Top ten badmash in pakistan

Literary Assessment

Choose one of the options below and write a 3- to 3½-page essay that addresses the prompt. No works cited required

Option 1

Khushwant Singh’s novel Train to Pakistan has three main characters: Juggut Singh, a Sikh peasant and “budmash” (bad man or criminal) who lives in the village of Mano Majra; Mr. Hukum Chand, a Hindu magistrate and commissioner in the district where Mano Majra is located; and Iqbal Singh, a secular (non-religious), urban, well-educated man who has been sent to Mano Majra by the People’s Party of India (a communist organization) to organize its poor, rural people to demand greater rights.

Choose one of these characters and write an essay that examines, and makes a judgment about, his ethics or morality. Does this character behave ethically or unethically? Is he “good,” “bad” or somewhere in between, and what specific actions, or failures to act, lead you to make this judgment?

Since readers have access to these characters’ thoughts and moral reasoning about their decisions, you should consider thesethings as well. Do the thoughts a character has about himself and his situation make his actions seem more, or less, sympathetic or admirable? (Note: literary characters, like people in real life, are not always good judges of their own motives and actions, so you have to be careful here. Juggut Singh is an interesting case in point: he considers himself a bad man because that is what it says in the police registry, but is he?)

Apart from what a character may think to himself in his own defense, are there any objective factors that cause us to look more or less favorably on the character’s actions or failures to act? Is he, in other words, doing the best he can under the circumstances? (Both Hukum Chand and Iqbal Singh spend a good deal of time thinking about these circumstances and how they may limit what they can do.)

In judging your character’s ethics or morality, you should consider his thoughts and behavior generally, but pay particular attention to his response to the communal violence (violence across ethnic or religious lines) that is at the center of the novel. What does the character do or not do when confronted with these events? To what extent is he complicit in or responsible for the bloodshed, sexual violation and dispossession that are engulfing the newly separated countries of India and Pakistan?

t r a i n t o p a k i s t a n

Contents

About the Author

Dedication

Dacoity

Kalyug

Mano Majra

Karma

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Copyright Page

PENGUIN BOOKS

TRAIN TO PAKISTAN

It is the summer of 1947. But Partition does not mean much to the Sikhs and Muslims of Mano Majra, a village on the border of India and Pakistan. Then, a local money-lender is murdered, and suspicion falls upon Juggut Singh, the village gangster who is in love with a Muslim girl. When a train arrives, carrying the bodies of dead Sikhs, the village is transformed into a battlefield, and neither the magistrate nor the police are able to stem the rising tide of violence. Amidst conflicting loyalties, it is left to Juggut Singh to redeem himself and reclaim peace for his village.

First published in 1956, Train to Pakistan is a classic of modern Indian fiction.

Khushwant Singh is India’s best-known writer and columnist. He has been founder-editor of Yojana, and editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India, the National Herald and the Hindustan Times. He is also the author of several books which include the novels I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale, Delhi, The Company of Women and Burial at Sea; the classic two-volume A History of the Sikhs; and a number of translations and non-fiction books on Sikh religion and culture, Delhi, nature, current affairs and Urdu poetry. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice, was published in 2002.

Khushwant Singh was a Member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974, but returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the storming of the Golden Temple by the Indian Army. In 2007, he was awarded the Padma Vibhushan.

For my daughter Mala

Dacoity

The summer of 1947 was not like other Indian summers. Even the weather had a different feel in India that year. It was hotter than usual, and drier and dustier. And the summer was longer. No one could remember when the monsoon had been so late. For weeks, the sparse clouds cast only shadows. There was no rain. People began to say that God was punishing them for their sins.

Some of them had good reason to feel that they had sinned. The summer before, communal riots, precipitated by reports of the proposed division of the country into a Hindu India and a Muslim Pakistan, had broken out in Calcutta, and within a few months the death toll had mounted to several thousand. Muslims said the Hindus had planned and started the killing. According to the Hindus, the Muslims were to blame. The fact is, both sides killed. Both shot and stabbed and speared and clubbed. Both tortured. Both raped. From Calcutta, the riots spread north and east and west: to Noakhali in East Bengal, where Muslims massacred Hindus; to Bihar, where Hindus massacred Muslims. Mullahs roamed the Punjab and the Frontier Province with boxes of human skulls said to be those of Muslims killed in Bihar. Hundreds of thousands of Hindus and Sikhs who had lived for centuries on the Northwest Frontier abandoned their homes and fled towards the protection of the predominantly Sikh and Hindu communities in the east. They travelled on foot, in bullock carts, crammed into lorries, clinging to the sides and roofs of trains. Along the way—at fords, at crossroads, at railroad stations— they collided with panicky swarms of Muslims fleeing to safety in the west. The riots had become a rout. By the summer of 1947, when the creation of the new state of Pakistan was formally announced, ten million people—Muslims and Hindus and Sikhs—were in flight. By the time the monsoon broke, almost a million of them were dead, and all of northern India was in arms, in terror, or in hiding. The only remaining oases of peace were a scatter of little villages lost in the remote reaches of the frontier. One of these villages was Mano Majra.

Mano Majra is a tiny place. It has only three brick buildings, one of which is the home of the moneylender Lala Ram Lal. The other two are the Sikh temple and the mosque. The three brick buildings enclose a triangular common with a large peepul tree in the middle. The rest of the village is a cluster of flat-roofed mud huts and low-walled courtyards, which front on narrow lanes that radiate from the centre. Soon the lanes dwindle into footpaths and get lost in the surrounding fields. At the western end of the village there is a pond ringed round by keekar trees. There are only about seventy families in Mano Majra, and Lala Ram Lal’s is the only Hindu family. The others are Sikhs or Muslims, about equal in number. The Sikhs own all the land around the village; the Muslims are tenants and share the tilling with the owners. There are a few families of sweepers whose religion is uncertain. The Muslims claim them as their own, yet when American missionaries visit Mano Majra the sweepers wear khaki sola topees and join their womenfolk in singing hymns to the accompaniment of a harmonium. Sometimes they visit the Sikh temple, too. But there is one object that all Mano Majrans—even Lala Ram Lal—venerate. This is a three-foot slab of sandstone that stands upright under a keekar tree beside the pond. It is the local deity, the deo to which all the villagers—Hindu, Sikh, Muslim or pseudo-Christian—repair secretly whenever they are in a special need of blessing.

Although Mano Majra is said to be on the banks of the Sutlej River, it is actually half a mile away from it. In India villages cannot afford to be too close to the banks of rivers. Rivers change their moods with the seasons and alter their courses without warning. The Sutlej is the largest river in the Punjab. After the monsoon its waters rise and spread across its vast sandy bed, lapping high up the mud embankments on either side. It becomes an expanse of muddy turbulence more than a mile in breadth. When the flood subsides, the river breaks up into a thousand shallow streams that wind sluggishly between little marshy islands. About a mile north of Mano Majra the Sutlej is spanned by a railroad bridge. It is a magnificent bridge—its eighteen enormous spans sweep like waves from one pier to another, and at each end of it there is a stone embankment to buttress the railway line. On the eastern end the embankment extends all the way to the village railroad station.

Mano Majra has always been known for its railway station. Since the bridge has only one track, the station has several sidings where less important trains can wait, to make way for the more important.

A small colony of shopkeepers and hawkers has grown up around the station to supply travellers with food, betel leaves, cigarettes, tea, biscuits and sweetmeats. This gives the station an appearance of constant activity and its staff a somewhat exaggerated sense of importance. Actually the stationmaster himself sells tickets through the pigeonhole in his office, collects them at the exit beside the door, and sends and receives messages over the telegraph ticker on the table. When there are people to notice him, he comes out on the platform and waves a green flag for trains which do not stop. His only assistant manipulates the levers in the glass cabin on the platform which control the signals on either side, and helps shunting engines by changing hand points on the tracks to get them onto the sidings. In the evenings, he lights the long line of lamps on the platform. He takes heavy aluminum lamps to the signals and sticks them in the clamps behind the red and green glass. In the mornings, he brings them back and puts out the lights on the platform.

Not many trains stop at Mano Majra. Express trains do not stop at all. Of the many slow passenger trains, only two, one from Delhi to Lahore in the mornings and the other from Lahore to Delhi in the evenings, are scheduled to stop for a few minutes. The others stop only when they are held up. The only regular customers are the goods trains. Although Mano Majra seldom has any goods to send or receive, its station sidings are usually occupied by long rows of wagons. Each passing goods train spends hours shedding wagons and collecting others. After dark, when the countryside is steeped in silence, the whistling and puffing of engines, the banging of buffers, and the clanking of iron couplings can be heard all through the night.

All this has made Mano Majra very conscious of trains. Before daybreak, the mail train rushes through on its way to Lahore, and as it approaches the bridge, the driver invariably blows two long blasts on the whistle. In an instant, all Mano Majra comes awake. Crows begin to caw in the keekar trees. Bats fly back in long silent relays and begin to quarrel for their perches in the peepul. The mullah at the mosque knows that it is time for the morning prayer. He has a quick wash, stands facing west towards Mecca and with his fingers in his ears cries in long sonorous notes, ‘Allah-o-Akbar’. The priest at the Sikh temple lies in bed till the mullah has called. Then he too gets up, draws a bucket of water from the well in the temple courtyard, pours it over himself, and intones his prayer in monotonous singsong to the sound of splashing water.

By the time the 10:30 morning passenger train from Delhi comes in, life in Mano Majra has settled

down to its dull daily routine. Men are in the fields. Women are busy with their daily chores. Children are out grazing cattle by the river. Persian wheels squeak and groan as bullocks go round and round, prodded on by curses and the jabs of goads in their hindquarters. Sparrows fly about the roofs, trailing straw in their beaks. Pyedogs seek the shade of the long mud walls. Bats settle their arguments, fold their wings, and suspend themselves in sleep.

As the midday express goes by, Mano Majra stops to rest. Men and children come home for dinner and the siesta hour. When they have eaten, the men gather in the shade of the peepul tree and sit on the wooden platforms and talk and doze. Boys ride their buffaloes into the pond, jump off their backs, and splash about in the muddy water. Girls play under the trees. Women rub clarified butter into each other’s hair, pick lice from their children’s heads, and discuss births, marriages and deaths.

