Bhowani Junction

by John Masters

  ‘Not right by it,’ the Collector said.

  ‘The fires must have started just afterwards, or you would have seen them,’ Lanson said. ‘The police report that the crowds are moving together now. I’ve got all my chaps out on duty.’

  The Collector nodded, the cars separated, and in a moment we reached the big bungalow. Colonel Savage walked quickly to the telephone and began giving orders. Five minutes later three jeeps arrived—his own, his command radio jeep, and a third with a trailer, both jeep and trailer full of armed Gurkhas.

  I sat near the telephone in the hall. Messages kept coming in. The first soldiers had been put on the first train. The platoon standing by in the yards reported by walkie-talkie that all was quiet there. Colonel Savage came out and spoke in Gurkhali on the set, ordering the jemadar to leave a section guarding the yards and to take the rest at once to the station. Lanson rang for the Collector. The Collector said, ‘Yes... No... Yes … No … Soon.’ I found my hands were not quite steady.

  The Collector put down the telephone. ‘Mr Surabhai is leading a large crowd toward the station,’ he said.

  Colonel Savage said, ‘The chairman of the local Congress committee?’

  The Collector said, ‘Yes. They’ve got banners—“Long live the mutineers!” “A blow for freedom!” and of course “Quit India!” They’re quite calm except that they’re shouting slogans and won’t disperse.’ His hands behind his back, he walked up and down the big stone-flagged hall under the portraits of British governors and collectors who had ruled from that house before him.

  He stopped suddenly, turned, and said, ‘I wonder—Miss Jones, ring your traffic people and find out if any specials are on the line in the district or coming into it.’

  I got Patrick at once. He said, ‘My God, what do you want to know for? I’m busy.’

  I said, ‘Please tell me quickly. The Collector’s waiting.’

  ‘Patrick said, ‘Oh, all right! There is an up troop special at Sithri. It will be here in about forty minutes. All the trains are going very slowly because of signalling difficulties and——’

  I said, ‘Thank you,’ hung up, and told the Collector.

  He turned to Colonel Savage and said, ‘I won’t say that Surabhai knew this troop special was coming, but I suspect that somebody did. I’d like to find out what kind of troops they are. I am positive that Surabhai will try to stop that train.’

  ‘How?’ Colonel Savage asked.

  The Collector said, ‘Non-violence. He and a lot of his volunteers will lie down on the line. It’s been done before, and it’s very difficult to deal with. I’m going to the station right away.’

  Colonel Savage said, ‘Okay. I’ll go with the jeeps and stop the train at the level-crossing here.’ He jerked his head toward the back of the bungalow. The railway ran at the far end of the gardens there, and the level-crossing where the Bhowani-Kishanpur road crossed it was not far from the corner of the Collector’s wall.

  The Collector said, ‘Good. After that you’ll come to the station?’

  Colonel Savage said, ‘Yes,’ and ran down the broad steps. I followed him. He turned, one foot in the jeep and one on the ground. He said, ‘Are you coming? We might get some bricks thrown at us this time.’

  I told him I wanted to come because Pater might be driving that special. I was a little frightened.

  He said, ‘Hop in.’ As we drove off, the other jeeps trailing close behind us, he said, ‘All those rosters your father explained to me have gone to pot since the strike, then?’

  I said, ‘Yes, sir. Pater’s been on goods trains, shunting, everything. They’ve cut out practically all the passenger service.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  We were there. He stopped the jeep, jumped out, and walked forward to the gatekeeper’s shanty. A minute later he came out with the gatekeeper and a red flag, and called three or four Gurkhas to join him. A row of trees grows along the road there, and I sat in the jeep in the shade, waiting.

  At last the gatekeeper closed the gates, and in a few minutes the train came slowly up from the north. As soon as it came in sight it began to whistle. The driver had seen the party on the crossing. Colonel Savage stood on top of one of the gates, waving the red flag. The Gurkhas stood in a row across the lines, all grinning and jumping up and down in excitement.

  I thought for a moment that the train would not stop. Then, about two hundred yards away, it began to slow down quickly, and I heard the grinding of its brakes. I looked hard and recognized Pater. There was only one fireman, a man in a topi, who was standing on top of the coal in the tender, a big lump in his right hand ready to throw. I got out of the jeep and hurried forward.

