‘Uncle,’ said the lambardar in a heavy voice, ‘it is very hard for me to say, but seeing the sort of time we live in, I would advise you to go to the refugee camp while this trouble is on. You lock your houses with your belongings. We will look after your cattle till you come back.’

The lambardar’s voice created a tense stillness. Villagers held their breath for fear of being heard. The lambardar himself felt that he ought to say something quickly to dispel the effect of his words.

‘Until yesterday,’ he began again loudly, ‘in case of trouble we could have helped you to cross the river by the ford. Now it has been raining for two days; the river has risen. The only crossings are by trains and road bridges—you know what is happening there! It is for your own safety that I advise you to take shelter in the camp for a few days, and then you can come back. As far as we are concerned,’ he repeated warmly, ‘if you decide to stay on, you are most welcome to do so. We will defend you with our lives.’

No one had any doubts about the import of the lambardar’s words. They sat with their heads bowed till Imam Baksh stood up.

‘All right,’ he said solemnly, ‘if we have to go, we better pack up our bedding and belongings. It will take us more than one night to clear out of homes it has taken our fathers and grandfathers hundreds of years to make.’

The lambardar felt a strong sense of guilt and was overcome with emotion. He got up and embraced Imam Baksh and started to cry loudly. Sikh and Muslim villagers fell into each other’s arms and wept like children. Imam Baksh gently got out of the lambardar’s embrace. ‘There is no need to cry,’ he said between sobs. ‘This is the way of the world—

Not forever does the bulbul sing

In balmy shades of bowers,

Not forever lasts the spring

Nor ever blossom flowers.

Not forever reigneth joy,

Sets the sun on days of bliss,

Friendships not forever last,

They know not life, who know not this.

‘They know not life, who know not this,’ repeated many others with sighs. ‘Yes, Uncle Imam Baksh. This is life.’

Imam Baksh and his companions left the meeting in tears.

Before going round to other Muslim homes, Imam Baksh went to his own hut attached to the mosque. Nooran was already in bed. An oil lamp burned in a niche in the wall.

‘Nooro, Nooro,’ he shouted, shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Get up, Nooro.’

The girl opened her eyes. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Get up and pack. We have to go away tomorrow morning.’ he announced dramatically.

‘Go away? Where?’

‘I don’t know . . . Pakistan!’

The girl sat up with a jerk. ‘I will not go to Pakistan,’ she said defiantly.