When the evening passenger from Lahore comes in, everyone gets to work again. The cattle are rounded up and driven back home to be milked and locked in for the night. The women cook the evening meal. Then the families foregather on their rooftops where most of them sleep during the summer. Sitting on their charpais, they eat their supper of vegetables and chapattis and sip hot creamy milk out of large copper tumblers and idle away the time until the signal for sleep. When the goods train steams in, they say to each other, ‘There is the goods train.’ It is like saying goodnight. The mullah again calls the faithful to prayer by shouting at the top of his voice, ‘God is great.’ The faithful nod their amens from their rooftops. The Sikh priest murmurs the evening prayer to a semicircle of drowsy old men and women. Crows caw softly from the keekar trees. Little bats go flitting about in the dusk and large ones soar with slow graceful sweeps. The goods train takes a long time at the station, with the engine running up and down the sidings exchanging wagons. By the time it leaves, the children are asleep. The older people wait for its rumble over the bridge to lull them to slumber. Then life in Mano Majra is stilled, save for the dogs barking at the trains that pass in the night.

It had always been so, until the summer of 1947.

One heavy night in August of that year, five men emerged from a keekar grove not far from Mano Majra, and moved silently towards the river. They were dacoits, or professional robbers, and all but one of them were armed. Two of the armed men carried spears. The others had carbines slung over their shoulders. The fifth man carried a chromium-plated electric torch. When they came to the embankment, he flicked the torch alight. Then he grunted and snapped it off.

‘We will wait here,’ he said. He dropped down on the sand. The others crouched around him, leaning on their weapons. The man

with the torch looked at one of the spearmen. ‘You have the bangles for Jugga?’ ‘Yes. A dozen of red and blue glass. They would please any village wench.’ ‘They will not please Jugga,’ one of the gunmen said. The leader laughed. He tossed the torch in the air and caught it. He laughed again and raised the

torch to his mouth and touched the switch. His cheeks glowed pink from the light inside. ‘Jugga could give the bangles to that weaver’s daughter of his,’ the other spearman said. ‘They

would look well with those large gazelle eyes and the little mango breasts. What is her name?’ The leader turned off the torch and took it from his mouth. ‘Nooran,’ he said. ‘Aho,’ the spearman said. ‘Nooran. Did you see her at the spring fair? Did you see that tight shirt

showing off her breasts and the bells tinkling in her plaits and the swish-swish of silk? Hai!’ ‘Hai!’ the spearman with the bangles cried. ‘Hai! Hai!’ ‘She must give Jugga a good time,’ said the gunman who had not yet spoken. ‘During the day, she

looks so innocent you would think she had not shed her milk teeth.’ He sighed. ‘But at night, she puts black antimony in her eyes.’

‘Antimony is good for the eyes,’ one of the others said. ‘It is cooling.’ ‘It is good for other people’s eyes as well,’ the gunman said. ‘And cooling to their passions, too.’ ‘Jugga?’ the leader said. The others laughed. One of them suddenly sat erect. ‘Listen!’ he said. ‘There is the goods train.’ The others stopped laughing. They all listened in silence to the approaching train. It came to a halt

with a rumble, and the wagons groaned and creaked. After a time, the engine could be heard moving up and down, releasing wagons. There were loud explosions as the released wagons collided with the ones on the sidings. The engine chuffed back to the train.

‘It is time to call on Ram Lal,’ the leader said, and got to his feet. His companions rose and brushed the sand off their clothes. They formed a line with their hands

joined in prayer. One of the gunmen stepped in front and began to mumble. When he stopped, they all went down on their knees and rubbed their foreheads on the ground. Then they stood up and drew the loose ends of their turbans across their faces. Only their eyes were uncovered. The engine gave two long whistle blasts, and the train moved off towards the bridge.

‘Now,’ the leader said. The others followed him up the embankment and across the fields. By the time the train had reached

the bridge, the men had skirted the pond and were walking up a lane that led to the centre of the village. They came to the house of Lala Ram Lal. The leader nodded to one of the gunmen. He stepped forward and began to pound on the door with the butt of his gun.

‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘Lala!’ There was no reply. Village dogs gathered round the visitors and began to bark. One of the men hit a

dog with the flat side of his spear blade. Another fired his gun into the air. The dogs ran away whimpering and started to bark louder from a safer distance.

The men began to hammer at the door with their weapons. One struck it with his spear which went through to the other side.

‘Open, you son of fornication, or we will kill the lot of you,’ he shouted. A woman’s voice answered. ‘Who is it who calls at this hour? Lalaji has gone to the city.’ ‘Open and we will tell you who we are or we will smash the door,’ the leader said. ‘I tell you Lalaji is not in. He has taken the keys with him. We have nothing in the house.’ The men put their shoulders to the door, pressed, pulled back and butted into it like battering-rams.

The wooden bolt on the other side cracked and the doors flew open. One of the men with a gun waited at the door; the other four went in. In one corner of the room two women sat crouching. A boy of seven with large black eyes clung to the older of the two.

‘In the name of God, take what we have, all our jewellery, everything,’ implored the older woman. She held out a handful of gold and silver bracelets, anklets and earrings.

One of the men snatched them from her hands. ‘Where is the Lala?’ ‘I swear by the Guru he is out. You have taken all we have. Lalaji has nothing more to give.’ In the courtyard four beds were laid out in a row. The man with the carbine tore the little boy from his grandmother’s lap and held the muzzle of the

gun to the child’s face. The women fell at his feet imploring. ‘Do not kill, brother. In the name of the Guru—don’t.’ The gunman kicked the women away. ‘Where is you father?’ The boy shook with fear and stuttered, ‘Upstairs.’ The gunman thrust the boy back into the woman’s lap, and the men went out into the courtyard and

climbed the staircase. There was only one room on the roof. Without pausing they put their shoulders to the door and pushed it in, tearing it off its hinges. The room was cluttered with steel trunks piled one on top of the other. There were two charpais with several quilts rolled up on them. The white beam of the torch searched the room and caught the moneylender crouching under one of the charpais.

‘In the name of the Guru, the Lalaji is out,’ one of the men said, mimicking the woman’s voice. He dragged Ram Lal out by his legs.

The leader slapped the moneylender with the back of his hand. ‘Is this the way you treat your guests? We come and you hide under a charpai.’

Ram Lal covered his face with his arms and began to whimper. ‘Where are the keys of the safe?’ asked the leader, kicking him on the behind. ‘You can take all—jewellery, cash, account books. Don’t kill anyone,’ implored the moneylender,

grasping the leader’s feet with both his hands. ‘Where are the keys of your safe?’ repeated the leader. He knocked the moneylender sprawling on

the floor. Ram Lal sat up, shaking with fear. He produced a wad of notes from his pocket. ‘Take these,’ he said, distributing the money to the

five men. ‘It is all I have in the house. All is yours.’ ‘Where are the keys of your safe?’ ‘There is nothing left in the safe; only my account books. I have given you all I have. All I have is

yours. In the name of the Guru, let me be.’ Ram Lal clasped the leader’s legs above the knees and began to sob. ‘In the name of the Guru! In the name of the Guru!’

One of the men tore the moneylender away from the leader and hit him full in the face with the butt of his gun.

‘Hai!’ yelled Ram Lal at the top of his voice, and spat out blood. The women in the courtyard heard the cry and started shrieking, ‘Dakoo! Dakoo!’ The dogs barked all round. But not a villager stirred from his house. On the roof of his house, the moneylender was beaten with butts of guns and spear handles and

kicked and punched. He sat on his haunches, crying and spitting blood. Two of his teeth were smashed. But he would not hand over the keys of his safe. In sheer exasperation, one of the men lunged at the crouching figure with his spear. Ram Lal uttered a loud yell and collapsed on the floor with blood spurting from his belly. The men came out. One of them fired two shots in the air. Women stopped

wailing. Dogs stopped barking. The village was silenced. The dacoits jumped off the roof to the lane below. They yelled defiance to the world as they went

out towards the river. ‘Come!’ they yelled. ‘Come out, if you have the courage! Come out, if you want your mothers and

sisters raped! Come out, brave men!’ No one answered them. There was not a sound in Mano Majra. The men continued along the lane,

shouting and laughing, until they came to a small hut on the edge of the village. The leader halted and motioned to one of the spearmen.

‘This is the house of the great Jugga,’ he said. ‘Do not forget our gift. Give him his bangles.’ The spearman dug a package from his clothes and tossed it over the wall. There was a muffled

sound of breaking glass in the courtyard. ‘O Juggia,’ he called in a falsetto voice, ‘Juggia!’ He winked at his companions. ‘Wear these

bangles, Juggia. Wear these bangles and put henna on your palms.’ ‘Or give them to the weaver’s daughter,’ one of the gunmen yelled. ‘Hai,’ the others shouted. They smacked their lips, making the sound of long, lecherous kisses.

‘Hai! Hai!’ They moved on down the lane, still laughing and blowing kisses, towards the river. Juggut Singh did

not answer them. He didn’t hear them. He was not at home.

Juggut Singh had been gone from his home about an hour. He had only left when the sound of the night goods train told him that it would now be safe to go. For him, as for the dacoits, the arrival of the train that night was a signal. At the first distant rumble, he slipped quietly off his charpai and picked up his turban and wrapped it round his head. Then he tiptoed across the courtyard to the haystack and fished out a spear. He tiptoed back to his bed, picked up his shoes, and crept towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Juggut Singh stopped. It was his mother. ‘To the fields,’ he said. ‘Last night wild pigs did a lot of damage.’ ‘Pigs!’ his mother said. ‘Don’t try to be clever. Have you forgotten already that you are on

probation—that it is forbidden for you to leave the village after sunset? And with a spear! Enemies will see you. They will report you. They will send you back to jail.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘Then who will look after the crops and the cattle?’

‘I will be back soon,’ Juggut Singh said. ‘There is nothing to worry about. Everyone in the village is asleep.’

