Every rupee is worth sixteen annas, thought Iqbal. He refused to take interest. Jugga went on.

‘The Bhai told me of a truckful of Baluch soldiers who were going from Amritsar to Lahore. When they were getting near the Pakistan border, the soldiers began to stick bayonets into Sikhs going along the road. The driver would slow down near a cyclist or a pedestrian, the soldiers on the footboard would stab him in the back and then the driver would accelerate away fast. They killed many people like this and were feeling happier and happier as they got nearer Pakistan. They were within a mile of the border and were travelling at great speed. What do you think happened then?’

‘What?’ asked an obliging policeman. They all listened intently—all except Iqbal. Even the driver stopped flogging the horse and looked back.

‘Listen, Babuji, this is worth listening to. A pariah dog ran across the road. The very same driver of the truck who had been responsible for killing so many people swerved sharply to the right to avoid the dog, a mangy pariah dog. He crashed into a tree. The driver and two of the soldiers were killed. All the others seriously wounded. What do you say to that?’

Policemen murmured approval. Iqbal felt irritated.

‘Who caused the crash, the dog or God?’ he asked cynically.

‘God, of course,’ answered one of the policemen. ‘Why should one who enjoyed killing human beings be bothered by a stray dog getting under his wheels?’

‘You tell me,’ said Iqbal coldly. He squashed everyone except Jugga, who was irrepressible. Jugga turned to the tonga driver. The man had started whipping his horse again.

‘Bhola, have you no fear of God that you beat your animal so mercilessly?’

Bhola stopped beating the horse. The expression on his face was resentful: it was his horse and he could do what he liked to it.

‘Bholeya, how is business these days?’ asked Jugga, trying to make up.

‘God is merciful,’ answered the driver pointing to the sky with his whip, then added quickly, ‘Inspector Sahib is also merciful. We are alive and manage to fill our bellies.’

‘Don’t you make money off these refugees who are wanting to go to Pakistan?’

‘And lose my life for money?’ asked Bhola angrily. ‘No, thank you, brother, you keep your advice to yourself. When the mobs attack they do not wait to find out who you are, Hindu or Muslim; they kill. The other day four Sikh Sardars in a jeep drove alongside a mile-long column of Muslim refugees walking on the road. Without warning they opened fire with their sten guns. Four sten guns! God alone knows how many they killed. What would happen if a mob got hold of my tonga full of Muslims? They would kill me first and ask afterwards.’

‘Why didn’t a dog get under the jeep and upset it?’ asked Iqbal sarcastically.