Chapter 2-

The young man was relieved that the other had not gone on with his first question. He did not have to say what Iqbal he was. He could be a Muslim, Iqbal Mohammed. He could be a Hindu, Iqbal Chand, or a Sikh, Iqbal Singh. It was one of the few names common to the three communities. In a Sikh village, an Iqbal Singh would no doubt get a better deal, even if his hair was shorn and his beard shaved, than an Iqbal Mohammed or an Iqbal Chand. He himself had few religious feelings.

'I am a social worker, Bhaiji. There is much to be done in our villages. Now with this partition there is so much bloodshed going on, someone must do something to stop it. My party has sent me here, since this place is a vital point for refugee movements. Trouble here would be disastrous.'

The bhai did not seem interested in Iqbal's occupation.

'Where are you from, Iqbal Singhji?'

Iqbal knew that meant his ancestors and not himself.

'I belong to district Jhelum-now in Pakistan-but I have been in foreign countries a long time. It is after seeing the world that one feels how backward we are and one wants to do things about it. So I do social work.'

'How much do they pay you?'

Iqbal had learned not to resent these questions.

'I don't get paid very much. Just my expenses.'

'Do they pay the expenses of your wife and children also?'

'No, Bhaiji. I am not married. I really ...'

'How old are you?'

'Twenty-seven. Tell me, do other social workers come to this village?' Iqbal decided to ask questions to stop Meet Singh's interrogation.

'Sometimes the American padres come.'

'Do you like their preaching Christianity in your village?'

'Everyone is welcome to his religion. Here next door is a Muslim mosque.

When I pray to my Guru, Uncle Imam Baksh calls to Allah. How many religions do they have in Europe?'

"They are all Christians of one kind or other. They do not quarrel about their religions as we do here. They do not really bother very much about religion.'

'So I have heard,' said Meet Singh ponderously. 'That is why they have no morals. The sahibs and their wives go about with other sahibs and their wives. That is not good, is it?'

'But they do not tell lies like we do and they are not corrupt and dishonest as so many of us are,' answered Iqbal. He got out his tin opener and opened the tin of sardines. He spread the fish on a biscuit and continued to talk while he ate.

'Morality, Meet Singhji, is a matter of money. Poor people cannot afford to have morals. So they have religion. Our first problem is to get people more food, clothing, comfort. That can only be done by stopping exploitation by the rich, and abolishing landlords. And that can only be done by changing the government.'

Meet Singh, with disgusted fascination, watched the young man eating fish complete with head, eyes and tail. He did not pay much attention to the lecture on rural indebtedness, the average national income, and capitalist exploitation which the other poured forth with flakes of dry biscuits. When Iqbal had finished eating Meet Singh got up and brought him a tumbler of water from his pitcher. Iqbal did not stop talking. He only raised his voice when the bhai went out.

Iqbal produced a little packet of cellophane paper from his pocket, took a white pill from it and dropped it in the tumbler. He had seen Meet Singh's thumb, with its black crescent of dirt under the nail, dipping into the water. In any case it was out of a well which could never have been chlorinated.

'Are you ill?' asked the old man, seeing the other wait for the pill to dissolve.

'No, it helps me to digest my food. We city-dwellers need this sort of thing after meals.'

Iqbal resumed his speech. 'To add to it all,' he continued, 'there is the police system which, instead of safeguarding the citizen, maltreats him and lives on corruption and bribery. You know all about that, I am sure.'

The old man nodded his head in agreement. Before he could comment, the young man spoke again. 'A party of policemen with an inspector came over on the same train with me. They will no doubt eat up all the chickens, the inspector will make a little money in bribes, and they will move on to the next village. One would think they had nothing else to do but fleece people.' Reference to the police awakened the old man from his absent-minded listening. 'So the police have come after all. I must go and see what they are doing. They must be at the moneylender's house. He was murdered last night, just across from the gurdwara. The dacoits took a lot of cash and they say over five thousand rupees in silver and gold ornaments from his women.'

Meet Singh realized the interest he had created and slowly got up, repeating, 'I should be going. All the village will be there. They will be taking the corpse for medical examination. If a man is killed he cannot be cremated till the doctor certifies him dead.' The old man gave a wry smile.

'A murder! Why, why was he murdered?' stammered Iqbal, somewhat bewildered. He was surprised that Meet Singh had not mentioned the murder of a next-door neighbour all this time. 'Was it communal? Is it all right for me to be here? I do not suppose I can do much if the village is all excited about a murder.'

'Why, Babu Sahib, you have come to stop killing and you are upset by one murder?' asked Meet Singh, smiling. 'I thought you had come to stop such things, Babu Sahib. But you are quite safe in Mano Majra,' he added. 'Dacoits do not come to the same village more than once a year. There will be another dacoity in another village in a few days and people will forget about this one. We can have a meeting here one night after the evening prayer and you can tell them all you want. You had better rest. I will come back and tell you what happens.'

The old man hobbled out of the courtyard. Iqbal collected the empty tin, his knife and fork and tin plate, and took them to the well to wash.

In the afternoon, Iqbal stretched himself on the coarse string charpai and tried to get some sleep. He had spent the night sitting on his bedroll in a crowded third-class compartment. Every time he had dozed off, the train had come to a halt at some wayside station and the door was forced open and more peasants poured in with their wives, bedding and tin trunks. Some child sleeping in its mother's lap would start howling till its wails were smothered by a breast thrust into its mouth. The shouting and clamour would continue until long after the train had left the station. The same thing was repeated again and again, till the compartment meant for fifty had almost two hundred people in it, sitting on the floor, on seats, on luggage racks, on trunks, on bedrolls, and on each other, or standing in the corners. There were dozens outside perched precariously on footboards, holding onto the door handles. There were several people on the roof. The heat and smell were oppressive. Tempers were frayed and every few minutes an argument would start because someone had spread himself out too much or had trod on another's foot on his way to the lavatory. The argument would be joined on either side by friends or relatives and then by all the others trying to patch it up. Iqbal had tried to read in the dim light speckled with shadows of moths that fluttered round the globe. He had hardly read a paragraph before his neighbour had observed:

'You are reading.'

'Yes, I am reading.'

'What are you reading?'

'A book.'

It had not worked. The man had simply taken the book out of Iqbal's hand and turned over its pages.

'English.'

'You must be educated.'

Iqbal did not comment.

The book had gone round the compartment for scrutiny. They had all looked at him. He was educated, therefore belonged to a different class. He was a babu.

'What honourable noun does your honour bear?'

'My name is Iqbal.'

'May your Iqbal [fame] ever increase.'

The man had obviously taken him to be a Muslim. Just as well. All the passengers appeared to be Muslims on their way to Pakistan.

'Where does your wealth reside, Babu Sahib?'

'My poor home is in Jhelum district,' Iqbal had answered without irritation.

The answer confirmed the likelihood of his being Muslim: Jhelum was in Pakistan.

Thereafter other passengers had joined in the cross-examination. Iqbal had to tell them what he did, what his source of income was, how much he was worth, where he had studied, why he had not married, all the illnesses he had ever suffered from. They had discussed their own domestic problems and diseases and had sought his advice. Did Iqbal know of any secret prescriptions or herbs that the English used when they were 'run down'? Iqbal had given up the attempt to sleep or read. They had kept up the conversation till the early hours of the morning. He would have described the journey as insufferable except that the limits to which human endurance could be stretched in India made the word meaningless. He got off at Mano Majra with a sigh of relief. He could breathe the fresh air. He was looking forward to a long siesta.

But sleep would not come to Iqbal. There was no ventilation in the room. It had a musty earthy smell. A pile of clothes in the corner stank of stale clarified butter, and there were flies buzzing all round. Iqbal spread a handkerchief on his face. He could hardly breathe. With all that, just as he had managed to doze off, Meet Singh came in exclaiming philosophically:

'Robbing a fellow villager is like stealing from one's mother. Iqbal Singhji, this is Kalyug the dark age. Have you ever heard of dacoits looting their neighbour's homes? Now all morality has left the world.'

Iqbal removed the handkerchief from his face.

'What has happened?'

'What has happened?' repeated Meet Singh, feigning surprise. 'Ask me what has not happened! The police sent for Jugga-Jugga is a badmash number ten [from the number of the police register in which names of bad characters are listed]. But Jugga had run away, absconded, Also, some of the loot-a bag of bangles was found in his courtyard. So we know who did it. This is not the first murder he has committed he has it in his blood. His father and grandfather were also dacoits and were hanged for murder. But they never robbed their own village folk. As a matter of fact, when they were at home, no dacoit dared come to Mano Majra. Juggut Singh has disgraced his family.'

Iqbal sat up rubbing his forehead. His countrymen's code of morals had always puzzled him, with his anglicized way of looking at things. The Punjabi's code was even more baffling. For them truth, honour, financial integrity were 'all right', but these were placed lower down the scale of values than being true to one's salt, to one's friends and fellow villagers. For friends you could lie in court or cheat, and no one would blame you. On the contrary, you became a nar admi-a he-man who had defied authority (magistrates and police) and religion (oath on the scripture) but proved true to friendship. It was the projection of rural society where everyone in the village was a relation and loyalty to the village was the supreme test. What bothered Meet Singh, a priest, was not that Jugga had committed murder but that his hands were soiled with the blood of a fellow villager. If Jugga had done the same thing in the neighbouring village, Meet Singh would gladly have appeared in his defence and sworn on the holy Granth that Jugga had been praying in the gurdwara at the time of the murder. Iqbal had wearied of talking to people like Meet Singh. They did not understand. He had come to the conclusion that he did not belong.

Meet Singh was disappointed that he had failed to arouse Iqbal's interest.

'You have seen the world and read many books, but take it from me that a snake can cast its slough but not its poison. This saying is worth a hundred thousand rupees.'

Iqbal did not register appreciation of the valuable saying. Meet Singh explained: 'Jugga had been going straight for some time. He ploughed his land and looked after his cattle. He never left the village, and reported himself to the lambardar every day. But how long can a snake keep straight? There is crime in his blood.'

'There is no crime in anyone's blood any more than there is goodness in the blood of others,' answered Iqbal waking up. This was one of his pet theories.

'Does anyone ever bother to find out why people steal and rob and kill? No! They put them in jail or hang them. It is easier. If the fear of the gallows or the cell had stopped people from killing or stealing, there would be no murdering or stealing. It does not. They hang a man every day in this province. Yet ten get murdered every twenty-four hours. No, Bhaiji, criminals are not born. They are made by hunger, want and injustice.'

Iqbal felt a little silly for coming out with these platitudes. He must check this habit of turning a conversation into a sermon. He returned to the subject.

'I suppose they will get Jugga easily if he is such a well-known character.'

'Jugga cannot go very far. He can be recognized from a kos. He is an arm's length taller than anyone else. The Deputy sahib has already sent orders to all police stations to keep a lookout for Jugga.'

'Who is the Deputy sahib?' asked Iqbal.

'You do not know the Deputy?' Meet Singh was surprised. 'It's HukumChand. He is staying at the dak bungalow north of the bridge. Now Hukum Chand is a nar admi. He started as a foot-constable and see where he is now! He always kept the sahibs pleased and they gave him one promotion after another. The last one gave him his own place and made him Deputy. Yes, Iqbal Singhji, Hukum Chand is a nar admi-and clever. He is true to his friends and always gets things done for them. He has had dozens of relatives given good jobs. He is one of a hundred. Nothing counterfeit about Hukum Chand.'

'Is he a friend of yours?'

'Friend? No, no,' protested Meet Singh. 'I am a humble bhai of the gurdwara and he is an emperor. He is the government and we are his subjects. If he comes to Mano Majra, you will see him.'

There was a pause in the conversation. Iqbal slipped his feet into his sandals and stood up.

'I must take a walk. Which way do you suggest I should go?'

'Go in any direction you like. It is all the same open country. Go to the river. You will see the trains coming and going. If you cross the railroad track you will see the dak bungalow. Don't be too late. These are bad times and it is best to be indoors before dark. Besides, I have told the lambardar and Uncle Imam Baksh he is mullah of the mosque-that you are here. They may be coming in to talk to you.'

'No, I won't be late.'

Iqbal stepped out of the gurdwara. There was no sign of activity now. The police had apparently finished investigating. Half a dozen constables lay sprawled on charpais under the peepul tree. The door of Ram Lal's house was open. Some villagers sat on the floor in the courtyard. A woman wailed in a singsong which ended up in convulsions of crying in which other women joined. It was hot and still. The sun blazed on the mud walls.

Iqbal walked in the shade of the wall of the gurdwara. Children had relieved themselves all along it. Men had used it as a urinal.A mangy bitch lay on her side with a litter of eight skinny pups yapping and tugging at her sagging udders.

The lane ended abruptly at the village pond a small patch of muddy water full of buffaloes with their heads sticking out.

A footpath skirted the pond and went along a dry watercourse through the wheat fields towards the river. Iqbal went along the watercourse watching his steps carefully. He reached the riverside just as the express from Lahore came up on the bridge. He watched its progress through the criss-cross of steel. Like all the trains, it was full. From the roof, legs dangled down the sides onto the doors and windows. The doors and windows were jammed with heads and arms. There were people on buffers between the bogies. The two on the buffers on the tail end of the train were merrily kicking their legs and gesticulating. The train picked up speed after crossing the bridge. The engine driver started blowing the whistle and continued blowing till he had passed Mano Majra station. It was an expression of relief that they were out of Pakistan and into India.

Iqbal went up the riverbank towards the bridge. He was planning to go under it towards the dak bungalow when he noticed a Sikh soldier watching him from the sentry box at the end of the bridge. Iqbal changed his mind and walked boldly up to the rail embankment and turned towards Mano Majra station. The manoeuvre allayed the sentry's suspicion. Iqbal went a hundred yards up and then casually sat down on the railway line.

The passing express had woken Mano Majra from its late siesta. Boys threw stones at the buffaloes in the pond and drove them home. Groups of women went out in the fields and scattered themselves behind the bushes. A bullock cart carrying Ram Lal's corpse left the village and went towards the station. It was guarded by policemen. Several villagers went a little distance with it and then returned along with the relatives.

Iqbal stood up and looked all round. From the railway station to the roof of the rest house showing above the plumes of pampas, from the bridge to the village and back to the railway station, the whole place was littered with men, women, children, cattle, and dogs. There were kites wheeling high up in the sky, long lines of crows were flying from somewhere to somewhere, and millions of sparrows twittered about the trees. Where in India could one find a place which did not teem with life? Iqbal thought of his first reaction on reaching Bombay. Milling crowds-millions of them on the quayside, in the streets, on railway platforms; even at night the pavements were full of people. The whole country was like an overcrowded room. What could you expect when the population went up by six every minute-five million every year! It made all planning in industry or agriculture a mockery. Why not spend the same amount of effort in checking the increase in population? But how could you, in the land of the Kama Sutra, the home of phallic worship and the son cult?

Iqbal was woken from his angry daydreaming by a shimmering sound along the steel wires which ran parallel to the railway lines. The signal above the sentry's box near the bridge came down. Iqbal stood up and brushed his clothes. The sun had gone down beyond the river. The russet sky turned grey as shades of twilight spread across the plain. A new moon looking like a finely pared fingernail appeared beside the evening star. The muezzin's call to prayer rose above the rumble of the approaching train.

Iqbal found his way back easily. All lanes met in the temple-mosque- moneylender's house triangle with the peepul tree in the centre. Sounds of wailing still came from Ram Lal's house. In the mosque, a dozen men stood in two rows silently going through their genuflections. In the gurdwara, Meet Singh, sitting beside the Book which was folded up in muslin on a cot, was reciting the evening prayer. Five or six men and women sat in a semicircle around a hurricane lantern and listened to him.

