the gates of the friendly Travellers’ Bungalow behind him. The road to Bhind passed directly in front of the building and led to the west.

So Johnny turned in that direction and walked onwards.

He walked for more than an hour and did not know how far he had come. As it was, the darkness was so intense that he had difficulty in keeping to the road itself. Had it not been for the trees growing on both sides he would have definitely strayed off it.

Suddenly things happened!

Without a sound or warning of any kind, John felt himself grabbed by two pairs of powerful arms, while a black cloth descended over his head.

This is it, he thought; and offered no resistance whatever.

More pairs of hands roped his arms behind him and his feet together. Then he was bodily lifted up and carried some distance.

Through the cloth over his head he thought he heard the neigh of a horse. He was right, for shortly afterwards the men who were carrying him lowered him to the ground and his feet were untied.

Then again they lifted him, but only long enough to guide his foot over the saddle of a horse. He felt the presence of a rider behind him. Strong arms encircled him from the back and took the reins. The horse started trotting at a slow canter. He could hear the hooves of other horses accompanying them, one on either side.

They rode for hours on end. Then the three horses were brought to a halt. John Carter was let down and led over the threshold of a building. Once inside, his arms were untied and the thin black bag removed from over his head.

He blinked his eyes and was surprised to find it was daylight. Two men, armed with double-barrelled shotguns stood at the door through which he had just entered.

Food was offered to him, and hot tea. Then a mat was brought, and he was motioned to lie down upon it and rest.

Despite the discomfort he had suffered for so long with the bag over his head and the ropes that had hurt his arms, John was well satisfied. His hopes were materializing. He fell asleep with that thought.

When night fell again the journey was continued. But by this time his captors had evidently come to believe that there was no trick in it, and that their prisoner was alone and unfollowed. They did not put the black bag over his head, but just blindfolded him with a towel. Nor did they tie his hands behind him .

Once again, with a man mounted behind him on the horse, John rode forward into the unknown.

Later in the night the horses were halted and he was taken down from the saddle. With hands holding his arms on either side to guide him, John was led forward.

They seemed to walk for hours and hours. The going was very rough and he tripped many times due to the cloth over his eyes, and would have fallen had not the arms on either side supported him. The terrain led continuously up and down. Carter began feeling exhausted.

Suddenly, out of the stillness, rang a challenging voice. The men around him answered something which of course Johnny could not understand. Then he was led forward again. He felt the chill of dawn and shivered a little.

At last that interminable walk came to an end. He heard the sound of voices and the hands holding his arms released him. He felt them fiddling at the knot of the cloth that had been used to blindfold him. Finally it was whisked away.

Before him stood a tall old man with abnormally high forehead, crowned with a tall turban. He had a flowing white beard, whiskers and a huge moustache. He was wearing a tight-fitting waistcoat of a maroon colour and white pants, made of silk, loose above the knee and very close-fitting below.

The old man bowed slightly, and salaamed in the fashion of the old days of regal India by raising his right hand and touching his forehead with his fingertips, palm turned inwards.

John Carter returned the greeting with a modern Indian ‘namaste’, by joining his two hands together before his face, palms and fingers touching each other, in the manner he had been taught to do.

‘Welcome to the humble abode of Man Singh,’ said the old man, in Hindustani.

But Johnny did not understand one word of what was being said. Instead, he looked interestedly at his surroundings.

Obviously they were in a cave of some sort, as the place was illumined by the light of four lanterns, suspended from the walls at different points. Besides Man Singh and the two men who had brought him, there were two others in the place. One of these latter carried a tommy gun in the crook of his arm. The other was a tall young man, unmistakably the old man’s son, as he had the same high forehead and steely, boring eyes.

Man Singh noticed that the white man did not understand his welcome, and then remembered that he was an American and therefore unlikely to be conversant with any Indian language.

He turned to the young man beside him, and said, ‘Tehsildar, my son, call Prithvi. He understands the white man’s tongue and can speak to the American sahib.’

The young man so addressed went out of the cave. In about ten minutes he was back again, accompanied by a short, very dark wiry man of about 35 years of age, with a hooked nose and only one eye. The left eye. He was clean shaven.

