Free Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh Page B

he could only lose his temper.
    ‘Wait, brother policemen. I have the evidence.’
    The policemen watched the woman go in and bring out a packet from the bottom of her steel trunk. She unwrapped the brown paper. There were broken pieces of blue and red glass bangles with tiny gold spots. Two of them were intact. The head constable took them.

    ‘What sort of proofs are these?’
    ‘The dacoits threw them in the courtyard after the murder. They wanted to insult Jugga for not coming with them. Look!’ She held out her hands. ‘I am too old to wear glass bangles and they are too small for my wrists.’
    ‘Then Jugga must know who the dacoits were. What did they say when they threw them?’ asked the head constable.
    ‘Nothing, they said nothing. They abused Jugga …’
    ‘Can’t you keep your mouth shut?’ interrupted Jugga angrily. ‘I do not know who the dacoits were. All I know is that I was not with them.’
    ‘Who leaves you bangles?’ asked the head constable. He smiled and held up the bits of glass in his hands.
    Jugga lost his temper. He raised his manacled fists and brought them heavily down on the head constable’s palms. ‘What seducer of his mother can throw bangles at me? What …’
    The constables closed round Juggut Singh and started slapping him and kicking him with their thick boots. Jugga sat down on his haunches, covering his head with his arms. His mother began to beat her forehead and started crying again. She broke into the cordon of policemen and threw herself on her son.
    ‘Don’t hit him. The Guru’s curse be on you. He is innocent. It is all my fault. You can beat me.’
    The beating stopped. The head constable picked pieces of glass out of his palm, pressed out blood, and wiped it with his handkerchief.
    ‘You keep the evidence of your son’s innocence,’ he said bitterly. ‘We will get the story out of this son of a bitch of yours in our own way. When he gets a few lashes on his buttocks, he will talk. Take him out.’
    Juggut Singh was led out of the house in handcuffs and fetters.He left without showing a trace of emotion for his mother, who continued to wail and beat her forehead and breasts. His parting words were:
    ‘I will be back soon. They cannot give me more than a few months for having a spear and going out of the village. Sat Sri Akal.’
    Jugga recovered his temper as quickly as he had lost it. He forgot the incident of the bangles and the beating as soon as he stepped across his threshold. He had no malice or ill will towards the policemen: they were not human like other human beings. They had no affections, no loyalties or enmities. They were just men in uniform you tried to avoid.
    There was not much point in Juggut Singh covering his face. The whole village knew him. He went past the villagers, smiling and raising his manacled hands in a greeting to everyone. The fetters around his feet forced him to walk slowly with his legs apart. He had a devil-may-care jauntiness in his step. He showed his unconcern by twirling his thin brown moustache and cracking obscene jokes with the policemen.
    Iqbal and the two constables joined Juggut Singh’s party by the river. They all proceeded upstream towards the bridge. The head constable walked in front. Armed policemen marched on the sides and at the rear of the prisoners. Iqbal was lost in the khaki and red of their uniforms. Juggut Singh’s head and shoulders showed above the turbans of the policemen. It was like a procession of horses with an elephant in their midst—taller, broader, slower, with his chains clanking like ceremonial trappings.
    No one seemed to be in the mood to talk. The policemen were uneasy. They knew that they had made a mistake, or rather, two mistakes. Arresting the social worker was a blunder and a likely source of trouble. His belligerent attitude confirmed his innocence. Some sort of case would have to be made upagainst him. That was always a tricky thing to do to educated people. Juggut Singh