Iqbal went straight to his room and lay down on his charpai in the dark. He had barely shut his eyes when the worshippers began to chant. The chanting stopped for a couple of minutes, only to start again. The ceremony ended with shouts of 'Sat Sri Akal' and the beating of a drum. The men and women came out. Meet Singh held the lantern and helped them find their shoes. They started talking loudly. In the babel the only word Iqbal could make out was 'babu'. Somebody who had noticed Iqbal come in, had told the others. There was some whispering and shuffling of feet and then silence.

Iqbal shut his eyes once more. A minute later Meet Singh stood on the threshold, holding the lantern.

'Iqbal Singhji, have you gone to bed without food? Would you like some spinach? I have also curd and buttermilk.'

'No, thank you, Bhaiji. I have the food I want.'

'Our poor food...' started Meet Singh.

'No, no, it is not that,' interrupted Iqbal sitting up, 'it is just that I have it and it may be wasted if I don't eat it. I am a little tired and would like to sleep.' "Then you must have some milk. Banta Singh, the lambardar, is bringing you some. I will tell him to hurry up if you want to sleep early. I have another charpai for you on the roof. It is too hot to sleep in here.' Meet Singh left the hurricane lantern in the room and disappeared in the dark.

The prospect of having to talk to the lambardar was not very exciting. Iqbal fished out his silver hip flask from underneath the pillow and took a long swig of whisky. He ate a few dry biscuits that were in the paper packet. He took his mattress and pillow to the roof where a charpai had been laid for him. Meet Singh apparently slept in the courtyard to guard the gurdwara.

Iqbal lay on his charpai and watched the stars in the teeming sky until he heard several voices entering the gurdwara and coming up the stairs. Then he got up to greet the visitors.

'Sat Sri Akal, Babu Sahib.'

'Salaam to you, Babu Sahib.'

They shook hands. Meet Singh did not bother to introduce them. Iqbal pushed the air mattress aside to make room on the charpai for the visitors. He sat down on the floor himself.

'I am ashamed for not having presented myself earlier,' said the Sikh.

'Please forgive me. I have brought some milk for you.'

'Yes, Sahib, we are ashamed of ourselves. You are our guest and we have not rendered you any service. Drink the milk before it gets cold,' added the other visitor. He was a tall lean man with a clipped beard.

'It is very kind of you...I know you have been busy with the police ...I don't

drink milk. Really I do not. We city-dwellers...'

The lambardar ignored Iqbal's well-mannered protests. He removed his dirty handkerchief from a large brass tumbler and began to stir the milk with his forefinger. It is fresh. I milked the buffalo only an hour back and got the wife to boil it. I know you educated people only drink boiled milk. There is quite a lot of sugar in it; it has settled at the bottom,' he added with a final stir. To emphasize the quality of the milk, he picked up a slab of clotted cream on his forefinger and slapped it back in the milk.

'Here, Babuji, drink it before it gets cold.'

'No! No! No, thank you, no!' protested Iqbal. He did not know how to get out

of his predicament without offending the visitors. 'I don't ever drink milk. But if you insist, I will drink it later. I like it cold.'

'Yes, you drink it as you like, Babuji,' said the Muslim, coming to his rescue. 'Banta Singh, leave the tumbler here. Bhai will bring it back in the morning.'

The lambardar covered the tumbler with his handkerchief and put it under Iqbal's charpai. There was a long pause. Iqbal had pleasant visions of pouring the milk with all its clotted cream down the drain.

'Well, Babuji,' began the Muslim. 'Tell us something. What is happening in the world? What is all this about Pakistan and Hindustan?'

'We live in this little village and know nothing,' the lambardar put in. 'Babuji, tell us, why did the English leave?'

Iqbal did not know how to answer simple questions like these. Independence meant little or nothing to these people. They did not even realize that it was a step forward and that all they needed to do was to take the next step and turn the make-believe political freedom into a real economic one.

'They left because they had to. We had hundreds of thousands of young men trained to fight in the war. This time they had the arms too. Haven't you heard of the mutiny of the Indian sailors? The soldiers would have done the same thing. The English were frightened. They did not shoot any of the Indians who joined the Indian National Army set up by the Japanese, because they thought the whole country would turn against them.'

Iqbal's thesis did not cut much ice.

'Babuji, what you say may be right,' said the lambardar hesitantly. 'But I was in the last war and fought in Mesopotamia and Gallipoli. We liked English officers. They were better than the Indian.'

'Yes,' added Meet Singh, 'my brother who is a havildar says all sepoys are happier with English officers than with Indian. My brother's colonel's memsahib still sends my niece things from London. You know, Lambardar Sahib, she even sent money at her wedding. What Indian officers' wives will do that?'

Iqbal tried to take the offensive. 'Why, don't you people want to be free? Do

you want to remain slaves all your lives?'

After a long silence the lambardar answered: 'Freedom must be a good thing. But what will we get out of it? Educated people like you, Babu Sahib, will get the jobs the English had. Will we get more lands or more buffaloes?'

'No,' the Muslim said. 'Freedom is for the educated people who fought for it. We were slaves of the English, now we will be slaves of the educated Indians -or the Pakistanis.'

Iqbal was startled at the analysis.

'What you say is absolutely right,' he agreed warmly. 'If you want freedom to mean something for you the peasants and workers-you have to get together and fight. Get the bania Congress government out. Get rid of the princes and the landlords and freedom will mean for you just what you think it should. More land, more buffaloes, no debts.'

'That is what that fellow told us,' interrupted Meet Singh, 'that fellow... Lambardara, what was his name? Comrade Something-or-other. Are you a comrade, Babu Sahib?'

'No.'

'I am glad. That comrade did not believe in God. He said when his party came into power they would drain the sacred pool round the temple at Tarn Taran and plant rice in it. He said it would be more useful.'

'That is foolish talk,' protested Iqbal. He wished Meet Singh had remembered the comrade's name. The man should be reported to headquarters and taken to task.

'If we have no faith in God then we are like animals,' said the Muslim gravely. 'All the world respects a religious man. Look at Gandhi! I hear he reads the Koran Sharif and the Unjeel along with his Vedas and Shastras. People sing his praise in the four corners of the earth. I have seen a picture in a newspaper of Gandhi's prayer meeting. It showed a lot of white men and women sitting cross-legged. One white girl had her eyes shut. They said she was the Big Lord's daughter. You see, Meet Singh, even the English respect a man of religion.'

'Of course, Chacha. Whatever you say is right to the sixteenth anna of the rupee,' agreed Meet Singh, rubbing his belly.

Iqbal felt his temper rise. 'They are a race of four-twenties,' he said vehemently. [Section 420 of the Indian Penal Code defines the offence of cheating.] 'Do not believe what they say.' Once again he felt his venom had missed its mark. But the Big Lord's daughter sitting cross-legged with her eyes shut for the benefit of press photographers, and the Big Lord himself the handsome, Hindustani-speaking cousin of the King, who loved India like the missionaries-was always too much for Iqbal.

'I have lived in their country many years. They are nice as human beings. Politically they are the world's biggest four-twenties. They would not have spread their domain all over the world if they had been honest. That, however, is irrelevant,' added Iqbal. It was time to change the subject. 'What is important is: what is going to happen now?'

'We know what is happening,' the lambardar answered with some heat. "The winds of destruction are blowing across the land. All we hear is kill, kill. The only ones who enjoy freedom are thieves, robbers and cutthroats.' Then he added calmly: 'We were better off under the British. At least there was security.'

There was an uneasy silence. An engine was shunting up and down the railway line rearranging its load of goods wagons. The Muslim changed the subject.

'That is the goods train. It must be late. Babu Sahib, you are tired; we must let you rest. If you need us, we will be always at your service.'

