Train to Pakistan (22 page)

‘You will find Mano Majra somewhat changed,’ the subinspector remarked, casually addressing the table in front of him. Iqbal and Jugga stood facing him on the other side.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Babu Sahib?’ said the subinspector. This time he spoke directly to Iqbal. ‘Please take a chair. Oi, what is your name? Why don’t you bring a chair for the Babu Sahib?’ he shouted at a constable. ‘I know you are angry with me, but it is not my fault,’ he continued. ‘I have my duty to do.
You as an educated man know what would happen if I were to treat people differently.’

The constable brought a chair for Iqbal.

‘Do sit down. Shall I get you a cup of tea or something before you go?’ The subinspector smiled unctuously.

‘It is very kind of you. I would rather keep standing; I have been sitting in the cell all these days. If you do not mind, I would like to leave as soon as you have finished with the formalities,’ answered Iqbal without responding to the other’s smile.

‘You are free to go whenever and wherever you want to go. I have sent for a tonga to take you to Mano Majra. I will send an armed constable to accompany you. It is not safe to be about in Chundunnugger or to travel unescorted.’

The subinspector picked up a yellow paper and read: ‘Juggut Singh, son of Alam Singh, age twenty-four, caste Sikh of village Mano Majra, badmash number ten.’

‘Yes, sir,’ interrupted Jugga, smiling. The treatment he had received from the police had not made any difference to him. His equation with authority was simple: he was on the other side. Personalities did not come into it. Subinspectors and policemen were people in khaki who frequently arrested him, always abused him, and sometimes beat him. Since they abused and beat him without anger or hate, they were not human beings with names. They were only denominations one tried to get the better of. If one failed, it was just bad luck.

‘You are being released, but you must appear before Mr Hukum Chand, Deputy Commissioner, on the first of October 1947, at ten a.m. Put your thumb impression on this.’

The subinspector opened a flat tin box with a black gauze padding inside it. He caught Juggut Singh’s thumb in his hand, rubbed it on the damp pad and pressed it on the paper.

‘Have I permission to go?’ asked Jugga.

‘You can go with Babu Sahib in the tonga; otherwise you will not get home before dark.’ He looked up at Jugga and repeated slowly, ‘You will not find Mano Majra the same.’

Neither of the men showed any interest in the subinspector’s remark about Mano Majra. The subinspector spread out another piece of paper and read: ‘Mr Iqbal Singh, social worker.’

Iqbal looked at the paper cynically.

‘Not Mohammed Iqbal, member of the Muslim League? You seem to fabricate facts and documents as it pleases you.’

The subinspector grinned. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. To err is human, to forgive divine,’ he added in English. ‘I admit my mistake.’

‘That is very generous of you,’ answered Iqbal. ‘I had always believed that the Indian Police were infallible.’

‘You can make fun of me if you like; you do not realize that if you had been going about lecturing as you intended and had fallen into the hands of a Sikh mob, they would not have listened to your arguments. They would have stripped you to find out whether or not you were circumcised. That is the only test they have these days for a person who has not got long hair and a beard. Then they kill. You should be grateful to me.’

Iqbal was in no mood to talk. Besides, the subject was not one he wanted to discuss with anyone. He resented the way the subinspector took the liberty of mentioning it.

‘You will find big changes in Mano Majra!’ warned the subinspector for the third time; neither Jugga nor Iqbal showed any response. Iqbal laid down on the table the book he had been holding and turned away without a word of thanks or farewell. Jugga felt the floor with his feet for his shoes.

‘All Mussulmans have gone from Mano Majra,’ said the subinspector dramatically.

Jugga stopped shuffling his feet. ‘Where have they gone?’

‘Yesterday they were taken to the refugee camp. Tonight they will go by train to Pakistan.’

‘Was there any trouble in the village, Inspector Sahib? Why did they have to go?’

‘There would have been if they had not gone. There are lots of outsiders going about with guns killing Muslims; Malli and his men have joined them. If the Muslims had not left Mano Majra, Malli would have finished them off by now. He has taken all their things—cows, buffaloes, oxen, mares, chicken, utensils. Malli has done well.’

Jugga’s temper shot up at once. ‘That penis of a pig who sleeps with his mother, pimps for his sister and daughter, if he puts his foot in Mano Majra I will stick my bamboo pole up his behind!’

