Page 55 - Train to Pakistan

again. She broke into the cordon of policemen and threw herself on her son.
‘Don’t hit him. The Guru’s curse be on you. He is innocent. It is all my fault.

You can beat me.’
The beating stopped. The head constable picked pieces of glass out of his
palm, pressed out blood, and wiped it with his handkerchief.

‘You keep the evidence of your son’s innocence,’ he said bitterly. ‘We will
get the story out of this son of a bitch of yours in our own way. When he gets a
few lashes on his buttocks, he will talk. Take him out.’

Juggut Singh was led out of the house in handcuffs and fetters. He left without
showing a trace of emotion for his mother, who continued to wail and beat her
forehead and breasts. His parting words were:

‘I will be back soon. They cannot give me more than a few months for having
a spear and going out of the village. Sat Sri Akal.’
Jugga recovered his temper as quickly as he had lost it. He forgot the incident

of the bangles and the beating as soon as he stepped across his threshold. He had
no malice or ill will towards the policemen: they were not human like other
human beings. They had no affections, no loyalties or enmities. They were just

men in uniform you tried to avoid.
There was not much point in Juggut Singh covering his face. The whole
village knew him. He went past the villagers, smiling and raising his manacled

hands in a greeting to everyone. The fetters around his feet forced him to walk
slowly with his legs apart. He had a devil-may-care jauntiness in his step. He
showed his unconcern by twirling his thin brown moustache and cracking

obscene jokes with the policemen.
Iqbal and the two constables joined Juggut Singh’s party by the river. They all
proceeded upstream towards the bridge. The head constable walked in front.

Armed policemen marched on the sides and at the rear of the prisoners. Iqbal
was lost in the khaki and red of their uniforms. Juggut Singh’s head and
shoulders showed above the turbans of the policemen. It was like a procession of

horses with an elephant in their midst—taller, broader, slower, with his chains
clanking like ceremonial trappings.

No one seemed to be in the mood to talk. The policemen were uneasy. They
knew that they had made a mistake, or rather, two mistakes. Arresting the social
worker was a blunder and a likely source of trouble. His belligerent attitude