They all got up. Iqbal shook hands with his visitors without showing any trace of anger. Meet Singh conducted the lambardar and the Muslim down to the courtyard. He then retired to his charpai there.

Iqbal lay down once more and gazed at the stars. The wail of the engine in the still vast plain made him feel lonely and depressed. What could he one little man-do in this enormous impersonal land of four hundred million? Could he stop the killing? Obviously not. Everyone-Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Congressite, Leaguer, Akali, or Communist-was deep in it. It was fatuous to suggest that the bourgeois revolution could be turned into a proletarian one. The stage had not arrived. The proletariat was indifferent to political freedom for Hindustan or Pakistan, except when it could be given an economic significance like grabbing land by killing an owner who was of a different religious denomination. All that could be done was to divert the kill-and-grab instinct from communal channels and turn it against the propertied class. That was the proletarian revolution the easy way. His party bosses would not see it.

Iqbal wished they had sent someone else to Mano Majra. He would be so much more useful directing policy and clearing the cobwebs from their minds. But he was not a leader. He lacked the qualifications. He had not fasted. He had never been in jail. He had made none of the necessary 'sacrifices'. So, naturally, nobody would listen to him. He should have started his political career by finding an excuse to court imprisonment. But there was still time. He would do that as soon as he got back to Delhi. By then, the massacres would be over. It would be quite safe.

The goods train had left the station and was rumbling over the bridge. Iqbal fell asleep, dreaming of a peaceful life in jail.

Early next morning, Iqbal was arrested.

Meet Singh had gone out to the fields carrying his brass mug of water and chewing a keekar twig he used as a toothbrush. Iqbal had slept through the rumble of passing trains, the muezzin's call, and the other village noises. Two constables came into the gurdwara, looking in his room, examined his celluloid cups and saucers, shining aluminum spoons, forks and knives, his thermos, and then came up onto the roof. They shook Iqbal rudely. He sat up rubbing his eyes, somewhat bewildered. Before he could size up the situation and formulate the curt replies he would like to have given, he had told the policemen his name and occupation. One of them filled in the blank spaces on a yellow piece of printed paper and held it in front of Iqbal's blinking eyes.

'Here is warrant for your arrest. Get up.'

The other slipped the ring at one end of a pair of handcuffs in his belt and unlocked the links to put round Iqbal's wrists. The sight of the handcuffs brought Iqbal wide awake. He jumped out of bed and faced the policemen.

'You have no right to arrest me like this,' he shouted. 'You made up the warrant in front of me. This is not going to end here. The days of police rule are over. If you dare put your hands on me, the world will hear about it. I will see that the papers tell the people how you chaps do your duty.'

The policemen were taken aback. The young man's accent, the rubber

pillows and mattress and all the other things they had seen in the room, and above all, his aggressive attitude, made them uneasy. They felt that perhaps they had made a mistake.

'Babu Sahib, we are only doing our duty. You settle this with the magistrate,' one of them answered politely. The other fumbled uneasily with the handcuffs.

'I will settle it with the whole lot of you-police and magistrates! Come and disturb people in sleep! You will regret this mistake.' Iqbal waited for the policemen to say something so that he could go on with his tirade against law and order. But they had been subdued.

'You will have to wait. I have to wash and change and leave my things in somebody's care,' said Iqbal aggressively, giving them another chance to say something.

'All right, Babu Sahib. Take as long as you like.'

The policemen's civil attitude deflated Iqbal's anger. He collected his things and went down the stairs to his room. He went to the well, pulled up a bucket of water and began to wash. He was in no hurry.

Bhai Meet Singh came back vigorously brushing his teeth with the end of the keekar twig which he had chewed into a fibrous brush. The presence of policemen in the gurdwara did not surprise him. Whenever they came to the village and could not find accommodation at the lambardar's house they came to the temple. He had been expecting them after the moneylender's murder.

'Sat Sri Akal,' said Meet Singh, throwing away his keekar toothbrush.

'Sat Sri Akal,' replied the policemen.

'Would you like some tea or something? Some buttermilk?'

'We are waiting for the Babu Sahib,' the policemen said. 'If you can give us something while he is getting ready, it will be very kind.'

Meet Singh maintained a casual indifference. It was not up to him to argue with the police or be nosy about their business. Iqbal Singh was probably a 'comrade'. He certainly talked like one.

'I will make some tea for him, too,' replied Meet Singh. He looked at Iqbal.

'Or will you have your own out of the big bottle?'

'Thank you very much,' answered Iqbal through the tooth paste froth in his mouth. He spat it out. 'The tea in the bottle must be cold by now. I would be grateful for a hot cup. And would you mind looking after my things while I am away? They are arresting me for something. They do not know themselves for what.'

Meet Singh pretended he had not heard. The policemen looked a little sheepish.

'It is not our fault, Babu Sahib,' one of them said. 'Why are you getting angry with us? Get angry with the magistrate.'

Iqbal ignored their protest by more brushing of his teeth. He washed his face and came back to the room rubbing himself with a towel. He let the air out of the mattress and the pillow and rolled them up. He emptied the holdall of its contents: books, clothes, torch, a large silver hip flask. He made a list of his things and put them back. When Meet Singh brought tea, Iqbal handed him the holdall.

'Bhaiji, I have put all my things in the holdall. I hope it will not be too much trouble looking after them. I would rather trust you than the police in this free country of ours.'

The policemen looked away. Meet Singh was embarrassed.

'Certainly, Babu Sahib,' he said meekly. 'I am your servant as well as that of the police. Here everyone is welcome. You like tea in your own cup?'

Iqbal got out his celluloid teacup and spoon. The constables took brass tumblers from Meet Singh. They wrapped the loose ends of their turbans round the tumblers to protect their hands from the hot brass. To reassure themselves they sipped noisily. But Iqbal was in complete possession of the situation. He sat on the string cot while they sat on the threshold and Meet Singh on the floor outside. They did not dare to speak to him for fear of rudeness. The constable with the handcuffs had quietly taken them off his belt and thrust them in his pocket. They finished their tea and looked up uneasily. Iqbal sat sullenly staring over their heads with an intensity charged with importance. He glared vacantly into space, occasionally taking a spinsterish sip of his tea. When he had finished, he stood up abruptly.

'I am ready,' he announced, dramatically holding out his hands. 'Put on the handcuffs.'

'There is no need for handcuffs, Babuji,' answered one of the constables.

'You had better cover your face or you will be recognized at the identification parade.' Iqbal pounced on the opportunity. 'Is this how you do your duty? If the rule is that I have to be handcuffed, then handcuffed I shall be. I am not afraid of being recognized. I am not a thief or a dacoit. I am a political worker. I will go through the village as I am so that people can see what the police do to people they do not like.'

This outburst was too much for one of the constables. He spoke sharply:

'Babuji, we are being polite to you. We keep saying "ji", "ji" to you all the time, but you want to sit on our heads. We have told you a hundred times we are doing our duty, but you insist on believing that we have a personal grudge.' He turned to his colleague. 'Put the handcuffs on the fellow. He can do what he likes with his face. If I had a face like his, I would want to hide it. We will report that he refused to cover it.'

Iqbal did not have a ready answer to the sarcasm. He had a Semitic consciousness of his hooked nose. Quite involuntarily he brushed it with the back of his hand. Reference to his physical appearance always put him off. The handcuffs were fastened round his wrists and chained onto the policeman's belt.

'Sat Sri Akal, Bhaiji. I will be back soon.'

'Sat Sri Akal, Iqbal Singhji, and may the Guru protect you. Sat Sri Akal, Sentryji.'

'Sat Sri Akal.'

The party marched out of the temple courtyard, leaving Meet Singh standing with the kettle of tea in his hand.

