Page 129 - Train to Pakistan

want?’

Before the men could answer two of their companions joined them. All were
Sikhs. They wore khaki uniforms and had rifles slung on their shoulders.
‘This village looks quite dead,’ repeated one of the strangers, loudly

addressing his own companions.
‘The Guru has been merciful to this village. No one has died here,’ answered
Meet Singh with quiet dignity.

‘Well, if the village is not dead, then it should be. It should be drowned in a
palmful of water. It consists of eunuchs,’ said the visitor fiercely with a flourish
of his hand.

The strangers took off their shoes and came inside the large hall. The
lambardar and Meet Singh followed them. Men sat up and tied their turbans.
Women put their children in their laps and tried to rock them to sleep again.

One of the group, who appeared to be the leader, motioned the others to sit
down. Everyone sat down. The leader had an aggressive bossy manner. He was a
boy in his teens with a little beard which was glued to his chin with brilliantine.

He was small in size, slight of build and altogether somewhat effeminate; a
glossy red ribbon showed under the acute angle of his bright blue turban. His
khaki army shirt hung loosely from his round drooping shoulders. He wore a

black leather Sam Browne: the strap across his narrow chest charged with bullets
and the broad belt clamped about his still narrower waist. On one side it had a
holster with the butt of a revolver protruding; on the other side there was a

dagger. He looked as if his mother had dressed him up as an American cowboy.
The boy caressed the holster of his revolver and ran his fingers over the silver
noses of the bullets. He looked around him with complete confidence.

‘Is this a Sikh village?’ he asked insolently. It was obvious to the villagers that
he was an educated city-dweller. Such men always assumed a superior air when

talking to peasants. They had no regard for age or status.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the lambardar. ‘It has always been a Sikh village. We had
Muslim tenants but they have gone.’
‘What sort of Sikhs are you?’ asked the boy, glowering menacingly. He

elaborated his question: ‘Potent or impotent?’
No one knew what to say. No one protested that this was not the sort of

language one used in a gurdwara with women and children sitting by.
‘Do you know how many trainloads of dead Sikhs and Hindus have come
over? Do you know of the massacres in Rawalpindi and Multan, Gujranwala and