‘No,’ his mother said. She wailed again. ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘It is you who will wake the neighbours. Be quiet and there will be no trouble.’ ‘Go! Go wherever you want to go. If you want to jump in a well, jump. If you want to hang like your

father, go and hang. It is my lot to weep. My kismet,’ she added, slapping her forehead, ‘it is all written there.’

Juggut Singh opened the door and looked on both sides. There was no one about. He walked along the walls till he got to the end of the lane near the pond. He could see the grey forms of a couple of adjutant storks slowly pacing up and down in the mud looking for frogs. They paused in their search.

Juggut Singh stood still against the wall till the storks were reassured, then went off the footpath across the fields towards the river. He crossed the dry sand bed till he got to the stream. He stuck his spear in the ground with the blade pointing upward, then stretched out on the sand. He lay on his back and gazed at the stars. A meteor shot across the Milky Way, trailing a silver path down the blue-black sky. Suddenly a hand was on his eyes.

‘Guess who?’ Juggut Singh stretched out his hands over his head and behind him, groping; the girl dodged them.

Juggut Singh started with the hand on his eyes and felt his way up from the arm to the shoulder and then on to the face. He caressed her cheeks, eyes and nose that his hands knew so well. He tried to play with her lips to induce them to kiss his fingers. The girl opened her mouth and bit him fiercely. Juggut Singh jerked his hand away. With a quick movement he caught the girl’s head in both his hands and brought her face over to his. Then he slipped his arms under her waist and hoisted her into the air above him with her arms and legs kicking about like a crab. He turned her about till his arms ached. He brought her down flat upon him limb to limb.

The girl slapped him on the face. ‘You put your hands on the person of a strange woman. Have you no mother or sister in your home?

Have you no shame? No wonder the police have got you on their register as a bad character. I will also tell the Inspector sahib that you are a badmash.’

‘I am only badmash with you, Nooro. We should both be locked up in the same cell.’ ‘You have learned to talk too much. I will have to look for another man.’ Juggut Singh crossed his arms behind the girl’s back and crushed her till she could not talk or

breathe. Every time she started to speak he tightened his arms round her and her words got stuck in her throat. She gave up and put her exhausted face against his. He laid her beside him with her head nestling in the hollow of his left arm. With his right hand he stroked her hair and face.

The goods train engine whistled twice and with a lot of groaning and creaking began to puff its way towards the bridge. The storks flew up from the pond with shrill cries of ‘kraak, kraak’ and came towards the river. From the river they flew back to the pond, calling alternately long after the train had gone over the bridge and its puff-puffs had died into silence.

Juggut Singh’s caresses became lustful. His hand strayed from the girl’s face to her breasts and her waist. She caught it and put it back on her face. His breathing became slow and sensuous. His hand wandered again and brushed against her breasts as if by mistake. The girl slapped it and put it away. Juggut Singh stretched his left arm that lay under the girl’s head and caught her reproving hand. Her other arm was already under him. She was defenceless.

‘No! No! No! Let go my hand! No! I will never speak to you again.’ She shook her head violently from side to side, trying to avoid his hungry mouth.

Juggut Singh slipped his hand inside her shirt and felt the contours of her unguarded breasts. They became taut. The nipples became hard and leathery. His rough hands gently moved up and down from her breasts to her navel. The skin on her belly came up in goose flesh.

The girl continued to wriggle and protest. ‘No! No! No! Please. May Allah’s curse fall on you. Let go my hand. I will never meet you again if

you behave like this.’ Juggut Singh’s searching hand found one end of the cord of her trousers. He pulled it with a jerk.

‘No,’ cried the girl hoarsely. A shot rang through the night. The storks flew up from the pond calling to each other. Crows started

cawing in the keekar trees. Juggut Singh paused and looked up into the darkness towards the village. The girl quietly extricated herself from his hold and adjusted her dress. The crows settled back on the trees. The storks flew away across the river. Only the dogs barked.

‘It sounded like a gunshot,’ she said nervously, trying to keep Juggut Singh from renewing his love- making. ‘Wasn’t it from the village?’

‘I don’t know. Why are you trying to run away? It is all quiet now.’ Juggut Singh pulled her down beside him.

‘This is no time for jesting. There is murder in the village. My father will get up and want to know where I have gone. I must get back at once.’

‘No, you will not. I won’t let you. You can say you were with a girl friend.’ ‘Don’t talk like a stupid peasant. How …’ Juggut Singh shut her mouth with his. He bore upon her

with his enormous weight. Before she could free her arms he ripped open the cord of her trousers once again.

‘Let me go. Let me …’ She could not struggle against Juggut Singh’s brute force. She did not particularly want to. Her

world was narrowed to the rhythmic sound of breathing and the warm smell of dusky skins raised to fever heat. His lips slubbered over her eyes and cheeks. His tongue sought the inside of her ears. In a state of frenzy she dug her nails into his thinly bearded cheeks and bit his nose. The stars above her went into a mad whirl and then came back to their places like a merry-go-round slowly coming to a stop. Life came back to its cooler, lower level. She felt the dead weight of the lifeless man; the sand gritting in her hair; the breeze trespassing on her naked limbs; the censorious stare of the myriads of stars. She pushed Juggut Singh away. He lay down beside her.

‘That is all you want. And you get it. You are just a peasant. Always wanting to sow your seed. Even if the world were going to hell you would want to do that. Even when guns are being fired in the village. Wouldn’t you?’ she nagged.

‘Nobody is firing any guns. Just your imagination,’ answered Juggut Singh wearily, without looking at her.

Faint cries of wailing wafted across to the riverside. The couple sat up to listen. Two shots rang out in quick succession. The crows flew out of the keekars, cawing furiously.

The girl began to cry. ‘Something is happening in the village. My father will wake up and know I have gone out. He will

kill me.’ Juggut Singh was not listening to her. He did not know what to do. If his absence from the village

was discovered, he would be in trouble with the police. That did not bother him as much as the trouble the girl would be in. She might not come again. She was saying so: ‘I will never come to see you again. If Allah forgives me this time, I will never do it again.’

‘Will you shut up or do I have to smack your face?’ The girl began to sob. She found it hard to believe this was the same man who had been making

love to her a moment ago.

‘Quiet! There is someone coming,’ whispered Juggut Singh, putting his heavy hand on her mouth. The couple lay still, peering into the dark. The five men carrying guns and spears passed within a

few yards of them. They had uncovered their faces and were talking. ‘Dakoo! Do you know them?’ the girl asked in a whisper. ‘Yes,’ Juggut said, ‘The one with the torch is Malli.’ His face went tight. ‘That incestuous lover of

his sister! I’ve told him a thousand times this was no time for dacoities. And now he has brought his gang to my village! I will settle this with him.’

The dacoits went up to the river and then downstream towards the ford a couple of miles to the south. A pair of lapwings pierced the still night with startled cries: Teet-tittee-tittee-whoot, tee-tee- whoot, tee-tee-whoot, tit-tit-tee-whoot.

‘Will you report them to the police?’ Juggut Singh sniggered. ‘Let us get back before they miss me in the village.’ The pair walked back towards Mano Majra, the man in front, the girl a few paces behind him. They

could hear the sound of wailing and the barking of dogs. Women were shouting to each other across the roofs. The whole village seemed to be awake. Juggut Singh stopped near the pond and turned round to speak to the girl.

‘Nooro, will you come tomorrow?’ he asked, pleading. ‘You think of tomorrow and I am bothered about my life. You have your good time even if I am

murdered.’ ‘No one can harm you while I live. No one in Mano Majra can raise his eyebrows at you and get

away from Jugga. I am not a badmash for nothing,’ he said haughtily. ‘You tell me tomorrow what happens or the day after tomorrow when all this—whatever it is—is over. After the goods train?’

‘No! No! No!’ answered the girl. ‘What will I say to my father now? This noise is bound to have woken him up.’

‘Just say you had gone out. Your stomach was upset or something like that. You heard the firing and were hiding till the dacoits had left. Will you come the day after tomorrow then?’

‘No,’ she repeated, this time a little less emphatically. The excuse might work. Just as well her father was almost blind. He would not see her silk shirt, nor the antimony in her eyes. Nooran walked away into the darkness, swearing she would never come again.

Juggut Singh went up the lane to his house. The door was open. Several villagers were in the courtyard talking to his mother. He turned around quietly and made his way back to the river.

In bureaucratic circles Mano Majra has some importance because of an officers’ rest house just north of the railway bridge. It is a flat-roofed bungalow made of khaki bricks with a veranda in front facing the river. It stands in the middle of a squarish plot enclosed by a low wall. From the gate to the veranda runs a road with a row of bricks to deckle edge each side and mark it off from the garden. The garden is a pancake of plastered mud without a blade of grass to break its flat, even surface, but a few scraggy bushes of jasmine grow beside the columns of the veranda and near the row of servants’ quarters at the rear of the house. The rest house was originally built for the engineer in charge of the construction of the bridge. After the completion of the bridge, it became the common property of all senior officers. Its popularity is due to its proximity to the river. All about it are wild wastes of pampas grass and dhak, or flame of the forest, and here partridges call to their mates from sunrise to

sundown. When the river has receded to its winter channel, bulrushes grow in the marshes and ponds left behind. Geese, mallard, widgeon, teal and many other kinds of waterfowl frequent these places, and the larger pools abound with rahu and malli and mahseer.

Throughout the winter months, officers arrange tours that involve a short halt at the Mano Majra rest house. They go for waterfowl at sunrise, for partridges during the day, fish in the afternoons, and once more for ducks when they come back in their evening flight. In spring the romantic come to ruminate—to sip their whisky and see the bright orange of the dhak shame the rich red hues of the sun setting over the river; to hear the soothing snore of frogs in the marshes and the rumble of trains that go by; to watch fireflies flitting among the reeds as the moon comes up from under the arches of the bridge. During the early months of summer, only those who are looking for solitude come to the Mano Majra rest house. But once the monsoon breaks, the visitors multiply, for the swollen waters of the Sutlej are a grand and terrifying sight.

