‘Thank you very much,’ answered Iqbal through the tooth paste froth in his mouth. He spat it out. ‘The tea in the bottle must be cold by now. I would be grateful for a hot cup. And would you mind looking after my things while I am away? They are arresting me for something. They do not know themselves for what.’

Meet Singh pretended he had not heard. The policemen looked a little sheepish.

‘It is not our fault, Babu Sahib,’ one of them said. ‘Why are you getting angry with us? Get angry with the magistrate.’

Iqbal ignored their protest by more brushing of his teeth. He washed his face and came back to the room rubbing himself with a towel. He let the air out of the mattress and the pillow and rolled them up. He emptied the holdall of its contents: books, clothes, torch, a large silver hip flask. He made a list of his things and put them back. When Meet Singh brought tea, Iqbal handed him the holdall.

‘Bhaiji, I have put all my things in the holdall. I hope it will not be too much trouble looking after them. I would rather trust you than the police in this free country of ours.’

The policemen looked away. Meet Singh was embarrassed.

‘Certainly, Babu Sahib,’ he said meekly. ‘I am your servant as well as that of the police. Here everyone is welcome. You like tea in your own cup?’

Iqbal got out his celluloid teacup and spoon. The constables tookbrass tumblers from Meet Singh. They wrapped the loose ends of their turbans round the tumblers to protect their hands from the hot brass. To reassure themselves they sipped noisily. But Iqbal was in complete possession of the situation. He sat on the string cot while they sat on the threshold and Meet Singh on the floor outside. They did not dare to speak to him for fear of rudeness. The constable with the handcuffs had quietly taken them off his belt and thrust them in his pocket. They finished their tea and looked up uneasily. Iqbal sat sullenly staring over their heads with an intensity charged with importance. He glared vacantly into space, occasionally taking a spinsterish sip of his tea. When he had finished, he stood up abruptly.

‘I am ready,’ he announced, dramatically holding out his hands. ‘Put on the handcuffs.’

‘There is no need for handcuffs, Babuji,’ answered one of the constables. ‘You had better cover your face or you will be recognized at the identification parade.’

Iqbal pounced on the opportunity. ‘Is this how you do your duty? If the rule is that I have to be handcuffed, then handcuffed I shall be. I am not afraid of being recognized. I am not a thief or a dacoit. I am a political worker. I will go through the village as I am so that people can see what the police do to people they do not like.’