Page 147 - Train to Pakistan

Iqbal felt concerned. ‘Bhaiji, when people go about with guns and spears you
can only talk back with guns and spears. If you cannot do that, then it is best to

keep out of their way.’
‘That is exactly what I say. I thought you with your European ideas had some

other remedy. Let me get you some hot spinach. I have just cooked it,’ added
Meet Singh getting up.
‘No, no, Bhaiji, I have all I want in my tins. If I want something I will ask you

for it. I have a little work to do before I eat.’
Meet Singh put the hurricane lantern on a stool by the bed and went back to
the hall.

Iqbal put his plates, knife, fork, and tins back into the haversack. He felt a little

feverish, the sort of feverishness one feels when one is about to make a
declaration of love. It was time for a declaration of something. Only he was not
sure what it should be.

Should he go out, face the mob and tell them in clear ringing tones that this
was wrong—immoral? Walk right up to them with his eyes fixing the armed

crowd in a frame—without flinching, without turning, like the heroes on the
screen who become bigger and bigger as they walk right into the camera. Then
with dignity fall under a volley of blows, or preferably a volley of rifleshots. A
cold thrill went down Iqbal’s spine.

There would be no one to see this supreme act of sacrifice. They would kill
him just as they would kill the others. He was not neutral in their eyes. They

would just strip him and see. Circumcised, therefore Muslim. It would be an
utter waste of life! And what would it gain? A few subhuman species were going
to slaughter some of their own kind—a mild setback to the annual increase of
four million. It was not as if you were going to save good people from bad. If the

others had the chance, they would do as much. In fact they were doing so, just a
little beyond the river. It was pointless. In a state of chaos self-preservation is the

supreme duty.
Iqbal unscrewed the top of his hip flask and poured out a large whisky in a
celluloid tumbler. He gulped it down neat.
When bullets fly about, what is the point of sticking out your head and getting

shot? The bullet is neutral. It hits the good and the bad, the important and the
insignificant, without distinction. If there were people to see the act of self-