Fiction: A couple joins a working-class revolution with disaffected Sikh factory workers in London

Jarnail Singh banged down his glass of beer. “Those m*****f*****s must be taught a lesson, once and for all!”

“Quite right,” echoed Karnail Singh, eyes bright with excitement. “Those s***** f*****s must be exposed to the innocent masses.”

“But we must get our facts right, and have some proof,” said Dhillon, who was older and more cautious.

“Why should we have to give proof?” shouted Majjor Singh, thumping his fist on the tabletop, stained with decades of beer and whisky spills. “We should demand that those bloody thieves give us proof, with proper accounts of all the money they’ve collected, with bills and receipts.”

“Shhh! Not so loud! Someone might hear and warn them,” cautioned Santokh Singh, who was nicknamed Professor because he was the only one among them who had been to college and had a white-collar job. “And anyway, no one really knows how much money is collected. We just have to take their word for it.”

“Last orders,” bellowed the bartender. Jarnail and Majjor dashed to the bar to get all their glasses refilled. “Cummon, Sandeep yaar, don’t be such a goody-goody; at least have a cider or a shandy,” they ribbed.

Sandeep sat with them, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eagerly imbibing the scene along with his tomato juice. He...

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