The subinspector pursed his lips in a taunting smile. ‘You talk big, Sardara. Just because you caught him unawares by his hair and beat him, you think you are a lion. Malli is not a woman with henna on his palms or bangles on his wrists. He has been in Mano Majra and taken all the things he wanted; he is still there. You will see him when you get back.’

‘He will run like a jackal when he hears my name.’

‘Men of his gang are with him. So are many others, all armed with guns and pistols. You had better behave sensibly if you hold your life dear.’

Jugga nodded his head. ‘Right, Inspector Sahib. We will meet again. Then ask me about Malli.’ His temper got the better of him. ‘If I do not spit in his bottom, my name is not Juggut Singh.’ He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘If I do not spit in Malli’s mouth, my name is not Juggut Singh.’ This time Juggut Singh spat on his own hand and rubbed it on his thigh. His temper rose to fever heat. ‘If it had not been for your policemen in their uniforms, I would like to meet the father of a son who could dare to bat an eyelid before Juggut Singh,’ he added, throwing out his chest.

‘All right, all right, Sardar Juggut Singh, we agree you are
a big brave man. At least you think so,’ smiled the subinspector. ‘You had better get home before dark. Take the Babu Sahib with you. Babu Sahib, you need have no fear. You have the district’s bravest man to look after you.’

Before Juggut Singh could reply to the subinspector’s sarcasm, a constable came in to announce that he had got a tonga.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Inspector Sahib. When Malli comes crying to lodge a report against me, then you will believe that Juggut Singh is not a man of hollow words.’

The subinspector laughed. ‘Sat Sri Akal, Juggut Singha. Sat Sri Akal, Iqbal Singhji.’

Iqbal walked away without turning back.

The tonga left Chundunnugger in the afternoon. It was a long, uneventful journey. This time Jugga sat on the front seat with the policeman and the driver, leaving the rear seat all to Iqbal. No one was in a mood to talk. Bhola, the driver, had been pressed into service by the police at a time when it was not safe to step out of the house. He took it out on his skinny brown horse, whipping and swearing continuously. The others were absorbed in their own thoughts.

The countryside also was still. There were large expanses of water which made it look flatter than usual. There were no men or women in the fields. Not even cattle grazing. The two villages they passed seemed deserted except for the dogs. Once or twice they caught a fleeting glimpse of someone stepping behind a wall or peering round a corner—and that someone carried a gun or a spear.

Iqbal realized that it was the company of Jugga and the constable, who were known Sikhs, that really saved him from being stopped and questioned. He wished he could get out of this place where he had to prove his Sikhism to save his life. He would pick up his things from Mano Majra and catch the
first train. Perhaps there were no trains. And if there were, could he risk getting onto one? He cursed his luck for having a name like Iqbal, and then for being a … Where on earth except in India would a man’s life depend on whether or not his foreskin had been removed? It would be laughable if it were not tragic. He would have to stay in Mano Majra for several days and stay close to Meet Singh for protection—Meet Singh with his unkempt appearance and two trips a day to the fields to defecate. The thought was revolting. If only he could get out to Delhi and to civilization! He would report on his arrest; the party paper would frontpage the news with his photograph: ANGLO-AMERICAN CAPITALIST CONSPIRACY TO CREATE CHAOS (lovely alliteration). COMRADE IQBAL IMPRISONED ON BORDER. It would all go to make him a hero.

Jugga’s immediate concern was the fate of Nooran. He did not look at his companions in the tonga or at the village. He had forgotten about Malli. At the back of his mind persisted a feeling that Nooran would be in Mano Majra. No one could have wanted Imam Baksh to go. Even if he had left with the other Muslims Nooran would be hiding somewhere in the fields, or would have come to his mother. He hoped his mother had not turned her out. If she had, he would let her have it. He would walk out and never come back. She would spend the rest of her days regretting having done it.

Jugga was lost in his thoughts, concerned and angry alternately, when the tonga slowed down to pass through the lane to the Sikh temple. He jumped off the moving vehicle and disappeared into the darkness without a word of farewell.

Iqbal stepped off the tonga and stretched his limbs. The driver and the constable had a whispered consultation.

‘Can I be of any more service to you, Babu Sahib?’ asked the policeman.

‘No. No, thank you. I am all right. It is very kind of you.’ Iqbal did not like the prospect of going into the gurdwara alone, but he could not bring himself to ask the others to come with him.

