‘Who listens to an old bhai? These are bad times, Iqbal Singhji, very bad times. There is no faith or religion. All one can do is to crouch in a safe corner till the storm blows over. This would not do for a newly married couple,’ he added, slapping the mattress affectionately.

Iqbal was agitated. ‘You cannot let this sort of thing happen! Can’t you tell them that the people on the train are the very same people they were addressing as uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters?’

Meet Singh sighed. He wiped a tear with the scarf on his shoulder.

‘What difference will my telling them make? They know what they are doing. They will kill. If it is a success, they will come to the gurudwara for thanksgiving. They will also make offerings to wash away their sins. Iqbal Singhji, tell me about yourself. Have you been well? Did they treat you properly at the police station?’

‘Yes, yes, I was all right,’ snapped Iqbal impatiently. ‘Why don’t you do something? You must!’

‘I have done all I could. My duty is to tell people what is right and what is not. If they insist on doing evil, I ask God to forgive them. I can only pray; the rest is for the police and the magistrate. And for you.’

‘Me? Why me?’ asked Iqbal with a startled innocence. ‘What have I to do with it? I do not know these people. Why should they listen to a stranger?’

‘When you came you were going to speak to them about something. Why don’t you tell them now?’

Iqbal felt concerned. ‘Bhaiji, when people go about with guns and spears you can only talk back with guns and spears. If you cannot do that, then it is best to keep out of their way.’

‘That is exactly what I say. I thought you with your European ideas had some other remedy. Let me get you some hot spinach. I have just cooked it,’ added Meet Singh getting up.

‘No, no, Bhaiji, I have all I want in my tins. If I want something I will ask you for it. I have a little work to do before I eat.’

Meet Singh put the hurricane lantern on a stool by the bed and went back to the hall.

Iqbal put his plates, knife, fork, and tins back into the haversack. He felt a little feverish, the sort of feverishness one feels when one is about to make a declaration of love. It was time for a declaration of something. Only he was not sure what it should be.

Should he go out, face the mob and tell them in clear ringing tones that this was wrong—immoral? Walk right up to them with his eyes fixing the armed crowd in a frame—without flinching, without turning, like the heroes on the screen who become bigger and bigger as they walk right into the camera. Then with dignity fall under a volley of blows, or preferably a volley of rifleshots. A cold thrill went down Iqbal’s spine.