An Unrestored Woman by Shobha Rao Page A

waste: he had to write the day’s report, submit it to the head office in the morning. He picked up his pen and was just beginning to write on his decision to impose the curfew when there was a knock on the door.
    Jenkins held his voice steady. “Come in.”
    Subinspector Iqbal stepped in and smiled mischievously. Did he know about the touch? He saluted Jenkins, with the proper knifelike motion, and waited for him to speak.
    â€œWhat is it, Subinspector?”
    â€œMore trouble, sir. More of the shops have been looted.”
    â€œWho is it this time?” Jenkins sighed.
    â€œThe Hindus, of course.” Iqbal said this with lavish seriousness, but Jenkins thought he saw the faintest smile drift across his face. He grimaced; he couldn’t withstand another scandal.
    â€œDon’t just stand there,” Jenkins shouted. “Get Singh and get out there!” Just saying his name sent a shiver through him.
    â€œBut sir, the jeep.”
    â€œForget the jeep. You can’t catch them in a jeep.”
    Iqbal hung his head and scooted out miserably. Jenkins sent a telegram to the head office: LOOTING SPREADING. NEED VEHICLE, PERSONNEL. NO CASUALTIES. Then he too headed to the marketplace on foot. It took him twenty minutes to reach it, even half-jogging part of the way. He broke into a full sprint when the smell of fire reached him.
    Still it was useless, and far worse than he’d imagined; the curfew had been pointless. The market was razed. The five or six shops around the main square had been torched. Most of the wares had been carried off but the shelves were dragged into the square and burned. Charred bits of wood stuck out of the earth like scarecrows. The stalls too lay collapsed in a heap, no better than rags. Aside from a mangy dog poking around the stalls—sniffing for the fragrant sweetmeats that had tumbled from their displays—the entire square was empty. Where the hell were Iqbal and Abheet Singh? Jenkins heard shouts in the distance, coming from the north side of the market. He rushed toward the clamor of voices, the roar of footsteps. He ran through the maze of streets, turned left at the peepal tree and there, at the end of an alley, was a crowd of villagers, ten deep, gathered around something Jenkins couldn’t see.
    â€œ Chal! ” he yelled, pushing through the crowd, “ Chal! ”
    They only pressed closer. A hand reached for his baton, another—thick and vehement—gripped his arm. He shook free of it, grabbed his baton, and clubbed his way toward the center.
    He saw Iqbal first, at the head of the mob, and then he saw Abheet Singh, on the ground. Blood had already begun seeping into the dirt. His turban had been ripped from his head and lay some distance away, unmoving, as if it too had been wounded. Abheet Singh’s hair had come loose. Jenkins looked at it until his eyes blurred then he slid to the ground. He reached out his hand—it was the earth trembling, wasn’t it—and stroked Abheet Singh’s hair. It was silken, as he’d known it would be, and so dark that he could well imagine diving into its pool at midnight. He knelt lower, gathered fistfuls of it and lifted them to his face, his mouth, swallowing back tears. It was then, as he bent his head into Abheet Singh’s hair, that the smell of sweat and rust and desert sage and all those bodies pressed together made him swoon. He could hardly rise, and only then with Iqbal’s help.
    *   *   *
    The day after Abheet Singh’s death Jenkins had filed a full report with the head office. They’d responded two days later by sending additional inspectors to assist in what they had termed a “shoddy and obtuse” investigation. While Jenkins waited for Abheet Singh’s wife the new inspectors and Iqbal were in the field interrogating every villager and shop owner in Rawalpindi. The straw-filled holding cell was now crowded with