Meet Singh fumbled with the cord of his shorts and pulled up a bunch of keys dangling at the end. He picked up the hurricane lantern from the stool beside the scriptures and led the way through the courtyard to the room.

‘I kept your things locked in the room. You can take them. I will get you some food.’

‘No, Bhaiji, do not bother, I have enough with me. Tell me, what has happened in the village since I left? Who are all these people?’

The bhai unlocked the door and lit an oil lamp in the niche. Iqbal opened his kit bag and emptied its contents on a charpoy. There were several copper-gold tins of fish paste, butter and cheese; aluminum forks, knives and spoons, and celluloid cups and saucers.

‘Bhaiji, what has been happening?’ Iqbal asked again.

‘What has been happening? Ask me what has not been happening. Trainloads of dead people came to Mano Majra. We burned one lot and buried another. The river was flooded with corpses. Muslims were evacuated, and in their place, refugees have come from Pakistan. What more do you want to know?’

Iqbal wiped a celluloid plate and tumbler with his handkerchief. He fished out his silver hip flask and shook it. It was full.

‘What have you in that silver bottle?’

‘Oh this? Medicine,’ faltered Iqbal. ‘It gives me an appetite for food,’ he added with a smile.

‘And then you take pills to digest it?’

Iqbal laughed. ‘Yes, and more to make the bowels work. Tell me, was there any killing in the village?’

‘No,’ said the bhai casually. He was more interested in watching Iqbal inflating the air mattress. ‘But there will be. Is it nice sleeping on this? Does everyone in England sleep on these?’

‘What do you mean—there will be killing?’ asked Iqbal, plugging the end of the mattress. ‘All Muslims have left, haven’t they?’

‘Yes, but they are going to attack the train near the bridge tonight. It is taking Muslims of Chundunnugger and Mano Majra to Pakistan. Your pillow is also full of air.’

‘Yes. Who are they? Not the villagers?’

‘I do not know all of them. Some people in uniforms came in military cars. They had pistols and guns. The refugees have joined them. So have Malli budmash and his gang—and some villagers. Wouldn’t this burst if a heavy person slept on it?’ asked Meet Singh, tapping the mattress.

‘I see,’ said Iqbal, ignoring Meet Singh’s question. ‘I see the trick now. That is why the police released Malli. Now I suppose Jugga will join them, too. It is all arranged.’ He stretched himself on the mattress and tucked the pillow under his armpit. ‘Bhaiji, can’t you stop it? They all listen to you.’

Meet Singh patted and smoothed the air mattress and sat down on the floor.