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inflaming latent communal passions. He could not believe that they would sacrifice the Punjab as a price for gaining India’s independence. He was convinced that dreamers were dangerous and should not be allowed into the realm of public affairs.
    The next day was a holiday and the sun shone on a refreshed Bauji. He had just finished a glass of cold, frothy buttermilk, and he sat in the courtyard, feeling pleased with himself, waiting to be shaved. The barber had been especially summoned, not only because Bauji needed a shave but because Bhabo had insisted that his advice be taken on the marriage proposal. After all, her own marriage and that of her mother and grandmother had rested on the counsel of. the family barber who had also acted as a go-between. She was finding this manner of deciding her daughter’s future exceedingly irregular, especially since the groom’s parents were not even in the picture.
    Bauji looked in the barber’s mirror and saw the razor cleanly wipe the lather from his face in the luminous stillness of the morning—a calm which was periodically broken by the cry of a peacock in the distance. As he watched the sun’s rays fall at different angles on the gleaming razor, he could not bring himself to share his proposal with the barber; instead he let his mind wander pleasantly over recollections of his favourite daughter, Tara.
    He remembered the day she was born. He had wanted a son, and at first he would not pick her up. Bhabo had called him a stubborn fool: it was God’s will that they should have a daughter and they should rejoice in His will. Gradually he got used to her. Even as a child, she had a restless will to succeed which was similar to his. She thought for herself and she acted quickly, but always with a clear sense of purpose.
    When she was seven, he recalled that her teacher had asked Tara to bring her buttermilk at midday. Since they lived close by Tara was initially happy to bring a jugful of Bhabo’s creamiest. It pleased her that her teacher really enjoyed it. Soon she realized, however, that something was wrong. The teacher began to take the buttermilk for granted, and even scolded her if it wasn’t sufficiently creamy or cold. Tara also felt guilty, even though the other girls didn’t say anything. Abruptly one day she stopped bringing the buttermilk. When questioned by the teacher, Tara replied that she wasn’t going to bring it anymore. Initially she suffered for this, but eventually the teacher understood that Tara had a mind of her own.
    Bauji smiled at the picture of his seven-year-old Tara standing up to her primary school teacher. His agreeable meandering came to a sudden end as he looked up in the barber’s mirror and noticed a handsome, confident and triangular face. It belonged to his nephew, Karan. He did not turn around but pretended to concentrate on the razor’s movement in the sensitive area between the chin and the lips. He knew that his solitary communion with the lather was over as Karan’s arrival was always an event, especially amongst the women in the house.
    ‘Shh. . . .’, said Karan putting his finger on his lips, ‘an eminent barrister of Lyallpur was seen turning his tonga around at the corner of Kacheri Bazaar two days ago in pursuit of a dubious objective.’
    Bauji noticed the sparkling brown eyes reflected in his mirror and the naughty smile, and he realized why this young man was so attractive to women. But he was clearly taking liberties with his uncle today.
    ‘Really, I wonder who it was,’ said Bauji innocently.
    ‘That shouldn’t be difficult to find out. I should say that he was tall and well built, with greying hair; he sported a smart moustache, and. . . .’
    ‘Enough, you insolent wretch! Don’t you have anything better to do?’ This was too much. Bauji felt that he should be offended, but he could not bring himself to be angry at this elegant and confident youth, who was a favourite of the entire household.
    Karan