For a week, Iqbal was left alone in his cell. His only companions were the piles of newspapers and magazines. There was no light in his cell, nor was he provided with a lamp. He had to lie in the stifling heat listening to night noises—snores, occasional gunshots, and then more snoring. When it started to rain, the police station became more dismal than ever. There was nothing to see except rain falling incessantly, or sometimes a constable running across between the reporting rooms and the barracks. There was nothing to hear except the monotonous patter of raindrops, an occasional peal of thunder, and then more rain. He saw little of Jugga in the neighbouring cell. On the first two evenings, some constables had taken Jugga out of his cell. They brought him back after an hour. Iqbal did not know what they had done to him. He didn’t ask and Jugga said nothing. But his repartee with the policemen became more vulgar and more familiar than before.

One morning a party of five men were brought to the station in handcuffs. As soon as Jugga saw them he lost his temper and abused them. They protested and refused to leave the reporting room verandah. Iqbal wondered who the new prisoners were. From the snatches of conversation that he had overheard, it seemed that everyone was on a spree, killing and looting. Even in Chundunnugger, a few yards from the police station, there had been killing. Iqbal had seen the pink glow of fire and heard people yelling, but the police had made no arrests. The prisoners must be quite out of the ordinary. While he was trying to figure out who the newcomers were, his cell was unlocked and Jugga came in with a constable. Jugga was in a good humour.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Babuji,’ he said. ‘I am going to be the servant of your feet. I will learn something.’

‘Iqbal Sahib,’ the constable added, relocking the cell, ‘teach this budmash how to go on the straight and narrow path.’

‘Get away with you,’ Jugga said. ‘Babuji thinks it is you and the Government who have made me a budmash. Isn’t that so, Babuji?’

Iqbal did not answer. He put his feet in the extra chair and gazed at the pile of papers. Jugga took Iqbal’s feet off the chair and began pressing them with his enormous hands.

‘Babuji, my kismet has woken up at last. I will serve you if you teach me some English. Just a few sentences so that I can do a little git mit.’

‘Who is going to occupy the next cell?’

Jugga continued pressing Iqbal’s feet and legs.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered hesitantly. ‘They tell me they have arrested Ram Lal’s murderers.’

‘I thought they had arrested you for the murder,’ said Iqbal.

‘Me, too,’ smiled Jugga, baring his row of even white teeth studded with gold points. ‘They always arrest me when anything goes wrong in Mano Majra. You see, I am a budmash.’