On the morning before the dacoity in Mano Majra, the rest house had been done up to receive an important guest. The sweeper had washed the bathrooms, swept the rooms, and sprinkled water on the road. The bearer and his wife had dusted and rearranged the furniture. The sweeper’s boy had unwound the rope on the punkah which hung from the ceiling and put it through the hole in the wall so that he could pull it from the veranda. He had put on a new red loincloth and was sitting on the veranda tying and untying knots in the punkah rope. From the kitchen came the smell of currying chicken.

At eleven o’clock a subinspector of police and two constables turned up on bicycles to inspect the arrangements. Then two orderlies arrived. They wore white uniforms with red sashes round their waists and white turbans with broad bands in front. On the bands were pinned brass emblems of the government of the Punjab—the sun rising over five wavy lines representing the rivers of the province. With them were several villagers who carried the baggage and the glossy black official dispatch cases.

An hour later a large grey American car rolled in. An orderly stepped out of the front seat and opened the rear door for his master. The subinspector and the policemen came to attention and saluted. The villagers moved away to a respectful distance. The bearer opened the wire-gauze door leading to the main bed-sitting room. Mr Hukum Chand, magistrate and deputy commissioner of the district, heaved his corpulent frame out of the car. He had been travelling all morning and was somewhat tired and stiff. A cigarette perched on his lower lip sent a thin stream of smoke into his eyes. In his right hand he held a cigarette tin and a box of matches. He ambled up to the subinspector and gave him a friendly slap on the back while the other still stood at attention.

‘Come along, Inspector Sahib, come in,’ said Hukum Chand. He took the inspector’s right hand and led him into the room. The bearer and the deputy commissioner’s personal servant followed. The constables helped the chauffeur to take the luggage out of the car.

Hukum Chand went straight into the bathroom and washed the dust off his face. He came back still wiping his face with a towel. The subinspector stood up again.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ he commanded. He flung the towel on his bed and sank into an armchair. The punkah began to flap forward and

backward to the grating sound of the rope moving in the hole in the wall. One of the orderlies undid the magistrate’s shoes and took off his socks and began to rub his feet. Hukum Chand opened the cigarette tin and held it out to the subinspector. The subinspector lit the magistrate’s cigarette and

then his own. Hukum Chand’s style of smoking betrayed his lower-middle-class origin. He sucked noisily, his mouth glued to his clenched fist. He dropped cigarette ash by snapping his fingers with a flourish. The subinspector, who was a younger man, had a more sophisticated manner.

‘Well, Inspector Sahib, how are things?’ The subinspector joined his hands. ‘God is merciful. We only pray for your kindness.’ ‘No communal trouble in this area?’ ‘We have escaped it so far, sir. Convoys of Sikh and Hindu refugees from Pakistan have come

through and some Muslims have gone out, but we have had no incidents.’ ‘You haven’t had convoys of dead Sikhs this side of the frontier. They have been coming through at

Amritsar. Not one person living! There has been killing over there.’ Hukum Chand held up both his hands and let them drop heavily on his thighs in a gesture of resignation. Sparks flew off his cigarette and fell on his trousers. The subinspector slapped them to extinction with obsequious haste.

‘Do you know,’ continued the magistrate, ‘the Sikhs retaliated by attacking a Muslim refugee train and sending it across the border with over a thousand corpses? They wrote on the engine “Gift to Pakistan!”’

The subinspector looked down thoughtfully and answered: ‘They say that is the only way to stop killings on the other side. Man for man, woman for woman, child for child. But we Hindus are not like that. We cannot really play this stabbing game. When it comes to an open fight, we can be a match for any people. I believe our RSS boys beat up Muslim gangs in all the cities. The Sikhs are not doing their share. They have lost their manliness. They just talk big. Here we are on the border with Muslims living in Sikh villages as if nothing had happened. Every morning and evening the muezzin calls for prayer in the heart of a village like Mano Majra. You ask the Sikhs why they allow it and they answer that the Muslims are their brothers. I am sure they are getting money from them.’

Hukum Chand ran his fingers across his receding forehead into his hair. ‘Any of the Muslims in this area well-to-do?’ ‘Not many, sir. Most of them are weavers or potters.’ ‘But Chundunnugger is said to be a good police station. There are so many murders, so much illicit

distilling, and the Sikh peasants are prosperous. Your predecessors have built themselves houses in the city.’

‘Your honour is making fun of me.’ ‘I don’t mind your taking whatever you do take, within reason of course—everyone does that—

only, be careful. This new government is talking very loudly of stamping out all this. After a few months in office their enthusiasm will cool and things will go on as before. It is no use trying to change things overnight.’

‘They are not the ones to talk. Ask anyone coming from Delhi and he will tell you that all these Gandhi disciples are minting money. They are as good saints as the crane. They shut their eyes piously and stand on one leg like a yogi doing penance; as soon as a fish comes near—hurrup.’

Hukum Chand ordered the servant rubbing his feet to get some beer. As soon as they were alone, he put a friendly hand on the subinspector’s knee.

‘You talk rashly like a child. It will get you into trouble one day. Your principle should be to see everything and say nothing. The world changes so rapidly that if you want to get on you cannot afford

to align yourself with any person or point of view. Even if you feel strongly about something, learn to keep silent.’

The subinspector’s heart warmed with gratitude. He wanted to provoke more paternal advice by irresponsible criticism. He knew that Hukum Chand agreed with him.

‘Sometimes, sir, one cannot restrain oneself. What do the Gandhi-caps in Delhi know about the Punjab? What is happening on the other side in Pakistan does not matter to them. They have not lost their homes and belongings; they haven’t had their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters raped and murdered in the streets. Did your honour hear what the Muslim mobs did to Hindu and Sikh refugees in the marketplaces at Sheikhupura and Gujranwala? Pakistan police and the army took part in the killings. Not a soul was left alive. Women killed their own children and jumped into wells that filled to the brim with corpses.’

‘Harey Ram, Harey Ram,’ rejoined Hukum Chand with a deep sigh. ‘I know it all. Our Hindu women are like that: so pure that they would rather commit suicide than let a stranger touch them. We Hindus never raise our hands to strike women, but these Muslims have no respect for the weaker sex. But what are we to do about it? How long will it be before it starts here?’

‘I hope we do not get trains with corpses coming through Mano Majra. It will be impossible to prevent retaliation. We have hundreds of small Muslim villages all around, and there are some Muslim families in every Sikh village like Mano Majra,’ said the subinspector, throwing a feeler.

Hukum Chand sucked his cigarette noisily and snapped his fingers. ‘We must maintain law and order,’ he answered after a pause. ‘If possible, get the Muslims to go

out peacefully. Nobody really benefits by bloodshed. Bad characters will get all the loot and the government will blame us for the killing. No, Inspector Sahib, whatever our views—and God alone knows what I would have done to these Pakistanis if I were not a government servant—we must not let there be any killing or destruction of property. Let them get out, but be careful they do not take too much with them. Hindus from Pakistan were stripped of all their belongings before they were allowed to leave. Pakistani magistrates have become millionaires overnight. Some on our side have not done too badly either. Only where there was killing or burning the government suspended or transferred them. There must be no killing. Just peaceful evacuation.’

The bearer brought a bottle of beer and put two glasses before Hukum Chand and the subinspector. The subinspector picked up his glass and put his hand over it, protesting, ‘No, sir, I could not be impertinent and drink in your presence.’

The magistrate dismissed the protest peremptorily. ‘You will have to join me. It is an order. Bearer, fill the Inspector sahib’s glass and lay out lunch for him.’

The subinspector held out his glass for the bearer to fill. ‘If you order me to, I cannot disobey.’ He began to relax. He took off his turban and put it on the table. It was not like a Sikh turban which needed re-tying each time it was taken off; it was just three yards of starched khaki muslin wrapped round a blue skullcap which could be put on and off like a hat.

‘What is the situation in Mano Majra?’ ‘All is well so far. The lambardar reports regularly. No refugees have come through the village yet.

I am sure no one in Mano Majra even knows that the British have left and the country is divided into Pakistan and Hindustan. Some of them know about Gandhi but I doubt if anyone has ever heard of Jinnah.’

‘That is good. You must keep an eye on Mano Majra. It is the most important village on the border here. It is so close to the bridge. Are there any bad characters in the village?’

‘Only one, sir. His name is Jugga. Your honour confined him to the village. He reports himself to the lambardar every day and comes to the police station once every week.’

‘Jugga? Which one is he?’ ‘You must remember Juggut Singh, son of the dacoit Alam Singh who was hanged two years ago.

He is that very big fellow. He is the tallest man in this area. He must be six foot four—and broad. He is like a stud bull.’

‘Oh yes, I remember. What does he do to keep himself out of mischief? He used to come up before me in some case or other every month.’

The subinspector smiled broadly. ‘Sir, what the police of the Punjab has failed to do, the magic of the eyes of a girl of sixteen has done.’

Hukum Chand’s interest was aroused. ‘He has a liaison?’ he asked. ‘With a Muslim weaver’s daughter. She is dark, but her eyes are darker. She certainly keeps Jugga

in the village. And no one dares say a word against the Muslims. Her blind father is the mullah of the mosque.’

The two drank their beer and smoked till the bearer brought in lunch. They continued drinking and eating and discussing the situation in the district till late in the afternoon. Beer and rich food made Hukum Chand heavy with sleep. Chicks on the veranda had been lowered to keep out the glare of the noonday sun. The punkah flapped gently to and fro with a weary plaintive creak. A feeling of numb drowsiness came over Hukum Chand. He got out his silver toothpick, picked his teeth and rubbed the toothpick on the tablecloth. Even that did not help him ward off sleep. The subinspector noticed the magistrate nodding and stood up to take leave.

