Page 145 - Train to Pakistan

‘Was it in England you cut your hair?’ asked the same person.
‘No, sir,’ answered Iqbal, completely confused. ‘I never grew my hair long. I
am just a Sikh without long hair and beard.’

‘Your parents must have been unorthodox,’ said Meet Singh coming to his
aid. The statement allayed suspicion but left Iqbal with an uneasy conscience.
Meet Singh fumbled with the cord of his shorts and pulled up a bunch of keys

dangling at the end. He picked up the hurricane lantern from the stool beside the
scriptures and led the way through the courtyard to the room.

‘I kept your things locked in the room. You can take them. I will get you some
food.’
‘No, Bhaiji, do not bother, I have enough with me. Tell me, what has
happened in the village since I left? Who are all these people?’

The bhai unlocked the door and lit an oil lamp in the niche. Iqbal opened his
kit bag and emptied its contents on a charpai. There were several copper-gold

tins of fish paste, butter and cheese; aluminum forks, knives and spoons, and
celluloid cups and saucers.
‘Bhaiji, what has been happening?’ Iqbal asked again.
‘What has been happening? Ask me what has not been happening. Trainloads

of dead people came to Mano Majra. We burned one lot and buried another. The
river was flooded with corpses. Muslims were evacuated, and in their place,

refugees have come from Pakistan. What more do you want to know?’
Iqbal wiped a celluloid plate and tumbler with his handkerchief. He fished out
his silver hip flask and shook it. It was full.

‘What have you in that silver bottle?’
‘Oh this? Medicine,’ faltered Iqbal. ‘It gives me an appetite for food,’ he
added with a smile.

‘And then you take pills to digest it?’
Iqbal laughed. ‘Yes, and more to make the bowels work. Tell me, was there
any killing in the village?’

‘No,’ said the bhai casually. He was more interested in watching Iqbal
inflating the air mattress. ‘But there will be. Is it nice sleeping on this? Does
everyone in England sleep on these?’

‘What do you mean—there will be killing?’ asked Iqbal, plugging the end of
the mattress. ‘All Muslims have left, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, but they are going to attack the train near the bridge tonight. It is taking