Page 29 - Train to Pakistan

a large gulp and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. He twirled the

pointed ends nervously. The girl opened her bundle and tied the ankle-bells
round her ankles. The harmonium player played a single note. His companion
beat the drums all round the edges with a tiny mallet and tightened and loosened

the leather thongs by hammering the ring of wooden blocks wedged between
them. He beat the taut white skin with his fingers till the drums were in key with
the harmonium. The accompaniment was ready.

The young girl spat out the betel saliva and cleared her throat with a series of
deep chesty coughs that brought up phlegm. The old woman spoke:

‘Cherisher of the poor. What does your honour fancy? Something classical—
pukka—or a love song?’
‘No, nothing pukka. Something from the films. Some good film song—
preferably Punjabi.’

The young girl salaamed. ‘As you order.’
The musicians put their heads together and after a brief consultation with the

girl they began to play. The drums beat a preliminary tattoo and then softened
down for the harmonium to join in. The two played for some time while the girl
sat silently, looking bored and indifferent. When they finished the introductory
piece, she blew her nose and cleared her throat again. She put her left hand on

her ear and stretched the other towards the magistrate, addressing him in a shrill
falsetto:

O lover mine, O lover that art gone,

I live but would rather die,
I see not for the tears that flow,

I breathe not, for I sigh.
As a moth that loves the flame,
By that flame is done to death,
Within myself have I lit a fire

That now robs me of my breath.
The nights I spend in counting stars,

The days in dreams of days to be
When homewards thou thy reins shall turn
Thy moon-fair face I again shall see.

The girl paused. The musicians started to play again for her to sing the refrain: