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race in London and then the whole world will know me. Then we shall be rich and I shall come back to the village. Only I must have a chance to go to London.’
    The following day she went back to the village, leaving her son.
    He stayed with the retired judge at the outskirts of the town. The judge and his friends played bridge in the afternoon and Boota sat alone outside on the verandah, lost in his thoughts. We had sent two letters, one to the Officer of Sports in Patiala and the other to the Maharaja, and we awaited their replies. Early in the morning Boota would run with his long wild strides to the Post Office to bring mail to the judge. Sometimes in the afternoon he would race to the market and fetch betel leaves, cigarettes, ice or lemons for the people who played cards. The number of those who gathered at the judge’s bungalow to see Boota dwindled. The aura of novelty about him disappeared. Three weeks passed. Boota felt as if months had rolled by.
    One day he said to me, ‘Sir, I know a man who was once in the court of the Maharaja of Patiala but now he is staying at Faridkot. He knows the Maharaja very well. If I go to him, he can easily introduce me. Then I can make my way.’
    A week later Boota left for Faridkot.
    After some time I heard that Boota had gone to Patiala. A long chain of references ultimately led him to the Maharaja’s aide-de-camp, who promised to arrange an interview with His Highness.
    Meanwhile the country was partitioned. I shifted to Delhi and lost touch with Boota.
    It was sometime in the middle of 1948, the time of the integration of States into the Union. Sardar Patel, the Deputy Prime Minister, was touring the country, negotiating with the Princes.
    I was in Patiala that day. There was a big procession. Sardar Patel and the Maharaja sat side-by-side in an open car. People in multi-coloured turbans lined the streets. In the crowd I caught a glimpse of Boota. He was watching the car move sedately behind the military band with its gleaming instruments and well-laced liveries.
    I asked him what had happened to his interview. He said, ‘Just now the Maharaja is busy with important affairs of State. When he is free, I shall have my interview.’
    I returned to Delhi and did not see Boota for two years. But I kept hearing bits of news about him. He waited at Patiala for his interview. Each time some urgent State matter occupied the attention of the Maharaja. The aide-de-camp asked Boota if he would like to take a job in Patiala instead of going back and forth to his village, wasting time and money. At the first opportunity he would be granted an interview and be sent to the Olympics. This appealed to Boota and he become a watchman in the Royal kitchen. His pay was like a stipend. He had little to do but sit on a small stool, yawn and bask in the sun or roam about in the garden.
    Once more his mother came to take him back to her village. But Boota, who had come to know the routine of life in the town, with its delays and red-tape, asked her to return, assuring her that all their troubles would end as soon as he got his chance to go to London. He gave the old woman his salary of the last three months. She tied it in the fold of her skirt and went back to the village.
    Boota stuck to his job. Often he felt tired of sitting. Unused to sedentary life, he would shoot off to the
bazaar
or to the market on the slightest pretext and wander about. Once he stayed off duty the whole day. The matter was reported to the manager of the household and then to the higher authorities. Boota was summoned, sharply rebuked, and threatened that if he left his post again, he would be summarily dismissed. Then there would be no possibility of his going to the athletic tournaments ever.
    It frightened Boota. He blinked his timid eyes and promised to behave more responsibly in future. After the warning he become punctual and cautious.
    A year later, I went to Patiala to appear as a witness in a