Page 91 - Train to Pakistan
P. 91

Magistrate Sahib. You had evil intentions, but you were tired. You snored like a
               railway engine.’ The girl drew her breath in noisily and imitated his snoring. She

               laughed more loudly.
                  Hukum Chand stroked the girl’s hair. His daughter would have been sixteen,
               seventeen, or eighteen, if she had lived. But he had no feeling of guilt, only a

               vague sense of fulfilment. He did not want to sleep with the girl, or make love to
               her, or even to kiss her on the lips and feel her body. He simply wanted her to
               sleep in his lap with her head resting on his chest.

                  ‘There you go again with your deep thoughts,’ said the girl, scratching his
               head with her finger. She poured out a cup of tea and then poured it into the
               saucer. ‘Have some tea. It will stop you thinking.’ She thrust the saucerful of tea

               at him.
                  ‘No, no. I have had tea. You have it.’
                  ‘All right. I will have tea and you have your thoughts.’

                  The girl began to sip the tea noisily.
                  ‘Haseena.’ He liked repeating the name. ‘Haseena,’ he started again.
                  ‘Yes. But Haseena is only my name. Why don’t you say something?’

                  Hukum Chand took the empty saucer from her hand and put it on the table. He
               drew the girl closer and pressed her head against his. He ran his fingers through
               her hair.

                  ‘You are Muslim?’
                  ‘Yes, I am Muslim. What else could Haseena Begum be? A bearded Sikh?’
                  ‘I thought Muslims from Chundunnugger had been evacuated. How have you

               managed to stay on?’
                  ‘Many have gone away, but the Inspector Sahib said we could stay till he told
               us to go. Singers are neither Hindu nor Muslim in that way. All communities

               come to hear me.’
                  ‘Are there any other Muslims in Chundunnugger?’
                  ‘Well … yes,’ she faltered. ‘You can call them Muslim, Hindu or Sikh or

               anything, male or female. A party of hijras [hermaphrodites] are still there.’ She
               blushed.

                  Hukum Chand put his hand across her eyes.
                  ‘Poor Haseena is embarrassed. I promise I won’t laugh. You are not Hindu or
               Muslim, but not in the same way as a hijra is not a Hindu or Muslim.’
                  ‘Do not tease me.’
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