Page 28 - Train to Pakistan

beside the chair.
Hukum Chand shaved and bathed with great care. After bathing he rubbed
skin-lotion on his face and arms and dusted himself with perfumed talcum
powder. He dabbed his fingers with eau de cologne. Brilliantine made his hair

smooth and soggy and showed the white at the roots of it. He had not dyed it for
a fortnight. He waxed his thick moustache and twirled it till the ends stiffly

pointed to his eyes; the roots of his moustache also showed purple and white. He
put on his thin muslin shirt through which his aertex vest showed clearly. The
trousers fell in ordered starchy folds. He dabbed his clothes with a swab of
cotton dipped in scent of musk rose. When he was ready he looked up at the

ceiling. The geckos were there staring at him with their bright, black, pin-point
eyes.

The American car drove back into the driveway. Hukum Chand went up to the
wire-gauze door still waxing his moustache. Two men and two women stepped
out. One of the men carried a harmonium and the other a pair of drums. One of

the women was old, with white hair dyed a rich henna-orange. The other was a
young girl whose mouth was bloated with betel leaf and who wore a diamond
glistening on one side of her flat nose. She carried a small bundle which jingled

as she stepped out of the car. The party went and squatted on the carpet.
Hukum Chand carefully examined himself in the mirror. He noticed the white
at the roots of his hair and smoothed it back again. He lit a cigarette and in his

customary manner carried the tin of cigarettes with a matchbox on it. He half
opened the wire-gauze door and shouted for his bearer to bring the whisky,
which he knew had already been put on the table. It was to warn the people

outside of his coming. As he came out he let the door slam noisily. With slow
deliberate steps punctuated by the creaking of his glossy pumps he walked up to
the cane chair.

The party stood up to greet the magistrate. The two musicians salaamed,
bowing their heads low. The old toothless woman broke into a sonorous
singsong of praise: ‘May your fame and honour increase. May your pen write

figures of thousands and hundreds of thousands.’ The young girl just stared at
him with her large eyes lined with antimony and lampblack. The magistrate
made a gesture with his hand ordering them to sit down. The old woman’s voice

came down to a whimper. All four sat down on the carpet.
The bearer poured out the whisky and soda for his master. Hukum Chand took
a large gulp and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. He twirled the