Free Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh Page A

likes with his face. If I had a face like his, I would want to hide it. We will report that he refused to cover it.’
    Iqbal did not have a ready answer to the sarcasm. He had a Semitic consciousness of his hooked nose. Quite involuntarily he brushed it with the back of his hand. Reference to his physical appearance always put him off. The handcuffs were fastened round his wrists and chained onto the policeman’s belt.
    ‘Sat Sri Akal, Bhaiji. I will be back soon.’
    ‘Sat Sri Akal, Iqbal Singhji, and may the Guru protect you. Sat Sri Akal, Sentryji.’
    ‘Sat Sri Akal.’
    The party marched out of the temple courtyard, leaving Meet Singh standing with the kettle of tea in his hand.
    At the time the two constables were sent to arrest Iqbal, a posse of ten men was sent to arrest Juggut Singh. Policemen surrounded his house at all points. Constables armed with rifleswere posted on neighbouring roofs and in the front and rear of the house. Then six others armed with revolvers rushed into the courtyard. Juggut Singh lay on his charpai, wrapped from head to foot in a dirty white sheet and snoring lustily. He had spent two nights and a day in the jungle without food or shelter. He had come home in the early hours of the morning when he believed everyone in the village would be asleep. The neighbours had been vigilant and the police were informed immediately. They waited till he had filled himself with food and was sound asleep. His mother had gone out, bolting the door from the outside.
    Juggut Singh’s feet were put in fetters and handcuffs were fastened on his right wrist while he slept. Policemen put their revolvers in their holsters. Men with rifles joined them in the courtyard. They prodded Juggut Singh with the butt ends of their guns.
    ‘O Jugga, get up, it is almost afternoon.’
    ‘See how he sleeps like a pig without a care in the world.’
    Jugga sat up wearily, blinking his eyes. He gazed at the handcuffs and the fetters with philosophic detachment, then stretched his arms wide and yawned loudly. Sleep came on him again and he began to nod.
    Juggut Singh’s mother came in and saw her courtyard full of armed policemen. Her son sat on the charpai with his head resting on his manacled hands. His eyes were shut. She ran up to him and clasped him by the knees. She put her head in his lap and started to cry.
    Juggut Singh woke up from his reverie. He pushed his mother back rudely.
    ‘Why are you crying?’ he said. ‘You know I had nothing to do with the dacoity.’
    She began to wail. ‘He did not do it. He did nothing. In the name of God, I swear he did nothing.’

    ‘Then where was he on the night of the murder?’ the head constable said.
    ‘He was out in his fields. He was not with the dacoits. I swear he was not.’
    ‘He is a badmash under orders not to go out of the village after sunset. We have to arrest him for that in any case.’ He motioned to his men. ‘Search the rooms and the barn.’ The head constable had his doubts about Juggut Singh partaking in a dacoity in his own village. It was most unusual.
    Four constables busied themselves looking around the house, emptying steel trunks and tin cans. The haystack was pulled down and the hay scattered in the yard. The spear was found without difficulty.
    ‘I suppose this has been put here by your uncle?’ said the head constable addressing the mother sourly. ‘Wrap the blade in a piece of cloth, it may have blood stains on it.’
    ‘There is nothing on it,’ cried the mother, ‘nothing. He keeps it to kill wild pigs that come to destroy the crops. I swear he is innocent.’
    ‘We will see. We will see,’ the head constable dismissed her. ‘You better get proof of his innocence ready for the magistrate.’
    The old woman stopped moaning. She did have proof—the packet of broken bangles. She had not told Jugga about it. If she had, he would certainly have gone mad at the insult and been violent to someone. Now he was in fetters and handcuffs,