Train to Pakistan Read Free

face with his arms and began to whimper.

    ‘Where are the keys of the safe?’ asked the leader, kicking him on the behind.
    ‘You can take all—jewellery, cash, account books. Don’t kill anyone,’ implored the moneylender, grasping the leader’s feet with both his hands.
    ‘Where are the keys of your safe?’ repeated the leader. He knocked the moneylender sprawling on the floor. Ram Lal sat up, shaking with fear.
    He produced a wad of notes from his pocket. ‘Take these,’ he said, distributing the money to the five men. ‘It is all I have in the house. All is yours.’
    ‘Where are the keys of your safe?’
    ‘There is nothing left in the safe; only my account books. I have given you all I have. All I have is yours. In the name of the Guru, let me be.’ Ram Lal clasped the leader’s legs above the knees and began to sob. ‘In the name of the Guru! In the name of the Guru!’
    One of the men tore the moneylender away from the leader and hit him full in the face with the butt of his gun.
    ‘Hai!’ yelled Ram Lal at the top of his voice, and spat out blood.
    The women in the courtyard heard the cry and started shrieking, ‘Dakoo! Dakoo!’
    The dogs barked all round. But not a villager stirred from his house.
    On the roof of his house, the moneylender was beaten with butts of guns and spear handles and kicked and punched. He sat on his haunches, crying and spitting blood. Two of his teeth were smashed. But he would not hand over the keys of his safe. In sheer exasperation, one of the men lunged at the crouching figure with his spear. Ram Lal uttered a loud yell and collapsed on the floor with blood spurting from his belly. The men came out. One of them fired two shots in the air. Women stoppedwailing. Dogs stopped barking. The village was silenced.
    The dacoits jumped off the roof to the lane below. They yelled defiance to the world as they went out towards the river.
    ‘Come!’ they yelled. ‘Come out, if you have the courage! Come out, if you want your mothers and sisters raped! Come out, brave men!’
    No one answered them. There was not a sound in Mano Majra. The men continued along the lane, shouting and laughing, until they came to a small hut on the edge of the village. The leader halted and motioned to one of the spearmen.
    ‘This is the house of the great Jugga,’ he said. ‘Do not forget our gift. Give him his bangles.’
    The spearman dug a package from his clothes and tossed it over the wall. There was a muffled sound of breaking glass in the courtyard.
    ‘O Juggia,’ he called in a falsetto voice, ‘Juggia!’ He winked at his companions. ‘Wear these bangles, Juggia. Wear these bangles and put henna on your palms.’
    ‘Or give them to the weaver’s daughter,’ one of the gunmen yelled.
    ‘Hai,’ the others shouted. They smacked their lips, making the sound of long, lecherous kisses. ‘Hai! Hai!’
    They moved on down the lane, still laughing and blowing kisses, towards the river. Juggut Singh did not answer them. He didn’t hear them. He was not at home.
    Juggut Singh had been gone from his home about an hour. He had only left when the sound of the night goods train told him that it would now be safe to go. For him, as for the dacoits, the arrival of the train that night was a signal. At the first distant rumble, he slipped quietly off his charpai and picked up his turban and wrapped it round his head. Then he tiptoed across the courtyard to the haystack and fished out a spear. He tiptoedback to his bed, picked up his shoes, and crept towards the door.
    ‘Where are you going?’
    Juggut Singh stopped. It was his mother.
    ‘To the fields,’ he said. ‘Last night wild pigs did a lot of damage.’
    ‘Pigs!’ his mother said. ‘Don’t try to be clever. Have you forgotten already that you are on probation—that it is forbidden for you to leave the village after sunset? And with a spear! Enemies will see you. They will report you. They will send you back to jail.’ Her