Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh Page A

like, but this time I am innocent. I swear by the Guru I am innocent.’
    Jugga remained seated on the floor. The subinspector stood leaning against the wall.
    ‘Where were you on the night of the dacoity?’
    ‘I had nothing to do with the dacoity,’ answered Jugga evasively.
    ‘Where were you on the night of the dacoity?’ repeated the subinspector.
    Jugga looked down at the floor. ‘I had gone to my fields. It was my turn of water.’
    The subinspector knew he was lying. ‘I can check up theturn of water with the canal man. Did you inform the lambardar that you were going out of the village?’
    Jugga only shuffled his feet and kept on looking at the floor.
    ‘Your mother said you had gone to drive away wild pigs.’
    Jugga continued to shuffle his feet. After a long pause he said again, ‘I had nothing to do with the dacoity. I am innocent.’
    ‘Who were the dacoits?’
    ‘King of pearls, how should I know who the dacoits were? I was out of the village at the time, otherwise you think anyone would have dared to rob and kill in Mano Majra?’
    ‘Who were the dacoits?’ repeated the subinspector menacingly. ‘I know you know them. They certainly know you. They left a gift of glass bangles for you.’
    Jugga did not reply.
    ‘You want to be whipped on your buttocks or have red chillies put up your rectum before you talk?’
    Jugga winced. He knew what the subinspector meant. He had been through it—once. Hands and feet pinned under legs of charpais with half a dozen policemen sitting on them. Testicles twisted and squeezed till one became senseless with pain. Powdered red chillies thrust up the rectum by rough hands, and the sensation of having the tail on fire for several days. All this, and no food or water, or hot spicy food with a bowl of shimmering cool water put outside the cell just beyond one’s reach. The memory shook him.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, no.’ He flung himself on the floor and clasped the subinspector’s shoes with both his hands. ‘Please, O king of pearls.’ He was ashamed of himself, but he knew he could never endure such torture again. ‘I am innocent. By the name of the Guru, I had nothing to do with the dacoity.’
    Seeing six foot four of muscle cringing at his feet gave the subinspector a feeling of elation. He had never known anyone to hold out against physical pain, not one. The pattern of torturehad to be carefully chosen. Some succumbed to hunger, others—of the Iqbal type—to the inconvenience of having to defecate in front of the policemen. Some to flies sitting on their faces smeared with treacle, with their hands tied behind them. Some to lack of sleep. In the end they all gave in.
    ‘I will give you two days to tell me the names of the dacoits,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, I will beat your behind till it looks like the tail of a ram.’
    The subinspector freed his feet from Jugga’s hands and walked out. His visits had been a failure. He would have to change his tactics. It was frustrating to deal with two people so utterly different.



Kalyug
    Early in September the time schedule in Mano Majra started going wrong. Trains became less punctual than ever before and many more started to run through at night. Some days it seemed as though the alarm clock had been set for the wrong hour. On others, it was as if no one had remembered to wind it. Imam Baksh waited for Meet Singh to make the first start. Meet Singh waited for the mullah’s call to prayer before getting up. People stayed in bed late without realizing that times had changed and the mail train might not run through at all. Children did not know when to be hungry, and clamoured for food all the time. In the evenings, everyone was indoors before sunset and in bed before the express came by—if it did come by. Goods trains had stopped running altogether, so there was no lullaby to lull them to sleep. Instead, ghost trains went past at odd hours between midnight and dawn, disturbing the dreams of