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my father. ‘Hush!’ my father silenced me, ‘I have delivered all the five symbols to them and they are wearing them. Noora’s father is a saintly person and respects us. I wouldn’t want him to feel disgraced in public. May be he does not want to take part.’
    When my grandfather asked about the baptism of Badru and his family, my father managed to convince him that Badru had taken pork in his very presence. To allay any remaining doubts, father swore it solemnly and thus the whole of Badru’s family was also counted among the baptised.
    And where was the lie in it? That day when I had demanded the peacock feather from Rahmte she was wearing a yellow
duppatta
on her head and a steel bangle on her wrist. Her father Badru and her brother Noora too were wearing yellow scarves around their necks and steel bangles on their wrists. Both were performing the
namaaz.
They would not have dared to pray the Muslim way had there been a witness. But then the only person present was myself and I was his pupil. They knew well that I would not tell anyone in the village that they were praying the Muslim way. How could I, who till the third standard had done my sums with the help of Rahmte?
    It is still all so clear before my eyes, that day — Rahmte carrying the sheaf of fodder, Badru and Noora praying. The long
henna
-dyed beard of the holy man touched the ground as he bowed in prayer. His loose
lucknawi
shirt was a little dirty. I stood at some distance watching them all, when I heard sudden shouts of
‘Bole so nihal, sat sri akal.’
It was the Sikh cry and it sent us running for our lives in great terror. In the general panic Noora stumbled and fell on the ground. The running hoofs came to a stop and many a spear was jabbed viciously into his body. He lay there with his entrails hanging out. It was the last I saw of him.
    I looked at the riders in yellow and blue and stood there dazed. They had already closed in on Badru. The saint pleaded with folded hands flourishing his yellow scarf and the steel bangle on his wrist to show he was a Sikh. A Nihang Sikh with fox-tail moustaches, playfully struck the wrist which was raised to exhibit the bangle, and cut it clean from the elbow. When Badru raised his other hand in abject imploration, the tyrant struck that off too.
    â€˜Send this pig as well to Pakistan,’ someone shouted and ran towards me.
    Sending one to Pakistan was a common phrase for killing a Muslim.
    â€˜He’s a Sikh one, you fool,’ a voice checked him. It was the Nihang Sikh who had speared Noora.
    From his saddle he lifted me up and put me in his lap.
    I do not know what happened after that, for I lost consciousness.
    When I came to my senses next day I was lying in bed in the verandah. My mother’s eyes were red and swollen with crying.
    â€˜He’s saved, don’t you worry
.
It was only shock. He is just a child after all.’
Babaji
was talking to my mother.
    â€˜It was almost the end of him,’ my mother said wiping her tears and rubbing my limbs.
    â€˜What a dreadful shock for you, my son! God protect you, God bless you,’ she said wiping my face with her
duppatta
.
    â€˜Bless and be blessed afterwards, first give offerings to the Martyrs who saved his life,’ said
Babaji
and everyone agreed to this proposal. They started making preparations for the Martyrs.
    Chokingly, I told my mother about Noora’s death and asked her in a trembling voice if she knew anything about Rahmte. She told me in tears that Jaina and Rahmte were abducted by the crusading rioters along with other Muslim girls of the village. Many were murdered, about fifty of them. Whoever was seen with a new yellow scarf and bright steel bangle was killed.
    Meanwhile the whole of the village made ready to offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. Though it was a quiet evening, everyone was frightened. Baba Phuman Singh was absolutely stunned. He was almost out of his wits. Just a while