‘No, Babu Sahib, only when you go in near the Book, the Granth Sahib, you take your shoes off and cover your head. Put your luggage in that room and make yourself comfortable. Will you have something to eat?’

‘That is very kind of you. But I have brought my own food.’

The old man showed the visitor to the spare room and then went back to the well. The young man went into the room. Its only furniture was a charpoy lying in the middle. There was a large colored calender on one wall. It had a picture of the Guru on horseback with a hawk on one hand. Alongside the calendar were nails to hang clothes.

The visitor emptied his holdall. He took out his air mattress and blew it up on the charpoy. He laid out pajamas and a silk dressing gown on the mattress. He got out a tin of sardines, a tin of Australian butter and a packet of dry biscuits. He shook his water bottle. It was empty.

The old Sikh came to him, combing his long beard with his fingers.

‘What is your name?’ he asked, sitting down on the threshold.

‘Iqbal. What is yours?’

‘Iqbal Singh?’ queried the old man. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘I am the bhai of the temple. Bhai Meet Singh. What is your business in Mano Majra, Iqbal Singhji?’

The young man was relieved that the other had not gone on with his first question. He did not have to say what Iqbal he was. He could be a Muslim, Iqbal Mohammed. He could be a Hindu, Iqbal Chand, or a Sikh, Iqbal Singh. It was one of the few names common to the three communities. In a Sikh village, an Iqbal Singh would no doubt get a better deal, even if his hair was shorn and his beard shaved, than an Iqbal Mohammed or an Iqbal Chand. He himself had few religious feelings.

‘I am a social worker, Bhaiji. There is much to be done in our villages. Now with this partition there is so much bloodshed going on, someone must do something to stop it. My party has sent me here, since this place is a vital point for refugee movements. Trouble here would be disastrous.’

The bhai did not seem interested in Iqbal’s occupation.

‘Where are you from, Iqbal Singhji?’

Iqbal knew that meant his ancestors and not himself.

‘I belong to district Jhelum—now in Pakistan—but I have been in foreign countries a long time. It is after seeing the world that one feels how backward we are and one wants to do things about it. So I do social work.’

‘How much do they pay you?’

Iqbal had learned not to resent these questions.

I don’t get paid very much. Just my expenses.’

‘Do they pay the expenses of your wife and children also?’

‘No, Bhaiji. I am not married. I really . . . ’

‘How old are you?’