Page 57 - Train to Pakistan

camera-consciousness of an actor facing the lens. Juggut Singh lost patience.
‘Listen. What village are you from?’ he asked and grinned, baring a set of

even teeth studded with gold points in the centres.
Iqbal looked up, but did not return the smile.
‘I am not a villager. I come from Delhi. I was sent to organize peasants, but

the government does not like the people to be organized.’
Juggut Singh became polite. He gave up the tone of familiarity. ‘I hear we
have our own rule now,’ he said. ‘It is Mahatma Gandhi’s government in Delhi,

isn’t it? They say so in our village.’
‘Yes, the Englishmen have gone but the rich Indians have taken their place.
What have you or your fellow villagers got out of Independence? More bread or

more clothes? You are in the same handcuffs and fetters which the English put
on you. We have to get together and rise. We have nothing to lose but these
chains.’ Iqbal emphasized the last sentence by raising his hands up to his face

and jerking them as if the movement would break the handcuffs.
The policemen looked at each other.

Juggut Singh looked down at the fetters round his ankles and the iron bars
which linked them to the handcuffs.
‘I am a badmash. All governments put me in jail.’
‘But,’ interrupted Iqbal angrily, ‘what makes you a badmash? The

government! It makes regulations and keeps registers, policemen and jailers to
enforce them. For anyone they do not like, they have a rule which makes him a

bad character and a criminal. What have I…’
‘No, Babu Sahib,’ broke in Juggut Singh good-humouredly, ‘it is our fate. It is
written on our foreheads and on the lines of our hands. I am always wanting to
do something. When there is ploughing to be done or the harvest to be gathered,

then I am busy. When there is no work, my hands still itch to do something. So I
do something, and it is always wrong.’

The party passed under the bridge and approached the rest house. Juggut
Singh’s complacency had put Iqbal off. He did not want to waste his breath
arguing with a village bad character. He wanted to save his words for the

magistrate. He would let him have it in English—the accent would make him
squirm.
When the police brought in the prisoners the subinspector ordered them to be

taken to the servants’ quarters. The magistrate was in his room dressing. The
head constable left the prisoners with his men and came back to the bungalow.