A day to remember

, chug, chug, chug went our tourer, merrily
down the road from Agra to Jhansi. Chug, chug, chug,
chug! The hood was down to keep out the chill Decem-
ber wind. The blinds were drawn. Within—sat our
family: father, mother and we three sisters. At the 
wheel was Diler Singh, our old and trusted driver.

He had been with us for years and we all liked him. 
It was early in the morning and a thin mist hung in
the air. The roads were deserted. "We're in good time," 
said my father. "If all goes well, we should be in Jhansi
by six in the evening." Perhaps I was the only one to 
notice it, but at these words Diler Singh bowed his
head and his lips seemed to move in prayer. 

Soon we had left the town far behind and moved
into a world of wheat fields and clear blue skies. 
Villages rolled past. So did the bunches of children who
stood by to watch us go. Chug, chug, chug, chug said 
the tourer as it raced the birds overhead. Chug, chug,
chug, chug as the wind whistled through the trees. We 
clapped our hands in glee. It was a beautiful day and
we were off" to Jhansi to spend a glorious week with
one of our uncles. What could be better? 

At midday, we pulled up by a mustard field, dotted
with yellow. Here we unpacked our lunch and feasted
on puri-alu. Mother and father had some tea. They 
gave a cup to Diler Singh too. He sipped it thoughtfully
as he sat under a clump of babul trees. Presently
he stood up. "Sahib," he said to my father,
"I think we shouldbe on our way. This road is not safe after dark."

His words rang like a warning bell. All of us piled
into the car quickly and this time Diler Singh drove a
bit faster. We caught a glimpse of the giant fortress of
Gwalior as we raced through the streets. 

Two o'clock, said my father's wrist watch. Soon we
were out of Gwalior and on our way to Shivpuri. The
houses thinned out and on both sides of the road, the
jungle took over. The ground was covered with a kind
of red clay that blew in great clouds under the wheels
of the tourer. The same dust had coated the trees and
they looked strange—half green, half red. I think we
weie passing through a particularly dense bit of jungle
when the first tyre got punctured. 

Diler Singh worked at lightning speed to fix it. But
the second punctuie took longer because it was more
like a burst tyre and we had to wait at a wayside shop
for the tube to be repaired. 

Once again the tourer was on its way, though we
had lost valuable time. The sun no longei shone bright
on the roads and the chilly wind told us that evening
was approaching. The landscape changed too. The

plains gave way to hillocks covered with boulders. 

The lush green trees were replaced by thorny bushes and

clumps of grass. Very often we looked into the mouth

of a ravine that dipped and rose, dipped and rose

again. There were no villages in sight and for miles and

miles, we did not see a soul. 

We turned a bend and suddenly found the road

blocked by a huge pile of boulders. Before we had time

to think, there was a wild shout from somewhere to the 

left of the car. A man came running and leapt on to the

footboard. "Not that way," he ordered, "the road is

under repair." On his instructions Diler Singh turned

the tourer sharply to the left and began to drive down a

mud-track leading away from the main road. 

The man on the footboard was about six feet tall

and very dark, with gold ear-rings and a harelip. His

hands were like claws. I saw Diler Singh draw a deep

breath. At the same time my father slipped his pistol

out of his pocket. It was wrapped in a white napkin,

but the triangular shape was unmistakable. 

A five-minute drive brought us to a wide stretch of

sand and pebbles, at the far end of which we could just

about make out a thin stream of water. "A dried-up

river-bed," said my father. "I only hope the sand isn't

deep." But it was. All of us got out of the car to

lighten the burden, but still the wheels kept churning

the sand. And finally we fell to pushing the car. There

were two men grazing a herd of goats, who helped us. 

But the man with the harelip stood aside. Soon some

fierce-looking men joined him. They stood talking in

groups and, young as I was, I felt a chill run down my

spine just looking at them. 

When we reached the stream, the sun had already

dipped below the trees. Diler Singh whispered to my

father, "Sahib, all of you must get in quickly. I shall

race the car through the stream. It's now or never!" 

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain later. Just get in."

Diler Singh leapt into the driver's seat and pressed 

the accelerator. The car shot like a bullet through the

water, sprays flying. We reached the other bank and

climbed up to safety. 

"Ah," said Diler Singh slowing down, "now you

can turn round and look." 

We did so, but the scene behind us had changed

completely. We saw a sheet of water where there had

been a shallow stream. 

"What on earth... ?" began my father.

"Ah, it's a long story," said Diler Singh. "This area 

is full of dacoits. From time to time they erect roadblocks

and force vehicles on to this river-bed.

While the vehicles struggle with the sand and boulders,

 the dacoits simply look on. They always

wait till evening before mounting an attack."

"But why?" we all asked together.

"There is a barrage upstream," said Diler Singh. 

"Every evening, at about six, it releases a vast quantity

of water for irrigation, making this stream impossible

to cross. The vehicles are trapped and that's when the

dacoits get down to work." 

There was a shocked silence before my father found

his voice. "How did you know about it?" 

"I have seen it happen," said Diler Singh. "I was

brought up in a village not far from this place."