  The engine stopped on the crossing, and Pater swung down to the right of way. I arrived, in time to hear him say, ‘Well, Colonel, this is a surprise! Do you want a ride now?’

  Colonel Savage laughed and said, ‘No, Mr Jones. I want to know who’s in this train.’ He looked up and back at the carriages. Hundreds of dark heads were sticking out, mostly wearing green tam-o’-shanters.

  He ran back and called up to the faces in the windows. After a minute he came forward to the engine again. He said to me, ‘R.I.A.S.C. drivers and supply personnel, going back to their depots for disbandment. Madrassis. Mr Jones, there’s a chance some people in Bhowani are going to try to stop your train. You’ll know as soon as you get round that corner. Give me ten minutes to reach the station ahead of you, and then start up. All right?’

  Pater said, ‘I will do that, Colonel. My fireman here has plenty of good Bengal coal to throw at the bastards. Good for throwing, too!’ He waved at me and said, ‘Hullo, Victoria. You are looking well. Is she helping you properly, Colonel?’

  Colonel Savage said impatiently, ‘She’s wonderful. We’ve got to hurry.’ He waved his hand, and I shouted, ‘Keep your head down, Pater.’ Pater grinned and made the thumbs-up sign with one hand as he clambered up into the cab. As we drove away I saw him pull out his big railway watch.

  We raced down the Pike with the klaxons blaring, swung into the station yard, and pulled up. Colonel Savage jumped out and walked quickly over to the Collector, who was standing beside his Austin talking to Mr Surabhai. The yard was full of people, all very quiet. The banners swayed as the people moved about and shuffled their feet—‘Quit India!’ ‘A blow for freedom!’

  I noticed some men filing quietly into the station while the Collector was talking. I didn’t say anything. If it had not been Pater’s train I would have been happy to see the Indians make a fool out of Colonel Savage. Colonel Savage saw the men too and asked the Collector whether he wanted the station gates shut.

  The Collector said, ‘No, let them go in. There is no law against it. Besides, there are about a dozen lying on the line already.’

  Mr Surabhai joined his palms in greeting when he saw me, and smiled very sweetly at me. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Jones,’ he said ‘So nice to meet you here.’ Then his face fell back like rubber into the expression it had had just before, excited and determined. He raised his voice and said, ‘As I was saying, Mr Collector, we will make our protest against the slaughtering of our naval brothers, whether it is lawful or no. They are your naval brothers as well as mine, Mr Collector, even though you glory in your post as lackey of the British imperialists. We will make protest, I assure you—peaceable, non-violent protest, but we will make it.’

  The Collector said, ‘No one’s been slaughtered yet, Mr Surabhai.’

  ‘The brave Indian sailors!’ Mr Surabhai shouted, his eyes popping. ‘The naval seamen are being shot and shelled and bombed! What for? For the simple act of raising high the flag of our country, Mr Collector.’

  The collector said, ‘None of the mutineers has been hurt yet. There’s been no violence anywhere except in the streets of Bombay. There all the rascals of the city have come out—to take advantage of protests like this of yours—and started looting and rioting.’

  A stone whizzed through the air, missing Colon
el Savage by inches, and broke the windscreen of one of the jeeps. The Gurkhas in it jumped out, frowning, and unslung their rifles and tommy-guns.

  The Collector said, ‘A non-violent missile, Mr. Surabhai?’

  Mr Surabhai faced his shuffling, silent crowd. He cried, ‘No violence, I beseech you, my friends. Do not let your natural feelings get on top of you.’ He turned back to the Collector and said, ‘Enough of this confabulation. It is to no purpose. I am going now to join my comrades.’ He walked into the station. An engine whistled down the line, a long continuous whistling.

  I had been watching the crowd. I didn’t see exactly where the stone had come from. Most of the men seemed determined but quite calm. They were well dressed on the whole, a few in European trousers and shirts, the majority in white dhotis. Practically everyone wore a Gandhi cap. There were several women among them.

  ‘We’d better get into the station,’ the Collector said.

  Colonel Savage said, ‘I’ll bring Singbir’s platoon up.’