At the time the two constables were sent to arrest Iqbal, a posse of ten men was sent to arrest Juggut Singh. Policemen surrounded his house at all points. Constables armed with rifles were posted on neighbouring roofs and in the front and rear of the house. Then six others armed with revolvers rushed into the courtyard. Juggut Singh lay on his charpai, wrapped from head to foot in a dirty white sheet and snoring lustily. He had spent two nights and a day in the jungle without food or shelter. He had come home in the early hours of the morning when he believed everyone in the village would be asleep. The neighbours had been vigilant and the police were informed immediately. They waited till he had filled himself with food and was sound asleep. His mother had gone out, bolting the door from the outside.

Juggut Singh's feet were put in fetters and handcuffs were fastened on his right wrist while he slept. Policemen put their revolvers in their holsters. Men with rifles joined them in the courtyard. They prodded Juggut Singh with the butt ends of their guns.

'O Jugga, get up, it is almost afternoon.'

'See how he sleeps like a pig without a care in the world.' Jugga sat up wearily, blinking his eyes. He gazed at the handcuffs and the fetters with philosophic detachment, then stretched his arms wide and yawned loudly. Sleep came on him again and he began to nod.

Juggut Singh's mother came in and saw her courtyard full of armed policemen. Her son sat on the charpai with his head resting on his manacled hands. His eyes were shut. She ran up to him and clasped him by the knees. She put her head in his lap and started to cry.

Juggut Singh woke up from his reverie. He pushed his mother back rudely.

'Why are you crying?' he said. 'You know I had nothing to do with the dacoity.'

She began to wail. 'He did not do it. He did nothing. In the name of God, I swear he did nothing.'

'Then where was he on the night of the murder?' the head constable said.

'He was out in his fields. He was not with the dacoits. I swear he was not.'

'He is a badmash under orders not to go out of the village after sunset. We have to arrest him for that in any case.' He motioned to his men. 'Search the rooms and the barn.' The head constable had his doubts about Juggut Singh partaking in a dacoity in his own village. It was most unusual.

Four constables busied themselves looking around the house, emptying steel trunks and tin cans. The haystack was pulled down and the hay scattered in the yard. The spear was found without difficulty.

'I suppose this has been put here by your uncle?' said the head constable

addressing the mother sourly. 'Wrap the blade in a piece of cloth, it may have blood stains on it.'

'There is nothing on it,' cried the mother, 'nothing. He keeps it to kill wild

pigs that come to destroy the crops. I swear he is innocent.' 'We will see. We will see,' the head constable dismissed her. 'You better get proof of his innocence ready for the magistrate.'

The old woman stopped moaning. She did have proof-the packet of broken bangles. She had not told Jugga about it. If she had, he would certainly have gone mad at the insult and been violent to someone. Now he was in fetters and handcuffs, he could only lose his temper.

'Wait, brother policemen. I have the evidence.'

The policemen watched the woman go in and bring out a packet from the bottom of her steel trunk. She unwrapped the brown paper. There were broken pieces of blue and red glass bangles with tiny gold spots. Two of them were intact. The head constable took them.

'What sort of proofs are these?'

"The dacoits threw them in the courtyard after the murder. They wanted to insult Jugga for not coming with them. Look!' She held out her hands. 'I am too old to wear glass bangles and they are too small for my wrists.'

"Then Jugga must know who the dacoits were. What did they say when they threw them?' asked the head constable.

'Nothing, they said nothing. They abused Jugga...'

'Can't you keep your mouth shut?' interrupted Jugga angrily. 'I do not know who the dacoits were. All I know is that I was not with them.'

'Who leaves you bangles?' asked the head constable. He smiled and held up the bits of glass in his hands.

Jugga lost his temper. He raised his manacled fists and brought them heavily down on the head constable's palms. 'What seducer of his mother can throw bangles at me? What...'

The constables closed round Juggut Singh and started slapping him and kicking him with their thick boots. Jugga sat down on his haunches, covering his head with his arms. His mother began to beat her forehead and started crying again. She broke into the cordon of policemen and threw herself on her son.

'Don't hit him. The Guru's curse be on you. He is innocent. It is all my fault.

You can beat me.'

The beating stopped. The head constable picked pieces of glass out of his palm, pressed out blood, and wiped it with his handkerchief. 'You keep the evidence of your son's innocence,' he said bitterly. 'We will get the story out of this son of a bitch of yours in our own way. When he gets a few lashes on his buttocks, he will talk. Take him out.'

Juggut Singh was led out of the house in handcuffs and fetters. He left without showing a trace of emotion for his mother, who continued to wail and beat her forehead and breasts. His parting words were:

'I will be back soon. They cannot give me more than a few months for having a spear and going out of the village. Sat Sri Akal.'

Jugga recovered his temper as quickly as he had lost it. He forgot the incident of the bangles and the beating as soon as he stepped across his threshold. He had no malice or ill will towards the policemen: they were not human like other human beings. They had no affections, no loyalties or enmities. They were just men in uniform you tried to avoid.

There was not much point in Juggut Singh covering his face. The whole village knew him. He went past the villagers, smiling and raising his manacled hands in a greeting to everyone. The fetters around his feet forced him to walk slowly with his legs apart. He had a devil-may-care jauntiness in his step. He showed his unconcern by twirling his thin brown moustache and cracking obscene jokes with the policemen.

Iqbal and the two constables joined Juggut Singh's party by the river. They all proceeded upstream towards the bridge. The head constable walked in front. Armed policemen marched on the sides and at the rear of the prisoners. Iqbal was lost in the khaki and red of their uniforms. Juggut Singh's head and shoulders showed above the turbans of the policemen. It was like a procession of horses with an elephant in their midst taller, broader, slower, with his chains clanking like ceremonial trappings.

No one seemed to be in the mood to talk. The policemen were uneasy. They knew that they had made a mistake, or rather, two mistakes. Arresting the social worker was a blunder and a likely source of trouble. His belligerent attitude confirmed his innocence. Some sort of case would have to be made up against him. That was always a tricky thing to do to educated people. Juggut Singh was too obvious a victim to be the correct one. He had undoubtedly broken the law

in leaving the village at night, but he was not likely to have joined in a dacoity in his own village. He would be too easily recognized by his enormous size. Also, it was quite clear that these two had met for the first time.

Iqbal's pride had been injured. Up to the time he met Juggut Singh, he was under the impression that he had been arrested for his politics. He had insisted on being handcuffed so that the villagers could see with what dignity he bore himself. They would be angered at such an outrage to civil liberties. But the men had gaped stupidly and the women peered through their veils and asked each other in whispers, 'Who is this?' When he joined the group that escorted Juggut Singh, the point of the policeman's advice, 'Cover your face, otherwise you may be recognized at the identification parade,' came home to him. He was under arrest in connection with the murder of Ram Lal. It was so stupid he could hardly believe it. Everyone knew that he had come to Mano Majra after the murder. On the same train as the policemen, in fact. They could be witness of his alibi. The situation was too ludicrous for words. But Punjabi policemen were not the sort who admitted making mistakes. They would trump up some sort of charge: vagrancy, obstructing officers in doing their duty, or some such thing. He would fight them tooth and nail.

The only one in the party who did not seem to mind was Juggut Singh. He had been arrested before. He had spent quite as much time in jail as at home. His association with the police was an inheritance. Register number ten at the police station, which gave the record of the activities of the bad characters of the locality, had carried his father Alam Singh's name while he lived. Alam Singh had been convicted of dacoity with murder, and hanged. Juggut Singh's mother had to mortgage all their land to pay lawyers. Juggut Singh had to find money to redeem the land, and he had done that within the year. No one could prove how he had raised the money, but at the end of the year the police had taken him. His name was entered in register number ten and he was officially declared a man of bad character. Behind his back everyone referred to him as a 'number ten'.

Juggut Singh looked at the prisoner beside him several times. He wanted to start a conversation. Iqbal had his eyes fixed in front of him and walked with the camera-consciousness of an actor facing the lens. Juggut Singh lost

patience. 'Listen. What village are you from?' he asked and grinned, baring a set of even teeth studded with gold points in the centres.

Iqbal looked up, but did not return the smile.

