Without thinking, a flash of cunning in his eyes, Nawab lunged for the gun, but missed.
When the man went to pick up the bike, Nawab approached a step toward him.
The pharmacist seemed an immensely grave and important man, and Nawab spoke to him formally.
Finally, one evening at teatime, gauging the psychological moment, Nawab asked if he might say a word.
Lore has it that Lord Curzon refused and persuaded the Nawab of Junagadh to ban lion hunting.
Nawab locked his arms, fighting the bike as he flew over potholes, enjoying the pace, standing on the pegs.
Lying on the ground, at first Nawab thought the man had killed him.
Balancing against the weight behind him, which made driving along the rutted canal road difficult, Nawab pushed on, under the rosewood trees.
Dera Nawab Sahib is now a dead city, with its grandiose palaces and impressive fortresses, now lying vacant, decaying due to neglect.
The driver, doubtful of the whole affair, stood by while the father and son lifted Nawab and the motorcycle thief into the back.
Nawab had constructed a gear mechanism so that the antenna on the roof could be turned from inside the house to improve reception.
Strange business at this time of night, Nawab thought, the tail-light of the motorcycle casting a reddish glow around them on the ground.
His eyes adjusting to the dark, Nawab saw the man sucking at a cut on his palm, the gun held in his other hand.
Nawab fell to the ground, holding his groin with both hands, entirely surprised, shocked, as if the man had slapped him for no reason.
Nawab leaned the bike on its kickstand each evening and waited for his girls to come, all of them, around him, jumping on him.
Shouting that he would get some transport, he raced off, and Nawab winced, hearing the man, in his hurry, shifting without using the clutch.
At the start of the third morning I remember asking India's captain, the Nawab of Pataudi, if they were going to both bat with runners.
In the silence, a forgotten thought kept bothering Nawab, something important.
The royal ruler the Nawab of Junagadh, the princely state near Gir Forest, invited Lord Curzon, the viceroy of India, to hunt lions with him.
Nawab had been several times, and was treated as if he were honoring them, sitting with them and eating the salty rice flecked with bits of meat.
So it went, all morning and into the afternoon, Nawab trying one thing and then another, heating the pipes, cooling them, joining wires together, circumventing switches and fuses.
Panicked, Nawab skidded to a stop and jumped to one side, pushing the motorcycle away from him, so that it tipped over, knocking the robber to the ground.
Beginning the rounds of Nurpur Harouni on his itinerant mornings, summoned to a broken pump, Nawab and his bicycle bumped along, decorative plastic flowers swaying on wires sprouting from the frame.
The crops that year had been good, Harouni felt expansive in front of the fire, and so, much to the disgust of the farm managers, Nawab received a brand-new motorcycle, a Honda 70.
And all daughters, one after another after another, until finally the looked-for son arrived, leaving Nawab with a complete set of twelve girls, ranging from toddler to age eleven, and one odd piece.
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