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Majra,’ said the subinspector, throwing a feeler.
    Hukum Chand sucked his cigarette noisily and snapped his fingers.
    ‘We must maintain law and order,’ he answered after a pause. ‘If possible, get the Muslims to go out peacefully. Nobody really benefits by bloodshed. Bad characters will get all the loot and the government will blame us for the killing. No, Inspector Sahib, whatever our views—and God alone knows what I would have done to these Pakistanis if I were not a government servant—we must not let there be any killing or destruction of property. Let them get out, but be careful they do not take too much with them. Hindus from Pakistan were stripped of all their belongings before they were allowed to leave. Pakistani magistrates have become millionaires overnight. Some on our side have not done too badly either. Only where there was killing or burning the government suspended or transferred them. There must be no killing. Just peaceful evacuation.’
    The bearer brought a bottle of beer and put two glasses before Hukum Chand and the subinspector. The subinspector picked up his glass and put his hand over it, protesting, ‘No, sir, I could not be impertinent and drink in your presence.’
    The magistrate dismissed the protest peremptorily. ‘You will have to join me. It is an order. Bearer, fill the Inspector sahib’s glass and lay out lunch for him.’
    The subinspector held out his glass for the bearer to fill. ‘If you order me to, I cannot disobey.’ He began to relax. He tookoff his turban and put it on the table. It was not like a Sikh turban which needed re-tying each time it was taken off; it was just three yards of starched khaki muslin wrapped round a blue skullcap which could be put on and off like a hat.
    ‘What is the situation in Mano Majra?’
    ‘All is well so far. The lambardar reports regularly. No refugees have come through the village yet. I am sure no one in Mano Majra even knows that the British have left and the country is divided into Pakistan and Hindustan. Some of them know about Gandhi but I doubt if anyone has ever heard of Jinnah.’
    ‘That is good. You must keep an eye on Mano Majra. It is the most important village on the border here. It is so close to the bridge. Are there any bad characters in the village?’
    ‘Only one, sir. His name is Jugga. Your honour confined him to the village. He reports himself to the lambardar every day and comes to the police station once every week.’
    ‘Jugga? Which one is he?’
    ‘You must remember Juggut Singh, son of the dacoit Alam Singh who was hanged two years ago. He is that very big fellow. He is the tallest man in this area. He must be six foot four—and broad. He is like a stud bull.’
    ‘Oh yes, I remember. What does he do to keep himself out of mischief? He used to come up before me in some case or other every month.’
    The subinspector smiled broadly. ‘Sir, what the police of the Punjab has failed to do, the magic of the eyes of a girl of sixteen has done.’
    Hukum Chand’s interest was aroused.
    ‘He has a liaison?’ he asked.
    ‘With a Muslim weaver’s daughter. She is dark, but her eyes are darker. She certainly keeps Jugga in the village. And no one dares say a word against the Muslims. Her blind fatheris the mullah of the mosque.’
    The two drank their beer and smoked till the bearer brought in lunch. They continued drinking and eating and discussing the situation in the district till late in the afternoon. Beer and rich food made Hukum Chand heavy with sleep. Chicks on the veranda had been lowered to keep out the glare of the noonday sun. The punkah flapped gently to and fro with a weary plaintive creak. A feeling of numb drowsiness came over Hukum Chand. He got out his silver toothpick, picked his teeth and rubbed the toothpick on the tablecloth. Even that did not help him ward off sleep. The subinspector noticed the magistrate nodding and stood up to take leave.
    ‘Have I your permission to leave,