'I am not a villager. I come from Delhi. I was sent to organize peasants, but the government does not like the people to be organized.'

Juggut Singh became polite. He gave up the tone of familiarity. 'I hear we have our own rule now,' he said. 'It is Mahatma Gandhi's government in Delhi, isn't it? They say so in our village.'

'Yes, the Englishmen have gone but the rich Indians have taken their place. What have you or your fellow villagers got out of Independence? More bread or more clothes? You are in the same handcuffs and fetters which the English put on you. We have to get together and rise. We have nothing to lose but these chains.' Iqbal emphasized the last sentence by raising his hands up to his face and jerking them as if the movement would break the handcuffs.

The policemen looked at each other.

Juggut Singh looked down at the fetters round his ankles and the iron bars which linked them to the handcuffs.

'I am a badmash. All governments put me in jail.'

'But,' interrupted Iqbal angrily, 'what makes you a badmash? The government! It makes regulations and keeps registers, policemen and jailers to enforce them. For anyone they do not like, they have a rule which makes him a bad character and a criminal. What have I...'

'No, Babu Sahib,' broke in Juggut Singh good-humouredly, 'it is our fate. It is written on our foreheads and on the lines of our hands. I am always wanting to do something. When there is ploughing to be done or the harvest to be gathered, then I am busy. When there is no work, my hands still itch to do something. So I do something, and it is always wrong.'

The party passed under the bridge and approached the rest house. Juggut Singh's complacency had put Iqbal off. He did not want to waste his breath arguing with a village bad character. He wanted to save his words for the magistrate. He would let him have it in English-the accent would make him squirm.

When the police brought in the prisoners the subinspector ordered them to be taken to the servants' quarters. The magistrate was in his room dressing. The head constable left the prisoners with his men and came back to the bungalow.

'Who is this small chap you have brought?' asked the subinspector, looking a little worried.

'I arrested him on your orders. He was the stranger staying at the Sikh temple.'

The answer irritated the subinspector. 'I do not suppose you have any brains of your own! I leave a little job to you and you go and make a fool of yourself. You should have seen him before arresting him. Isn't he the same man who got off the train with us yesterday?'

'The train?' queried the head constable, feigning ignorance. 'I did not see him on the train, cherisher of the poor. I only carried out your orders and arrested the stranger loitering about the village under suspicious circumstances.'

The subinspector's temper shot up.

'Ass!'

The head constable avoided his officer's gaze.

'You are an ass of some place,' he repeated with greater vehemence. 'Have you no brains at all?'

'Cherisher of the poor, what fault have I...'

'Shut up!'

The head constable started looking at his feet. The subinspector let his temper cool. He had to face Hukum Chand, who relied on him and did not expect to be let down. After some thought, the subinspector peered through the wire-gauze door.

'Have I permission to enter?'

'Come in. Come in, Inspector Sahib,' Hukum Chand replied. 'Do not wait on formalities.'

The subinspector went in, and saluted.

'Well, what have you been doing?" asked the magistrate. He was rubbing cream on his freshly shaven chin. In a tumbler on the dressing table a flat white tablet danced about the bottom, sending up a stream of bubbles.

'Sir, we have made two arrests this morning. One is Jugga badmash. He was out of his house on the night of the dacoity. We are bound to get some information out of him. The other is the stranger whose presence had been reported by the headman and you ordered him to be arrested.'

Hukum Chand stopped rubbing his chin. He detected the attempt to pass off the second arrest onto him.

'Who is he?'

The inspector shouted to the head constable outside.

'What is the name of the fellow you arrested at the Sikh temple?'

'Iqbal.'

'Iqbal what?' questioned the magistrate loudly.

'I will just find out, sir.' The head constable ran across to the servants' quarters before the magistrate could let fly at him. Hukum Chand felt his temper rising. He took a sip out of his glass. The subinspector shuffled uneasily. The head constable came back a few minutes later and coughed to announce his return.

'Sir,' he coughed again. 'Sir, he can read and write. He is educated.'

The magistrate turned to the door angrily.

'Has he a father and mother, a faith, or not? Educated!'

'Sir,' faltered the head constable, 'he refuses to tell us his father's name and says he has no religion. He says he will speak to you himself.'

'Go and find out,' roared the magistrate. 'Whip him on his buttocks till he

talks. Go... no, wait, the Subinspector Sahib will handle this.' Hukum Chand was in a rage. He gulped down the fizzing water in the tumbler and mopped his head with the shaving towel. A belch relieved him of his mounting wrath.

'Nice fellows, you and your policemen! You go and arrest people without finding out their names, parentage or caste. You make me sign blank warrants of arrest. Some day you will arrest the Governor and say Hukum Chand ordered you to do so. You will have me dismissed.'

'Cherisher of the poor, I will go and look into this. This man came to Mano Majra yesterday. I will find out his antecedents and business.'

'Well, then, go and find out, and do not just stand and stare,' barked Hukum Chand. He was not in the habit of losing his temper or of being rude. After the subinspector had left, he examined his tongue in the mirror and put another tablet of seltzer in the tumbler. The subinspector went out and stopped on the veranda to take a few deep breaths. The magistrate's wrath decided his attitude. He would have to take a strong line and finish the shilly-shallying. He went to the servants' quarters. Iqbal and his escort stood apart from Juggut Singh's crowd. The young man had a look of injured dignity. The subinspector thought it best not to speak to him.

'Search this man's clothes. Take him inside one of the quarters and strip him. I will examine them myself."

Iqbal's planned speech remained undelivered. The constable almost dragged him by the handcuffs into a room. His resistance had gone. He took off his shirt and handed it to the policeman. The subinspector came in and without bothering to examine the shirt ordered:

"Take off your pyjamas!'

Iqbal felt humiliated. There was no fight left in him. 'There are no pockets to the pyjamas. I cannot hide anything in them.'

"Take them off and do not argue.' The subinspector slapped his khaki trousers with his swagger stick to emphasize the order.

Iqbal loosened the knot in the cord. The pyjamas fell in a heap around his ankles. He was naked save for the handcuffs on his wrists. He stepped out of the pyjamas to let the policemen examine them.

'No, that is not necessary,' broke in the subinspector. 'I have seen all I wanted to see. You can put on your clothes. You say you are a social worker. What was your business in Mano Majra?'

'I was sent by my party,' answered Iqbal, re-tying the knot in the cord of his pyjamas.

'What party?'

'People's Party of India.'

The subinspector looked at Iqbal with a sinister smile. "The People's Party of India,' he repeated slowly, pronouncing each word distinctly. 'You are sure it was not the Muslim League?'

Iqbal did not catch the significance of the question.

'No, why should I be a member of the Muslim League? I...'

The subinspector walked out of the room before Iqbal had finished his sentence. He ordered the constables to take the prisoners to the police station. He went back to the rest house to report his discovery to the magistrate. There was an obsequious smile on his face.

'Cherisher of the poor, it is all right. He says he has been sent by the People's Party. But I am sure he is a Muslim Leaguer. They are much the same. We would have had to arrest him in any case if he was up to mischief so near the border. We can charge him with something or other later.'

'How do you know he is a Muslim Leaguer?'

The subinspector smiled confidently. 'I had him stripped.'

Hukum Chand shook his glass to churn the dregs of chalk at the bottom, and slowly drank up the remaining portion of the seltzer. He looked thoughtfully into the empty tumbler and added:

'Fill in the warrant of arrest correctly. Name: Mohammed Iqbal, son of Mohammed Something-or-other, or just father unknown. Caste: Mussulman. Occupation: Muslim League worker.'

The subinspector saluted dramatically.

'Wait, wait. Do not leave things half done. Enter in your police diary words to the effect that Ram Lal's murderers have not yet been traced but that information about them is expected soon. Didn't you say Jugga has something to do with it?'

'Yes, sir. The dacoits threw glass bangles in his courtyard before leaving. Apparently he had refused to join them in their venture.'

