Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh

consider widows, but only if they had not been deflowered. All demanded women who were good at h. h. a., or household affairs. To the advanced and charitable, c. & d. [caste and dowry] were no bar. Not many asked for photographs of their prospective wives. Beauty, they recognized, was only skin-deep. Most wanted to ‘correspond with horoscopes’. Astronomical harmony was the one guarantee of happiness. Iqbal threw the papers away, and rummaged through the magazines. If anything, they were worse than the newspapers. There was the inevitable article on the Ajanta cave frescoes. There was the article on Indian ballet. There was the article on Tagore. There was the article on the stories of Prem Chand. There were the articles on the private lives of film stars. Iqbal gave up, and lay down again. He felt depressed about everything. It occurred to him that he had hardly slept for three days. He wondered if this would be considered a ‘sacrifice’. It was possible. He must find some way of sending word to the party. Then, perhaps … He fell asleep with visions of banner headlines announcing his arrest, his release, his triumphant emergence as a leader.In the evening a policeman came to Iqbal’s cell, carrying another chair.
    ‘Is somebody going to share my cell?’ asked Iqbal a little apprehensively.
    ‘No, Babuji. Only the Inspector Sahib. He wishes to have a word with you. He is coming now.’
    Iqbal did not answer. The policeman studied the position of the chair for a moment. Then he withdrew. There was a sound of voices in the corridor, and the subinspector appeared.
    ‘Have I your permission to enter?’
    Iqbal nodded. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector Sahib?’
    ‘We are your slaves, Mr Iqbal. You should command us and we will serve you,’ the subinspector answered with a smile. He was proud of his ability to change his tone and manner as the circumstances required. That was diplomacy.
    ‘I did not know you were so kind to people you arrested for murder. It is on a charge of murder that you have brought me here, isn’t it? I do not suppose your policemen told you I came to Mano Majra yesterday on the same train as they did.’
    ‘We have framed no charge. That is for the court. We are only detaining you on suspicion. We cannot allow political agitators in the border areas.’ The subinspector continued to smile. ‘Why don’t you go and do your propaganda in Pakistan where you belong?’
    Iqbal was stung to fury, but he tried to suppress any sign of his anger.
    ‘What exactly do you mean by “belonging to Pakistan”, Inspector Sahib?’
    ‘You are a Muslim. You go to Pakistan.’
    ‘That is a bloody lie,’ exploded Iqbal. ‘What is more, you know it is a bloody lie. You just want to cover up your stupidity by trumping up a false case.’
    The Inspector spoke back sourly.

    ‘You should use your tongue with some discrimination, Mr Iqbal. I am not in your father’s pay to have to put up with your “bloodys”. Your name is Iqbal and you are circumcised. I have examined you myself. Also, you cannot give any explanation for your presence in Mano Majra. That is enough.’
    ‘It will not be enough when it comes up in court, and in the newspapers. I am not a Muslim—not that that matters—and what I came to Mano Majra for is none of your business. If you do not release me within twenty-four hours I will move a habeas corpus petition and tell the court the way you go about your duties.’
    ‘Habeas corpus petition?’ The subinspector roared with laughter. ‘It seems you have been living in foreign lands too long, Mr Iqbal. Even now you live in a fool’s paradise. You will live and learn.’
    The subinspector left the cell abruptly, and locked the steel bar gate. He opened the adjoining one behind which Jugga was locked.
    ‘Sat Sri Akal, Inspector Sahib.’
    The subinspector did not acknowledge the greeting.
    ‘Will you ever give up being a badmash?’
    ‘King of pearls, you can say what you