Page 21 - Train to Pakistan

antimony in her eyes. Nooran walked away into the darkness, swearing she
would never come again.
Juggut Singh went up the lane to his house. The door was open. Several
villagers were in the courtyard talking to his mother. He turned around quietly

and made his way back to the river.

In bureaucratic circles Mano Majra has some importance because of an officers’
rest house just north of the railway bridge. It is a flat-roofed bungalow made of

khaki bricks with a veranda in front facing the river. It stands in the middle of a
squarish plot enclosed by a low wall. From the gate to the veranda runs a road
with a row of bricks to deckle edge each side and mark it off from the garden.

The garden is a pancake of plastered mud without a blade of grass to break its
flat, even surface, but a few scraggy bushes of jasmine grow beside the columns
of the veranda and near the row of servants’ quarters at the rear of the house.

The rest house was originally built for the engineer in charge of the construction
of the bridge. After the completion of the bridge, it became the common
property of all senior officers. Its popularity is due to its proximity to the river.

All about it are wild wastes of pampas grass and dhak, or flame of the forest, and
here partridges call to their mates from sunrise to sundown. When the river has
receded to its winter channel, bulrushes grow in the marshes and ponds left

behind. Geese, mallard, widgeon, teal and many other kinds of waterfowl
frequent these places, and the larger pools abound with rahu and malli and
mahseer.

Throughout the winter months, officers arrange tours that involve a short halt
at the Mano Majra rest house. They go for waterfowl at sunrise, for partridges

during the day, fish in the afternoons, and once more for ducks when they come
back in their evening flight. In spring the romantic come to ruminate—to sip
their whisky and see the bright orange of the dhak shame the rich red hues of the
sun setting over the river; to hear the soothing snore of frogs in the marshes and

the rumble of trains that go by; to watch fireflies flitting among the reeds as the
moon comes up from under the arches of the bridge. During the early months of

summer, only those who are looking for solitude come to the Mano Majra rest
house. But once the monsoon breaks, the visitors multiply, for the swollen
waters of the Sutlej are a grand and terrifying sight.
On the morning before the dacoity in Mano Majra, the rest house had been

done up to receive an important guest. The sweeper had washed the bathrooms,