Page 72 - Train to Pakistan

him an object of pity, and then of affection. The Punjabis love people they can
pity. His wife and only son had died within a few days of each other. His eyes,
which had never been very good, suddenly became worse and he could not work
his looms any more. He was reduced to beggary, with a baby girl, Nooran, to

look after. He began living in the mosque and teaching Muslim children the
Quran. He wrote out verses from the Quran for the village folk to wear as

charms or for the sick to swallow as medicine. Small offerings of flour,
vegetables, food, and castoff clothes kept him and his daughter alive. He had an
amazing fund of anecdotes and proverbs which the peasants loved to hear. His
appearance commanded respect. He was a tall, lean man, bald save for a line of

white hair which ran round the back of his head from ear to ear, and he had a
neatly trimmed silky white beard that he occasionally dyed with henna to a deep

orange-red. The cataract in his eyes gave them a misty philosophical look.
Despite his sixty years, he held himself erect. All this gave his bearing a dignity
and an aura of righteousness. He was known to the villagers not as Imam Baksh

or the mullah but a chacha, or ‘Uncle’.
Meet Singh inspired no such affection and respect. He was only a peasant who
had taken to religion as an escape from work. He had a little land of his own

which he had leased out, and this, with the offerings at the temple, gave him a
comfortable living. He had no wife or children. He was not learned in the
scriptures, nor had he any faculty for conversation. Even his appearance was

against him. He was short, fat, and hairy. He was the same age as Imam Baksh,
but his beard had none of the serenity of the other’s. It was black, with streaks of
grey. And he was untidy. He wore his turban only when reading the scripture.

Otherwise, he went about with his long hair tied in a loose knot held by a little
wooden comb. Almost half of the hair was scattered on the nape of his neck. He
seldom wore a shirt and his only garment—a pair of shorts—was always greasy

with dirt. But Meet Singh was a man of peace. Envy had never poisoned his
affection for Imam Baksh. He only felt that he owed it to his own community to
say something when Imam Baksh made any suggestions. Their conversation

always had an undercurrent of friendly rivalry.
The meeting in the gurdwara had a melancholic atmosphere. People had little
to say, and those who did spoke slowly, like prophets.

Imam Baksh opened the discussion. ‘May Allah be merciful. We are living in
bad times.’