Train to Pakistan (16 page)

‘But, sir, Sultana and his lot went away to Pakistan. Everyone knows that.’

The Inspector put the end of his pencil in his ear again and rubbed the wax on the table. He took a couple of pulls at the cigarette and this time pouted his lips and sent jets of smoke bounding off the register into the head constable’s face.

‘I do not know that Sultana has gone to Pakistan. Anyway, he left after the dacoity in Mano Majra. There is no harm in asking the villagers if they know when he left, is there?’

The head constable’s face lit up.

‘I understand, sir. Are there any other orders?’

‘Yes. Also inquire from the villagers if they know anything about the mischief the Muslim Leaguer Iqbal had been up to when he was in Mano Majra.’

The head constable looked puzzled again.

‘Sir, the Babu’s name is Iqbal Singh. He is a Sikh. He has been living in England and had his long hair cut.’

The subinspector fixed the head constable with a stare and smiled. ‘There are many Iqbals. I am talking of a Mohammed Iqbal, you are thinking of Iqbal Singh. Mohammed Iqbal can be a member of the Muslim League.’

‘I understand, sir,’ repeated the head constable, but he had not really understood. He hoped he would catch up with the scheme in due course. ‘Your orders will be carried out.’

‘Just one thing more,’ added the subinspector, getting up from the table. ‘Get a constable to take a letter from me to the commander of the Muslim refugee camp. Also, remind me to send some constables to Mano Majra tomorrow when the Pakistan army chaps come to evacuate Muslim villagers.’

The head constable realized that this was meant to help him understand the plan. He made a mental note of it, saluted a second time and clicked his heels. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and went out.

The subinspector put on his turban. He stood by the door looking into the courtyard of the station. The railway creeper on the wall facing him had been washed by the rain. Its leaves glistened in the sun. Policemen’s dormitories on the left side had rows of charpais with bedding neatly rolled on them. Opposite the dormitories were the station’s two cells—in reality just ordinary rooms with iron bars instead of bricks for the front wall. One could see everything inside them from anywhere in the courtyard. In the nearer cell, Iqbal sat in a chair with his feet on the charpai, reading a magazine. Several newspapers lay scattered on the floor. Juggut Singh was sitting, holding the bars with his hands, idly staring at the policemen’s quarters. In the other cell, Malli and his companions lay sprawled on the floor talking to each other. They got up as the head constable and three policemen with rifles entered carrying handcuffs. Juggut Singh took no notice of the policemen going into the adjoining cell. He thought that Malli was probably being taken to court for a hearing.

Malli had been shaken by Juggut Singh’s outburst. He was frightened of Juggut Singh and would sooner have made peace on the other’s terms than go about in fear of violence—for Jugga was the most violent man in the district. Juggut Singh’s abuse had made that impossible. Malli was the leader of his own band and felt that after Jugga’s insults he had to say
something to regain his prestige in the eyes of his companions. He thought of several nasty things he could have said, if he had known that Juggut Singh was going to return his offer of friendship with abuse. He felt hurt and angry. If he got another chance he would give it back to Jugga, abuse for abuse. Iron bars separated them and in any case there were armed policemen about.

The policemen handcuffed Malli and his companions and linked all the handcuffs to one long chain attached to a constable’s belt. The head constable led them away. Two men armed with rifles kept the rear. As they emerged from their cell, Jugga looked up at Malli and then looked away.

‘You forget old friends,’ said Malli with mock friendliness. ‘You don’t even look at us and we pine away for you.’

His companions laughed. ‘Let him be. Let him be.’

Jugga sat still with his eyes fixed on the ground.

‘Why are you so angry, my dear? Why so sad? Is it somebody’s love that torments your soul?’

‘Come along, keep moving,’ said the policemen reluctantly. They were enjoying the scene.

‘Why can’t we say Sat Sri Akal to our old friend? Sat Sri Akal, Sardar Juggut Singhji. Is there any message we can convey for you? A love message maybe? To the weaver’s daughter?’

Jugga kept staring through the bars as if he had not heard. He turned pale with anger. All the blood drained from his face. His hands tightened around the iron bars.

Malli turned round to his smiling companions. ‘Sardar Juggut Singh seems a little upset today. He will not answer our Sat Sri Akal. We do not mind. We will say Sat Sri Akal to him again.’

Malli joined his manacled hands and bent low near Juggut Singh’s iron bar door and started loudly, ‘Sat Sri …’

Jugga’s hands shot through the bars and gripped Malli by the hair protruding from the back of his turban. Malli’s turban
fell off. Jugga yelled murderously and with a jerk brought Malli’s head crashing against the bars. He shook Malli as a terrier shakes a piece of rag from side to side, forward and backward, smashing his head repeatedly against the bars. Each jerk was accompanied by abuse: ‘This to rape your mother. This your sister. This your daughter. This for your mother again. And this … and this.’

Iqbal, who had been watching the earlier proceedings from his chair, stood up in a corner and started shouting to the policemen: ‘Why don’t you do something? Don’t you see he will kill the man?’

The policemen began to shout. One of them tried to push the butt end of his rifle in Jugga’s face, but Jugga dodged. Malli’s head was spattered with blood. His skull and forehead were bruised all over. He began to wail. The subinspector ran up to the cell and hit Jugga violently on the hand with his swagger stick several times. Jugga would not let go. The subinspector drew his revolver and pointed it at Jugga. ‘Let go, you swine, or I will shoot.’

Jugga held up Malli’s head with both his hands and spat in his face. He pushed him away with more abuse. Malli fell in a heap with his hair all over his face and shoulders. His companions helped him up and wiped the blood and spit off his face with his turban. He cried like a child, swearing all the time, ‘May your mother die … you son of a pig …I will settle this with you.’ Malli and his men were led away. Malli could be heard crying till he was a long way from the police station.

