Page 76 - Train to Pakistan

The orange turned into copper and then into a luminous russet. Red tongues of

flame leaped into the black sky. A soft breeze began to blow towards the village.
It brought the smell of burning kerosene, then of wood. And then—a faint acrid
smell of searing flesh.

The village was stilled in a deathly silence. No one asked anyone else what
the odour was. They all knew. They had known it all the time. The answer was
implicit in the fact that the train had come from Pakistan.

That evening, for the first time in the memory of Mano Majra, Imam Baksh’s
sonorous cry did not rise to the heavens to proclaim the glory of God.

The day’s happenings cast their gloom on the rest house. Hukum Chand had

been out since the morning. When his orderly came from the station at midday
for a thermos flask of tea and sandwiches, he told the bearer and the sweeper
about the train. In the evening, the servants and their families saw the flames

shooting up above the line of trees. The fire cast a melancholy amber light on the
khaki walls of the bungalow.
The day’s work had taken a lot out of Hukum Chand. His fatigue was not

physical. The sight of so many dead had at first produced a cold numbness.
Within a couple of hours, all his emotions were dead, and he watched corpses of
men and women and children being dragged out, with as little interest as if they

had been trunks or bedding. But by evening, he began to feel forlorn and sorry
for himself. He looked weary and haggard when he stepped out of the car. The
bearer, the sweeper, and their families were on the roof looking at the flames. He

had to wait for them to come down and open the doors. His bath had not been
drawn. Hukum Chand felt neglected and more depressed. He lay on his bed,
ignoring the servants’ attentions. One unlaced and took off his shoes and began

to rub his feet. The other brought in buckets of water and filled the bathtub. The
magistrate got up abruptly, almost kicking the servant, and went into the
bathroom.

After a bath and a change of clothes, Hukum Chand felt somewhat refreshed.
The punkah breeze was cool and soothing. He lay down again with his hands
over his eyes. Within the dark chambers of his closed eyes, scenes of the day

started coming back in panoramic succession. He tried to squash them by
pressing his fingers into his eyes. The images only went blacker and redder and
then came back. There was a man holding his intestines, with an expression in