Train to Pakistan Read Online Free PDF Page B

side of her flat nose. She carried a small bundle which jingled as she stepped out of the car. The party went and squatted on the carpet.
    Hukum Chand carefully examined himself in the mirror. He noticed the white at the roots of his hair and smoothed it back again. He lit a cigarette and in his customary manner carried the tin of cigarettes with a matchbox on it. He half opened the wire-gauze door and shouted for his bearer to bring the whisky, which he knew had already been put on the table. It was to warn the people outside of his coming. As he came out he let the door slam noisily. With slow deliberate steps punctuated by the creaking of his glossy pumps he walked up to the cane chair.
    The party stood up to greet the magistrate. The two musicians salaamed, bowing their heads low. The old toothless woman broke into a sonorous singsong of praise: ‘May your fame and honour increase. May your pen write figures of thousands and hundreds of thousands.’ The young girl just staredat him with her large eyes lined with antimony and lampblack. The magistrate made a gesture with his hand ordering them to sit down. The old woman’s voice came down to a whimper. All four sat down on the carpet.
    The bearer poured out the whisky and soda for his master. Hukum Chand took a large gulp and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. He twirled the pointed ends nervously. The girl opened her bundle and tied the ankle-bells round her ankles. The harmonium player played a single note. His companion beat the drums all round the edges with a tiny mallet and tightened and loosened the leather thongs by hammering the ring of wooden blocks wedged between them. He beat the taut white skin with his fingers till the drums were in key with the harmonium. The accompaniment was ready.
    The young girl spat out the betel saliva and cleared her throat with a series of deep chesty coughs that brought up phlegm. The old woman spoke:
    ‘Cherisher of the poor. What does your honour fancy? Something classical—pukka—or a love song?’
    ‘No, nothing pukka. Something from the films. Some good film song—preferably Punjabi.’
    The young girl salaamed. ‘As you order.’
    The musicians put their heads together and after a brief consultation with the girl they began to play. The drums beat a preliminary tattoo and then softened down for the harmonium to join in. The two played for some time while the girl sat silently, looking bored and indifferent. When they finished the introductory piece, she blew her nose and cleared her throat again. She put her left hand on her ear and stretched the other towards the magistrate, addressing him in a shrill falsetto:
O lover mine, O lover that art gone,
I live but would rather die,

I see not for the tears that flow,
I breathe not, for I sigh.
As a moth that loves the flame,
By that flame is done to death,
Within myself have I lit a fire
That now robs me of my breath.
The nights I spend in counting stars,
The days in dreams of days to be
When homewards thou thy reins shall turn
Thy moon-fair face I again shall see.
    The girl paused. The musicians started to play again for her to sing the refrain:
O letter, let my lover learn
How the fires of separation burn.
    When the girl had finished her song, Hukum Chand flung a five-rupee note on the carpet. The girl and the musicians bowed their heads. The hag picked up the money and put it in her wallet, proclaiming: ‘May you ever rule. May your pen write hundreds of thousands. May …’
    The singing began again. Hukum Chand poured himself a stiff whisky and drank it in one gulp. He wiped his moustache with his hand. He did not have the nerve to take a good look at the girl. She was singing a song he knew well; he had heard his daughter humming it:
In the breeze is flying
My veil of red muslin
Ho Sir, Ho Sir.
    Hukum Chand felt uneasy. He took another whisky anddismissed his conscience. Life was too short for people to have consciences. He started to beat time to the