There followed an illusionist January, a time so still on its surface that 1947 seemed not to have begun at all. (While, of course, in fact…) In which the Cabinet Mission old Pethick Lawrence, clever Cripps, military A. V. Alexander saw their scheme for the transfer of power fail. (But of course, in fact it would only be six months until…) In which the viceroy, Wavell, understood that he was finished, washed up, or in our own expressive word, funtoosh, (Which, of course, in fact only speeded things up, because it let in the last of the viceroys, who…) In which Mr Attlee seemed too busy deciding the future of Burma with Mr Aung Sam. (While, of course, in fact he was briefing the last viceroy, before announcing his appointment; the last viceroy to be was visiting the King and being granted plenipotentiary powers; so that soon, soon…) In which the Constituent Assembly stood self adjourned, without having settled on a Constitution. (But, of course, in fact Earl Mountbatten, the last viceroy, would be with us any day, with his inexorable ticktock, his soldiers knife that could cut subcontinents in three, and his wife who ate chicken breasts secretly behind a locked lavatory door.) And in the midst of the mirror like stillness through which it was impossible to see the great machineries grinding, my mother, the brand new Amina Sinai, who also looked still and unchanging although great things were happening beneath her skin, woke up one morning with a head buzzing with insomnia and a tongue thickly coated with unslept sleep and found herself saying aloud, without meaning to at all, Whats the sun doing here, Allah? Its come up in the wrong place.

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