Four Miles to Freedom

by Faith Johnston

  Then, one Sunday morning Dilip badly needed the toilet, just when it was occupied. Because Sunday was the camp commander’s day off, a guard accompanied him to Wahid-ud-din’s office where there was a western toilet. Even on weekdays prisoners with back problems were allowed to use that toilet, and it wasn’t Dilip’s first time there either. But it was the first time he had taken such careful notice of the long curtains that shaded the window. Though there was just one window it was covered by six strips of coarse cotton cloth, perfect for making knapsacks. He stood on the toilet, took the rod from its holder and removed two of the strips. When he replaced the rod he spread the other strips out. Surely no one will notice the difference, he thought. Then he wrapped the folded strips around his waist, tucked in his shirt, and made his way back to his cell.

  The two knapsacks were sewn by Kamat who would have loved to be on the escape team. Since that was out of the question because of his injured legs, he had decided to support the effort in every way possible. All the prisoners had been issued a pair of shorts for the warm weather, traditional army shorts with buckles on either side to adjust the size of the waist. Kamy ripped the buckles from two pairs of shorts and used them as fasteners for the knapsacks. When he finished sewing the knapsacks Dilip hid them under the bedding in Cell 5.

  The sewing of the knapsacks and the making of the compass, both time-consuming activities, were risky as well. What if a guard came in to inspect the premises? What if he merely glanced through the bars and said, ‘Just a moment. What are you doing in there?’ But the guards were enlisted men and the prisoners, all officers. A certain deference was observed. Everyone, guards and prisoners alike, knew the daily routine, and as long as the routine was followed, there were no searching glances, no questions asked, and no cells searched.

  To fill all the hours, most of the prisoners had become readers. Some had asked for books early on and Rizvi had obliged. Since then, books from the Chaklala base officers’ library—old, tattered copies of the classics, many of them published long before Independence—were placed on the table in Cell 5, picked up and read, then taken back and another batch brought over.

  One day Singh found among the batch of fresh books a travel book called Murray’s Handbook, India, Burma and Ceylon. Popularly known as Murray’s Guide, the book was first published in 1895. By 1972 it had gone through many editions. The most recent title was A Handbook for Travellers in India, Pakistan, and Ceylon, but that was not the edition he discovered.

  The copy Singh thumbed through so avidly was obviously published before 1947 but that did not trouble him. It promised ‘numerous maps and plans’. Dilip and Grewal were particularly interested in detailed maps of roads and railway lines, and as far as he knew, systems of roads and railways in India and Pakistan hadn’t changed in years. If they didn’t catch a night bus, the three men could follow the rail line west to Peshawar, hiding during the daylight hours in a culvert under the tracks. The advantages of a rail line were several. First of all, they would know they were going in the right direction. Secondly, they could go for long distances through open country, without encountering the constant traffic of carts, buses and pedestrians they would meet by road. And finally, they could be sure of finding bridges over the rivers they would have to cross. Singh knew that they were particularly concerned about the Indus, which they would be crossing during the monsoon.

  Sure enough, Murray’s Handbook was full of maps and useful descriptions. For major cities there were foldout maps while for less populated areas smaller maps were reproduced on the page showing major geographical features as well as roads, villages and railways. When he turned to the section on the Khyber Pass, he was delighted to find that a rail line from Peshawar reached all the way to the Afghan border. Its final stop was a rail station called Landi Khana, directly across from the Afghani town of Torkham. Singh carefully ripped out the pages on the Khyber area and gave them to Dilip.

  Map of the Khyber Pass taken from A Handbook for Travellers in India, Burma and Ceylon, 13th edition, John Murray 1929, p. 388

  ‘No one should leave Peshawar without visiting the Khyber Pass … the journey through the pass can now be made by rail from Peshawar.’ The guide went on to explain that until the 1920s the railway ended at Jamrud, ten miles west of Peshawar, but in 1925 the Khyber Pass railway was opened, linking Jamrud to the Afghan frontier at Landi Khana. Now a traveller had the choice of going by road or by rail.

