Iqbal went straight to his room and lay down on his charpoy in the dark. He had barely shut his eyes when the worshippers began to chant. The chanting stopped for a couple of minutes, only to start again. The ceremony ended with shouts of ‘Sat Sri Akal’ and the beating of a drum. The men and women came out. Meet Singh held the lantern and helped them find their shoes. They started talking loudly. In the babel the only word Iqbal could make out was ‘babu’. Somebody who had noticed Iqbal come in, had told the others. There was some whispering and shuffling of feet and then silence.

Iqbal shut his eyes once more. A minute later Meet Singh stood on the threshold, holding the lantern.

‘Iqbal Singhji, have you gone to bed without food? Would you like some spinach? I have also curd and buttermilk.’

‘No, thank you, Bhaiji. I have the food I want.’

‘Our poor food . . . ’ started Meet Singh.

‘No, no, it is not that,’ interrupted Iqbal sitting up, ‘it is just that I have it and it may be wasted if I don’t eat it. I am a little tired and would like to sleep.’

‘Then you must have some milk. Banta Singh, the lambardar, is bringing you some. I will tell him to hurry up if you want to sleep early. I have another charpoy for you on the roof. It is too hot to sleep in here.’ Meet Singh left the hurricane lantern in the room and disappeared in the dark.

The prospect of having to talk to the lambardar was not very exciting. Iqbal fished out his silver hip flask from underneath the pillow and took a long swig of whisky. He ate a few dry biscuits that were in the paper packet. He took his mattress and pillow to the roof where a charpoy had been laid for him. Meet Singh apparently slept in the courtyard to guard the gurudwara.

Iqbal lay on his charpoy and watched the stars in the teeming sky until he heard several voices entering the gurudwara and coming up the stairs. Then he got up to greet the visitors.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Babu Sahib.’

‘Salaam to you, Babu Sahib.’

They shook hands. Meet Singh did not bother to introduce them. Iqbal pushed the air mattress aside to make room on the charpoy for the visitors. He sat down on the floor himself.

‘I am ashamed for not having presented myself earlier, said the Sikh. ‘Please forgive me. I have brought some milk for you.’

‘Yes, Sahib, we are ashamed of ourselves. You are our guest and we have not rendered you any service. Drink the milk before it gets cold,’ added the other visitor. He was a tall lean man with a clipped beard.

‘It is very kind of you . . . I know you have been busy with the police . . . I don’t drink milk. Really I do not. We city-dwellers . . . ’