‘Have I your permission to leave, sir?’ ‘If you want to rest, you can find a bed here.’ ‘You are very kind, sir, but I have a few things to attend to at the station. I will leave two constables

here. If your honour desires my presence, they will inform me.’ ‘Well,’ said the magistrate hesitantly, ‘have you made any arrangements for the evening?’ ‘Is it possible for me to have overlooked that? If she does not please you, you can have me

dismissed from service. I will tell the driver where to go and collect the party.’ The subinspector saluted and left. The magistrate stretched himself on the bed for a late afternoon

siesta. The sound of the car leaving the bungalow woke Hukum Chand from his sleep. Pampas-stalk chicks

which hung on the veranda had been folded into large Swiss rolls and tied between the columns. The stark white of the veranda was mellowed in the soft amber of the setting sun. The sweeper boy lay curled on the brick floor clutching the punkah rope in his hand. His father was sprinkling water all around the rest house. The damp smell of earth mixed with the sweet odour of jasmines came through the wire-gauze door. In front of the house, the servants had spread a large coir mat with a carpet on it. At one end of the carpet was a big cane chair, a table with a bottle of whisky, a couple of tumblers and plates of savouries. Several bottles of soda water stood in a row beneath the table.

Hukum Chand shouted for his servant to get his bath ready and bring in hot water for shaving. He lit a cigarette and lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Just above his head two geckos were getting ready for a fight. They crawled towards each other emitting little rasping noises. They paused with half an inch between them and moved their tails with slow, menacing deliberation, then came to a head-on collision. Before Hukum Chand could move away they fell with a loud plop just beside his pillow. A cold clammy feeling came over him. He jumped out of bed and stared at the geckos. The geckos stared back at him, still holding onto each other by the teeth as if they were kissing. The bearer’s footsteps broke the hypnotic stare with which the magistrate and the geckos had been regarding each other. The geckos ran down the bed and up the wall back to the ceiling. Hukum Chand felt as if he had touched the lizards and they had made his hands dirty. He rubbed his hands on the hem of his shirt. It was not the sort of dirt which could be wiped off or washed clean.

The bearer brought a mug of hot water and laid out the shaving gear on the dressing table. He put on a chair his master’s clothes—a thin muslin shirt, a pair of baggy trousers strung with a peacock-blue silken cord interwoven with silver thread. He brushed the magistrate’s black pumps till they shone and put them beside the chair.

Hukum Chand shaved and bathed with great care. After bathing he rubbed skin-lotion on his face and arms and dusted himself with perfumed talcum powder. He dabbed his fingers with eau de cologne. Brilliantine made his hair smooth and soggy and showed the white at the roots of it. He had not dyed it for a fortnight. He waxed his thick moustache and twirled it till the ends stiffly pointed to his eyes; the roots of his moustache also showed purple and white. He put on his thin muslin shirt through which his aertex vest showed clearly. The trousers fell in ordered starchy folds. He dabbed his clothes with a swab of cotton dipped in scent of musk rose. When he was ready he looked up at the ceiling. The geckos were there staring at him with their bright, black, pin-point eyes.

The American car drove back into the driveway. Hukum Chand went up to the wire-gauze door still waxing his moustache. Two men and two women stepped out. One of the men carried a harmonium and the other a pair of drums. One of the women was old, with white hair dyed a rich henna-orange. The other was a young girl whose mouth was bloated with betel leaf and who wore a diamond glistening on one side of her flat nose. She carried a small bundle which jingled as she stepped out of the car. The party went and squatted on the carpet.

Hukum Chand carefully examined himself in the mirror. He noticed the white at the roots of his hair and smoothed it back again. He lit a cigarette and in his customary manner carried the tin of cigarettes with a matchbox on it. He half opened the wire-gauze door and shouted for his bearer to bring the whisky, which he knew had already been put on the table. It was to warn the people outside of his coming. As he came out he let the door slam noisily. With slow deliberate steps punctuated by the creaking of his glossy pumps he walked up to the cane chair.

The party stood up to greet the magistrate. The two musicians salaamed, bowing their heads low. The old toothless woman broke into a sonorous singsong of praise: ‘May your fame and honour increase. May your pen write figures of thousands and hundreds of thousands.’ The young girl just stared at him with her large eyes lined with antimony and lampblack. The magistrate made a gesture with his hand ordering them to sit down. The old woman’s voice came down to a whimper. All four sat down on the carpet.

The bearer poured out the whisky and soda for his master. Hukum Chand took a large gulp and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. He twirled the pointed ends nervously. The girl opened her bundle and tied the ankle-bells round her ankles. The harmonium player played a single note. His companion beat the drums all round the edges with a tiny mallet and tightened and loosened the leather thongs by hammering the ring of wooden blocks wedged between them. He beat the taut white skin with his fingers till the drums were in key with the harmonium. The accompaniment was ready.

The young girl spat out the betel saliva and cleared her throat with a series of deep chesty coughs that brought up phlegm. The old woman spoke:

‘Cherisher of the poor. What does your honour fancy? Something classical—pukka—or a love song?’

‘No, nothing pukka. Something from the films. Some good film song—preferably Punjabi.’ The young girl salaamed. ‘As you order.’ The musicians put their heads together and after a brief consultation with the girl they began to

play. The drums beat a preliminary tattoo and then softened down for the harmonium to join in. The two played for some time while the girl sat silently, looking bored and indifferent. When they finished the introductory piece, she blew her nose and cleared her throat again. She put her left hand on her ear and stretched the other towards the magistrate, addressing him in a shrill falsetto:

O lover mine, O lover that art gone, I live but would rather die, I see not for the tears that flow, I breathe not, for I sigh. As a moth that loves the flame, By that flame is done to death, Within myself have I lit a fire That now robs me of my breath. The nights I spend in counting stars, The days in dreams of days to be When homewards thou thy reins shall turn Thy moon-fair face I again shall see.

The girl paused. The musicians started to play again for her to sing the refrain:

O letter, let my lover learn How the fires of separation burn.

When the girl had finished her song, Hukum Chand flung a five-rupee note on the carpet. The girl and the musicians bowed their heads. The hag picked up the money and put it in her wallet, proclaiming: ‘May you ever rule. May your pen write hundreds of thousands. May …’

The singing began again. Hukum Chand poured himself a stiff whisky and drank it in one gulp. He wiped his moustache with his hand. He did not have the nerve to take a good look at the girl. She was singing a song he knew well; he had heard his daughter humming it:

In the breeze is flying My veil of red muslin

Ho Sir, Ho Sir.

Hukum Chand felt uneasy. He took another whisky and dismissed his conscience. Life was too short for people to have consciences. He started to beat time to the song by snapping his fingers and slapping his thighs to each ‘Ho Sir, Ho Sir.’

Twilight gave way to the dark of a moonless night. In the swamps by the river, frogs croaked. Cicadas chirped in the reeds. The bearer brought out a hissing paraffin lamp which cast a bright bluish light. The frame of the lamp threw a shadow over Hukum Chand. He stared at the girl who sat sheltered from the light. She was only a child and not very pretty, just young and unexploited. Her breasts barely filled her bodice. They could not have known the touch of a male hand. The thought that she was perhaps younger than his own daughter flashed across his mind. He drowned it quickly with another whisky. Life was like that. You took it as it came, shorn of silly conventions and values which deserved only lip worship. She wanted his money, and he… well. When all was said and done she was a prostitute and looked it. The silver sequins on her black sari sparkled. The diamond in her nose glittered like a star. Hukum Chand took another drink to dispel his remaining doubts. This time he wiped his moustache with his silk handkerchief. He began to hum louder and snapped his fingers with a flourish.

One film song followed another till all the Indian songs set to tunes of tangos and sambas that Hukum Chand knew were exhausted.

‘Sing anything else you know,’ ordered the magistrate with lordly condescension. ‘Something new and gay.’

The girl started to sing a song which had several English words in it:

Sunday after Sunday, O my life.

Hukum Chand exploded with an appreciative ‘wah, wah.’ When the girl finished her song, he did not throw the fiverupee note at her but asked her to come and take it from his hand. The old woman pushed the girl ahead.

‘Go, the Government sends for you.’ The girl got up and went to the table. She stretched out her hand to take the money; Hukum Chand

withdrew his and put the note on his heart. He grinned lecherously. The girl looked at her companions for help. Hukum Chand put the note on the table. Before she could reach it he picked it up and again put it on his chest. The grin on his face became broader. The girl turned back to join the others. Hukum Chand held out the note for the third time.

‘Go to the Government,’ pleaded the old woman. The girl turned round obediently and went to the magistrate. Hukum Chand put his arm round her waist.

‘You sing well.’ The girl gaped wide-eyed at her companions. ‘The Government is talking to you. Why don’t you answer him?’ scolded the old woman.

‘Government, the girl is young and very shy. She will learn,’ she exclaimed. Hukum Chand put a glass of whisky to the girl’s lips. ‘Drink a little. Just a sip for my sake,’ he

pleaded. The girl stood impassively without opening her mouth. The old woman spoke again.

‘Government, she knows nothing about drink. She is hardly sixteen and completely innocent. She has never been near a man before. I have reared her for your honour’s pleasure.’

‘Then she will eat something even if she does not drink,’ said Hukum Chand. He preferred to ignore the rest of the woman’s speech. He picked up a meatball from a plate and tried to put it in the girl’s mouth. She took it from him and ate it.

Hukum Chand pulled her onto his lap and began to play with her hair. It was heavily oiled and fixed in waves by gaudy celluloid hair-clips. He took out a couple of hairpins and loosened the bun at the back. The hair fell about her shoulders. The musicians and the old woman got up.

‘Have we permission to leave?’ ‘Yes, go. The driver will take you home.’ The old woman again set up a loud singsong: ‘May your fame and honour increase. May your pen

write figures of thousands—nay, hundreds of thousands.’ Hukum Chand produced a wad of notes and put it on the table for her. Then the party went to the

car, leaving the magistrate with the girl in his lap and the bearer waiting for orders. ‘Shall I serve dinner, sir?’ ‘No, just leave the food on the table. We will serve ourselves. You can go.’ The bearer laid out the

dinner and retired to his quarters. Hukum Chand stretched out his hand and put out the paraffin lamp. It went out with a loud hiss,

leaving the two in utter darkness save for a pale yellow light that flickered from the bedroom. Hukum Chand decided to stay out of doors.

The goods train had dropped the Mano Majra wagons and was leaving the station for the bridge. It came up noisily, its progress marked by the embers which flew out of the funnel of the engine. They were stoking coal in the firebox. A bright red-and-yellow light travelled through the spans of the bridge and was lost behind the jungle on the other side. The train’s rumble got fainter and fainter. Its passing brought a feeling of privacy.