  The ascent to the Khyber Pass began a little beyond Jamrud but the pass itself was visible from there. The book described the pass as ‘exceedingly narrow and hemmed in by cliffs on either side … at the summit of the Pass (3509 feet) is the town of Landi Kotal … from Landi Kotal a steep descent of 2000 feet leads to Landi Khana, which is 2 miles from the Afghan border.’

  Grewal and Dilip imagined themselves walking the ten miles from Peshawar to Jamrud where they would begin the ascent. They might take the road but more likely they would follow the railway line. They both knew the narrow gauge rail line from Kalka to Simla. These old lines climbed gradually. There were no long tunnels or narrow ledges—nothing they couldn’t manage. Either way, it looked as though they would have to pass through the town of Landi Kotal, and a few miles further another town with a similar name, Landi Khana.

  Dilip hid the page with the map under the blankets on his charpoy. But he hardly needed to look at it again. First to Peshawar where the Grand Trunk Road ended. Then find the road to Jamrud and from there the rail line to Landi Khana. He couldn’t believe his luck. Imagine Singh finding such a valuable book lying on the table!

  Welcome to Khyber

  (13 August)

  After walking past the Peshawar airfield, they decided to get off the main road. They set off down another road that branched off to the left and came to a railway line. They presumed this was the rail line from Peshawar to Jamrud they knew about from Murray’s Handbook, the line they’d thought of following all the way to the Afghan border at Landi Khanna. But when they looked west down the line they could see the outlines of a large village that would be difficult to skirt. They could see people crossing the tracks, some of them women, and they knew in Pakistan the purdah system was taken very seriously. If they tried to cross through a village, or happened to look at a woman, they could attract even more attention, so they decided to head back to Jamrud Road and carry on.

  Midway between Peshawar and Jamrud, as they were passing the treed campus of college or university on their right, they noticed some sort of a tollgate or checkpoint on the road ahead. They immediately sought cover in a hedge and debated what to do next. ‘We can’t go on this way,’ said Dilip. ‘I think we’d be better off taking a bus.’

  And that is what they did. They returned to the road, which at this point was not busy. A little way along the road they found a boy sitting on a parapet and asked about buses. He told them that it was simply a matter of flagging down a bus whenever one came along. Before long a bus appeared and the boy flagged it down. Since the bus was already packed, the boy scrambled up a ladder which was fixed to the rear of the bus and they followed him. The roof already held other passengers and mounds of luggage, but they quickly found space.

  Travelling on the roof of the bus seemed to be the norm in this part of the country. Soon another boy mounted the roof to collect the fare. They paid what he asked for the ride as far as Jamrud. At the checkpoint they held their breath as the contents of their bags were examined, but their dried apricots and bag of glucose powder did not interest the inspectors. Even the strange tube of water did not arouse their curiosity. They were looking for grain and nothing else. They would pass another checkpoint and go through the same routine.

  Soon they saw Jamrud Gate, a stone arch that spanned the highway. Through the gate they could look straight down the road to a range of mountains, only a few miles ahead. To their right was the famous Jamrud Fort, stretching along the highway like a giant battleship. It had been built by a Sikh general in 1823. Grewal knew that
Jamrud Fort had marked the western border of the kingdom of the most powerful of all Sikh rulers, Maharaja Ranjit Singh.

  The bus stopped near Jamrud Gate and they shouldered their sacks and climbed down. Strung out along the road near the gate a number of signs were posted, each one warning travellers about proceeding any further.

  ‘You are now entering a tribal area,’ read one. ‘Visitors are warned not to leave the road,’ said another. ‘Welcome to Khyber. Visitors are warned not to photograph tribal women.’ On and on went the warnings, written in Urdu as well as English. ‘Visitors are advised to cross this region during daylight hours,’ they read. Of course, apart from photographing tribal women, they intended to break all the rules. Once again, the plan was to leave town, find a place to hide for the rest of the day, and begin their hike through the mountains at night.

