The subinspector went out and stopped on the verandah to take a few deep breaths. The magistrate’s wrath decided his attitude. He would have to take a strong line and finish the shilly-shallying. He went to the servants’ quarters. Iqbal and his escort stood apart from Juggut Singh’s crowd. The young man had a look of injured dignity. The subinspector thought it best not to speak to him.

‘Search this man’s clothes. Take him inside one of the quarters and strip him. I will examine them myself.’

Iqbal’s planned speech remained undelivered. The constable almost dragged him by the handcuffs into a room. His resistance had gone. He took off his shirt and handed it to the policeman. The subinspector came in and without bothering to examine the shirt ordered:

‘Take off your pajamas!’

Iqbal felt humiliated. There was no fight left in him. ‘There are no pockets to the pajamas. I cannot hide anything in them.’

‘Take them off and do not argue.’ The subinspector slapped his khaki trousers with his swagger stick to emphasize the order.

Iqbal loosened the knot in the cord. The pajamas fell in a heap around his ankles. He was naked save for the handcuffs on his wrists. He stepped out of the pajamas to let the policemen examine them.

‘No, that is not necessary,’ broke in the subinspector. ‘I have seen all I wanted to see. You can put on your clothes. You say you are a social worker. What was your business in Mano Majra?’

‘I was sent by my party,’ answered Iqbal, re-tying the knot in the cord of his pajamas.

‘What party?’

‘People’s Party of India.’

The subinspector looked at Iqbal with a sinister smile. ‘The People’s Party of India,’ he repeated slowly, pronouncing each word distinctly. ‘You are sure it was not the Muslim League?’

Iqbal did not catch the significance of the question.

No, why should I be a member of the Muslim League? I . . .’

The subinspector walked out of the room before Iqbal had finished his sentence. He ordered the constables to take the prisoners to the police station. He went back to the rest house to report his discovery to the magistrate. There was an obsequious smile on his face.

‘Cherisher of the poor, it is all right. He says he has been sent by the People’s Party. But I am sure he is a Muslim Leaguer. They are much the same. We would have had to arrest him in any case if he was up to mischief so near the border. We can charge him with something or other later.’

‘How do you know he is a Muslim Leaguer?’

The subinspector smiled confidently. ‘I had him stripped.’

Hukum Chand shook his glass to churn the dregs of chalk at the bottom, and slowly drank up the remaining portion of the seltzer. He looked thoughtfully into the empty tumbler and added:

‘Fill in the warrant of arrest correctly. Name: Mohammed Iqbal, son of Mohammed Something-or-other, or just father unknown. Caste: Mussulman. Occupation: Muslim League worker.’