'They
have ordered the 118th to go in its stead. That Regiment goes to Lucknow
in three months, unless they give a fresh order.'
'That is so,' said Wali Dad without a shade of doubt. 'Can you, with
your telegrams and your newspapers, do better? Always hearing and
telling some new thing,' he went on. 'My friend, has your God ever
smitten a European nation for gossiping in the bazars? India has
gossiped for centuries--always standing in the bazars until the soldiers
go by. Therefore--you are here today instead of starving in your own
country, and I am not a Muhammadan--I am a Product--a Demnition Product.
That also I owe to you and yours: that I cannot make an end to my
sentence without quoting from your authors.' He pulled at the _huqa_
and mourned, half feelingly, half in earnest, for the shattered hopes
of his youth. Wali Dad was always mourning over something or other--the
country of which he despaired, or the creed in which he had lost faith,
or the life of the English which he could by no means understand.
Lalun never mourned. She played little songs on the _sitar_, and to
hear her sing, '_O Peacock, cry again,_' was always a fresh pleasure.
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