  The next major town, Landi Kotal, was twenty-five kilometres ahead, uphill most of the way. But they weren’t doing badly so far. At this point, it was about eight o’clock in the morning and they had already reached the beginning of the Khyber Pass. Once they attained the summit, at Landi Kotal, it was only another five kilometres downhill to Landi Khanna near the Afghan border.

  They set off at a brisk pace and were soon out of town. From Jamrud on all the locals were literally dressed to kill—each one with his gun and ammunition belt. And the countryside was very strange, too. From what they could tell each dwelling, no matter how small, was walled and fortified, like a mini-fortress. The barren plain, dotted with these structures, stretched out around them and a few kilometres ahead were equally barren hills. Scarcely a tree in sight, only some scrubby bush.

  Once again, as soon as they set off along the road, they attracted attention from the locals. People walking along the road turned around to stare, and a little boy of about eight, rolling a bicycle tyre along the road, followed them. He took a look at Harry Sinjhi and said, ‘Angrezi hai.’(You’re English.)

  ‘Angrezi nahin,’responded Harry. ‘Pakistani hai.’ But the kid didn’t give up. After following them for a few minutes longer, he said, ‘Pakistani nahin. Hindustani hai.’

  At this point Harry chastized the kid for being rude and told him to scram, but all three men felt extremely vulnerable. Perhaps he was simply a naughty kid, throwing insults at strangers he found walking along the road like aliens from another planet. Or could it be that he had watched enough Hindi movies to make a sound judgement? And if an eight-year-old could detect their nationality, what hope did they have? They knew they needed a hiding place immediately.

  ‘A culvert,’ said Dilip. ‘There is nowhere else. We will have to find a water pipe and scramble in when no one is looking.’

  At the next culvert, perhaps a kilometre or two beyond Jamrud, they sat down on the parapet. For a few minutes they were all alone. There was no need to rush. They had already come much farther than they’d ever expected in such a short time. In a minute or two they would head down the embankment and into the culvert and spend the rest of the day there.

  Then, in the distance, Dilip spotted a bicycle heading towards them. We will have to wait a little longer he thought. Let this fellow pass. But it turned out the boy had spotted them from afar and had come to meet them. He apparently had no other mission in mind. When he reached them he dismounted, greeted them with ‘salaam alaikum’, and sat down beside them. A fellow in his late teens, dressed in the typical white salwar kameez of the region, he was very curious and wanted to know all about them. Dilip tried to divert the conversation to the boy himself. He asked him about crops in the area and then about his job. The boy said he had no job, that unemployment was very high. But the diversion didn’t work for long. Where were they from, he wanted to know. On the spur of the moment Dilip made up a new story that he hoped would help explain their strange accents and motley appearance.

  ‘We are Pakistanis from overseas,’ he said. ‘We have come back to see our country.’

  The boy seemed to believe him, but the questions continued. When he learned they were hiking to Landi Kotal, he was very concerned. It was much too far to walk, he told them.

  ‘We like to walk,’ said Dilip. But before they had a chance to fend him off, their good Samaritan had flagged down a bus and they were once again settling themselves on its roof, as the boy waved them farewell.

  Soon they were in the mountains. From the roof of the bus they had a clear view of lookout posts on the peaks, and further down, cave dwellings cut into the slopes, their entrances covered in cloth. At each cave entrance they could see a huge hound standing guard. Whenever the bus passed near one of these dwellings the hound would bark ferociously. Just as well, they realized, that they were not trekking through the territory at night.

  The Simla Conference

  In a matter of weeks everything seemed to be falling into place. When Chati returned from his visit to the dentist, he had just the information they needed: ‘Turn left on the Mall Road,’ he said, ‘then left on the first major road after that. You follow that road straight into town. It’s a long, long way, likely four or five kilometres, but eventually you will see the central bus station. It’s a big field stretching out on your right.’

  Finally, on 20 June, the rains began. At first they were neither heavy nor long, just enough to cool the air a few degrees. Then, on 24 June, an ICRC aircraft facilitated the exchange of yet another group of sick and wounded prisoners, and picked up more mail. A day or so later, a Red Cross rep arrived at the camp with another batch of letters and parcels.

