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became serious. ‘Didn’t you hear, Bauji?’ he said in his slightly nasal voice, ‘Gandhi announced the “Quit India” resolution last night in Bombay !’ The seriousness of this historic news was in complete contrast to the ironic tone of its messenger.
    ‘How do you know, boy?’
    ‘It was on the radio this morning,’ replied Karan as he placed his long, self-possessed hands on the back of Bauji’s chair. ‘We are not expected to cooperate with the British government—not until they give a commitment for the independence of India.’
    ‘No one is going to give Gandhi that kind of commitment—not in the middle of a war,’ burst out Bauji.
    There was a pause. Bauji looked into the mirror and saw the mysterious eyes smiling again with subdued irony. Meanwhile, the unmistakable nasal twang was a powerful signal to the rest of the house. Everyone came rushing downstairs.
    ‘But what does it
really
mean?’ asked Tara, who was the first to arrive. ‘What is going to happen?’ She looked up adoringly at Karan.
    ‘You are not mixed up in all this, are you my boy?’ interrupted Bhabo anxiously.
    Karan gave Bhabo a shy look, and turned his thin frame towards Tara. His light-hearted eyes became serious.
    ‘It means that we are not to cooperate with the police, the civil administration, and in fact the entire machinery of the British Raj.’
    ‘Oh, Gandhi’s usual stuff!’ remarked Tara cynically.
    ‘No Tara, this is different,’ said Karan and he smiled.
    At the mention of her name, Tara reddened visibly.
    The barber had finished shaving Bauji and was now massaging his face. Bauji sensed a subdued sensuality in the sultry air. He seemed to see his daughter with a fresh eye. She appeared to be visibly affected by the voluptuousness of the moment. Although no beauty, she was attractive enough. She had an arresting face, with a square jaw and a pointed chin. Her dark, spirited eyes were crowned by thick black eyelashes, and surrounded by jet black hair. The colour of her skin was what Bhabo’s matchmaking friends called ‘wheatish’.
    Her upper lip curved prettily on her fine oval face. Standing in a white and blue cotton sari under the shade of the mango tree beside her family, Tara presented an attractive picture. A closer look, however, revealed that the same dark brown eyes could be turbulent and resolute. She was tall and generously proportioned, he thought, glancing at her youthful rising bosom. Her smooth skin was framed by a mass of raven hair which fell down to her rounded hips. The immoderate atmosphere reminded him of the stranger in the burkha and it seemed to seduce him too. He felt envious of Karan’s youth and sorry for himself and his missed opportunities. His thoughts began to wander along a decidedly erotic direction, although without a specific object. He continued to watch the two excited people without fully taking in what was being said. The massage stopped and he was suddenly jolted back to reality.
    ‘The man is mad,’ said Bauji lunging forward and almost knocking down the barber. ‘To launch civil disobedience when the Japanese are at our doorstep!’
    ‘Bauji, can you blame him?’ said Karan. ‘Gandhi asks for so little: give us a promise of freedom after this war, and we shall help you in your war against fascism.’
    ‘But Churchill won’t even do that,’ added Tara, in support of Karan. She blushed again as she looked squarely at the handsome face of her cousin. There was no mistaking it, thought Bauji. He had an animal intuition of the current of desire flowing from his daughter to his nephew. He suddenly felt old and worried. He looked at the charming intruder, who went towards his daughter. He was relieved when he saw on Karan’s face only a grateful acknowledgement for her supportive remark.
    ‘Don’t you get mixed up in this stuff, boy!’ admonished Bhabo. The narrow, brown eyes smiled again as the nephew looked at his aunt with affectionate irony. He