Hukum Chand helped himself to another whisky. The girl in his lap sat stiff and frigid. ‘Are you angry with me? You don’t want to talk to me?’ asked Hukum Chand, pressing her closer to

him. The girl did not answer or look back at him. The magistrate was not particularly concerned with her reactions. He had paid for all that. He

brought the girl’s face nearer his own and began kissing her on the back of her neck and on her ears. He could not hear the goods train any more. It had left the countryside in utter solitude. Hukum Chand could hear his breathing quicken. He undid the strap of the girl’s bodice.

The sound of a shot shattered the stillness of the night. The girl broke loose and stood up. ‘Did you hear a shot?’ The girl nodded. ‘May be a shikari,’ she answered, speaking to him for the first time. She refastened

her bodice. ‘There can’t be any shikar on a dark night.’ The two stood in silence for some time—the man a little apprehensive; the girl relieved of the

attentions of a lover whose breath smelled of whisky, tobacco and pyorrhea. But the silence told Hukum Chand that all was well. He took another whisky to make assurance doubly sure. The girl realized that there was no escape.

‘Must be a cracker. Somebody getting married or something,’ said Hukum Chand, putting his arms round the girl. He kissed her on the nose. ‘Let us get married too,’ he added with a leer.

The girl did not answer. She allowed herself to be dragged onto the table amongst plates covered with stale meatballs and cigarette ash. Hukum Chand swept them off the table with his hand and went on with his love-making. The girl suffered his pawing without a protest. He picked her up from the table and laid her on the carpet amongst the litter of tumblers, plates and bottles. She covered her face with the loose end of her sari and turned it sideways to avoid his breath. Hukum Chand began fumbling with her dress.

From Mano Majra came sounds of people shouting and the agitated barking of dogs. Hukum Chand looked up. Two shots rang out and silenced the barking and shouting. With a loud oath Hukum Chand left the girl. She got up, brushing and adjusting her sari. From the servants’ quarters the bearer and the sweeper came out carrying lanterns and talking excitedly. A little later the chauffeur drove the car into the driveway, its headlights lighting up the front of the bungalow.

The morning after the dacoity the railway station was more crowded than usual. Some Mano Majrans made a habit of being there to watch the 10:30 slow passenger train from Delhi to Lahore come in. They liked to see the few passengers who might get on or off at Mano Majra, and they also enjoyed endless arguments about how late the train was on a given day and when it had last been on time. Since the partition of the country there had been an additional interest. Now the trains were often four or five hours late and sometimes as many as twenty. When they came, they were crowded with Sikh and Hindu refugees from Pakistan or with Muslims from India. People perched on the roofs with their legs dangling, or on bedsteads wedged in between the bogies. Some of them rode precariously on the buffers.

The train this morning was only an hour late—almost like pre-War days. When it steamed in, the crying of hawkers on the platform and the passengers rushing about and shouting to each other gave the impression that many people would be getting off. But when the guard blew his whistle for departure, most of them were back on the train. Only a solitary Sikh peasant carrying an ironshod bamboo staff and followed by his wife with an infant resting on her hip remained with the hawkers on the platform. The man hoisted their rolled bedding onto his head and held it there with one hand. In the other he carried a large tin of clarified butter. The bamboo staff he held in his armpit, with one end trailing on the ground. Two green tickets stuck out beneath his moustache, which billowed from his upper lip onto his beard. The woman saw the line of faces peering through the iron railing of the station and drew her veil across her face. She followed her husband, her slippers sloshing on the gravel and her silver ornaments all ajingle. The stationmaster plucked the tickets from the peasant’s mouth and let the couple out of the gate, where they were lost in a tumult of greetings and embraces.

The guard blew his whistle a second time and waved the green flag. Then, from the compartment just behind the engine, armed policemen emerged. There were twelve of them, and a subinspector. They carried rifles and their Sam Browne belts were charged with bullets. Two carried chains and handcuffs. From the other end of the train, near the guard’s van, a young man stepped down. He wore a long white shirt, a brown waistcoat of coarse cotton, and loose pyjamas, and he carried a holdall. He stepped gingerly off the train, pressing his tousled hair and looking all round. He was a small slight man, somewhat effeminate in appearance. The sight of the policemen emboldened him. He hoisted the

holdall onto his left shoulder and moved jauntily towards the exit. The villagers watched the young man and the police party move from opposite directions towards the stationmaster who stood beside the gate. He had opened it wide for the police and was bowing obsequiously to the subinspector. The young man reached the gate first and stopped between the stationmaster and the police. The stationmaster quickly took the ticket from him, but the young man did not move on or make way for the subinspector.

‘Can you tell me, Stationmaster Sahib, if there is a place I can stay in this village?’ The stationmaster was irritated. The visitor’s urban accent, his appearance, dress and holdall had

the stationmaster holding back his temper. ‘There are no hotels or inns in Mano Majra,’ he answered with polite sarcasm. ‘There is only the

Sikh temple. You will see the yellow flag-mast in the centre of the village.’ ‘Thank you, sir.’ The police party and the stationmaster scrutinized the youth with a little diffidence. Not many

people said ‘thank you’ in these parts. Most of the ‘thank you’ crowd were foreign-educated. They had heard of several well-to-do young men, educated in England, donning peasant garb to do rural uplift work. Some were known to be Communist agents. Some were sons of millionaires, some sons of high government officials. All were looking for trouble, and capable of making a lot of noise. One had to be careful.

The young man went out of the station towards the village. He walked with a consciously erect gait, a few yards in front of the policemen. He was uneasily aware of their attention. The itch on the back of his neck told him that they were looking at him and talking about him. He did not scratch or look back —he just walked on like a soldier. He saw the flag-mast draped in yellow cloth with a triangular flag above the conglomeration of mud huts. On the flag was the Sikh symbol in black, a quoit with a dagger running through and two swords crossed beneath. He went along the dusty path lined on either side by scraggy bushes of prickly pear which fenced it off from the fields. The path wound its narrow way past the mud huts to the opening in the centre where the moneylender’s house, the mosque and the temple faced each other. Underneath the peepul tree half a dozen villagers were sitting on a low wooden platform talking to each other. They got up as soon as they saw the policemen and followed them into Ram Lal’s house. No one took any notice of the stranger.

He stepped into the open door of the temple courtyard. At the end opposite the entrance was a large hall in which the scripture, the Granth, lay wrapped in gaudy silks under a velvet awning. On one side were two rooms. A brick stairway ran along the wall to the roof of the rooms. Across the courtyard was a well with a high parapet. Beside the well stood a four-foot brick column supporting the long flag-mast with the yellow cloth covering it like a stocking.

The young man did not see anyone about. He could hear the sound of wet clothes being beaten on a slab of stone. He walked timidly to the other side of the well. An old Sikh got up with water dripping from his beard and white shorts.

‘Sat Sri Akal.’ ‘Sat Sri Akal.’ ‘Can I stay for two or three days?’ ‘This is a gurdwara, the Guru’s house—anyone may stay here. But you must have your head

covered and you must not bring in any cigarettes or tobacco, nor smoke.’

‘I do not smoke,’ said the young man putting the holdall on the ground and spreading his handkerchief on his head.

‘No, Babu Sahib, only when you go in near the Book, the Granth Sahib, you take your shoes off and cover your head. Put your luggage in that room and make yourself comfortable. Will you have something to eat?’

‘That is very kind of you. But I have brought my own food.’ The old man showed the visitor to the spare room and then went back to the well. The young man

went into the room. Its only furniture was a charpai lying in the middle. There was a large coloured calendar on one wall. It had a picture of the Guru on horseback with a hawk on one hand. Alongside the calendar were nails to hang clothes.

The visitor emptied his holdall. He took out his air mattress and blew it up on the charpai. He laid out pyjamas and a silk dressing gown on the mattress. He got out a tin of sardines, a tin of Australian butter and a packet of dry biscuits. He shook his water bottle. It was empty.

The old Sikh came to him, combing his long beard with his fingers. ‘What is your name?’ he asked, sitting down on the threshold. ‘Iqbal. What is yours?’ ‘Iqbal Singh?’ queried the old man. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘I am the bhai of

the temple. Bhai Meet Singh. What is your business in Mano Majra, Iqbal Singhji?’ The young man was relieved that the other had not gone on with his first question. He did not have

to say what Iqbal he was. He could be a Muslim, Iqbal Mohammed. He could be a Hindu, Iqbal Chand, or a Sikh, Iqbal Singh. It was one of the few names common to the three communities. In a Sikh village, an Iqbal Singh would no doubt get a better deal, even if his hair was shorn and his beard shaved, than an Iqbal Mohammed or an Iqbal Chand. He himself had few religious feelings.

‘I am a social worker, Bhaiji. There is much to be done in our villages. Now with this partition there is so much bloodshed going on, someone must do something to stop it. My party has sent me here, since this place is a vital point for refugee movements. Trouble here would be disastrous.’

The bhai did not seem interested in Iqbal’s occupation. ‘Where are you from, Iqbal Singhji?’ Iqbal knew that meant his ancestors and not himself. ‘I belong to district Jhelum—now in Pakistan—but I have been in foreign countries a long time. It

is after seeing the world that one feels how backward we are and one wants to do things about it. So I do social work.’

‘How much do they pay you?’ Iqbal had learned not to resent these questions. ‘I don’t get paid very much. Just my expenses.’ ‘Do they pay the expenses of your wife and children also?’ ‘No, Bhaiji. I am not married. I really …’ ‘How old are you?’ ‘Twenty-seven. Tell me, do other social workers come to this village?’ Iqbal decided to ask

questions to stop Meet Singh’s interrogation. ‘Sometimes the American padres come.’

