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.

Meet Singh shut the prayer book and again put it to his forehead. He begun to mumble the epilogue to the morning prayer:

Air, water and earth,

Of these are we made,

Air like the Guru’s word gives the breath of life

To the babe born of the great mother Earth

Sired by the waters.

His voice tapered off to an inaudible whisper. Juggut Singh put back the fly whisk and rubbed his forehead on the ground in front of the scripture.

‘Is that good?’ he asked naïvely.

‘All the Guru’s word is good,’ answered Meet Singh solemnly

‘What does it mean?’

‘What have you to do with meaning? It is just the Guru’s word. If you are going to do something good, the Guru will help you; if you are going to do something bad, the Guru will stand in your way. If you persist in doing it, he will punish you till you repent, and then forgive you.’

‘Yes, what will I do with the meaning? All right, Bhaiji. Sat Sri Akal.’

‘Sat Sri Akal.’

Jugga rubbed his forehead on the ground again and got up. He threaded his way through the sleeping assembly and picked up his shoes. There was a light in one of the rooms. Jugga looked in. He recognized the head with tousled hair on the pillow. Iqbal was sleeping with the silver hip flask lying on his chest.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Babuji.’ he said softly. There was no reply. ‘Are you asleep?’

‘Do not disturb him,’ interrupted Meet Singh in a whisper. ‘He is not feeling well. He has been taking medicine to sleep.’

‘Achha, Bhaiji, you say Sat Sri Akal to him for me.’ Juggut Singh went out of the gurudwara.