‘When you get married, you will find your wife a match for
you,’ Iqbal said. ‘You will be holding your ears and saying
“toba, toba”.’
‘There is no fun in marriage, Babuji. Where is the time or
place for fun? In summer, everyone sleeps out in the open
and all you can do is to slip away for a little while and get
over with things before your relations miss you. In winter,
men and women sleep separately. You have to pretend to
answer the call of nature at the same time at night.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it, without being married.’
Jugga laughed. ‘I don’t keep my eyes shut. Besides, even if
I am not married, I do a married man’s work.’
‘You also answer calls of nature by arrangement?’
Jugga laughed louder. ‘Yes, Babuji, I do. That is what has
brought me to this lockup. But I say to myself: if I had not
been out that night, I would not have had the good fortune
of meeting you, Babuji. I would not have the chance to
learn English from you. Teach me some git mit like “good
morning”. Will you, Babuji-sahib?’
‘What will you do with English?’ Iqbal asked. ‘The sahibs
have left. You should learn your own language.’
Jugga did not seem pleased with the suggestion. For him,
education meant knowing English. Clerks and letter writers
who wrote Urdu or Gurmukhi were literate, but not
educated.
‘I can learn that from anyone. Bhai Meet Singh has
promised to teach me Gurumukhi, but I never seem to get
started. Babuji, how many classes have you read up to?
You must have passed the tenth?’
Tenth was the school-leaving examination.
‘Yes, I have passed the tenth. Actually I have passed
sixteen.’
‘Sixteen! Wah, wah! I have never met anyone who has
done that. In our village only Ram Lal has done four. Now
he is dead, the only one who can read anything is Meet
Singh. In the neighbouring villages they haven’t even got a
bhai. Our Inspector Sahib has only read up to seven and
the Deputy Sahib to ten. Sixteen! You must have lots of
brain.’
Iqbal felt embarrassed at the effusive compliments.
‘Can you read or write anything?’ he asked.
‘I? No. My uncle’s son taught me a little verse he learned
at school. It is half English and half Hindustani:
Pigeon—kabootur, oodan—-fly Look—dekho, usman—sky
Do you know this?’
‘No. Didn’t he teach you the alphabet?’
‘The A.B.C.? He did not know it himself. He knew as much
as I do:
A. B. C. where have you been? Edward’s dead, I went to
mourn.
You must know this one?’
‘No, I don’t know this either.’
‘Well, you tell me something in English.’
Iqbal obliged. He taught Jugga how to say ‘good morning’
and ‘goodnight’. When Jugga wanted to know the English
for some of the vital functions of life, Iqbal became
impatient. Then the five new prisoners were brought into
the neighbouring cell. Jugga’s jovial mood vanished as fast
as it had come.
By eleven o’clock the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. The
day became brighter. The subinspector looked up from his
cycling. Some distance ahead of him, the clouds opened
up,