  The Collector agreed, but told him to keep them back. He added, There’s practically nothing anyone can do until the volunteers get tired and go home. If it was really vital we could turn the hoses on them, or even run over them—though I don’t suppose we’d have to run over more than one. But it’s not vital. Who’s in the train?’ Savage told him, and he said, ‘That might be useful to know.’

  A file of twenty Gurkhas followed us on to the platform. Colonel Savage told Jemadar Singbir to take them up to the far end and to allow no one within twenty paces of them. He also said, ‘Drink three full glasses of water each. That’s an order.’

  Lanson arrived With ten policemen.

  The southern part of the station was crowded with Mr Surabhai’s volunteers. A few of them stood about on the platform, but the majority were lying down comfortably across the tracks, their heads pillowed on the rail and their hands folded on their stomachs. They shouted slogans as they lay. Pater’s troop train had arrived and was stopped in the middle of the station, its cow-catcher a few feet from Mr Surabhai’s side. Pater had climbed down and was standing on Number 1 platform, looking at the people on the rails. I heard him shout, ‘Get up, you bloody fools! You will get hurt. I have to take this train to Gondwara.’

  Mr Surabhai said, ‘Never!’ and closed his eyes.

  Then the Collector walked to the edge of the platform and spoke down to him. He said, ‘Mr Surabhai, do you realize that this train you are holding in the heat here is full of Indian soldiers who are returning to Madras for disbandment?’

  Mr Surabhai opened his eyes, and I saw tears in them. He was very soft-hearted, and he was crying because he had to hold up the Madrassis in the heat. But he had to. He said, ‘It is immaterial. They are lackeys of the British, like you.’

  Suddenly I saw that there were a lot more people on the platform than there had been. I did not know where they had come from. They pushed and eddied dose around. They were not well dressed. A policeman shouted, ‘Keep back!’ and swung his brass-bound lathi with the full weight of his arm behind it. The crack as it hit a man’s head, just beside me, echoed up and down the station. The man fell forward without a sound and lay there, blood trickling from his ear on to the stone He was badly hurt, I saw by his face. The crowd growled and edged back. Stones and bricks hurtled out of it, but I could never see the throwers.

  The Collector said, ‘Get on to the engine, quick.’ I scrambled up, with Pater right on my heels, and ducked behind the steel cab side. Stones clattered against it, and one broke the glass. The fireman began to throw lumps of coal. The police were all swinging their lathis now. I peeped round the corner of the cab and saw Colonel Savage and Mr Govindaswami, together, standing in the same place. I saw a half-brick strike Mr Govindaswami’s shoulder in that instant, and he staggered back. Colonel Savage held him until he found his balance again.

  I was on the edge of nervous tears and had to gulp and swallow to control myself. They were all so horrible and brutal. I had never seen anything like it before—the police, mouths twisted, lathis flailing; the men in the crowd; the people with the brutal faces, full of lust to hurt. I saw a woman stumble, and screamed, ‘Oh, no!’ but the policeman hit her again, and she fell. I could not stay under cover. I stood up and watched everything.

  Colonel Savage pointed his carbine upward and pulled the trigger. At the shot a sudden silence fell. Mr Govindaswami cried in Hindu, ‘I order you all to disperse. In one minute the military will open fire to dear the platform.’

  The Gurkhas had come up silently. A few stood or knelt near the side of the tender. The rest were farther back, standing at ease. The Collector got out his watch.

  From the tracks Mr Surabhai shouted. ‘Murderers!’ but the crowd on the platform ebbed sullenly and quickly away. In less than a half minute the platform was empty. They had carried their injured away with them.

  I climbed down from the cab and stood beside it, holding the handrail because my knees were weak and the front of my skirt was shaking with my trembling. I prayed for it all to be over, for us all to go home and try to forget what we had done, what we had seen. The people lying on the rails meant no harm. They looked silly but somehow dignified. Let them lie there. Perhaps they were right after all. It would be their country soon.

  Colonel Savage said, ‘What about these people?’ and pointed to the volunteers on the line.

  The Collector took off his panama and scratched his thick grey hair. He said, ‘I don’t honestly know. I don’t want them hurt.’