Man Singh addressed the newcomer and spoke for awhile. Then Prithvi in turn addressed Johnny in quaintly-worded English.

‘Maharaj Sahib, he say he very glad you come. You welcome. You eat something first; yes, no? Drink cha-tea? Then you tell Maharaj Sahib what you want, eh? Yes, no?’

John Carter was glad he could at last converse with the famous dacoit even if it was to be through an interpreter like the man who was now doing the talking. He said to Prithvi, ‘Please tell the Rajah Sahib I am mighty grateful he granted me an audience, and I am glad to be here. Tell him that I heard the message he sent to the people of India and to the world through those folk he helped in the bus that got all bogged-up in the river. If he will be good enough to give me that message directly, I shall be real proud and happy to carry it to my own people in the U.S.A., thousands of miles from here.’

Prithvi took some time to translate this message to his leader, but at last finished talking.

The handsome old brigand was obviously greatly flattered and pleased. And proud, too. ‘Tell the sahib,’ be said, ‘that today he shall be my guest. Let him rest first and feast with me. I shall show him my armoury and my treasure chest. Then tonight I shall deliver my message and send him safely back to the outer world. Also convey my apologies for the discomforts of the journey, but he will realise that I was compelled to take precautions.’

Prithvi interpreted all this to John in his quaint way. The American was touched. Spontaneously he held out his right hand to the dacoit leader. The old man took it between both of his and shook it warmly.

Then John was led through a passage in the wall of the cave which he had to negotiate bent almost double to an adjoining cave. Here food and water were served and he rested awhile on a carpet and silken pillows that had been provided for him.

At midday, more food was served. Prithvi appeared with it and said, ‘You come after eating to Rajah Sahib? He show you pretty jewels; plenty, plenty. Also ‘bundooks’ (firearms); he got plenty more.’ Then he ended with his characteristic, ‘Yes, no?’

John ate heartily of the dry fried meat that was served, along with many thin, freshly-cooked delicious chappatties, dripping in ghee. He was given a large tumbler ot goat’s milk after that, followed by a juicy watermelon. When he had finished eating and washed his hands, he stood up and announced he was eager to meet the dacoit-king again.

Prithvi led him along the same passage he had come by earlier and into the same cave where he had first met Man Singh.

The old bandit was there, but Carter noticed the man with the tommy gun had been changed. Also the son, Tehsildar, whom he had met the last time, was not present. In his place was a taller man, slightly older and having a pair of twinkling, jet-black eyes. He wore a black beard and a high, saffron-yellow turban.

Man Singh stretched out both his hands to shake John Carter’s right hand again. Then he introduced his companion, through Prithvi. ‘This is my beloved second son, Subedar Singh,’ adding in an undertone, ‘my eldest son, Jaswant Singh, was killed by the police years ago. ’

Subedar greeted John pleasantly, with a welcoming, sincere handshake.

‘I will show the American sahib my armoury first,’ announced Man Singh.

At a signal from him, his bodyguard stooped down and opened a trap door that was concealed under a sheepskin laid on the floor of the cave. Man Singh led the way; the bodyguard followed. Then Subedar Singh invited John to go next. He came immediately behind, with Prithvi bringing up the rear.

They descended six or seven steps cut in the earth, into a low, dark room lit by two lanterns, both suspended from the ceiling. John noticed that there were weapons all around him. Along the further side of the room were lines of wooden rifle-racks. Neatly arranged in them were rows of .393 army service rifles. Along the next wall was another rack. This held a miscellaneous collection of firearms of all description and vintage. There were some modern big-game double-barrelled rifles among them, including a Jeffries .470 cordite rifle and a .500 blackpowder express; many .12 bore shotguns, a couple of them made by such famous makers as Holland & Holland, and three by Greener. And there were some single-barrelled .12 bore and .16 shotguns, too. Along the third wall were arranged the muzzle-loaders; some fairly modern and others very ancient, flintlock weapons. In between these were revolvers and pistols of all makes, shapes and sizes. The last wall of the armoury boasted the cream of the collection. They were British Army-issue Sten guns and tommy guns, mixed with Japanese and Italian automatic weapons, obviously all relics of World War II.

