Page 150 - Train to Pakistan

Nothing whatever …
Iqbal fell asleep, with the celluloid glass in his hand and the lamp burning on

the stool beside him.

In the courtyard of the gurdwara, the fires on the hearths had burned to ashes. A
gust of wind occasionally fanned a glowing ember. Lamps had been dimmed.
Men, women and children lay sprawled about on the floor of the main room.

Meet Singh was awake. He was sweeping the floor and tidying up the mess.
Somebody started banging at the door with his fists. Meet Singh stopped

sweeping and went across the courtyard muttering, ‘Who is it?’
He undid the latch. Jugga stepped inside. In the dark he looked larger than
ever. His figure filled the doorway.
‘Why, Juggut Singhji, what business have you here at this hour?’ asked Meet

Singh.
‘Bhai,’ he whispered, ‘I want the Guru’s word. Will you read me a verse?’

‘I have laid the Granth Sahib to rest for the night,’ Meet Singh said. ‘What is
it that you want to do?’
‘It does not matter about that,’ said Jugga impatiently. He put a heavy hand on
Meet Singh’s shoulder. ‘Will you just read me a few lines quickly?’

Meet Singh led the way, grumbling. ‘You never came to the gurdwara any
other time. Now when the scripture is resting and people are asleep, you want

me to read the Guru’s word. It is not proper. I will read you a piece from the
Morning Prayer.’
‘It does not matter what you read. Just read it.’
Meet Singh turned up the wick of one of the lanterns. Its sooty chimney

became bright. He sat down beside the cot on which the scripture lay. Jugga
picked up the fly whisk from beneath the cot and began waving it over Meet

Singh’s head. Meet Singh got out a small prayer book, put it to his forehead and
began to read the verse on the page which he happened to have opened to:

He who made the night and day,

The days of the week and seasons.
He who made the breezes blow, the waters run,
The fires and the lower regions.
Made the earth—the temple of law.