Bhisham Sahni
We Have Arrived in Amritsar
There were not many passengers in the compartment. The Sardarji, sitting opposite me, had been telling me about his experiences in the war. He had fought on the Burmese front, and every time he spoke about the British soldiers, he had a hearty laugh at their expense. There were three Pathan traders too, and one of them, wearing a green salwar kameez, lay stretched on one of the upper berths. He was a talkative kind of a person and had kept up a stream of jokes with a frail-looking babu who was sitting next to me. The babu, it seemed, came from Peshawar because off and on they would begin to converse with each other in Pushto. In a corner, under the Pathan’s berth, sat an old woman telling beads on her rosary, with her head and shoulders covered by a shawl. These were the only passengers that I can recollect being in the compartment. There might have been others too, but I can’t remember them now.
The train moved slowly and the passengers chatted away. Outside the breeze made gentle ripples across the ripening wheat. I was happy because I was on my way to Delhi to see the Independence Day celebrations.
Thinking about those days it seems to me that we had lived in a kind of mist. It may be that as time goes by all the activities of the past begin to float in a mist, which seems to grow thicker and thicker as we move away further into the future.
The decision about the creation of Pakistan had just been announced and people were indulging in all kinds of surmises about the pattern of life that would emerge. But no one’s imagination could go very far. The Sardarji sitting in front of me repeatedly asked me whether I thought Mr Jinnah would continue to live in Bombay after the creation of Pakistan or whether he would resettle in Pakistan. Each time my answer would be the same, ‘Why should he leave Bombay? I think he’ll continue to live in Bombay and keep visiting Pakistan.’ Similar guesses were being made about the towns of Lahore and Gurdaspur too, and no one knew which town would fall to the share of India and which to Pakistan. People gossiped and laughed in much the same way as before. Some were abandoning their homes for good, while others made fun of them. No one knew which step would prove to be the right one. Some people deplored the creation of Pakistan, others rejoiced over the achievement of independence. Some places were being torn apart by riots, others were busy preparing to celebrate independence. Somehow we all thought that the troubles would cease automatically with the achievement of freedom. In that hazy mist there came the sweet taste of freedom and yet the darkness of uncertainty seemed continuously to be with us. Only occasionally through this darkness did one catch glimpses of what the future meant for us.
We had left behind the city of Jhelum when the Pathan sitting on the upper berth untied a small bundle, took out chunks of boiled meat and some bread, and began distributing it among his companions. In his usual jovial manner he offered some of it to the babu next to me.
‘Eat it, babu, eat it. It will give you strength. You will become like us. Your wife too will be happy with you. You are weak because you eat dal all the time. Eat it, dalkhor.’
There was laughter in the compartment. The babu said something in Pushto but kept smiling and shaking his head.
The other Pathan taunted him further.
‘O zalim, if you don’t want to take it from our hands, pick it up yourself with your own hand. I swear to God that it is only goat’s meat and not of any other animal.’
The third Pathan joined in: ‘O son of a swine, who is looking at you here? We won’t tell your wife about it. You share our meat and we shall share your dal with you.’
There was a burst of laughter. But the emaciated clerk continued to smile and shake his head.
‘Does it look nice that we should eat and you should merely look on?’ The Pathans were in good humour.
The fat Sardarji joined in and said, ‘He doesn’t accept it because you haven’t washed your hands,’ and burst out laughing at his own joke. He was reclining on the seat with half his belly hanging over it. ‘You just woke up and immediately started to eat. That’s the reason babuji won’t accept food from your hands. There isn’t any other reason.’ As he said this he gave me a wink and guffawed again.
‘If you don’t want to eat meat, you should go and sit in a ladies’ compartment. What business have you to be here?’
Again the whole compartment had a good laugh. All the passengers had been together since the beginning of the journey, a kind of informality had developed amongst them.
‘Come and sit with me. Come, rascal, we shall sit and chat about kissakhani.’
