Some years later, in the middle of the Second World War, I was walking down the Silver Market of Old Delhi when I heard the sound of firing. Making my way towards it, I turned a corner and came upon a small crowd defying an even smaller band of English soldiers. An elderly man of the poorest class, dressed only in a loin cloth, broke away from the crowd and ran towards the soldiers. One of these pointed an automatic weapon towards him, but the man did not stop. He was shouting in a confused and hysterical manner and it seemed to me that he was not in possession of his senses; no doubt, as so often happens with Indians, the excitement and the previous shooting had loosened his grip upon his nerves. He ran on, full tilt towards the soldiers. The Englishman with the automatic weapon pressed the trigger and the Indian fell prone, jerking his legs in a fashion that was almost ludicrous and drumming with his fists on the ground. In a few moments he lay still, dead, with blood spouting from a series of wounds on his body. I noticed that the small of his back...