Page 93 - Train to Pakistan

‘You will stay here today, won’t you? You do not want to go away just yet?’

‘Is that all you wanted to say? If you do not give me your car, I cannot go five
miles in the rain. But if you make me sing or spend another night here you will
have to give me a big bundle of notes.’

Hukum Chand felt relieved.
‘What is money?’ he said with mock gallantry. ‘I am ready to lay down my
life for you.’

For a week, Iqbal was left alone in his cell. His only companions were the piles
of newspapers and magazines. There was no light in his cell, nor was he
provided with a lamp. He had to lie in the stifling heat listening to night noises—

snores, occasional gunshots, and then more snoring. When it started to rain, the
police station became more dismal than ever. There was nothing to see except
rain falling incessantly, or sometimes a constable running across between the

reporting rooms and the barracks. There was nothing to hear except the
monotonous patter of raindrops, an occasional peal of thunder, and then more
rain. He saw little of Jugga in the neighbouring cell. On the first two evenings,

some constables had taken Jugga out of his cell. They brought him back after an
hour. Iqbal did not know what they had done to him. He didn’t ask and Jugga
said nothing. But his repartee with the policemen became more vulgar and more

familiar than before.
One morning a party of five men were brought to the station in handcuffs. As
soon as Jugga saw them he lost his temper and abused them. They protested and

refused to leave the reporting room veranda. Iqbal wondered who the new
prisoners were. From the snatches of conversation that he had overheard, it
seemed that everyone was on a spree, killing and looting. Even in

Chundunnugger, a few yards from the police station, there had been killing.
Iqbal had seen the pink glow of fire and heard people yelling, but the police had
made no arrests. The prisoners must be quite out of the ordinary. While he was

trying to figure out who the newcomers were, his cell was unlocked and Jugga
came in with a constable. Jugga was in a good humour.
‘Sat Sri Akal, Babuji,’ he said. ‘I am going to be the servant of your feet. I

will learn something.’
‘Iqbal Sahib,’ the constable added, relocking the cell, ‘teach this badmash how
to go on the straight and narrow path.’

‘Get away with you,’ Jugga said. ‘Babuji thinks it is you and the government