The Pakistani Bride by Bapsi Sidhwa Page A

to see us arrive in this,” he whispered.
    The chassis swayed in its deep suspension springs. It wafted them over the potholes with the airy ripple of a yacht. By the time they reached Qila Gujjar Singh, Nikka felt he was tottering on a cushion eleven feet high.
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    Soon followed the fall from grace.
    In his new self-importance, Nikka turned insufferably arrogant. To quote a Punjabi proverb, he would not let a fly alight on his nose.
    He became a bully. He described graphically to those he wanted to intimidate what he would do to their balls and the chastity of their women. He bought a shop next to his for much less than the going price and expanded his business to
include a provision store. He sat solidly on his charpoy outside and lorded it over the alley.
    â€œO, ay, you one-eyed jinx, if I see you bring your solitary eye into our district again, I’ll thrash you,” Nikka threatened once, and sure enough, when he noticed the half-blind man a month later, he chased and thrashed him.
    He forced the milkman to take a circuitous route because the jangle of cans suddenly jarred his delicate senses.
    He was feared and even the police could not control him. Their reports, though, reached the man in the scented, luxurious room. At first he regarded his protégé’s antics with indulgence. “Leave him alone—the man means no harm.” But the complaints grew urgent, and Nikka’s high-handed conduct ceased to please. The weary black brows atop the bloodshot eyes puckered. “If that’s the case, let’s put him right. To be sure, he has his uses, but rough him up a little. Show him his place . . .”
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    His masseur gossiping next to him, Nikka sat upon his sagging charpoy, blocking the pavement. He was in a foul mood. Somehow he sensed trouble. The evening traffic rushed by in a tangle of cycles, tongas, bullock-carts and trucks, squashing the dung on the wide road. Nikka glared at the traffic, his shifting eyes intent on mischief.
    In one leap, suddenly he stood plumb in the path of a galloping horse and cart. Trucks came to a screeching stop, tongas reined in, cyclists wobbled to one side, and men on the pavement shifted to the edge. The cart driver yelled, rising and trying to draw his stampeding animal to a halt.
    Mouth foaming, head high, the horse towered above Nikka who firmly seized the bridle. The animal’s momentum staggered him, but not letting go, he slipped to one side. With a palm over the scraping wooden wheel and wrenching at the bit, he stopped the beast.

    The cart driver glared at Nikka in disbelief;
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you, you crazy fool! You want to die?”
    Nikka held the reins just above the horse’s heaving neck.
    â€œCome on. Get down,” he commanded.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’ll castrate you for driving recklessly in our district.” Nikka was fiendishly calm.
    The driver glanced around into a swarm of inquisitive faces. He raised his whip and struck the horse and Nikka in a panic to charge through. The crowd pushed apart slightly. Cursing furiously, Nikka pulled the man from the cart and struck him.
    There was a surprised rustle. Shouts of “Police! Police!” rose hysterically.
    Qasim, on his way to work, looked over the heads in amazement. Policemen came running with sticks. Something was amiss. They never interfered in Nikka’s brawls. He shouted, “Watch out, Nikkayooooo! The police are here!”
    Nikka, busy with his work, heard Qasim dimly. “So what?” he thought. The battered man was crying piteously. And then, Nikka was wrenched away.
    Whirling in a hot rage, he looked in disbelief at the handcuffs clamped on his wrists. The swelling crowd pressed forward.
    â€œWhy, what’s this? A joke?” asked Nikka.
    â€œYou’re under arrest for assault,” said a policeman he had never seen before. The man pulled him along by a chain while another pushed him into a few