The train stopped at a wayside station and new passengers barged into the compartment. Many of them forced their way in.
‘What is this place?’ someone asked.
‘Looks like Wazirabad to me,’ I replied, peering out of the window.
The train only stopped for a short time, but during the stop a minor incident occurred. A man got down from a neighbouring compartment and went to the tap on the platform for water. He had hardly filled his glass with water when suddenly he turned round and started running back towards his compartment. As he ran the water spilt out of the glass. The whole manner of his dash was revealing to me. I had seen people running like this before and knew immediately what it meant. Two or three other passengers, who were queuing at the tap also began running towards their compartments. Within a matter of seconds the whole platform was deserted. Inside our compartment, however, people were still chatting and laughing as before.
Beside me the babu muttered: ‘Something bad is happening.’
Something really had happened but none of us could figure it out. I had seen quite a number of communal riots and had learnt to detect the slightest change in the atmosphere; people running, doors shutting, men and women standing on housetops, an uncanny silence all round—these were signs of riots.
Suddenly the sound of a scuffle was heard from the back—entrance to the compartment. Some passenger was trying to get into the compartment.
‘No, you can’t come in here,’ someone shouted. ‘There is no place here. Can’t you see? No, no. Go away.’
‘Shut the door,’ someone else remarked. ‘People just walk in as though it was their uncle’s residence.’
Several voices were heard, speaking simultaneously.
As long as a passenger is outside a compartment and is trying desperately to get in, he faces strong opposition from those inside. But once he succeeds in entering, the opposition subsides and he is soon accepted as a fellow traveller, so much so that at the next stop, he too begins to shout at the new passengers trying to get in.
The commotion increased. A man in soiled, dirty clothes and with drooping moustache forced his way into the compartment. From his dirty clothes he appeared to be a sweet-vendor. He paid no attention to the shouts of protest of the passengers. He squeezed himself inside and turned around to try and haul in his enormous black trunk.
‘Come in, come in, you too climb,’ he shouted, addressing someone behind him. A frail, thin woman entered the door followed by a young dark girl of sixteen or seventeen. People were still shouting at them. The Sardarji had got up on his haunches.
Everyone seemed to be shouting at the same time: ‘Shut the door. Why don’t you?’ ‘People just come barging in.’
‘Don’t let anyone in.’ ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Just push him out, somebody . . .’
The man continued hauling in his trunk, while his wife and daughter shrank back and stood against the door of the toilet, looking anxious and frightened.
‘Can’t you go to some other compartment? You have brought womenfolk with you too. Can’t you see this is a men’s compartment?’
The man was breathless and his clothes were drenched with perspiration. Having pulled in the trunk, he was now busy collecting the other sundry items of his baggage.
‘I am a ticket holder. I am not travelling without tickets. There was no choice. A riot has broken out in the city. It was an awful job, reaching the railway station . . .’
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All the passengers fell silent except the Pathan who was sitting on the upper berth. He leaned forward and shouted, ‘Get out of here! Can’t you see there is no room here?’
Suddenly he swung out his leg and kicked the man. Instead of hitting the man, his foot landed squarely on the wife’s chest. She screamed with pain, and collapsed on the floor.
There was no time for argument. The sweet-vendor continued to assemble his baggage into the compartment. Everybody was struck silent. After pulling in the heavy bundle he was struggling with the bars of a dismantled charpoy. The Pathan lost all patience.
‘Turn him out, who is he anyway?’ he shouted.
One of the other Pathans sitting on the lower berth got up and pushed the man’s trunk out of the compartment.
In that silence only the old woman could be heard. Sitting in the corner, she muttered abstractedly, ‘Good folk, let them come in. Come, child, come and sit with me. We shall manage to pass the time somehow. Listen to me. Don’t be so cruel . . .’
The train began to move.
‘Oh, the luggage! What shall I do about my luggage!’ the man shouted, bewildered and nervous.
‘Pitaji, half our luggage is still outside! What shall we do?’ the girl cried out, trembling.
