The Pakistani Bride by Bapsi Sidhwa Page B

bewildered steps forward.
    Stung into a sudden realization of his position by this indignity, Nikka roared, “You pimps. You bloody swine. Don’t you know who I am? I am Nikka Pehelwan! Nikka Pehelwan of Qila Gujjar Singh! How dare you . . .”
    Ignoring the outburst, the policemen dragged him off the road.

    â€œWhere is the S.S.P. Sahib, you bastards, where is my friend?” he screeched, trying to intimidate the policemen by his acquaintance with the Senior Superintendent of Police.
    An Inspector, distinguished by a trim, belted coat, stepped forward.
    â€œCome on, Nikka, don’t throw a tantrum. No one’s going to help you. At least keep your dignity.”
    Nikka glared at him. “Why you unfaithful dog! Don’t you know whose protection I command? Ask the S.S.P. Sahib . . . he’ll tell you.”
    â€œWe’re arresting you on the Superintendent’s orders. Now shut up!”
    â€œThe pig’s penis! I’ll have him hanged—all of you,” Nikka roared, slashing about blindly with his manacles.
    Screaming threats, delighting the children and the crowd with his colorful invective, he was thrust into a van with wire mesh at the windows and was driven away.
    Â 
    Towards the end of his four-month prison sentence, he requested an audience with the Senior Superintendent of Police. Impressed by reports of Nikka’s exemplary behavior and considering it politic, the officer acceded to the pehelwan’s wish.
    The prison square bustled in preparation for the Superintendent’s arrival. Nikka, lined up with the prisoners, stood at the far end of the square. Two whistles shrilled, and a bell drove the prison officials into a further frenzy of pushing the prisoners into line.
    The Superintendent strode into the square. Smiling complacently, he walked in a cloud of dust caused by the boots of five prison officials chaperoning him.
    He strode pompously, hands and baton behind his back. Scrutinizing the prisoners, shooting random queries, he finally stood before Nikka.

    â€œI understand you wished to see me. Well, what is it, you badmash?”
    Nikka studied the Superintendent, his eyes inscrutable.
    â€œMy lord, I am a lowly man. I have a request only your grace has power to bestow . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’m afraid, Sir, that you may misunderstand me . . .” Nikka shuffled his feet. A swift glance up and he was satisfied by the impression he had made.
    Flattered by the deferential behavior of this notoriously arrogant bully, the Superintendent’s tone became kinder.
    â€œGo on, man, let’s hear what you have to say.”
    â€œMy nights in prison, as you know, Sir, are lonely . . .” Nikka appeared to hesitate. “But I’m afraid you may take me amiss . . .”
    The Superintendent, scenting mischief, rasped, “You are wasting my time, pehelwan!” He turned to walk away.
    â€œJust a moment, my lord,” Nikka’s voice, of a sudden bold, boomed through the square. “Oh, share my lovelorn prison bed with me. My nights here are so lonely.”
    Spontaneous guffaws exploded all over the square.
    â€œWhy, you bastard! You shameless swine . . .” The dignitary spluttered, his nostrils flaring. Crazed with fury, he struck Nikka with his baton, and straining mightily for dignity he snarled: “Fifteen lashes! Give him fifteen lashes!”
    Nikka was soundly thrashed and his tenure extended by two months. He bore the punishment with gloating fortitude.
    The incident, inflated gloriously, made him an instant legend. It was related with gusto in sophisticated drawing rooms, inside the suffocating tangle of the walled city, in Rawalpindi and in Karachi—and when he completed his sentence, Qila Gujjar Singh welcomed back its hero with a warm heart and open arms.

    Nikka emerged from prison, his equilibrium recovered. His stay there, he knew, had been a mild reprimand, to teach him his bounds. Soon,