'Well, get the names out of him quickly. Beat him if necessary.'

The subinspector smiled. 'I will get the names of the dacoits out of him in twenty-four hours and without any beating.'

'Yes, yes, get them in any way you like,' answered Hukum Chand impatiently. Also, enter today's two arrests on separate pages of the police station diary with other items in between. Do not let there be any more bungling.'

The subinspector saluted again.

'I will take good care, sir.'

Iqbal and Jugga were taken to Chundunnugger police station in a tonga. Iqbal was given the place of honour in the middle of the front seat. The driver perched himself on the wooden shaft alongside the horse's flank, leaving his seat empty. Juggut Singh sat on the rear seat between two policemen. It was a long and dusty drive on an unmetalled road which ran parallel to the railway track. The only person at ease was Jugga. He knew the policemen and they knew him. Nor was the situation unfamiliar to him.

You must have many prisoners in the police station these days,' he stated.

' 'No, not one,' answered one of the constables. 'We do not arrest rioters. We only disperse them. And there is no time to deal with other crimes. Yours are the first arrests we have made in the last seven days. Both cells are vacant. You can have one all to yourself."

'Babuji will like that,' Jugga said. 'Won't you, Babuji?' Iqbal did not answer. Jugga felt slightly snubbed, and tried to change the subject quickly.

'You must have a lot of work to do with this Hindustan-Pakistan business going on,' he remarked to the constable.

'Yes. There is all this killing and the police force has been reduced to less than half.'

'Why, have they joined up with Pakistan?'

'We do not know whether they have joined up on the other side-they kept protesting that they did not want to go at all. On the day of Independence, the Superintendent sahib disarmed all Muslim policemen and they fled. Their intentions were evil. Muslims are like that. You can never trust them.'

'Yes,' added another policeman, 'it was the Muslim police taking sides which made the difference in the riots. Hindu boys of Lahore would have given the Muslims hell if it had not been for their police. They did a lot of zulum.'

"Their army is like that, too. Baluch soldiers have been shooting people whenever they were sure there was no chance of running into Sikh or Gurkha troops.'

'They cannot escape from God. No one can escape from God,' said Juggut Singh vehemently. Everyone looked a little surprised. Even Iqbal tuned round to make sure that the voice was Juggut Singh's.

'Isn't that right, Babuji? You are a clever man, you tell me, can one escape the wrath of God?'

Iqbal said nothing. 'No, of course not,' Jugga answered himself. 'I tell you something which

Bhai Meet Singh told me. It is worth listening to, Babuji. It is absolutely sixteen

annas' worth in the rupee.' Every rupee is worth sixteen annas, thought Iqbal. He refused to take interest. Jugga went on.

"The Bhai told me of a truckful of Baluch soldiers who were going from Amritsar to Lahore. When they were getting near the Pakistan border, the soldiers began to stick bayonets into Sikhs going along the road. The driver would slow down near a cyclist or a pedestrian, the soldiers on the footboard would stab him in the back and then the driver would accelerate away fast. They killed many people like this and were feeling happier and happier as they got nearer Pakistan. They were within a mile of the border and were travelling at great speed. What do you think happened then?'

'What?' asked an obliging policeman. They all listened intently-all except Iqbal. Even the driver stopped flogging the horse and looked back.

'Listen, Babuji, this is worth listening to. A pariah dog ran across the road. The very same driver of the truck who had been responsible for killing so many people swerved sharply to the right to avoid the dog, a mangy pariah dog. He crashed into a tree. The driver and two of the soldiers were killed. All the others seriously wounded. What do you say to that?'

Policemen murmured approval. Iqbal felt irritated.

'Who caused the crash, the dog or God?' he asked cynically.

'God, of course,' answered one of the policemen. 'Why should one who enjoyed killing human beings be bothered by a stray dog getting under his wheels?'

'You tell me,' said Iqbal coldly. He squashed everyone except Jugga, who was irrepressible. Jugga turned to the tonga driver. The man had started whipping his horse again.

'Bhola, have you no fear of God that you beat your animal so mercilessly?' Bhola stopped beating the horse. The expression on his face was resentful: it was his horse and he could do what he liked to it.

'Bholeya, how is business these days?' asked Jugga, trying to make up.

'God is merciful,' answered the driver pointing to the sky with his whip, then added quickly, 'Inspector sahib is also merciful. We are alive and manage to fill our bellies.'

'Don't you make money off these refugees who are wanting to go to Pakistan?'

'And lose my life for money?' asked Bhola angrily. 'No, thank you, brother, you keep your advice to yourself. When the mobs attack they do not wait to find out who you are, Hindu or Muslim; they kill. The other day four Sikh Sardars in a jeep drove alongside a mile-long column of Muslim refugees walking on the road. Without warning they opened fire with their sten guns. Four sten guns! God alone knows how many they killed. What would happen if a mob got hold of my tonga full of Muslims? They would kill me first and ask afterwards.'

'Why didn't a dog get under the jeep and upset it?' asked Iqbal sarcastically. There was an awkward pause. No one knew what to say to this sour- tempered babu. Jugga asked naively: 'Babuji, don't you believe that bad acts yield a bitter harvest? It is the law of karma. So the bhai is always saying. The Guru has also said the same in the Book.'

'Yes, absolutely, sixteen annas in the rupee,' sneered Iqbal.

'Achhaji, have it your own way,' said Jugga, still smiling. 'You will never agree with ordinary people.' He turned to the driver again.

'Bholeya, I hear a lot of women are being abducted and sold cheap. You could find a wife for yourself.'

'Why, Sardara, if you can find a Mussulmanni without paying for her, am I impotent that I should have to buy an abducted woman?' replied Bhola. Jugga was taken aback. His temper began to rise. The policemen, who had started to snigger, looked nervously at Juggut Singh. Bhola regretted his mistake.

'Why, Juggia,' he said, changing his tone. 'You make fun of others, but get angry when someone retorts.'

'If these handcuffs and fetters had not been on me, I would have broken every bone in your body,' said Jugga fiercely. 'You are lucky to have escaped today, but if I hear you repeat this thing again I will tear your tongue out of your mouth.' Jugga spat loudly.

Bhola was thoroughly frightened. 'Do not lose your temper. What have I...'

'Bastard.'

That was the end of the conversations. The uneasy silence in the tonga was broken only by Bhola swearing at his horse. Jugga was lost in angry thoughts. He was surprised that his clandestine meetings were public knowledge. Somebody had probably seen him and Nooran talking to each other. That must have started the gossip. If a tonga driver from Chundunnugger knew, everyone in Mano Majra would have been talking about if for some time. The last to learn of gossip are the parties concerned. Perhaps Imam Baksh and his daughter Nooran were the only ones in the village who knew nothing of what was being said.

The party reached Chundunnugger after noon. The tonga came to a halt outside the police station, which was a couple of furlongs distant from the town. The prisoners were escorted through an arched gateway which had WELCOME painted on it in large letters. They were first taken to the reporting room. The head constable opened a large register and made the entries of the day's events on separate pages. Just above the table was an old framed picture of King George VI with a placard stating in Urdu, BRIBERY IS A CRIME. On another wall was pasted a coloured portrait of Gandhi torn from a calendar. Beneath it was a motto written in English, HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY. Other portraits in the room were those of absconders, bad characters, and missing persons.

After the daily diary entries had been made, the prisoners were taken across the courtyard to their cells. There were only two cells in the police station. These were on one side of the courtyard facing the policemen's barracks. The wall of the farther end of the square was covered by a railway creeper.

Jugga's arrival was the subject of much hilarity.

'Oye, you are back again. You think it is your father-in-law's house,' shouted one of the constables from his barrack.

'It is, seeing the number of policemen's daughters I have seduced,' answered Juggut Singh at the top of his voice. He had forgotten the unpleasantness in the tonga.

