Burmese Days by George Orwell

in the direction of his toes, a brick-red shade flowed upwards from his neck and congested his face with a threat of apoplexy. The sweat gleamed on his large, tallowy breasts. Stick it out, stick it out! At all costs one must keep fit. Mohammed Ali, the bearer, with Mr Macgregor's clean clothes across his arm, watched through the half-open door. His narrow, yellow, Arabian face expressed neither comprehension nor curiosity. He had watched these contortions--a sacrifice, he dimly imagined, to some mysterious and exacting god--every morning for five years.
    At the same time, too, Westfield, who had gone out early, was leaning against the notched and ink-stained table of the police station, while the fat Sub-inspector interrogated a suspect whom two constables were guarding. The suspect was a man of forty, with a grey, timorous face, dressed only in a ragged longyi kilted to the knee, beneath which his lank, curved shins were speckled with tick-bites.
    'Who is this fellow?' said Westfield.
    'Thief, sir. We catch him in possession of this ring with two emeralds very-dear. No explanation. How could he--poor coolie-- own a emerald ring? He have stole it.'
    He turned ferociously upon the suspect, advanced his face tomcat- fashion till it was almost touching the other's, and roared in an enormous voice:
    'You stole the ring!'
    'No.'
    'You are an old offender!'
    'No.'
    'You have been in prison!'
    'No.'
    'Turn round!' bellowed the Sub-inspector on an inspiration. 'Bend over!'
    The suspect turned his grey face in agony towards Westfield, who looked away. The two constables seized him, twisted him round and bent him over; the Sub-inspector tore off his longyi, exposing his buttocks.
    'Look at this, sir!' He pointed to some scars. 'He have been flogged with bamboos. He is an old offender. THEREFORE he stole the ring!'
    'All right, put him in the clink,' said Westfield moodily, as he lounged away from the table with his hands in his pockets. At the bottom of his heart he loathed running in these poor devils of common thieves. Dacoits, rebels--yes; but not these poor cringing rats! 'How many have you got in the clink now, Maung Ba?' he said.
    'Three, sir.'
    The lock-up was upstairs, a cage surrounded by six-inch wooden bars, guarded by a constable armed with a carbine. It was very dark, stifling hot, and quite unfurnished, except for an earth latrine that stank to heaven. Two prisoners were squatting at the bars, keeping their distance from a third, an Indian coolie, who was covered from head to foot with ringworm like a coat of mail. A stout Burmese woman, wife of a constable, was kneeling outside the cage ladling rice and watery dahl into tin pannikins.
    'Is the food good?' said Westfield.
    'It is good, most holy one,' chorused the prisoners.
    The Government provided for the prisoners' food at the rate of two annas and a half per meal per man, out of which the constable's wife looked to make a profit of one anna.
    Flory went outside and loitered down the compound, poking weeds into the ground with his stick. At that hour there were beautiful faint colours in everything--tender green of leaves, pinkish brown of earth and tree-trunks--like aquarelle washes that would vanish in the later glare. Down on the maidan flights of small, low- flying brown doves chased one another to and fro, and bee-eaters, emerald-green, curvetted like slow swallows. A file of sweepers, each with his load half hidden beneath his garment, were marching to some dreadful dumping-hole that existed on the edge of the jungle. Starveling wretches, with stick-like limbs and knees too feeble to be straightened, draped in earth-coloured rags, they were like a procession of shrouded skeletons walking.
    The mali was breaking ground for a new flower-bed, down by the pigeon-cote that stood near the gate. He was a lymphatic, half- witted Hindu youth, who lived his life in almost complete silence, because he spoke some Manipur dialect which nobody else understood, not even his