Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh Read Free Book Online

the dusty path lined on either side by scraggy bushes of prickly pear which fenced it off from the fields. The path wound its narrow way past the mud huts to the opening in the centre where the moneylender’s house, the mosque and the temple faced each other. Underneath the peepul tree half a dozen villagers were sitting on a low wooden platform talking to each other. They got up as soon as they saw the policemen and followed them into Ram Lal’s house. No one took any notice of the stranger.
    He stepped into the open door of the temple courtyard. Atthe end opposite the entrance was a large hall in which the scripture, the Granth, lay wrapped in gaudy silks under a velvet awning. On one side were two rooms. A brick stairway ran along the wall to the roof of the rooms. Across the courtyard was a well with a high parapet. Beside the well stood a four-foot brick column supporting the long flag-mast with the yellow cloth covering it like a stocking.
    The young man did not see anyone about. He could hear the sound of wet clothes being beaten on a slab of stone. He walked timidly to the other side of the well. An old Sikh got up with water dripping from his beard and white shorts.
    ‘Sat Sri Akal.’
    ‘Sat Sri Akal.’
    ‘Can I stay for two or three days?’
    ‘This is a gurdwara, the Guru’s house—anyone may stay here. But you must have your head covered and you must not bring in any cigarettes or tobacco, nor smoke.’
    ‘I do not smoke,’ said the young man putting the holdall on the ground and spreading his handkerchief on his head.
    ‘No, Babu Sahib, only when you go in near the Book, the Granth Sahib, you take your shoes off and cover your head. Put your luggage in that room and make yourself comfortable. Will you have something to eat?’
    ‘That is very kind of you. But I have brought my own food.’
    The old man showed the visitor to the spare room and then went back to the well. The young man went into the room. Its only furniture was a charpai lying in the middle. There was a large coloured calendar on one wall. It had a picture of the Guru on horseback with a hawk on one hand. Alongside the calendar were nails to hang clothes.
    The visitor emptied his holdall. He took out his air mattress and blew it up on the charpai. He laid out pyjamas and a silk dressing gown on the mattress. He got out a tin of sardines, atin of Australian butter and a packet of dry biscuits. He shook his water bottle. It was empty.
    The old Sikh came to him, combing his long beard with his fingers.
    ‘What is your name?’ he asked, sitting down on the threshold.
    ‘Iqbal. What is yours?’
    ‘Iqbal Singh?’ queried the old man. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘I am the bhai of the temple. Bhai Meet Singh. What is your business in Mano Majra, Iqbal Singhji?’
    The young man was relieved that the other had not gone on with his first question. He did not have to say what Iqbal he was. He could be a Muslim, Iqbal Mohammed. He could be a Hindu, Iqbal Chand, or a Sikh, Iqbal Singh. It was one of the few names common to the three communities. In a Sikh village, an Iqbal Singh would no doubt get a better deal, even if his hair was shorn and his beard shaved, than an Iqbal Mohammed or an Iqbal Chand. He himself had few religious feelings.
    ‘I am a social worker, Bhaiji. There is much to be done in our villages. Now with this partition there is so much bloodshed going on, someone must do something to stop it. My party has sent me here, since this place is a vital point for refugee movements. Trouble here would be disastrous.’
    The bhai did not seem interested in Iqbal’s occupation.
    ‘Where are you from, Iqbal Singhji?’
    Iqbal knew that meant his ancestors and not himself.
    ‘I belong to district Jhelum—now in Pakistan—but I have been in foreign countries a long time. It is after seeing the world that one feels how backward we are and one wants to do things about it. So I do social work.’
    ‘How much do