‘Still further underground,’ indicated Man Singh through the interpreter, ‘are our hand-grenades, some bombs, and stores of gunpowder. But it is unsafe to go there just now with lighted lanterns.’

They reascended the earthern staircase to the cave above. Here Man Singh led John to a medium-sized iron safe standing by itself in a corner. He opened the door .

Against the back of the safe, bundled, tied and stacked closely together, were piles of one-hundred-rupee notes. How many such bundles there were he did not count.

In front of the stacks of notes stood a tin box.

Man Singh opened the box for John to gaze at its contents. There he saw gold watch-chains, diamond rings, and necklaces of gold set with emeralds, rubies and other, precious stones; women’s golden nose rings and earrings; and trinkets of all descriptions, large and small. Among the collection was a very valuable gold watch of obviously old European make. Man Singh took it out and held it up for John to see. Then he wound it and listened gleefully as it chimed prettily, and struck the hour.

When Man Singh had closed the safe, he turned to the American and said, through Prithvi, ‘Go back and rest now, sahib. Tonight you shall have dinner with me and a few guests. After that I will give you my message for your people and send you back, safely.’

That dinner was a memorable event. Man Singh sat John next to him on his left on the floor of the cave while his armed bodyguard stood behind. To the right of the chieftain sat Subedar Singh. To John’s left was Tehsildar Singh. There were also five others present whom Man Singh variously introduced as Nawab Singh his elder brother; and four of his lieutenants, Charna, Roopa, Lakhan Singh and Devi Singh. The last invitee to the banquet was the interpreter, Prithvi.

The meal consisted of several courses of well-cooked food, all entirely strange to the American journalist. To end the feast, a bottle of Exshaw Brandy was opened; and finished by them. Only Man Singh himself never touched a drop.

Finally came the closing enactment in the whole unusual drama. Man Singh delivered his message for John Carter to convey to the American people, to England and the world, and Prithvi interpreted it in his comical way.

But it is far too great and wonderful a message to be spoilt by repeating it in the way in which Prithvi said it, although he did his best as interpreter with the poor knowledge of English at his command. So, rather let us render it as Man Singh originally gave it in his own mother tongue, the dialect of Rajasthan.

‘To the President and the people of the United States of America; to the Sovereign and the People of England and the British Empire; and to the People of all the World; I, Rajah Man Singh Rathore, send by you, John Carter, my warmest greetings.

‘I am no thief or brigand by choice or by nature. Evil men made me so.

‘As the people of all your countries fought, and still fight, for that which is right, so do I fight now. I love my country, India; and I am proud of being one of her sons. I would not exchange this heritage for any other.

‘But I grieve over the evil that still happens here, just as it still happens in your lands. Tell all your people to join me in fighting against oppression of the poor in all its forms in all our lands, wherever such wicked practices may exist.

‘Only then will my country and your countries become great—and remain great—for all time!

‘Many of us will fall in this fight and lose our freedom and even our lives, for the forces of evil are widespread and powerful. But those who die for this cause shall live forever in the histories and memories of the peoples of their lands. Is not that worthwhile? Is it not the greatest reward a man could seek?

‘Speak this message aloud, John Carter. Write it in a book and send it to all the countries of the world. For then you will be serving a good cause, and a noble one. And may God be with you always.

‘I, Rajah Man Singh Rathore, have spoken.’

From the third finger of his right hand, Man Singh removed a gold ring, set with a single blood-red ruby. He handed it to John Carter directly, saying to Prithvi,

‘Tell the American Sahib to please accept it as a personal gift from me; to keep it and wear it, in remembrance of me. Tell him it is my own ring; not stolen from anyone.’

And the illustrious old man shook with laughter at his own joke .

John Carter began the journey back later that night. He was not bound this time, nor was the black bag put over his head. He was merely blindfolded. And it was done with his consent and in his own interest. For then he could truthfully answer the authorities that he did not know the way to Man Singh’s secret cave.

What happened thereafter is not known in India. But we sincerely hope John delivered the great message entrusted to him that day.

Perhaps, as he gazes at that gold ring and that blood-red ruby, his memory conjures up a picture of that grand old bewhiskered warrior, imbued with the solemn and noble principles of the cause for which he was prepared to lay down his life and become a martyr—Man Singh, the gentleman dacoit.