Page 69 - Train to Pakistan

Jugga winced. He knew what the subinspector meant. He had been through it
—once. Hands and feet pinned under legs of charpais with half a dozen

policemen sitting on them. Testicles twisted and squeezed till one became
senseless with pain. Powdered red chillies thrust up the rectum by rough hands,
and the sensation of having the tail on fire for several days. All this, and no food

or water, or hot spicy food with a bowl of shimmering cool water put outside the
cell just beyond one’s reach. The memory shook him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, no.’ He flung himself on the floor and clasped

the subinspector’s shoes with both his hands. ‘Please, O king of pearls.’ He was
ashamed of himself, but he knew he could never endure such torture again. ‘I am
innocent. By the name of the Guru, I had nothing to do with the dacoity.’

Seeing six foot four of muscle cringing at his feet gave the subinspector a
feeling of elation. He had never known anyone to hold out against physical pain,
not one. The pattern of torture had to be carefully chosen. Some succumbed to

hunger, others—of the Iqbal type—to the inconvenience of having to defecate in
front of the policemen. Some to flies sitting on their faces smeared with treacle,
with their hands tied behind them. Some to lack of sleep. In the end they all gave

in.
‘I will give you two days to tell me the names of the dacoits,’ he said.
‘Otherwise, I will beat your behind till it looks like the tail of a ram.’

The subinspector freed his feet from Jugga’s hands and walked out. His visits
had been a failure. He would have to change his tactics. It was frustrating to deal
with two people so utterly different.