Page 100 - Train to Pakistan

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