‘Do you like their preaching Christianity in your village?’ ‘Everyone is welcome to his religion. Here next door is a Muslim mosque. When I pray to my Guru,

Uncle Imam Baksh calls to Allah. How many religions do they have in Europe?’ ‘They are all Christians of one kind or other. They do not quarrel about their religions as we do

here. They do not really bother very much about religion.’ ‘So I have heard,’ said Meet Singh ponderously. ‘That is why they have no morals. The sahibs and

their wives go about with other sahibs and their wives. That is not good, is it?’ ‘But they do not tell lies like we do and they are not corrupt and dishonest as so many of us are,’

answered Iqbal. He got out his tin opener and opened the tin of sardines. He spread the fish on a biscuit and

continued to talk while he ate. ‘Morality, Meet Singhji, is a matter of money. Poor people cannot afford to have morals. So they

have religion. Our first problem is to get people more food, clothing, comfort. That can only be done by stopping exploitation by the rich, and abolishing landlords. And that can only be done by changing the government.’

Meet Singh, with disgusted fascination, watched the young man eating fish complete with head, eyes and tail. He did not pay much attention to the lecture on rural indebtedness, the average national income, and capitalist exploitation which the other poured forth with flakes of dry biscuits. When Iqbal had finished eating Meet Singh got up and brought him a tumbler of water from his pitcher. Iqbal did not stop talking. He only raised his voice when the bhai went out.

Iqbal produced a little packet of cellophane paper from his pocket, took a white pill from it and dropped it in the tumbler. He had seen Meet Singh’s thumb, with its black crescent of dirt under the nail, dipping into the water. In any case it was out of a well which could never have been chlorinated.

‘Are you ill?’ asked the old man, seeing the other wait for the pill to dissolve. ‘No, it helps me to digest my food. We city-dwellers need this sort of thing after meals.’ Iqbal resumed his speech. ‘To add to it all,’ he continued, ‘there is the police system which, instead

of safeguarding the citizen, maltreats him and lives on corruption and bribery. You know all about that, I am sure.’

The old man nodded his head in agreement. Before he could comment, the young man spoke again. ‘A party of policemen with an inspector came over on the same train with me. They will no doubt eat up all the chickens, the inspector will make a little money in bribes, and they will move on to the next village. One would think they had nothing else to do but fleece people.’

Reference to the police awakened the old man from his absent-minded listening. ‘So the police have come after all. I must go and see what they are doing. They must be at the moneylender’s house. He was murdered last night, just across from the gurdwara. The dacoits took a lot of cash and they say over five thousand rupees in silver and gold ornaments from his women.’

Meet Singh realized the interest he had created and slowly got up, repeating, ‘I should be going. All the village will be there. They will be taking the corpse for medical examination. If a man is killed he cannot be cremated till the doctor certifies him dead.’ The old man gave a wry smile.

‘A murder! Why, why was he murdered?’ stammered Iqbal, somewhat bewildered. He was surprised that Meet Singh had not mentioned the murder of a next-door neighbour all this time. ‘Was

it communal? Is it all right for me to be here? I do not suppose I can do much if the village is all excited about a murder.’

‘Why, Babu Sahib, you have come to stop killing and you are upset by one murder?’ asked Meet Singh, smiling. ‘I thought you had come to stop such things, Babu Sahib. But you are quite safe in Mano Majra,’ he added. ‘Dacoits do not come to the same village more than once a year. There will be another dacoity in another village in a few days and people will forget about this one. We can have a meeting here one night after the evening prayer and you can tell them all you want. You had better rest. I will come back and tell you what happens.’

The old man hobbled out of the courtyard. Iqbal collected the empty tin, his knife and fork and tin plate, and took them to the well to wash.

In the afternoon, Iqbal stretched himself on the coarse string charpai and tried to get some sleep. He had spent the night sitting on his bedroll in a crowded third-class compartment. Every time he had dozed off, the train had come to a halt at some wayside station and the door was forced open and more peasants poured in with their wives, bedding and tin trunks. Some child sleeping in its mother’s lap would start howling till its wails were smothered by a breast thrust into its mouth. The shouting and clamour would continue until long after the train had left the station. The same thing was repeated again and again, till the compartment meant for fifty had almost two hundred people in it, sitting on the floor, on seats, on luggage racks, on trunks, on bedrolls, and on each other, or standing in the corners. There were dozens outside perched precariously on footboards, holding onto the door handles. There were several people on the roof. The heat and smell were oppressive. Tempers were frayed and every few minutes an argument would start because someone had spread himself out too much or had trod on another’s foot on his way to the lavatory. The argument would be joined on either side by friends or relatives and then by all the others trying to patch it up. Iqbal had tried to read in the dim light speckled with shadows of moths that fluttered round the globe. He had hardly read a paragraph before his neighbour had observed:

‘You are reading.’ ‘Yes, I am reading.’ ‘What are you reading?’ ‘A book.’ It had not worked. The man had simply taken the book out of Iqbal’s hand and turned over its pages. ‘English.’ ‘You must be educated.’ Iqbal did not comment. The book had gone round the compartment for scrutiny. They had all looked at him. He was

educated, therefore belonged to a different class. He was a babu. ‘What honourable noun does your honour bear?’ ‘My name is Iqbal.’ ‘May your Iqbal [fame] ever increase.’ The man had obviously taken him to be a Muslim. Just as well. All the passengers appeared to be

Muslims on their way to Pakistan. ‘Where does your wealth reside, Babu Sahib?’

‘My poor home is in Jhelum district,’ Iqbal had answered without irritation. The answer confirmed the likelihood of his being Muslim: Jhelum was in Pakistan.

Thereafter other passengers had joined in the cross-examination. Iqbal had to tell them what he did, what his source of income was, how much he was worth, where he had studied, why he had not married, all the illnesses he had ever suffered from. They had discussed their own domestic problems and diseases and had sought his advice. Did Iqbal know of any secret prescriptions or herbs that the English used when they were ‘run down’? Iqbal had given up the attempt to sleep or read. They had kept up the conversation till the early hours of the morning. He would have described the journey as insufferable except that the limits to which human endurance could be stretched in India made the word meaningless. He got off at Mano Majra with a sigh of relief. He could breathe the fresh air. He was looking forward to a long siesta.

But sleep would not come to Iqbal. There was no ventilation in the room. It had a musty earthy smell. A pile of clothes in the corner stank of stale clarified butter, and there were flies buzzing all round. Iqbal spread a handkerchief on his face. He could hardly breathe. With all that, just as he had managed to doze off, Meet Singh came in exclaiming philosophically:

‘Robbing a fellow villager is like stealing from one’s mother. Iqbal Singhji, this is Kalyug—the dark age. Have you ever heard of dacoits looting their neighbour’s homes? Now all morality has left the world.’

Iqbal removed the handkerchief from his face. ‘What has happened?’ ‘What has happened?’ repeated Meet Singh, feigning surprise. ‘Ask me what has not happened! The

police sent for Jugga—Jugga is a badmash number ten [from the number of the police register in which names of bad characters are listed]. But Jugga had run away, absconded. Also, some of the loot —a bag of bangles—was found in his courtyard. So we know who did it. This is not the first murder he has committed—he has it in his blood. His father and grandfather were also dacoits and were hanged for murder. But they never robbed their own village folk. As a matter of fact, when they were at home, no dacoit dared come to Mano Majra. Juggut Singh has disgraced his family.’

Iqbal sat up rubbing his forehead. His countrymen’s code of morals had always puzzled him, with his anglicized way of looking at things. The Punjabi’s code was even more baffling. For them truth, honour, financial integrity were ‘all right’, but these were placed lower down the scale of values than being true to one’s salt, to one’s friends and fellow villagers. For friends you could lie in court or cheat, and no one would blame you. On the contrary, you became a nar admi—a he-man who had defied authority (magistrates and police) and religion (oath on the scripture) but proved true to friendship. It was the projection of rural society where everyone in the village was a relation and loyalty to the village was the supreme test. What bothered Meet Singh, a priest, was not that Jugga had committed murder but that his hands were soiled with the blood of a fellow villager. If Jugga had done the same thing in the neighbouring village, Meet Singh would gladly have appeared in his defence and sworn on the holy Granth that Jugga had been praying in the gurdwara at the time of the murder. Iqbal had wearied of talking to people like Meet Singh. They did not understand. He had come to the conclusion that he did not belong.

Meet Singh was disappointed that he had failed to arouse Iqbal’s interest.

‘You have seen the world and read many books, but take it from me that a snake can cast its slough but not its poison. This saying is worth a hundred thousand rupees.’

Iqbal did not register appreciation of the valuable saying. Meet Singh explained: ‘Jugga had been going straight for some time. He ploughed his land and looked after his cattle. He never left the village, and reported himself to the lambardar every day. But how long can a snake keep straight? There is crime in his blood.’

‘There is no crime in anyone’s blood any more than there is goodness in the blood of others,’ answered Iqbal waking up. This was one of his pet theories. ‘Does anyone ever bother to find out why people steal and rob and kill? No! They put them in jail or hang them. It is easier. If the fear of the gallows or the cell had stopped people from killing or stealing, there would be no murdering or stealing. It does not. They hang a man every day in this province. Yet ten get murdered every twenty- four hours. No, Bhaiji, criminals are not born. They are made by hunger, want and injustice.’

Iqbal felt a little silly for coming out with these platitudes. He must check this habit of turning a conversation into a sermon. He returned to the subject.

‘I suppose they will get Jugga easily if he is such a well-known character.’ ‘Jugga cannot go very far. He can be recognized from a kos. He is an arm’s length taller than

anyone else. The Deputy sahib has already sent orders to all police stations to keep a lookout for Jugga.’

‘Who is the Deputy sahib?’ asked Iqbal. ‘You do not know the Deputy?’ Meet Singh was surprised. ‘It’s Hukum Chand. He is staying at the

dak bungalow north of the bridge. Now Hukum Chand is a nar admi. He started as a foot-constable and see where he is now! He always kept the sahibs pleased and they gave him one promotion after another. The last one gave him his own place and made him Deputy. Yes, Iqbal Singhji, Hukum Chand is a nar admi—and clever. He is true to his friends and always gets things done for them. He has had dozens of relatives given good jobs. He is one of a hundred. Nothing counterfeit about Hukum Chand.’

‘Is he a friend of yours?’ ‘Friend? No,no,’ protested Meet Singh. ‘I am a humble bhai of the gurdwara and he is an emperor.