‘Babuji, we have a long way to go. My horse has been out all day without any food or water; and you know the times.’

‘Yes, you can go back. Thank you. Sat Sri Akal.’

‘Sat Sri Akal.’

The courtyard of the gurdwara was spotted with rings of light cast by hurricane lamps and fires on improvised hearths over which women were cooking the evening meal. Inside the main hall was a circle of people around Meet Singh, who was reciting the evening prayer. The room in which Iqbal had left his things was locked.

Iqbal took off his shoes, covered his head with a handkerchief and joined the gathering. Some people shifted to make room for him. Iqbal noticed people looking at him and whispering to each other. Most of them were old men dressed like town folk. It was quite obvious that they were refugees.

When the prayer was over, Meet Singh wrapped the massive volume in velvet and laid it to rest on the cot on which it had been lying open. He spoke to Iqbal before anyone else could start asking questions.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Iqbal Singhji. I am glad you are back. You must be hungry.’

Iqbal realized that Meet Singh had deliberately mentioned his surname. He could feel the tension relax. Some of the men turned around and said ‘Sat Sri Akal.’

‘Sat Sri Akal,’ answered Iqbal and got up to join Meet Singh.

‘Sardar Iqbal Singh,’ said Meet Singh, introducing him to the others, ‘is a social worker. He has been in England for many years.’

A host of admiring eyes were turned on Iqbal, ‘the England
returned’. The ‘Sat Sri Akals’ were repeated. Iqbal felt embarrassed.

‘You are Sikh, Iqbal Singhji?’ inquired one of the men.

‘Yes.’ A fortnight earlier he would have replied emphatically ‘No’, or ‘I have no religion’ or ‘Religion is irrelevant.’ The situation was different now, and in any case it was true that he was born a Sikh.

‘Was it in England you cut your hair?’ asked the same person.

‘No, sir,’ answered Iqbal, completely confused. ‘I never grew my hair long. I am just a Sikh without long hair and beard.’

‘Your parents must have been unorthodox,’ said Meet Singh coming to his aid. The statement allayed suspicion but left Iqbal with an uneasy conscience.

Meet Singh fumbled with the cord of his shorts and pulled up a bunch of keys dangling at the end. He picked up the hurricane lantern from the stool beside the scriptures and led the way through the courtyard to the room.

‘I kept your things locked in the room. You can take them. I will get you some food.’

‘No, Bhaiji, do not bother, I have enough with me. Tell me, what has happened in the village since I left? Who are all these people?’

The bhai unlocked the door and lit an oil lamp in the niche. Iqbal opened his kit bag and emptied its contents on a charpai. There were several copper-gold tins of fish paste, butter and cheese; aluminum forks, knives and spoons, and celluloid cups and saucers.

‘Bhaiji, what has been happening?’ Iqbal asked again.

‘What has been happening? Ask me what has not been happening. Trainloads of dead people came to Mano Majra. We burned one lot and buried another. The river was flooded with corpses. Muslims were evacuated, and in their place, refugees have come from Pakistan. What more do you want to know?’

Iqbal wiped a celluloid plate and tumbler with his handkerchief. He fished out his silver hip flask and shook it. It was full.

‘What have you in that silver bottle?’

‘Oh this? Medicine,’ faltered Iqbal. ‘It gives me an appetite for food,’ he added with a smile.

‘And then you take pills to digest it?’

Iqbal laughed. ‘Yes, and more to make the bowels work. Tell me, was there any killing in the village?’

‘No,’ said the bhai casually. He was more interested in watching Iqbal inflating the air mattress. ‘But there will be. Is it nice sleeping on this? Does everyone in England sleep on these?’

‘What do you mean—there will be killing?’ asked Iqbal, plugging the end of the mattress. ‘All Muslims have left, haven’t they?’

‘Yes, but they are going to attack the train near the bridge tonight. It is taking Muslims of Chundunnugger and Mano Majra to Pakistan. Your pillow is also full of air.’

‘Yes. Who are they? Not the villagers?’

‘I do not know all of them. Some people in uniforms came in military cars. They had pistols and guns. The refugees have joined them. So have Malli badmash and his gang—and some villagers. Wouldn’t this burst if a heavy person slept on it?’ asked Meet Singh, tapping the mattress.