‘Why are you so angry, my dear? Why so sad? Is it somebody’s love that torments your soul?’

‘Come along, keep moving,’ said the policemen reluctantly. They were enjoying the scene.

‘Why can’t we say Sat Sri Akal to our old friend? Sat Sri Akal, Sardar Juggut Singhji. Is there any message we can convey for you? A love message maybe? To the weaver’s daughter?’

Jugga kept staring through the bars as if he had not heard. He turned pale with anger. All the blood drained from his face. His hands tightened around the iron bars.

Malli turned round to his smiling companions. ‘Sardar Juggut Singh seems a little upset today. He will not answer our Sat Sri Akal. We do not mind. We will say Sat Sri Akal to him again.’

Malli joined his manacled hands and bent low near Juggut Singh’s iron bar door and started loudly, ‘Sat Sri.. .’

Jugga’s hands shot through the bars and gripped Malli by the hair protruding from the back of his turban. Malli’s turban fell off. Jugga yelled murderously and with a jerk brought Malli’s head crashing against the bars. He shook Malli as a terrier shakes a piece of rag from side to side, forward and backward, smashing his head repeatedly against the bars. Each jerk was accompanied by abuse: ‘This to rape your mother. This your sister. This your daughter. This for your mother again. And this . . . and this.’

Iqbal, who had been watching the earlier proceedings from his chair, stood up in a corner and started shouting to the policemen: ‘Why don’t you do something? Don’t you see he will kill the man?’

The policemen began to shout. One of them tried to push the butt end of his rifle in Jugga’s face, but Jugga dodged. Malli’s head was spattered with blood. His skull and forehead were bruised all over. He began to wail. The subinspector ran up to the cell and hit Jugga violently on the hand with his swagger stick several times. Jugga would not let go. The subinspector drew his revolver and pointed it at Jugga. ‘Let go, you swine, or I will shoot.’

Jugga held up Malli’s head with both his hands and spat in his face. He pushed him away with more abuse. Malli fell in a heap with his hair all over his face and shoulders. His companions helped him up and wiped the blood and spit off his face with his turban. He cried like a child, swearing all the time, ‘May your mother die . . . you son of a pig . . . I will settle this with you.’ Malli and his men were led away. Malli could be heard crying till he was a long way from the police station.

Jugga sank back into the stupor he had been in before he lost his temper. He examined the marks the subinspector’s swagger stick had left on the back of his hands. Iqbal continued shouting agitatedly. Jugga turned round angrily. ‘Shut up, you babu! What have I done to you that you talk so much?’