Between the Assassinations Read Free Page A

his head and said, “I’ve got another job today.” When the trains came into the station, he counted them. But since it was not easy to remember the total, he moved farther away and sat under the shade of a tree that grew within the station: each time an engine whistled past he made a mark in the mud with his big toe, crossing off each batch of five. Some of the trains were packed; some had entire carriages full of soldiers with guns; and some were almost entirely empty. He wondered where they were going to, all these trains, all these people…he shut his eyes and began to doze; the engine of a train startled him, and he scraped another mark with his big toe. When he got up to his feet to go for lunch, he realized he had been sitting on some part of the markings and they had been smudged under his weight; and then he had to try desperately to decipher them.
    In the evening, he saw the Pathan sitting on one of the benches outside the guesthouse, sipping tea. The big man smiled when he saw Ziauddin, and slapped a spot on the bench next to him three times.
    “They didn’t give me tea yesterday evening,” Ziauddin complained, and explained what had happened. The Pathan’s face darkened; Ziauddin saw that the stranger was righteous. He was also powerful: without saying a word, he turned to the proprietor and glowered at him; within a minute a boy came running out of the hotel holding a yellow cup and put it down in front of Zia. He inhaled the flavors of cardamom and sweet steaming milk, and said, “Seventeen trains came into Kittur. And sixteen left Kittur. I counted every one of them just like you asked.”
    “Good,” the Pathan said. “Now tell me: How many of these trains had Indian soldiers in them?”
    Ziauddin stared.
    “How-many-of-them-had-Indian-soldiers-in-them?”
    “All of them had soldiers…I don’t know…”
    “Six trains had Indian soldiers in them,” the Pathan said. “Four going to Cochin, two coming back.”
    The next day, Ziauddin sat down at the tree in the corner of the station half an hour before the first train pulled in. He marked the earth with his big toe; between trains he went to the snack shop inside the station.
    “You can’t come here!” the shopkeeper shouted. “We don’t want any trouble again!”
    “You won’t have any trouble from me,” Zia said. “I’ve got money on me today.” He placed a one-rupee note on the table. “Put that note into your money box, and then give me a chicken samosa.”
    That evening Zia reported to the Pathan that eleven trains had arrived with soldiers.
    “Well done,” said the man.
    The Pathan, reaching out with his weak arm, exerted a little pressure on each of Ziauddin’s cheeks. He produced another five-rupee note, which the boy accepted without hesitation.
    “Tomorrow I want you to notice how many of the trains had a red cross marked on the sides of the compartments.”
    Ziauddin closed his eyes and repeated, “Red cross marked on sides.” He jumped to his feet, gave a military salute, and said, “Thanks you, sir!”
    The Pathan laughed: a warm, hearty, foreign laugh.
    The next day, Ziauddin sat under the tree once again, scrawling numbers in three rows with his toe. One, number of trains. Two, number of trains with soldiers in them. Three, number of trains marked with red crosses.
    Sixteen, eleven, eight.
    Another train passed by; Zia looked up, squinted, then moved his toe into position over the first of the three rows.
    He held his toe like that, in midair, for an instant, and then let it fall to the ground, taking care that it not smudge any of the markings. The train left, and immediately behind it another one pulled into the station, full of soldiers, but Ziauddin did not add to his tally. He simply stared at the scratches he had already made, as if he had seen something new in them.
    The Pathan was at the guesthouse when Ziauddin got there at four. The tall man’s hands were behind his back, and he had been pacing