And have another whisky. The whisky was like water. It had no taste. Iqbal shook the flask. He heard a faint splashing. It wasn’t empty. Thank God, it wasn’t empty.

If you look at things as they are,he told himself, there does not seem to be a code either of man or of God on which one can pattern one’s conduct. Wrong triumphs over right as much as right over wrong. Sometimes its triumphs are greater. What happens ultimately, you do not know. In such circumstances what can you do but cultivate an utter indifference to all values? Nothing matters. Nothing whatever . . .

Iqbal fell asleep, with the celluloid glass in his hand and the lamp burning on the stool beside him.

In the courtyard of the gurudwara, the fires on the hearths had burned to ashes. A gust of wind occasionally fanned a glowing ember. Lamps had been dimmed. Men, women and children lay sprawled about on the floor of the main room. Meet Singh was awake. He was sweeping the floor and tidying up the mess.

Somebody started banging at the door with his fists. Meet Singh stopped sweeping and went across the courtyard muttering, ‘Who is it?’

He undid the latch. Jugga stepped inside. In the dark he looked larger than ever. His figure filled the doorway.

‘Why, Juggut Singhji, what business have you here at this hour?’ asked Meet Singh.

‘Bhai,’ he whispered, ‘I want the Guru’s word. Will you read me a verse?’

‘I have laid the Granth Sahib to rest for the night,’ Meet Singh said. ‘What is it that you want to do?’

‘It does not matter about that,’ said Jugga impatiently. He put a heavy hand on Meet Singh’s shoulder. ‘Will you just read me a few lines quickly?’

Meet Singh led the way, grumbling. ‘You never came to the gurudwara any other time. Now when the scripture is resting and people are asleep, you want me to read the Guru’s word. It is not proper. I will read you a piece from the Morning Prayer.’

‘It does not matter what you read. Just read it.’

Meet Singh turned up the wick of one of the lanterns. Its sooty chimney became bright. He sat down beside the cot on which the scripture lay. Jugga picked up the fly whisk from beneath the cot and began waving it over Meet Singh’s head. Meet Singh got out a small prayer book, put it to his forehead and began to read the verse on the page which he happened to have opened to:

He who made the night and day,

The days of the week and seasons.

He who made the breezes blow, the waters run,

The fires and the lower regions.

Made the earth—the temple of law.

He who made creatures of diverse kinds

With a multitude of names,

Made this the law—

By thought and deed be judged forsooth,

For God is True and dispenseth Truth.

There the elect his court adorn,

And God Himself their actions honours.

There are sorted deeds that were done and bore fruit,

From those that to action could never ripen.

This, O Nanak, shall hereafter happen.