Page 66 - Train to Pakistan

of class distinction. In thoroughly westernized circles like that of the civil
servants in the government secretariat in Delhi, places for parking cars were

marked according to seniority, and certain entrances to offices were reserved for
higher officials. Lavatories were graded according to rank and labelled SENIOR
OFFICERS, JUNIOR OFFICERS, CLERKS AND STENOGRAPHERS and

OTHER RANKS. With a mental make-up so thoroughly sectionalized, grading
according to their social status people who were charged or convicted of the
same offence did not appear incongruous. Iqbal was A-class. Jugga was the

rock-bottom C.
After his midday meal, Iqbal lay down on the charpai. He heard snoring from
Jugga’s cell. But he himself was far too disturbed to sleep. His mind was like the

delicate spring of a watch, which quivers for several hours after it has been
touched. He sat up and began to turn over the pile of newspapers the head
constable had left him. They were all alike: the same news, the same statements,

the same editorials. Except for the wording of the headlines, they might all have
been written by the same hand. Even the photographs were the same. In disgust,
he turned to the matrimonial ads. There was sometimes entertainment there. But

the youth of the Punjab were as alike as the news. The qualities they required in
a wife were identical. All wanted virgins. A few, more broad-minded than the
rest, were willing to consider widows, but only if they had not been deflowered.

All demanded women who were good at h. h. a., or household affairs. To the
advanced and charitable, c. & d. [caste and dowry] were no bar. Not many
asked for photographs of their prospective wives. Beauty, they recognized, was

only skin-deep. Most wanted to ‘correspond with horoscopes’. Astronomical
harmony was the one guarantee of happiness. Iqbal threw the papers away, and
rummaged through the magazines. If anything, they were worse than the

newspapers. There was the inevitable article on the Ajanta cave frescoes. There
was the article on Indian ballet. There was the article on Tagore. There was the
article on the stories of Prem Chand. There were the articles on the private lives

of film stars. Iqbal gave up, and lay down again. He felt depressed about
everything. It occurred to him that he had hardly slept for three days. He

wondered if this would be considered a ‘sacrifice’. It was possible. He must find
some way of sending word to the party. Then, perhaps … He fell asleep with
visions of banner headlines announcing his arrest, his release, his triumphant