  Since April, when Wahid had provided a radio, the POWs had enjoyed listening to music and the news for days at a time, though there would also be times when either the radio didn’t work or their access to it was removed because the whole camp was put in lockdown mode. These episodes were inevitably touched off by bad news about the Pakistani POWs in India. When that happened Wahid-ud-din would march into Cell 5, often with a newspaper rolled up in his hand, and tell them that a prisoner had been shot.

  ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot the lot of you!’ he would say, slapping the paper on the table. Then he would stomp out and take the newspaper with him, so they were never sure if he was exaggerating or even making the story up. In any case, it meant no radio, no games, and no meals together. They would spend the rest of the day locked in their cells.

  Once they got the radio, the prisoners knew that Wahid-ud-din’s stories were true. Some of the 93,000 Pakistani prisoners in India were getting fed up of sleeping in tents, eating a mostly vegetarian diet, and wondering if they’d ever see home again. There were occasional riots and attempted breakouts, shots were fired, and POWs died. Still, the broadcasts by All India Radio from at least some of the camps continued to be aired, and now our friends in Pindi were able to listen for themselves as a Pakistani POW took the microphone, sent greetings to his family and friends and told them not to worry. On one of these broadcasts a fellow mentioned that at his camp they watched Hindi movies weekly.

  At the June meeting with the Red Cross rep, the POWs mentioned movies being shown to POWs in India. They were thinking in terms of simultaneous reciprocity, but were aware that showing movies for only ten prisoners was unlikely to happen. The rep had a better idea. ‘Why don’t you ask for a television set?’ he suggested.

  They asked Wahid that very day, without much hope of success. To their surprise he promised them that if they were right—if the Pakistani POWs were actually watching movies in their camps—he would have a TV set installed immediately.

  As usual, the prisoners’ main interest in the visit from the Red Cross was the arrival of mail. In June Dilip received another parcel from his sister. In it were two shirts and one pair of trousers—just the civvies they needed for the escape. He quickly stuffed them back in the Red Cross box and tucked it under his charpoy. For the escape Dilip would wear his green salwar kameez. Grewal would wear the beige terylene shirt over his salwar. As for shoes, they would both have to wear the prison issue cotton running shoes. There w
as no way around that.

  The next day a television set was installed in Wahid-ud-din’s office. That evening the volleyball game was cancelled as all ten POWs carried their chairs into the office and sat glued to the tube. Some of them had never watched TV before. They soon discovered that television programming in Pakistan was not nearly as much fun as a good Hindi movie, but the news broadcasts did not disappoint them. They were always hungry for news. And they were delighted to find that the evening news was read by a very beautiful woman called Nilopher Malik. After a few evenings of TV, Dilip and some of the others went back to playing volleyball, but whenever Nilopher Malik came on the air someone called Dilip and he always came running.

  Shortly after the prisoners got their TV, President Bhutto arrived in India for peace talks with Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. Before leaving Pakistan Bhutto had declared that the return of POWs and the vacation of occupied territories were at the top of his agenda. (At the time of the ceasefire Indian troops occupied approximately 5000 square miles of Pakistani territory in Sind and Punjab.) However, Indira Gandhi’s priorities differed. She wanted a comprehensive settlement of long-standing disputes over Kashmir. A prisoner exchange was not on her agenda at all.

  Since the Pakistani Army had surrendered to a coalition of troops representing India and Bangladesh, Sheikh Mujib and his government would have to approve any exchange of prisoners, and that matter was seriously complicated by the war crimes issue. Before the Simla meeting Bangladesh had announced a plan to prosecute over 1000 military POWs. India had agreed to hand over all military prisoners against whom Bangladesh presented ‘prima facie’ cases. So, even though all 93,000 Pakistani POWs had been escorted out of Bangladesh to the relative safety of camps in India, it was not India alone that controlled their fate. It is difficult to believe that Bhutto did not understand that the whole issue of a prisoner exchange was off the table at Simla. He may have wanted a prisoner exchange more than anything, but it was not going to happen.