  Colonel Savage said, ‘Okay. I’ll fix them. Get your engine all ready to start, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel, I’m ready now,’ Pater said. He opened the cylinder drain cocks, and steam hissed out below the cylinders. He touched the regulator, and the huge driving wheels inched round. Mr Surabhai stiffened convulsively and clasped his hands tighter together.

  I couldn’t stand it. I cried desperately, ‘No! They won’t get up. Mr Surabhai won’t.’ Pater closed the regulator, and the wheels stopped moving. The cow-catcher was now touching Mr Surabhai.

  I caught the Collector’s sleeve. I was ready to get down on my knees. I said, ‘Please don’t let him, sir. Mr Surabhai won’t get up. It’ll be murder!’ I was thinking of the wheels going slowly over Mr Surabhai, who had cried because the Madrassis were being kept out in the heat.

  ‘Why do you think he won’t get up?’ the Collector asked me. He was hurt in his mind as well as his body, where the brick had hit him. His lips were tight and his eyes dull and tired.

  I said, ‘Because he believes he is right, sir. And because he is brave.’

  The Collector said, ‘I think she’s right, Savage. Surabhai has always wanted to be a martyr.’

  ‘I am not trying to frighten them off the rails, Miss Jones,’ Colonel Savage said unpleasantly. ‘I expect I am as good a judge of Mr Surabhai’s character as you are. If you would mind not interfering, I will show you that I know quite well what I am doing.’

  I stepped back unwillingly, and he spoke in a low voice with Jemadar Singbir. The jemadar chuckled and spoke to the Gurkhas. They all grinned. Colonel Savage motioned with his hand, and the Gurkhas lined up on the edge of the platform.

  Colonel Savage leaned over and said politely, ‘Mr Surabhai, are you a high-caste Hindu?’

  Mr Surabhai said, ‘Yes. But all castes are like one in the fight for freedom.’

  Colonel Savage said, ‘Good. Because you are about to be used as a urinal by Rifleman Tilokbir Ale. He is hard pressed. He is a Hindu of a sort, but his caste is medium low. You have five seconds to get up and let these Madrassis go on home.’

  Mr Surabhai sat up with a jerk. ‘Wh-what did you say?’ he stammered. ‘What are you going to do?’ He stared up at the platform The Gurkhas stood with their backs to me, but I could tell they were opening their buttons.

  Mr Surabhai said, ‘Oh, you beastly——’

  ‘Three … two … one … fire!’ Colonel Savage counted and dropped his hand. P
ater opened the regulator. The Gurkhas all began to urinate. Pater pulled down the whistle, and the station was full of its shrieking. The volunteers scrambled up, shouting, on to the platform or crawled over to the other line, urine staining their chothes and dripping from their faces. The troop train gathered speed and quickly rolled through and out up the line, southward.

  I turned away and walked to the Purdah Room and was sick. On the platform there were blood and broken glass and torn clothes and a few teeth. The banners and flags lay abandoned on the line, with some caps and a woman’s slipper. They’d done that to the women too. I saw every detail while my stomach contracted and my throat swelled and my eyes bulged. When the vomiting and retching passed, and I had washed and sat down to rest and bathed my eyes again. I came out.

  ‘You don’t look well, Miss Jones,’ Colonel Savage said.

  I whispered, ‘You are a cruel bully.’

  He said, ‘The path of Duty is the way to Glory.’ His voice was still hard when he said, ‘You’ve got guts. I’ll drive you home now.’

  Anything but that. I couldn’t bear to be near him another minute.

  Then I saw Patrick there—he must have just come—and because at least I knew him through and through, and was not afraid of him, I said quickly, ‘Mr Taylor will take me home.’

  Colonel Savage glanced at Patrick. Just before I spoke, Patrick had looked away to avoid meeting my eye. When I spoke he could not believe what he heard. Then he slowly gathered his wits, and at last said, ‘Yes, certainly. Yes, I will take Miss Jones home, Colonel. Kasel, you stay in the office until I come back.’

  Ranjit’s voice said, ‘Yes, Mr Taylor.’ I saw then that he was there too, standing at the foot of the stairs. His face was pinched and his eyes very sad. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t have any say in these brutalities and indignities. But I couldn’t; he was too far away.