After his midday meal, Iqbal lay down on the charpoy. He heard snoring from Jugga’s cell. But he himself was far too disturbed to sleep. His mind was like the delicate spring of a watch, which quivers for several hours after it has been touched. He sat up and began to turn over the pile of newspapers the head constable had left him. They were all alike: the same news, the same statements, the same editorials. Except for the wording of the headlines, they might all have been written by the same hand. Even the photographs were the same. In disgust, he turned to the matrimonial ads. There was sometimes entertainment there. But the youth of the Punjab were as alike as the news. The qualities they required in a wife were identical. All wanted virgins. A few, more broad-minded than the rest, were willing to consider widows, but only if they had not been deflowered. All demanded women who were good at h. h. a., or household affairs. To the advanced and charitable, c. & d. [caste and dowry] were no bar. Not many asked for photographs of their prospective wives. Beauty, they recognized, was only skin-deep. Most wanted to ‘correspond with horoscopes’. Astronomical harmony was the one guarantee of happiness. Iqbal threw the papers away, and rummaged through the magazines. If anything, they were worse than the newspapers. There was the inevitable article on the Ajanta cave frescoes. There was the article on Indian ballet. There was the article on Tagore. There was the article on the stories of Prem Chand. There were the articles on the private lives of film stars. Iqbal gave up, and lay down again. He felt depressed about everything. It occurred to him that he had hardly slept for three days. He wondered if this would be considered a ‘sacrifice’. It was possible. He must find some way of sending word to the party. Then, perhaps . . . He fell asleep with visions of banner headlines announcing his arrest, his release, his triumphant emergence as a leader.

In the evening a policeman came to Iqbal’s cell, carrying another chair.

‘Is somebody going to share my cell?’ asked Iqbal a little apprehensively.

‘No, Babuji. Only the Inspector Sahib. He wishes to have a word with you. He is coming now.’

Iqbal did not answer. The policeman studied the position of the chair for a moment. Then he withdrew. There was a sound of voices in the corridor, and the subinspector appeared.

‘Have I your permission to enter?’

Iqbal nodded. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector Sahib?’

‘We are your slaves, Mr Iqbal. You should command us and we will serve you,’ the subinspector answered with a smile. He was proud of his ability to change his tone and manner as the circumstances required. That was diplomacy.

‘I did not know you were so kind to people you arrested for murder. It is on a charge of murder that you have brought me here, isn’t it? I do not suppose your policemen told you I came to Mano Majra yesterday on the same train as they did.’