'Oye, Badmasha, you will not desist from your badmashi. Wait till the Inspector Sahib hears of what you said and he will put hot chillies up your bottom.'

'You cannot do that to your son-in-law!' With Iqbal it was different. His handcuffs were removed with apologies. A chair, a table, and a charpai were put in his cell. The head constable collected all the daily newspapers and magazines, English and Urdu, that he could find and left them in the cell. Iqbal's food was served on a brass plate and a small pitcher and a glass tumbler were put on the table beside his charpai. Jugga was given no furniture in his cell. His food was literally flung at him and he ate his chapattis out of his hand. A constable poured water onto his cupped palm through the iron bars. Jugga's bed was the hard cement floor.

The difference in treatment did not surprise Iqbal. In a country which had accepted caste distinctions for many centuries, inequality had become an inborn mental concept. If caste was abolished by legislation, it came up in other forms of class distinction. In thoroughly westernized circles like that of the civil servants in the government secretariat in Delhi, places for parking cars were marked according to seniority, and certain entrances to offices were reserved for higher officials. Lavatories were graded according to rank and labelled SENIOR OFFICERS, JUNIOR OFFICERS, CLERKS AND STENOGRAPHERS and OTHER RANKS. With a mental make-up so thoroughly sectionalized, grading according to their social status people who were charged or convicted of the same offence did not appear incongruous. Iqbal was A-class. Jugga was the rock-bottom C.

After his midday meal, Iqbal lay down on the charpai. He heard snoring from Jugga's cell. But he himself was far too disturbed to sleep. His mind was like the delicate spring of a watch, which quivers for several hours after it has been touched. He sat up and began to turn over the pile of newspapers the head constable had left him. They were all alike: the same news, the same statements, the same editorials. Except for the wording of the headlines, they might all have been written by the same hand. Even the photographs were the same. In disgust, he turned to the matrimonial ads. There was sometimes entertainment there. But the youth of the Punjab were as alike as the news. The qualities they required in a wife were identical. All wanted virgins. A few, more broad- minded than the rest, were willing to consider widows, but only if they had not been deflowered. All demanded women who were good at h. h. a., or

household affairs. To the advanced and charitable, c. & d. [caste and

dowry] were no bar. Not many asked for photographs of their prospective wives. Beauty, they recognized, was only skin-deep. Most wanted to 'correspond with horoscopes'. Astronomical harmony was the one guarantee of happiness. Iqbal threw the papers away, and rummaged through the magazines. If anything, they were worse than the newspapers. There was the inevitable article on the Ajanta cave frescoes. There was the article on Indian ballet. There was the article on Tagore. There was the article on the stories of Prem Chand. There were the articles on the private lives of film stars. Iqbal gave up, and lay down again. He felt depressed about everything. It occurred to him that he had hardly slept for three days. He wondered if this would be considered a 'sacrifice'. It was possible. He must find some way of sending word to the party. Then, perhaps... He fell asleep with visions of banner headlines announcing his arrest, his release, his triumphant emergence as a leader. In the evening a policeman came to Iqbal's cell, carrying another chair.

'Is somebody going to share my cell?' asked Iqbal a little apprehensively.

'No, Babuji. Only the Inspector Sahib. He wishes to have a word with you. He is coming now.'

Iqbal did not answer. The policeman studied the position of the chair for a moment. Then he withdrew. There was a sound of voices in the corridor, and the subinspector appeared.

'Have I your permission to enter?'

Iqbal nodded. 'What can I do for you, Inspector Sahib?'

'We are your slaves, Mr Iqbal. You should command us and we will serve you,' the subinspector answered with a smile. He was proud of his ability to change his tone and manner as the circumstances required. That was diplomacy.

'I did not know you were so kind to people you arrested for murder. It is on a charge of murder that you have brought me here, isn't it? I do not suppose your policemen told you I came to Mano Majra yesterday on the same train as they did.'

'We have framed no charge. That is for the court. We are only detaining you on suspicion. We cannot allow political agitators in the border areas.' The subinspector continued to smile. 'Why don't you go and do your propaganda in Pakistan where you belong?'

Iqbal was stung to fury, but he tried to suppress any sign of his anger. 'What exactly do you mean by "belonging to Pakistan", Inspector Sahib?"

'You are a Muslim. You go to Pakistan.'

"That is a bloody lie,' exploded Iqbal. 'What is more, you know it is a bloody lie. You just want to cover up your stupidity by trumping up a false case.'

The Inspector spoke back sourly.

'You should use your tongue with some discrimination, Mr Iqbal. I am not in your father's pay to have to put up with your "bloodys". Your name is Iqbal and you are circumcised. I have examined you myself. Also, you cannot give any explanation for your presence in Mano Majra. That is enough.'

'It will not be enough when it comes up in court, and in the newspapers. I am not a Muslim not that that matters-and what I came to Mano Majra for is none of your business. If you do not release me within twenty-four hours I will move a habeas corpus petition and tell the court the way you go about your duties.'

'Habeas corpus petition?' The subinspector roared with laughter. 'It seems you have been living in foreign lands too long, Mr Iqbal. Even now you live in a fool's paradise. You will live and learn.'

The subinspector left the cell abruptly, and locked the steel bar gate. He opened the adjoining one behind which Jugga was locked.

'Sat Sri Akal, Inspector Sahib,'

The subinspector did not acknowledge the greeting.

'Will you ever give up being a badmash?'

'King of pearls, you can say what you like, but this time I am innocent. I swear by the Guru I am innocent.'

Jugga remained seated on the floor. The subinspector stood leaning against the wall.

'Where were you on the night of the dacoity?'

'I had nothing to do with the dacoity,' answered Jugga evasively.

'Where were you on the night of the dacoity?' repeated the subinspector. Jugga looked down at the floor. 'I had gone to my fields. It was my turn of water.'

The subinspector knew he was lying. 'I can check up the turn of water with the canal man. Did you inform the lambardar that you were going out of the village?'

Jugga only shuffled his feet and kept on looking at the floor.

'Your mother said you had gone to drive away wild pigs.'

Jugga continued to shuffle his feet. After a long pause he said again, 'I had nothing to do with the dacoity. I am innocent.'

'Who were the dacoits?"

'King of pearls, how should I know who the dacoits were? I was out of the village at the time, otherwise you think anyone would have dared to rob and kill in Mano Majra?'

"Who were the dacoits?' repeated the subinspector menacingly. 'I know you know them. They certainly know you. They left a gift of glass bangles for you.'

Jugga did not reply.

'You want to be whipped on your buttocks or have red chillies put up your rectum before you talk?'

Jugga winced. He knew what the subinspector meant. He had been through it -once. Hands and feet pinned under legs of charpais with half a dozen policemen sitting on them. Testicles twisted and squeezed till one became senseless with pain. Powdered red chillies thrust up the rectum by rough hands, and the sensation of having the tail on fire for several days. All this, and no food or water, or hot spicy food with a bowl of shimmering cool water put outside the cell just beyond one's reach. The memory shook him.

'No,' he said. 'For God's sake, no.' He flung himself on the floor and clasped the subinspector's shoes with both his hands. 'Please, O king of pearls.' He was ashamed of himself, but he knew he could never endure such torture again. 'I am innocent. By the name of the Guru, I had nothing to do with the dacoity.'

Seeing six foot four of muscle cringing at his feet gave the subinspector a feeling of elation. He had never known anyone to hold out against physical pain, not one. The pattern of torture had to be carefully chosen. Some succumbed to hunger, others of the Iqbal type to the inconvenience of having to defecate in front of the policemen. Some to flies sitting on their faces smeared with treacle, with their hands tied behind them. Some to lack of sleep. In the end they all gave in. 'I will give you two days to tell me the names of the dacoits,' he said. 'Otherwise, I will beat your behind till it looks like the tail of a ram.'

The subinspector freed his feet from Jugga's hands and walked out. His visits had been a failure. He would have to change his tactics. It was frustrating to deal with two people so utterly different.