Page 11 - Train to Pakistan

stands facing west towards Mecca and with his fingers in his ears cries in long
sonorous notes, ‘Allah-o-Akbar’. The priest at the Sikh temple lies in bed till the
mullah has called. Then he too gets up, draws a bucket of water from the well in
the temple courtyard, pours it over himself, and intones his prayer in

monotonous singsong to the sound of splashing water.
By the time the 10:30 morning passenger train from Delhi comes in, life in

Mano Majra has settled down to its dull daily routine. Men are in the fields.
Women are busy with their daily chores. Children are out grazing cattle by the
river. Persian wheels squeak and groan as bullocks go round and round, prodded
on by curses and the jabs of goads in their hindquarters. Sparrows fly about the

roofs, trailing straw in their beaks. Pyedogs seek the shade of the long mud
walls. Bats settle their arguments, fold their wings, and suspend themselves in

sleep.
As the midday express goes by, Mano Majra stops to rest. Men and children
come home for dinner and the siesta hour. When they have eaten, the men gather

in the shade of the peepul tree and sit on the wooden platforms and talk and
doze. Boys ride their buffaloes into the pond, jump off their backs, and splash
about in the muddy water. Girls play under the trees. Women rub clarified butter

into each other’s hair, pick lice from their children’s heads, and discuss births,
marriages and deaths.
When the evening passenger from Lahore comes in, everyone gets to work

again. The cattle are rounded up and driven back home to be milked and locked
in for the night. The women cook the evening meal. Then the families foregather
on their rooftops where most of them sleep during the summer. Sitting on their

charpais, they eat their supper of vegetables and chapattis and sip hot creamy
milk out of large copper tumblers and idle away the time until the signal for
sleep. When the goods train steams in, they say to each other, ‘There is the

goods train.’ It is like saying goodnight. The mullah again calls the faithful to
prayer by shouting at the top of his voice, ‘God is great.’ The faithful nod their
amens from their rooftops. The Sikh priest murmurs the evening prayer to a

semicircle of drowsy old men and women. Crows caw softly from the keekar
trees. Little bats go flitting about in the dusk and large ones soar with slow
graceful sweeps. The goods train takes a long time at the station, with the engine

running up and down the sidings exchanging wagons. By the time it leaves, the