Page 84 - Train to Pakistan

light in the room. In the corner, a weary yellow flame flickered through the soot
of the lamp chimney. There was a flash of lightning followed by another peal of
thunder. A gust of cool, damp breeze blew across the room. The lamp fluttered

and went out. Raindrops began to fall in a gentle patter.
Rain! At long last the rain, thought the magistrate. The monsoon had been a
poor one. Clouds had come, but they were high and fleecy and floated by,

leaving the land thirstier than before. September was very late for the rain, but
that only made it more welcome. It smelled good, it sounded good, it looked
good—and above all, it did good. Ah, but did it? Hukum Chand felt feverish.

The corpses! A thousand charred corpses sizzling and smoking while the rain put
out the fire. A hundred yards of charred corpses! Beads of sweat broke out on his
temples. He felt cold and frightened. He reached across the bed. The girl had

left. He was all alone in the bungalow. He got his wrist watch from under the
pillow and cupped his hands round the dial. The glow-worn green of the radium
hands pointed to 6:30. He felt comforted. It was fairly late in the morning. The

sky must be heavily overcast. Then he heard the sound of coughing on the
veranda, and felt reassured. He sat up with a jerk.
A dull pain rocked his forehead. He shut his eyes and held his head between

his hands. The throbbing ebbed away. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes,
looked around the room—and saw the girl. She hadn’t left. She was asleep on
the big cane armchair, wrapped in her black sequined sari. Hukum Chand felt a

little foolish. The girl had been there two nights, and there she was sleeping all
by herself in a chair. She was still, save for the gentle heaving of her bosom. He

felt old and unclean. How could he have done anything to this child? If his
daughter had lived, she would have been about the same age. He felt a pang of
remorse. He also knew that his remorse and good resolutions went with the
hangover. They always did. He would probably drink again and get the same girl

over and sleep with her—and feel badly about it. That was life, and it was
depressing.

He got up slowly and opened the attaché case that lay on the table. He looked
at himself in the mirror on the inside of the lid. There was a yellow rheum in the
corners of his eyes. The roots of his hair were showing white and purple. There
were several folds of flesh under his unshaven jaw. He was old and ugly. He

stuck out his tongue. It was coated with a smooth pale yellow from the middle to
the back. Dribble ran down the tip onto the table. He could smell his own breath.