Yusuf Jafri clapped his hands sharply and a servant came in with a nicely wrapped box, carrying it on a silver tray. He presented the tray to Khan Haidari with a polite bow. Haidari took the box and placed it in his lap.
“Thank you. A gift was unnecessary. It was my duty to warn you. If you do not wish to take my advice...”
“I am certain that your advice was well intended, my brother. But I cannot run. Please open the gilt so that I may enjoy your appreciation.”
Haidari felt a sudden surge of friendliness for this generous man, but he stifled it quickly. There could be no friendship for a pie dog of a Moslem. “But that would be improper. I shall open it later.”
Yusuf Jafri smiled and said. “The times change. What was improper yesterday is a custom tomorrow. Please open it.”
Always Khan Haidari had the instincts of a greedy child about gifts. He started to unwrap the package carefully, wondering what could be in it. As the outer layer of paper was removed, he grew more excited, and his hands trembled. Yusuf Jafri was chatting away — something about having had another visitor. Inside the box was a layer of tissue paper. Khan Haidari lifted it and peered down into the box at two freshly severed hands of amazing fatness and odd blackness of hue. The house was silent, except for the distant buzzing of Yusuf Jafri’s voice.
Yusuf Jafri was saying softly, “...to express my thanks for your offer of quick death in the streets of Calcutta.”
Khan Haidari bounded up, screaming a curse remembered from his boyhood in Bangalore. At the door he met three of Yusuf Jafri’s servants — each one wearing the blind and sullen look of men who have been ordered to kill.