Jugga sank back into the stupor he had been in before he lost his temper. He examined the marks the subinspector’s swagger stick had left on the back of his hands. Iqbal continued shouting agitatedly. Jugga turned round angrily. ‘Shut up, you babu! What have I done to you that you talk so much?’

Jugga had not spoken rudely to him before. That scared Iqbal all the more.

‘Inspector Sahib, now that the other cell is vacant, can’t you shift me there?’ he pleaded.

The subinspector smiled contemptuously. ‘Certainly, Mr Iqbal, we will do all we can to make you comfortable. Tables, chairs—an electric fan maybe?’

Mano Majra

When it was discovered that the train had brought a full load of corpses, a heavy brooding silence descended on the village. People barricaded their doors and many stayed up all night talking in whispers. Everyone felt his neighbour’s hand against him, and thought of finding friends and allies. They did not notice the clouds blot out the stars nor smell the cool damp breeze. When they woke up in the morning and saw it was raining, their first thoughts were about the train and the burning corpses. The whole village was on the roofs looking towards the station.

The train had disappeared as mysteriously as it had come. The station was deserted. The soldier’s tents were soaked with water and looked depressing. There was no smouldering fire nor smoke. In fact there was no sign of life—or death. Still people watched: perhaps there would be another train with more corpses!

By afternoon the clouds had rolled away to the west. Rain had cleared the atmosphere and one could see for miles around. Villagers ventured forth from their homes to find out if anyone knew more than they. Then they went back to their roofs. Although it had stopped raining, no one could be seen on the station platform or in the passenger shed or the military camp. A row of vultures sat on the parapet of the station building and kites were flying in circles high above it.

The head constable, with his posse of policemen and prisoners, was spotted a long way away from the village. People shouted the information to each other. The lambardar was summoned.

When the head constable arrived with his party, there was quite a crowd assembled under the peepul tree near the temple.

The head constable unlocked the handcuffs of the prisoners in front of the villagers. They were made to put their thumb impressions on pieces of paper and told to report to the police station twice a week. The villagers looked on sullenly. They knew that Jugga badmash and the stranger had nothing to do with the dacoity. They were equally certain that in arresting Malli’s gang the police were on the right track. Perhaps they were not all involved; some of the five might have been arrested mistakenly. It was scarcely possible that none of them had had anything to do with it. Yet there were the police letting them loose—not in their own village, but in Mano Majra where they had committed the murder. The police must be certain of their innocence to take such a risk.

The head constable took the lambardar aside and the two spoke to each other for some time. The lambardar came back and addressed the villagers saying: ‘The Sentry Sahib wants to know if anyone here has seen or heard anything about Sultana badmash or any of his gang.’

Several villagers came out with news. He was known to have gone away to Pakistan along with his gang. They were all Muslims, and Muslims of their village had been evacuated.

‘Was it before or after the murder of the Lala that he left?’ inquired the head constable, coming up beside the lambardar.

‘After,’ they answered in a chorus. There was a long pause. The villagers looked at each other somewhat puzzled. Was it them? Before they could ask the policemen any questions, the head constable was speaking again.

‘Did any of you see or talk to a young Mussulman babu called Mohammed Iqbal who was a member of the Muslim League?’

The lambardar was taken aback. He did not know Iqbal was a Muslim. He vaguely recalled Meet Singh and Imam Baksh calling him Iqbal Singh. He looked in the crowd for Imam Baksh but could not find him. Several villagers started telling the head constable excitedly of having seen Iqbal go to the fields and loiter about the railway track near the bridge.

‘Did you notice anything suspicious about him?’

‘Suspicious? Well …’

‘Did you notice anything suspicious about the fellow?’

‘Did you?’

No one was sure. One could never be sure about educated people; they were all suspiciously cunning. Surely Meet Singh was the one to answer questions about the babu; some of the babu’s things were still with him in the gurdwara.

Meet Singh was pushed up to the front.

The head constable ignored Meet Singh and again addressed the group that had been answering him. ‘I will speak to the bhai later,’ he said. ‘Can any one of you say whether this man came to Mano Majra before or after the dacoity?’

This was another shock. What would an urban babu have to do with dacoity or murder? Maybe it was not for money after all! No one was quite sure. Now they were not sure of anything. The head constable dismissed the meeting with: ‘If anyone has any authentic information about the moneylender’s murder or about Sultana or about Mohammed Iqbal, report at the police station at once.’

The crowd broke into small groups, talking and gesticulating animatedly. Meet Singh went up to the head constable who was getting his constables ready to march back.

‘Sentry Sahib, the young man you arrested the other day is
not a Mussulman. He is a Sikh—Iqbal Singh.’

The head constable took no notice of him. He was busy writing something on a piece of yellow paper. Meet Singh waited patiently.

‘Sentry Sahib,’ he started again as the other was folding the paper. The head constable did not even look at him. He beckoned one of the constables and handed him the paper saying:

‘Get a bicycle or a tonga and take this letter to the commandant of the Pakistan military unit. Also tell him yourself that you have come from Mano Majra and the situation is serious. He must send his trucks and soldiers to evacuate the Muslims as early as possible. At once.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the constable clicking his heels.

‘Sentry Sahib,’ implored Meet Singh.

‘Sentry Sahib, Sentry Sahib, Sentry Sahib,’ repeated the head constable angrily. ‘You have been eating my ears with your “Sentry Sahibs”. What do you want?’

‘Iqbal Singh is a Sikh.’

‘Did you open the fly-buttons of his pants to see whether he was a Sikh or a Mussulman? You are a simple bhai of a temple. Go and pray.’

The head constable took his place in front of the policemen standing in double file.

‘Attention! By the left, quick march.’