He is the government and we are his subjects. If he comes to Mano Majra, you will see him.’ There was a pause in the conversation. Iqbal slipped his feet into his sandals and stood up. ‘I must take a walk. Which way do you suggest I should go?’ ‘Go in any direction you like. It is all the same open country. Go to the river. You will see the trains

coming and going. If you cross the railroad track you will see the dak bungalow. Don’t be too late. These are bad times and it is best to be indoors before dark. Besides, I have told the lambardar and Uncle Imam Baksh—he is mullah of the mosque—that you are here. They may be coming in to talk to you.’

‘No, I won’t be late.’ Iqbal stepped out of the gurdwara. There was no sign of activity now. The police had apparently

finished investigating. Half a dozen constables lay sprawled on charpais under the peepul tree. The door of Ram Lal’s house was open. Some villagers sat on the floor in the courtyard. A woman wailed in a singsong which ended up in convulsions of crying in which other women joined. It was hot and still. The sun blazed on the mud walls.

Iqbal walked in the shade of the wall of the gurdwara. Children had relieved themselves all along it. Men had used it as a urinal.A mangy bitch lay on her side with a litter of eight skinny pups yapping and tugging at her sagging udders.

The lane ended abruptly at the village pond—a small patch of muddy water full of buffaloes with their heads sticking out.

A footpath skirted the pond and went along a dry watercourse through the wheat fields towards the river. Iqbal went along the watercourse watching his steps carefully. He reached the riverside just as the express from Lahore came up on the bridge. He watched its progress through the criss-cross of steel. Like all the trains, it was full. From the roof, legs dangled down the sides onto the doors and windows. The doors and windows were jammed with heads and arms. There were people on buffers between the bogies. The two on the buffers on the tail end of the train were merrily kicking their legs and gesticulating. The train picked up speed after crossing the bridge. The engine driver started blowing the whistle and continued blowing till he had passed Mano Majra station. It was an expression of relief that they were out of Pakistan and into India.

Iqbal went up the riverbank towards the bridge. He was planning to go under it towards the dak bungalow when he noticed a Sikh soldier watching him from the sentry box at the end of the bridge. Iqbal changed his mind and walked boldly up to the rail embankment and turned towards Mano Majra station. The manoeuvre allayed the sentry’s suspicion. Iqbal went a hundred yards up and then casually sat down on the railway line.

The passing express had woken Mano Majra from its late siesta. Boys threw stones at the buffaloes in the pond and drove them home. Groups of women went out in the fields and scattered themselves behind the bushes. A bullock cart carrying Ram Lal’s corpse left the village and went towards the station. It was guarded by policemen. Several villagers went a little distance with it and then returned along with the relatives.

Iqbal stood up and looked all round. From the railway station to the roof of the rest house showing above the plumes of pampas, from the bridge to the village and back to the railway station, the whole place was littered with men, women, children, cattle, and dogs. There were kites wheeling high up in the sky, long lines of crows were flying from somewhere to somewhere, and millions of sparrows twittered about the trees. Where in India could one find a place which did not teem with life? Iqbal thought of his first reaction on reaching Bombay. Milling crowds—millions of them—on the quayside, in the streets, on railway platforms; even at night the pavements were full of people. The whole country was like an overcrowded room. What could you expect when the population went up by six every minute—five million every year! It made all planning in industry or agriculture a mockery. Why not spend the same amount of effort in checking the increase in population? But how could you, in the land of the Kama Sutra, the home of phallic worship and the son cult?

Iqbal was woken from his angry daydreaming by a shimmering sound along the steel wires which ran parallel to the railway lines. The signal above the sentry’s box near the bridge came down. Iqbal stood up and brushed his clothes. The sun had gone down beyond the river. The russet sky turned grey as shades of twilight spread across the plain. A new moon looking like a finely pared fingernail appeared beside the evening star. The muezzin’s call to prayer rose above the rumble of the approaching train.

Iqbal found his way back easily. All lanes met in the temple—mosque—moneylender’s house triangle with the peepul tree in the centre. Sounds of wailing still came from Ram Lal’s house. In the mosque, a dozen men stood in two rows silently going through their genuflections. In the gurdwara, Meet Singh, sitting beside the Book which was folded up in muslin on a cot, was reciting the evening prayer. Five or six men and women sat in a semicircle around a hurricane lantern and listened to him.

Iqbal went straight to his room and lay down on his charpai in the dark. He had barely shut his eyes when the worshippers began to chant. The chanting stopped for a couple of minutes, only to start again. The ceremony ended with shouts of ‘Sat Sri Akal’ and the beating of a drum. The men and women came out. Meet Singh held the lantern and helped them find their shoes. They started talking loudly. In the babel the only word Iqbal could make out was ‘babu’. Somebody who had noticed Iqbal come in, had told the others. There was some whispering and shuffling of feet and then silence.

Iqbal shut his eyes once more. A minute later Meet Singh stood on the threshold, holding the lantern.

‘Iqbal Singhji, have you gone to bed without food? Would you like some spinach? I have also curd and buttermilk.’

‘No, thank you, Bhaiji. I have the food I want.’ ‘Our poor food …’ started Meet Singh. ‘No, no, it is not that,’ interrupted Iqbal sitting up, ‘it is just that I have it and it may be wasted if I

don’t eat it. I am a little tired and would like to sleep.’ ‘Then you must have some milk. Banta Singh, the lambardar, is bringing you some. I will tell him

to hurry up if you want to sleep early. I have another charpai for you on the roof. It is too hot to sleep in here.’ Meet Singh left the hurricane lantern in the room and disappeared in the dark.

The prospect of having to talk to the lambardar was not very exciting. Iqbal fished out his silver hip flask from underneath the pillow and took a long swig of whisky. He ate a few dry biscuits that were in the paper packet. He took his mattress and pillow to the roof where a charpai had been laid for him. Meet Singh apparently slept in the courtyard to guard the gurdwara.

Iqbal lay on his charpai and watched the stars in the teeming sky until he heard several voices entering the gurdwara and coming up the stairs. Then he got up to greet the visitors.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Babu Sahib.’ ‘Salaam to you, Babu Sahib.’ They shook hands. Meet Singh did not bother to introduce them. Iqbal pushed the air mattress aside

to make room on the charpai for the visitors. He sat down on the floor himself. ‘I am ashamed for not having presented myself earlier,’ said the Sikh. ‘Please forgive me. I have

brought some milk for you.’ ‘Yes, Sahib, we are ashamed of ourselves. You are our guest and we have not rendered you any

service. Drink the milk before it gets cold,’ added the other visitor. He was a tall lean man with a clipped beard.

‘It is very kind of you …I know you have been busy with the police …I don’t drink milk. Really I do not. We city-dwellers …’

The lambardar ignored Iqbal’s well-mannered protests. He removed his dirty handkerchief from a large brass tumbler and began to stir the milk with his forefinger. ‘It is fresh. I milked the buffalo only

an hour back and got the wife to boil it. I know you educated people only drink boiled milk. There is quite a lot of sugar in it; it has settled at the bottom,’ he added with a final stir. To emphasize the quality of the milk, he picked up a slab of clotted cream on his forefinger and slapped it back in the milk.

‘Here, Babuji, drink it before it gets cold.’ ‘No! No! No, thank you, no!’ protested Iqbal. He did not know how to get out of his predicament

without offending the visitors. ‘I don’t ever drink milk. But if you insist, I will drink it later. I like it cold.’

‘Yes, you drink it as you like, Babuji,’ said the Muslim, coming to his rescue. ‘Banta Singh, leave the tumbler here. Bhai will bring it back in the morning.’

The lambardar covered the tumbler with his handkerchief and put it under Iqbal’s charpai. There was a long pause. Iqbal had pleasant visions of pouring the milk with all its clotted cream down the drain.

‘Well, Babuji,’ began the Muslim. ‘Tell us something. What is happening in the world? What is all this about Pakistan and Hindustan?’

‘We live in this little village and know nothing,’ the lambardar put in. ‘Babuji, tell us, why did the English leave?’

Iqbal did not know how to answer simple questions like these. Independence meant little or nothing to these people. They did not even realize that it was a step forward and that all they needed to do was to take the next step and turn the make-believe political freedom into a real economic one.

‘They left because they had to. We had hundreds of thousands of young men trained to fight in the war. This time they had the arms too. Haven’t you heard of the mutiny of the Indian sailors? The soldiers would have done the same thing. The English were frightened. They did not shoot any of the Indians who joined the Indian National Army set up by the Japanese, because they thought the whole country would turn against them.’

Iqbal’s thesis did not cut much ice. ‘Babuji, what you say may be right,’ said the lambardar hesitantly. ‘But I was in the last war and

fought in Mesopotamia and Gallipoli. We liked English officers. They were better than the Indian.’ ‘Yes,’ added Meet Singh, ‘my brother who is a havildar says all sepoys are happier with English

officers than with Indian. My brother’s colonel’s memsahib still sends my niece things from London. You know, Lambardar Sahib, she even sent money at her wedding. What Indian officers’ wives will do that?’

Iqbal tried to take the offensive. ‘Why, don’t you people want to be free? Do you want to remain slaves all your lives?’

After a long silence the lambardar answered: ‘Freedom must be a good thing. But what will we get out of it? Educated people like you, Babu Sahib, will get the jobs the English had. Will we get more lands or more buffaloes?’

‘No,’ the Muslim said. ‘Freedom is for the educated people who fought for it. We were slaves of the English, now we will be slaves of the educated Indians—or the Pakistanis.’

Iqbal was startled at the analysis. ‘What you say is absolutely right,’ he agreed warmly. ‘If you want freedom to mean something for

you—the peasants and workers—you have to get together and fight. Get the bania Congress

government out. Get rid of the princes and the landlords and freedom will mean for you just what you think it should. More land, more buffaloes, no debts.’

‘That is what that fellow told us,’ interrupted Meet Singh, ‘that fellow … Lambardara, what was his name? Comrade Something-or-other. Are you a comrade, Babu Sahib?’

‘No.’ ‘I am glad. That comrade did not believe in God. He said when his party came into power they

would drain the sacred pool round the temple at Tarn Taran and plant rice in it. He said it would be more useful.’