The Track of the Wind. Jamila Gavin

limbs from the bodies which hung from her carriages and clung to the roof.

      ‘Make room, make room!’ shouted voices panting with exertion. They sprinted alongside with arms outstretched. It was each one for himself now. Jaspal noted a space the size of a hand on the vertical steel pole by one of the doors. He focused on it, running faster and faster. It was now or never as gradually the train began to pick up steam once more. He grabbed with one hand. It tugged his feet from beneath him, and only the friendly hands of others saved him from being dragged along, or dashed back on to the sharp chippings of the track.

      He managed to find enough toe room on the wooden running board, and with both hands, he gripped the pole. His body arched from the train like a bow, the wind billowing his shirt. And so he stayed, hanging on for dear life, until Amritsar. But he laughed – an open-mouthed laugh, eating the air – and felt a pure, fierce joy.

      He looked up and down the length of the train. Did Nazakhat make it?

      He couldn’t see him beside the track, so he must have got on somewhere. They would meet up later.

      ‘Hey Jaspal! Are you going to the pictures?’ someone bellowed.

      ‘Yeah! It’s a Prithviraj Kapoor film today!’ Jaspal yelled back.

      ‘See you at the Rialto then.’

      Jaspal loved going to the pictures. Often, he went alone, on afternoons when he should have been at school. He didn’t mind seeing the same film over and over again – even if each time it meant sneaking in without paying – especially the historical films about battles between rajahs and invading armies, and brave warriors of the past.

      The outskirts of the city undulated into sight: walls and roofs and balconies hanging with washing; narrow alleys and streets teeming with people and animals. Black, long-haired pigs foraged in the rubbish tips, ambling alongside dogs and crows and other scavengers. Monkeys lined the walls, preening each other, slapping their little ones into line as they tumbled and played.

      The train slowed down to give the tens of dozens of non-ticket holders a chance to drop from the train before it entered the station precincts. Jaspal lowered himself till his feet were running along the ground, then he loosened his grip and continued running to gain his balance.

      Nazakhat caught up with him and the two left the track and headed across rough ground towards the city. Nazakhat always felt a little nervous about coming into the city. Although he had allowed his wispy boy’s moustache to grow, and his hair was thick and black and long to his shoulders, he was conspicuously not a Sikh like Jaspal. The vicious troubles of partition were still too fresh in people’s memories to enable him to feel comfortable. He would never have ventured there without Jaspal at his side.

      The new Pakistan had wanted Amritsar too. ‘But what about our Golden Temple? ‘protested the enraged Sikhs. ‘Only over our dead bodies will our Golden Temple go into Pakistan with the Muslims.’ And there were many dead bodies before it was certain that Amritsar would stay part of India.

      Nazakhat knew that any trips into the city meant he had to brave the taunts from gangs jeering, ‘What is that blood-drained, meat-eating, son of a pig-dog, hair-cutting Muslim doing, contaminating our holy city?’ But Jaspal had always been Nazakhat’s stout and loyal defender, and had got into many a brawl protecting him from mobs of youths out for trouble.

      There were a few hours to kill before joining the queue which would start forming outside the Rialto. The boys headed into the bazaar. They liked to go to the metal area where they sold not only pots and pans, farming tools and kitchen utensils, but knives and daggers and swords of all descriptions. They fingered the sharp blades and counted their money. They knew they didn’t have enough, so after a lot of comparing and exchanging knowledge and expertise about the lethal nature of this weapon or that, and what kind of wound it could inflict, the shopkeeper realised they weren’t going to buy, and shooed them away. So they went to a tea stall and bought tea and samosas, and sat at a bare wooden table and grinned at each other and gripped each other’s hands – elbows on the table – to see who could force the other’s hand down first and prove the stronger.

      ‘Hey! Speak of the devil! Quick!’ Nazakhat grabbed Jaspal and thrust his head down under the table. ‘It’s Bahadur Singh, I tell you. I just saw him! Boy, would I be in trouble if he caught me here.’

      ‘Take it easy. What are you so scared of ?’ drawled Jaspal. ‘He never lays a finger on you.’

      ‘Yeah – but you should feel the hand of his aunt round your ear. She’s worse than any man. She hits so hard, all her bones rattle.’

      ‘Well, my father hits so hard you can’t hear anything for the blood pounding inside your head and the screams in your lungs you’re trying to stifle. But what do I care? I can take it,’ boasted Jaspal.

      The two boys peered out of the tea stall.

      ‘There! Look! There. He’s heading into the cloth quarter. Hey! What do you think?’ Nazakhat clutched his friend’s arm. ‘Maybe he’s got a secret assignment with his lady friend.’

      ‘Come on, lets follow him. ‘Jaspal’s curiosity was up. ‘I’ve got to see this.’

      ‘For god’s sake be careful. It’s all right for you. You don’t care about anything. But me – if he sees me – he could throw me out.’ Nazakhat hung back warily.

      ‘So what! Look how you survived before. You don’t need him. Don’t be such a chicken. Anyway – you can see he’s got things on his mind. He won’t notice us. Come on, before we lose him.’ Jaspal dragged his friend out into the road.

      A cluster of young women, chaperoned by a much older one, jostled their way down the narrow bazaar street in front of the schoolmaster. They stopped every two or three steps to peer into the sandal shop, or the cosmetic shop, or the woollens shop. Bahadur Singh could have pushed through them any time, but seemed instead to want to follow just on the edges, as if he were looking at what they looked at and listening to all their comments.

      The boys followed more boldly. They watched the schoolmaster watching. They watched too – suddenly seeing the women’s world with men’s eyes – smelling their scent and hearing the tinkle of bangles as arms lifted to hold up glittering materials, which hung from hooks outside the shop; or bales of cloth arranged in towers from ceiling to floor, ready at a mere whim to be extricated and tossed full length across the carpeted shop floor. High voices and laughter rose above the hubbub of the bazaar.

      Bahadur Singh turned abruptly. The boys ducked. When they next peered out, the schoolmaster had given up on the women and moved on to the jewellery quarter.

      ‘See? Didn’t I tell you? It’s what I saw him doing in our bazaar. This must be serious, I tell you. Why else would he come to Amritsar? He’s got money to spend.’

      They spied on the schoolmaster moving from one jewellery shop to another, glancing at the displays, listening sometimes to the shopkeepers’ patter over an offered cup of tea, then moving on. The boys hardly bothered to hide now. The schoolmaster was too absorbed, poring over the trays of bangles and earrings and necklaces.

      ‘Watch out!’ Jaspal pulled Nazakhat down behind a wandering cow. The schoolmaster had stopped in front of a jeweller’s shop. He paused a long time to gaze at something, then suddenly looked round as if checking whether anyone was watching him.

      ‘That was a near thing!’ breathed Jaspal.

      ‘Did he see us?’

      ‘Nah! He wouldn’t have gone in if he had. You’re right, Nazakhat. He’s up to something, the old devil! Let’s get a little nearer.’

      The two boys sidled up to the shop and flopped on the wooden steps in front, next to a dog and a resting holy man. A useful alleyway ran alongside, down which they could disappear when Bahadur Singh came out.

      It was dark inside the shop. On a wooden counter gleamed a pair of brass scales. Bahadur Singh sat on the stool, his back to the door, facing the old jeweller, who scrutinised him from over