‘Here is warrant for your arrest. Get up.’

The other slipped the ring at one end of a pair of handcuffs in his belt and unlocked the links to put round Iqbal’ s wrists. The sight of the handcuffs brought Iqbal wide awake. He jumped out of bed and faced the policemen.

‘You have no right to arrest me like this,’ he shouted. ‘You made up the warrant in front of me. This is not going to end here. The days of police rule are over. If you dare put your hands on me, the world will hear about it. I will see that the papers tell the people how you chaps do your duty.’

The policemen were taken aback. The young man’s accent, the rubber pillows and mattress and all the other things they had seen in the room, and above all, his aggressive attitude, made them uneasy. They felt that perhaps they had made a mistake.

‘Babu Sahib, we are only doing our duty. You settle this with the magistrate,’ one of them answered politely. The other fumbled uneasily with the handcuffs.

‘I will settle it with the whole lot of you—police and magistrates! Come and disturb people in sleep! You will regret this mistake.’ Iqbal waited for the policemen to say something so that he could go on with his tirade against law and order. But they had been subdued.

‘You will have to wait. I have to wash and change and leave my things in somebody’s care,’ said Iqbal aggressively, giving them another chance to say something.

‘All right, Babu Sahib. Take as long as you like.’

The policemen’s civil attitude deflated Iqbal’s anger. He collected his things and went down the stairs to his room. He went to the well, pulled up a bucket of water and began to wash. He was in no hurry.

Bhai Meet Singh came back vigorously brushing his teeth with the end of the keekar twig which he had chewed into a fibrous brush. The presence of policemen in the gurudwara did not surprise him. Whenever they came to the village and could not find accommodation at the lambardar’s house they came to the temple. He had been expecting them after the moneylender’s murder.

‘Sat Sri Akal,’ said Meet Singh, throwing away his keekar toothbrush.

‘Sat Sri Akal,’ replied the policemen.

‘Would you like some tea or something? Some buttermilk?’

‘We are waiting for the Babu Sahib,’ the policemen said. ‘If you can give us something while he is getting ready, it will be very kind.’

Meet Singh maintained a casual indifference. It was not up to him to argue with the police or be nosy about their business. Iqbal Singh was probably a ‘comrade’. He certainly talked like one.

‘I will make some tea for him, too,’ replied Meet Singh. He looked at Iqbal. ‘Or will you have your own out of the big bottle?’