Train to Pakistan (10 page)

‘You must have many prisoners in the police station these days,’ he stated.

‘No, not one,’ answered one of the constables. ‘We do not arrest rioters. We only disperse them. And there is no time to deal with other crimes. Yours are the first arrests we have made in the last seven days. Both cells are vacant. You can have one all to yourself.’

‘Babuji will like that,’ Jugga said. ‘Won’t you, Babuji?’

Iqbal did not answer. Jugga felt slightly snubbed, and tried to change the subject quickly.

‘You must have a lot of work to do with this Hindustan-Pakistan business going on,’ he remarked to the constable.

‘Yes. There is all this killing and the police force has been reduced to less than half.’

‘Why, have they joined up with Pakistan?’

‘We do not know whether they have joined up on the other side—they kept protesting that they did not want to go at all. On the day of Independence, the Superintendent sahib disarmed all Muslim policemen and they fled. Their intentions were evil. Muslims are like that. You can never trust them.’

‘Yes,’ added another policeman, ‘it was the Muslim police taking sides which made the difference in the riots. Hindu boys of Lahore would have given the Muslims hell if it had not been for their police. They did a lot of
zulum
.’

‘Their army is like that, too. Baluch soldiers have been shooting people whenever they were sure there was no chance of running into Sikh or Gurkha troops.’

‘They cannot escape from God. No one can escape from God,’ said Juggut Singh vehemently. Everyone looked a little surprised. Even Iqbal tuned round to make sure that the voice was Juggut Singh’s.

‘Isn’t that right, Babuji? You are a clever man, you tell me, can one escape the wrath of God?’

Iqbal said nothing.

‘No, of course not,’ Jugga answered himself. ‘I tell you something which Bhai Meet Singh told me. It is worth listening to, Babuji. It is absolutely sixteen annas’ worth in the rupee.’

Every rupee is worth sixteen annas, thought Iqbal. He refused to take interest. Jugga went on.

‘The Bhai told me of a truckful of Baluch soldiers who were going from Amritsar to Lahore. When they were getting near the Pakistan border, the soldiers began to stick bayonets into Sikhs going along the road. The driver would slow down near a cyclist or a pedestrian, the soldiers on the footboard would stab him in the back and then the driver would accelerate away fast. They killed many people like this and were feeling happier and happier as they got nearer Pakistan. They were within a mile
of the border and were travelling at great speed. What do you think happened then?’

‘What?’ asked an obliging policeman. They all listened intently—all except Iqbal. Even the driver stopped flogging the horse and looked back.

‘Listen, Babuji, this is worth listening to. A pariah dog ran across the road. The very same driver of the truck who had been responsible for killing so many people swerved sharply to the right to avoid the dog, a mangy pariah dog. He crashed into a tree. The driver and two of the soldiers were killed. All the others seriously wounded. What do you say to that?’

Policemen murmured approval. Iqbal felt irritated.

‘Who caused the crash, the dog or God?’ he asked cynically.

‘God, of course,’ answered one of the policemen. ‘Why should one who enjoyed killing human beings be bothered by a stray dog getting under his wheels?’

‘You tell me,’ said Iqbal coldly. He squashed everyone except Jugga, who was irrepressible. Jugga turned to the tonga driver. The man had started whipping his horse again.

‘Bhola, have you no fear of God that you beat your animal so mercilessly?’

Bhola stopped beating the horse. The expression on his face was resentful: it was his horse and he could do what he liked to it.

‘Bholeya, how is business these days?’ asked Jugga, trying to make up.

‘God is merciful,’ answered the driver pointing to the sky with his whip, then added quickly, ‘Inspector sahib is also merciful. We are alive and manage to fill our bellies.’

‘Don’t you make money off these refugees who are wanting to go to Pakistan?’

‘And lose my life for money?’ asked Bhola angrily. ‘No, thank you, brother, you keep your advice to yourself. When the mobs
attack they do not wait to find out who you are, Hindu or Muslim; they kill. The other day four Sikh Sardars in a jeep drove alongside a mile-long column of Muslim refugees walking on the road. Without warning they opened fire with their sten guns. Four sten guns! God alone knows how many they killed. What would happen if a mob got hold of my tonga full of Muslims? They would kill me first and ask afterwards.’

‘Why didn’t a dog get under the jeep and upset it?’ asked Iqbal sarcastically.

There was an awkward pause. No one knew what to say to this sour-tempered babu. Jugga asked naively: ‘Babuji, don’t you believe that bad acts yield a bitter harvest? It is the law of karma. So the bhai is always saying. The Guru has also said the same in the Book.’

‘Yes, absolutely, sixteen annas in the rupee,’ sneered Iqbal.

‘Achhaji, have it your own way,’ said Jugga, still smiling. ‘You will never agree with ordinary people.’ He turned to the driver again.

‘Bholeya, I hear a lot of women are being abducted and sold cheap. You could find a wife for yourself.’

‘Why, Sardara, if you can find a Mussulmanni without paying for her, am I impotent that I should have to buy an abducted woman?’ replied Bhola.

Jugga was taken aback. His temper began to rise. The policemen, who had started to snigger, looked nervously at Juggut Singh. Bhola regretted his mistake.

‘Why, Juggia,’ he said, changing his tone. ‘You make fun of others, but get angry when someone retorts.’

‘If these handcuffs and fetters had not been on me, I would have broken every bone in your body,’ said Jugga fiercely. ‘You are lucky to have escaped today, but if I hear you repeat this thing again I will tear your tongue out of your mouth.’ Jugga spat loudly.

Bhola was thoroughly frightened. ‘Do not lose your temper. What have I…’

‘Bastard.’

That was the end of the conversations. The uneasy silence in the tonga was broken only by Bhola swearing at his horse. Jugga was lost in angry thoughts. He was surprised that his clandestine meetings were public knowledge. Somebody had probably seen him and Nooran talking to each other. That must have started the gossip. If a tonga driver from Chundunnugger knew, everyone in Mano Majra would have been talking about if for some time. The last to learn of gossip are the parties concerned. Perhaps Imam Baksh and his daughter Nooran were the only ones in the village who knew nothing of what was being said.

The party reached Chundunnugger after noon. The tonga came to a halt outside the police station, which was a couple of furlongs distant from the town. The prisoners were escorted through an arched gateway which had WELCOME painted on it in large letters. They were first taken to the reporting room. The head constable opened a large register and made the entries of the day’s events on separate pages. Just above the table was an old framed picture of King George VI with a placard stating in Urdu, BRIBERY IS A CRIME. On another wall was pasted a coloured portrait of Gandhi torn from a calendar. Beneath it was a motto written in English, HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY. Other portraits in the room were those of absconders, bad characters, and missing persons.

After the daily diary entries had been made, the prisoners were taken across the courtyard to their cells. There were only two cells in the police station. These were on one side of the courtyard facing the policemen’s barracks. The wall of the farther end of the square was covered by a railway creeper.

Jugga’s arrival was the subject of much hilarity.

‘Oye, you are back again. You think it is your father-in-law’s
house,’ shouted one of the constables from his barrack.

‘It is, seeing the number of policemen’s daughters I have seduced,’ answered Juggut Singh at the top of his voice. He had forgotten the unpleasantness in the tonga.

‘Oye, Badmasha, you will not desist from your badmashi. Wait till the Inspector Sahib hears of what you said and he will put hot chillies up your bottom.’

‘You cannot do that to your son-in-law!’

With Iqbal it was different. His handcuffs were removed with apologies. A chair, a table, and a charpai were put in his cell. The head constable collected all the daily newspapers and magazines, English and Urdu, that he could find and left them in the cell. Iqbal’s food was served on a brass plate and a small pitcher and a glass tumbler were put on the table beside his charpai. Jugga was given no furniture in his cell. His food was literally flung at him and he ate his chapattis out of his hand. A constable poured water onto his cupped palm through the iron bars. Jugga’s bed was the hard cement floor.

The difference in treatment did not surprise Iqbal. In a country which had accepted caste distinctions for many centuries, inequality had become an inborn mental concept. If caste was abolished by legislation, it came up in other forms of class distinction. In thoroughly westernized circles like that of the civil servants in the government secretariat in Delhi, places for parking cars were marked according to seniority, and certain entrances to offices were reserved for higher officials. Lavatories were graded according to rank and labelled SENIOR OFFICERS, JUNIOR OFFICERS, CLERKS AND STENOGRAPHERS and OTHER RANKS. With a mental make-up so thoroughly sectionalized, grading according to their social status people who were charged or convicted of the same offence did not appear incongruous. Iqbal was A-class. Jugga was the rock-bottom C.

