Train To Pakistan by Singh Khushwant

Author:Singh, Khushwant [Singh, Khushwant]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 9789351183525
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2009-02-09T18:30:00+00:00

Do you know this?’

‘No. Didn’t he teach you the alphabet?’

‘The A.B.C.? He did not know it himself. He knew as much as I do:

A. B. C. where have you been?

Edward’s dead, I went to mourn.

You must know this one?’

‘No, I don’t know this either.’

‘Well, you tell me something in English.’

Iqbal obliged. He taught Jugga how to say ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’. When Jugga wanted to know the English for some of the vital functions of life, Iqbal became impatient. Then the five new prisoners were brought into the neighbouring cell. Jugga’s jovial mood vanished as fast as it had come.

By eleven o’clock the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. The day became brighter. The subinspector looked up from his cycling. Some distance ahead of him, the clouds opened up, unfolding a rich blue sky. A shaft of sunlight slanted across the rain. Its saffron beams played about on the sodden fields. The rainbows spanned the sky, framing the town of Chundunnugger in a multicoloured arc.

The subinspector drove faster. He wanted to get to the police station before his head constable made an entry about Malli’s arrest. It would be awkward to have to tear off pages from the station diary and then face a whole lot of questions from some impertinent lawyer. The head constable was a man of experience, but after the arrests of Jugga and Iqbal the subinspector’s confidence in him had been somewhat shaken. He could not be relied on to handle a situation which was not routine. Would he know where to lock up the prisoners? He was a peasant, full of awe of the educated middle class. He would not have the nerve to disturb Iqbal (in whose cell he had put a charpai and a chair and table). And if he had put Jugga and Malli together in the other cell, they would by now have discussed the murder and dacoity and decided to help each other.

As the subinspector cycled into the police station, a couple of policemen sitting on a bench on the veranda got up to receive him. One took his cycle; the other helped him with his raincoat, murmuring something about having to go out in the rain.

‘Duty,’ said the subinspector pompously, ‘duty. Rain is nothing. Even if there was an earthquake, duty first! Is the head constable back?’

‘Yes, sir. He brought in Malli’s gang a few minutes ago and has gone to his quarters to have tea.’

‘Has he made any entry in the daily diary?’

‘No, sir, he said he would wait for you to do that.’

The subinspector was relieved. He went into the reporting room, hung his turban on a peg and sat down in a chair. The table was stacked with registers of all kinds. One large one with its yellow pages all divided into columns lay open before him. He glanced at the last entry. It was in his own hand, about his leaving Mano Majra rest house earlier that morning.

‘Good,’ he said aloud, rubbing his hands. He slapped his thighs and ran both his hands across his forehead and through his hair.

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