Page 114 - Train to Pakistan

hands and stared at the wall. She did not know what to do. She could spend the

night out and come back when all the others had gone. But she could not do it
alone; and it was raining. Her only chance was Jugga. Malli had been released,
maybe Jugga had also come home. She knew that was not true, but the hope

persisted and it gave her something to do.
Nooran went out in the rain. She passed many people in the lanes, going about
with gunny bags covering their heads and shoulders. The whole village was

awake. In most houses she could see the dim flickers of oil lamps. Some were
packing; others were helping them to pack. Most just talked with their friends.

The women sat on the floors hugging each other and crying. It was as if in every
home there had been a death.
Nooran shook the door of Jugga’s house. The chain on the other side rattled
but there was no response. In the grey light she noticed the door was bolted from

the outside. She undid the iron ring and went in. Jugga’s mother was out,
probably visiting some Muslim friends. There was no light at all. Nooran sat

down on a charpai. She did not want to face Jugga’s mother alone nor did she
want to go back home. She hoped something would happen—something which
would make Jugga walk in. She sat and waited and hoped.
For an hour Nooran watched the grey shadows of clouds chasing each other. It

drizzled and poured and poured and drizzled alternately. She heard the sound of
footsteps cautiously picking their way through the muddy lane. They stopped

outside the door. Someone shook the door.
‘Who is it?’ asked an old woman’s voice.
Nooran lost her nerve; she did not move.
‘Who is it?’ demanded the voice angrily. ‘Why don’t you speak?’

Nooran stood up and mumbled indistinctly, ‘Beybey.’
The old woman stepped in and quickly shut the door behind her.

‘Jugga! Jugga, is it you?’ she whispered. ‘Have they let you off?’
‘No, Beybey, it is I—Nooran. Chacha Imam Baksh’s daughter,’ answered the
girl timidly.

‘Nooro? What brings you here at this hour?’ the old woman asked angrily.
‘Has Jugga come back?’
‘What have you to do with Jugga?’ his mother snapped. ‘You have sent him to

jail. You have made him a badmash. Does your father know you go about to
strangers’ houses at midnight like a tart?’
Nooran began to cry. ‘We are going away tomorrow.’