After his midday meal, Iqbal lay down on the charpai. He
heard snoring from Jugga’s cell. But he himself was far too disturbed to sleep. His mind was like the delicate spring of a watch, which quivers for several hours after it has been touched. He sat up and began to turn over the pile of newspapers the head constable had left him. They were all alike: the same news, the same statements, the same editorials. Except for the wording of the headlines, they might all have been written by the same hand. Even the photographs were the same. In disgust, he turned to the matrimonial ads. There was sometimes entertainment there. But the youth of the Punjab were as alike as the news. The qualities they required in a wife were identical. All wanted virgins. A few, more broad-minded than the rest, were willing to consider widows, but only if they had not been deflowered. All demanded women who were good at h. h. a., or household affairs. To the advanced and charitable, c. & d. [caste and dowry] were no bar. Not many asked for photographs of their prospective wives. Beauty, they recognized, was only skin-deep. Most wanted to ‘correspond with horoscopes’. Astronomical harmony was the one guarantee of happiness. Iqbal threw the papers away, and rummaged through the magazines. If anything, they were worse than the newspapers. There was the inevitable article on the Ajanta cave frescoes. There was the article on Indian ballet. There was the article on Tagore. There was the article on the stories of Prem Chand. There were the articles on the private lives of film stars. Iqbal gave up, and lay down again. He felt depressed about everything. It occurred to him that he had hardly slept for three days. He wondered if this would be considered a ‘sacrifice’. It was possible. He must find some way of sending word to the party. Then, perhaps … He fell asleep with visions of banner headlines announcing his arrest, his release, his triumphant emergence as a leader.
In the evening a policeman came to Iqbal’s cell, carrying another chair.

‘Is somebody going to share my cell?’ asked Iqbal a little apprehensively.

‘No, Babuji. Only the Inspector Sahib. He wishes to have a word with you. He is coming now.’

Iqbal did not answer. The policeman studied the position of the chair for a moment. Then he withdrew. There was a sound of voices in the corridor, and the subinspector appeared.

‘Have I your permission to enter?’

Iqbal nodded. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector Sahib?’

‘We are your slaves, Mr Iqbal. You should command us and we will serve you,’ the subinspector answered with a smile. He was proud of his ability to change his tone and manner as the circumstances required. That was diplomacy.

‘I did not know you were so kind to people you arrested for murder. It is on a charge of murder that you have brought me here, isn’t it? I do not suppose your policemen told you I came to Mano Majra yesterday on the same train as they did.’

‘We have framed no charge. That is for the court. We are only detaining you on suspicion. We cannot allow political agitators in the border areas.’ The subinspector continued to smile. ‘Why don’t you go and do your propaganda in Pakistan where you belong?’

Iqbal was stung to fury, but he tried to suppress any sign of his anger.

‘What exactly do you mean by “belonging to Pakistan”, Inspector Sahib?’

‘You are a Muslim. You go to Pakistan.’

‘That is a bloody lie,’ exploded Iqbal. ‘What is more, you know it is a bloody lie. You just want to cover up your stupidity by trumping up a false case.’

The Inspector spoke back sourly.

‘You should use your tongue with some discrimination, Mr Iqbal. I am not in your father’s pay to have to put up with your “bloodys”. Your name is Iqbal and you are circumcised. I have examined you myself. Also, you cannot give any explanation for your presence in Mano Majra. That is enough.’

‘It will not be enough when it comes up in court, and in the newspapers. I am not a Muslim—not that that matters—and what I came to Mano Majra for is none of your business. If you do not release me within twenty-four hours I will move a habeas corpus petition and tell the court the way you go about your duties.’

‘Habeas corpus petition?’ The subinspector roared with laughter. ‘It seems you have been living in foreign lands too long, Mr Iqbal. Even now you live in a fool’s paradise. You will live and learn.’

The subinspector left the cell abruptly, and locked the steel bar gate. He opened the adjoining one behind which Jugga was locked.

‘Sat Sri Akal, Inspector Sahib.’