Page 36 - Train to Pakistan
P. 36

well with a high parapet. Beside the well stood a four-foot brick column
               supporting the long flag-mast with the yellow cloth covering it like a stocking.
                  The young man did not see anyone about. He could hear the sound of wet
               clothes being beaten on a slab of stone. He walked timidly to the other side of

               the well. An old Sikh got up with water dripping from his beard and white
               shorts.

                  ‘Sat Sri Akal.’
                  ‘Sat Sri Akal.’
                  ‘Can I stay for two or three days?’
                  ‘This is a gurdwara, the Guru’s house—anyone may stay here. But you must

               have your head covered and you must not bring in any cigarettes or tobacco, nor
               smoke.’

                  ‘I do not smoke,’ said the young man putting the holdall on the ground and
               spreading his handkerchief on his head.
                  ‘No, Babu Sahib, only when you go in near the Book, the Granth Sahib, you

               take your shoes off and cover your head. Put your luggage in that room and
               make yourself comfortable. Will you have something to eat?’
                  ‘That is very kind of you. But I have brought my own food.’

                  The old man showed the visitor to the spare room and then went back to the
               well. The young man went into the room. Its only furniture was a charpai lying
               in the middle. There was a large coloured calendar on one wall. It had a picture

               of the Guru on horseback with a hawk on one hand. Alongside the calendar were
               nails to hang clothes.
                  The visitor emptied his holdall. He took out his air mattress and blew it up on

               the charpai. He laid out pyjamas and a silk dressing gown on the mattress. He
               got out a tin of sardines, a tin of Australian butter and a packet of dry biscuits.
               He shook his water bottle. It was empty.

                  The old Sikh came to him, combing his long beard with his fingers.
                  ‘What is your name?’ he asked, sitting down on the threshold.
                  ‘Iqbal. What is yours?’

                  ‘Iqbal Singh?’ queried the old man. Without waiting for an answer, he
               continued. ‘I am the bhai of the temple. Bhai Meet Singh. What is your business
               in Mano Majra, Iqbal Singhji?’

                  The young man was relieved that the other had not gone on with his first
               question. He did not have to say what Iqbal he was. He could be a Muslim, Iqbal
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