Jugga was lost in his thoughts, concerned and angry alternately, when the tonga slowed down to pass through the lane to the Sikh temple. He jumped off the moving vehicle and disappeared into the darkness without a word of farewell.

Iqbal stepped off the tonga and stretched his limbs. The driver and the constable had a whispered consultation.

‘Can I be of any more service to you, Babu Sahib?’ asked the policemen.

‘No. No, thank you. I am all right. It is very kind of you.’ Iqbal did not like the prospect of going into the gurudwara alone, but he could not bring himself to ask the others to come with him.

‘Babuji, we have a long way to go. My horse has been out all day without any food or water; and you know the times.’

‘Yes, you can go back. Thank you. Sat Sri Akal.’

‘Sat Sri Akal.’

The courtyard of the gurudwara was spotted with rings of light cast by hurricane lamps and fires on improvised hearths over which women were cooking the evening meal. Inside the main hall was a circle of people around Meet Singh, who was reciting the evening prayer. The room in which Iqbal had left his things was locked.

Iqbal took off his shoes, covered his head with a handkerchief and joined the gathering. Some people shifted to make room for him. Iqbal noticed people looking at him and whispering to each other. Most of them were old men dressed like town folk. It was quite obvious that they were refugees.

When the prayer was over, Meet Singh wrapped the massive volume in velvet and laid it to rest on the cot on which it had been lying open. He spoke to Iqbal before anyone else could start asking questions.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Iqbal Singhji. I am glad you are back. You must be hungry.’

Iqbal realized that Meet Singh had deliberately mentioned his surname. He could feel the tension relax. Some of the men turned around and said ‘Sat Sri Akal.’

‘Sat Sri Akal,’ answered Iqbal and got up to join Meet Singh.

‘Sardar Iqbal Singh,’ said Meet Singh, introducing him to the others, ‘is a social worker. He has been in England for many years.’

A host of admiring eyes were turned on Iqbal, ‘the England returned’. The ‘Sat Sri Akals’ were repeated. Iqbal felt embarrassed.

‘You are Sikh, Iqbal Singhji?’ inquired one of the men.

‘Yes.’ A fortnight earlier he would have replied emphatically ‘No’, or ‘I have no religion’ or ‘Religion is irrelevant.’ The situation was different now, and in any case it was true that he was born a Sikh.

‘Was it in England you cut your hair?’ asked the same person.

‘No, sir,’ answered Iqbal, completely confused. ‘I never grew my hair long. I am just a Sikh without long hair and beard.’

‘Your parents must have been unorthodox,’ said Meet Singh coming to his aid. The statement allayed suspicion but left Iqbal with an uneasy conscience.