‘Sixteen! Wah, wah! I have never met anyone who has done that. In our village only Ram Lal has done four. Now he is dead, the only one who can read anything is Meet Singh. In the neighbouring villages they haven’t even got a bhai. Our Inspector Sahib has only read up to seven and the Deputy Sahib to ten. Sixteen! You must have lots of brain.’

Iqbal felt embarrassed at the effusive compliments.

‘Can you read or write anything?’ he asked.

‘I? No. My uncle’s son taught me a little verse he learned at school. It is half English and half Hindustani:

Pigeon—kabootur, oodan—fly

Look—dekho, usman—sky

Do you know this?’

‘No. Didn’t he teach you the alphabet?’

‘The A.B.C.? He did not know it himself. He knew as much as I do:

A. B. C. where have you been?

Edward’s dead, I went to mourn.

You must know this one?’

‘No, I don’t know this either.’

‘Well, you tell me something in English.’

Iqbal obliged. He taught Jugga how to say ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’. When Jugga wanted to know the English for some of the vital functions of life, Iqbal became impatient. Then the five new prisoners were brought into the neighbouring cell. Jugga’s jovial mood vanished as fast as it had come.

By eleven o’clock the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. The day became brighter. The subinspector looked up from his cycling. Some distance ahead of him, the clouds opened up, unfolding a rich blue sky. A shaft of sunlight slanted across the rain. Its saffron beams played about on the sodden fields. The rainbows spanned the sky, framing the town of Chundunnugger in a multicoloured arc.

The subinspector drove faster. He wanted to get to the police station before his head constable made an entry about Malli’s arrest. It would be awkward to have to tear off pages from the station diary and then face a whole lot of questions from some impertinent lawyer. The head constable was a man of experience, but after the arrests of Jugga and Iqbal the subinspector’s confidence in him had been somewhat shaken. He could not be relied on to handle a situation which was not routine. Would he know where to lock up the prisoners? He was a peasant, full of awe of the educated middle class. He would not have the nerve to disturb Iqbal (in whose cell he had put a charpoy and a chair and table). And if he had put Jugga and Malli together in the other cell, they would by now have discussed the murder and dacoity and decided to help each other.

As the subinspector cycled into the police station, a couple of policemen sitting on a bench on the verandah got up to receive him. One took his cycle; the other helped him with his raincoat, murmuring something about having to go out in the rain.