‘Twenty-seven. Tell me, do other social workers come to this village?’ Iqbal decided to ask questions to stop Meet Singh’s interrogation.

‘Sometimes the American padres come.’

‘Do you like their preaching Christianity in your village?’

‘Everyone is welcome to his religion. Here next door is a Muslim mosque. When I pray to my Guru, Uncle Imam Baksh calls to Allah. How many religions do they have in Europe?’

‘They are all Christians of one kind or other. They do not quarrel about their religions as we do here. They do not really bother very much about religion.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Meet Singh ponderously. ‘That is why they have no morals. The sahibs and their wives go about with other sahibs and their wives. That is not good, is it?’

‘But they do not tell lies like we do and they are not corrupt and dishonest as so many of us are,’ answered Iqbal.

He got out his tin opener and opened the tin of sardines. He spread the fish on a biscuit and continued to talk while he ate.

‘Morality, Meet Singhji, is a matter of money. Poor people cannot afford to have morals. So they have religion. Our first problem is to get people more food, clothing, comfort. That can only be done by stopping exploitation by the rich, and abolishing landlords. And that can only be done by changing the government.’

Meet Singh, with disgusted fascination, watched the young man eating fish complete with head, eyes and tail. He did not pay much attention to the lecture on rural indebtedness, the average national income, and capitalist exploitation which the other poured forth with flakes of dry biscuits. When Iqbal had finished eating Meet Singh got up and brought him a tumbler of water from his pitcher. Iqbal did not stop talking. He only raised his voice when the bhai went out.

Iqbal produced a little packet of cellophane paper from his pocket, took a white pill from it and dropped it in the tumbler. He had seen Meet Singh’s thumb, with its black crescent of dirt under the nail, dipping into the water. In any case it was out of a well which could never have been chlorinated.

‘Are you ill?’ asked the old man, seeing the other wait for the pill to dissolve.

‘No, it helps me to digest my food. We city-dwellers need this sort of thing after meals.’

Iqbal resumed his speech. ‘To add to it all,’ he continued, ‘there is the police system which, instead of safeguarding the citizen, maltreats him and lives on corruption and bribery. You know all about that, I am sure.’

The old man nodded his head in agreement. Before he could comment, the young man spoke again. ‘A party of policemen with an inspector came over on the same train with me. They will no doubt eat up all the chickens, the inspector will make a little money in bribes, and they will move on to the next village. One would think they had nothing else to do but fleece people.’