‘Get down. Let’s get down. There is no time,’ the man shouted nervously, and throwing the big bundle out of the door, he caught hold of the door-handle, and hurried down. He was followed by his trembling daughter and his wife who still clutched at her chest and moaned with pain.
‘You are bad people!’ the old woman shouted. ‘You have done a very bad thing. All human feeling has died in your hearts. He had his young daughter with him. There is no pity in your hearts . . .’
The train left the deserted platform and steamed ahead. There was an uneasy silence in the compartment. Even the old woman had stopped muttering. No one had the courage to defy the Pathans.
Just then the babu sitting next to me touched my arm and whispered agitatedly, ‘Fire! Look! There is a fire out there!’
By now the platform had been left far behind and all we could see was clouds of smoke rising from the leaping flames.
‘A riot has started! That’s why the people were running about on the platform. Somewhere a riot has broken out!’
The whole city was aflame. When the passengers realized what was happening, they all rushed to the windows to get a better view of the inferno.
There was an oppressive silence in the compartment. I withdrew my head from the window and looked about. The feeble-looking babu had turned deathly pale, the sweat on his forehead was making it glisten in the light. The passengers were looking at each other nervously. A new tension could now be felt between them. Perhaps a similar tension had arisen in each compartment of the train. The Sardarji got up from his seat and came over and sat down next to me. The two Pathans sitting on the lower berth climbed up to the upper berth where their compatriot was sitting. Perhaps the same process was on in other compartments also. All dialogue ceased. The three Pathans, perched side by side on the upper berth, looked quietly down. The eyes of each passenger were wide with apprehension.
‘Which railway station was that?’ asked someone.
‘That was Wazirabad.’
The answer was followed by another reaction. The Pathans looked perceptibly relieved. But the Hindu and Sikh passengers grew more tense. One of the Pathans took a small snuff-box out of his waistcoat and sniffed it. The other Pathans followed suit. The old woman went on with her beads but now and then a hoarse whisper could be heard coming from her direction.
A deserted railway platform faced us when the train stopped at the next station. Not even a bird anywhere. A water-carrier, his water-bag on his back, came over to the train. He crossed the platform and began serving the passengers with water.
‘Many people killed. Massacre, massacre,’ he said. It seemed as though in the midst of all that carnage he alone had come out to perform a good deed.
As the train moved out again people suddenly began pulling down the shutters over the windows of the carriage. Mingled with the rattle of wheels, the clatter of closing shutters must have been heard over a long distance.
The babu suddenly got up from his seat and lay down on the floor. His face was still deathly pale. One of the Pathans perched above the others said mockingly: ‘What a thing to do! Are you a man or a woman? You are a disgrace to the very name of man!’ The others laughed and said something in Pushto. The babu kept silent. All the other passengers too were silent. The air was heavy with fear.
‘We won’t let such an effeminate fellow sit in our compartment,’ the Pathan said. ‘Hey babu, why don’t you get down at the next station and squeeze into a ladies’ compartment?’
The babu stammered something in reply, and fell silent. But after a little while he quietly got up from the floor, and dusting his clothes went and sat down on his seat. His whole action was completely puzzling. Perhaps he was afraid that there might soon be stones pelting the train or firing. Perhaps that was the reason why the shutters had been pulled down in all the compartments.
Nothing could be said with any sense of certainty. It may be that some passengers, for some reason or the other had pulled down a shutter and that others had followed suit without thinking.
The journey continued in an atmosphere of uncertainty. Night fell. The passengers sat silent and nervous. Now and then the speed of the train would suddenly slacken, and the passengers would look at one another with wide open eyes. Sometimes it would come to a halt, and the silence in the compartment would deepen. Only the Pathans sat as before, unruffled and relaxed. They too, however, had stopped chatting because there was no one to take part in their conversation.
Gradually the Pathans began to doze off while the other passengers sat staring into space. The old woman, her head and face covered in the folds of her shawl, her legs pulled up on the seat, dozed off too. On the upper berth, one of the Pathans awoke, took a rosary out of his pocket and started counting the beads.
Outside, the light of the moon gave the countryside an eerie look of mystery. Sometimes one could see the glow of fire on the horizon. A city burning. Then the train would increase its speed and clatter through expanses of silent country, or slow down to an exhausted pace.
Suddenly the feeble-looking babu peeped out of the window acid shouted, ‘We have passed Harbanspura!’ There was intense agitation in his voice. The passengers were all taken aback by this outburst and turned round to stare at him.
‘Eh, babu, why are you shouting?’ the Pathan with the rosary said, surprised. ‘Do you want to get down here? Shall I pull the chain?’ He laughed jeeringly. It was obvious that he knew nothing about the significance of Harbanspura. The location and the name of the town conveyed nothing to the Pathan.
The babu made no attempt to explain anything. He just continued to shake his head as he looked out of the window.
Silence descended on the passengers of the compartment once again. The engine sounded its whistle and slowed its pace immediately. A little later, a loud clicking sound was heard; perhaps the train had changed tracks. The babu peeping out of the window looked towards the direction in which the train was advancing.
‘We are nearing some town,’ he shouted. ‘It is Amritsar.’ He yelled at the top of his voice and suddenly stood up and, addressing the Pathan sitting on the upper berth, shouted, ‘You son of a bitch, come down!’
The babu started yelling and swearing at the Pathan, using the foulest language. The Pathan turned round and asked, ‘What is it, babu? Did you say something to me?’
Seeing the babu in such an agitated state of mind, the other passengers too pricked up their ears.
‘Come down, baramzade. You dared kick a Hindu woman, you son of a . . .’
‘Hey, control your tongue, babu! You swine, don’t swear or I’ll pull out your tongue!’
‘You dare call me a swine!’ the babu shouted and jumped on to his seat. He was trembling from head
to foot.
‘No, no, no quarrelling here,’ the Sardarji intervened, trying to pacify them. ‘This is not the place to fight. There isn’t much of the journey left. Let it pass quietly.’
‘I’ll break your head,’ the babu shouted, shaking his fist at the Pathan. ‘Does the train belong to your father?’
‘I didn’t say anything. Everyone was pushing them out. I also did the same. This fellow here is abusing me. I shall pull out his tongue.’
The old woman again spoke beseechingly, ‘Sit quietly, good folk. Have some sense. Think of what you are doing.’
Her lips were fluttering like those of a spectre, and only indistinct, hoarse whispers could be heard from her mouth.
The babu was still shouting, ‘You son of a bitch, did you think you would get away with it?’
The train steamed into Amritsar railway station. The platform was crowded with people. As soon as the train stopped they rushed towards the compartments.
‘How are things there? Where did the riot take place?’ they asked anxiously.
This was the only topic they talked about. Everyone wanted to know where the riot had taken place. There were two or three hawkers, selling puris on the platform. The passengers crowded round them. Everyone had suddenly realized that they were very hungry and thirsty. Meanwhile two Pathans appeared outside our compartment and called out for their companions. A conversation in Pushto followed. I turned round to look at the babu, but he was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? What was he up to? The Pathans rolled up their beddings and left the compartment. Presumably they were going to sit in some other compartment. The division among the passengers that had earlier taken place inside the compartments was now taking place at the level of the entire train.
The passengers who had crowded round the hawkers began to disperse to return to their respective compartments. Just then my eyes fell on the babu. He was threading his way through the crowd towards the compartment. His face was still very pale and on his forehead a tuft of hair was hanging loose. As he came near I noticed that he was carrying an iron rod in one of his hands. Where had he got that from? As he entered the compartment he furtively hid the rod behind his back, and as he sat down, he quickly pushed it under the seat. He then looked up towards the upper berth and not finding the Pathans there grew agitated and began looking around.
The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories Page 22