Train to Delhi

by Shiv Kumar Kumar

  Bob nodded smilingly.

  ‘How d’you do?’

  ‘How d’you do?’

  Gautam glanced at the Englishman who appeared to be in his late thirties. But his chestnut hair, parted on the side, his slender moustache and an air of buoyancy about him, made him look much younger.

  ‘Well, won’t you both drop this how-do-you-doing?’ said Berry.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bob. ‘Imagine,’ he added, ‘we met just a couple of hours ago, and we’ve already hit it off.’

  ‘And he has told you everything about me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I assume you’d have told Berry everything about yourself?’

  ‘Quite a bit, I suppose.’

  ‘But that’s most un-English,’ said Gautam. ‘You British always take time warming up.’ Gautam plunged into an audacious informality, encouraged by Bob’s openness. ‘I often meet my English friends at the Press Club,’ he continued, ‘Mark Gwynn of the Guardian, Sylvan Baxter of the Times, Clive Ricks of the Telegraph—and they’re all the same. Know any of them?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bob. ‘Maybe I’m an exception, being part Indian. I didn’t let Berry in on that. You see, my grandfather was born in Calcutta, and over the past several years, the family has been travelling back and forth.’

  ‘So that explains your love of Indian food—rogan josh, hot chutney,’ Gautam said, seeing the waiter bring in a tray loaded with spicy dishes.

  ‘And dark girls—that’s hot too,’ Bob said, taking a large swig of his whisky.

  ‘That’s certainly most unusual,’ said Gautam.

  ‘Un-English again,’ said Bob. ‘Why, a divorcee has to keep himself going somehow.’

  As Bob threw in these intimate details about himself, the other two felt still more closely drawn towards him.

  ‘Well, Gautam is a divorcee too,’ said Berry. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you that. But he’s just a fledgling—only a few days old.’

  ‘So we’re two against one,’ quipped Bob.

  ‘But to Berry,’ said Gautam, ‘a wife is only an appendix. His main preoccupation is exploring other territories.’

  ‘A wife’s never enough, you know,’ said Berry.

  ‘Never!’ concurred Bob. Then turning to Gautam, he said: ‘But we’ve been waiting to hear about your great rendezvous. How did it go? How was she in bed?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been talking about this … Well, I didn’t quite get there. I hope to do it next Saturday.’

  While Berry looked a little mystified, Bob said: ‘Tremendous self-control. You Indians can do the ropewalking with such finesse, balancing yourself between the Kama Sutra and the Gita.’

  ‘It’s a sort of yoga, you see,’ Gautam said, inwardly intending to tell Berry about Haseena, but only privately. ‘It comes with arduous training—the art of turning oneself on and off any moment.’

  Both Berry and Bob laughed.

  ‘Was she dark?’ Bob asked.

  ‘There he lapses into darkness again,’ Gautam said. ‘No, she was of light wheatish complexion … But why this obsession with dark girls?’

  ‘Maybe I’ve seen too much of light,’ Bob said, smiling. ‘So isn’t it now time to try out some other pigmentation?’ He paused. ‘You know, Bill Thornton also has a fascination for dark girls …’

  ‘You mean the police commissioner?’ Berry asked, quite surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ Bob answered. ‘In fact, we’re both planning to go down south, to the Malabar Coast, on a holiday trip. If he ever gets off the hook … Not a moment’s rest for him. Poor man!’

  ‘Then you’re quite close to the heart of the Indian administration,’ Gautam said, also looking impressed.

  ‘Or Anglo-Indian?’ quipped Berry.

  ‘That’s not being fair to the man,’ said Bob. ‘In any case, we don’t intend giving up on you. There are always ways of hanging on, you know.’

  ‘That’s clear enough,’ said Berry. ‘Lord Mountbatten, your Bill—and some English priests operating here and there.’

  ‘But I’m neither with the bureaucracy, nor with the missionaries,’ said Bob. ‘I work for a private British company here, and I propose to stay on as long as possible. Because I love your country, in spite of its heat and dust.’

  The waiter showed up again to ask if they’d like to have anything else.

  ‘No please,’ Gautam said, taking out his wallet.

  ‘Let me take care of this evening,’ Bob insisted.

  ‘Very un-English of you again,’ said Berry. ‘Why don’t we go Dutch?’

  ‘No, I insist,’ said Bob. ‘In fact, I should very much like to have you both over at my house some evening. I have a fairly good cook, I think. But, let me assure you, it wouldn’t be insipid British food—steam-boiled Brussels sprouts, mashed potatoes, scrambled eggs …’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gautam.’

  ‘And you’ll meet a very special friend of mine,’ said Bob.

  ‘A lady?’ asked Berry.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Indian?’ Berry pressed on.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’re already well organized,’ said Berry.

  ‘I guess so; otherwise, a divorcee’s life in a foreign country could be awfully dull, you know.’

  ‘Even on his own native grounds,’ said Gautam. ‘That’s why Berry tried to pull me out of my blues.’

  ‘But it didn’t work out this evening, it seems,’ said Berry.

  ‘No.’

  Berry looked at Gautam, puzzled.

  As they stepped out of Neel Kamal, Bob offered to drop them home.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Berry. ‘We should feel honoured to be escorted by a friend of William Thornton’s.’

  10

  Two days after Gautam’s encounter with Haseena at the Bridge, Delhi witnessed an unprecedented explosion of communical frenzy. A report in a local Hindu paper, Our Land, described in lurid details how a passerby had seen ‘some members of the minority community’ shovelling the mutilated carcass of a cow into the Shiva temple, near St. John’s. The same paper carried an inflammatory editorial, demanding prompt action against the criminals, ‘otherwise the Indian nation would feel provoked to wipe out those who, while living in our country, owe their allegiance to a foreign power.’ The ‘criminals’ were, of course, the Indian Muslims and the ‘foreign power’ was Pakistan.

  The paper then branded all Englishmen, staying on in India, as pro-Muslim, and accused them of acting clandestinely in collusion with the Pakistani spies. In fact, the highly incendiary tone of the article was directed as much against Muslims as against ‘the British colonialists’. Lord Mountbatten, in league with Anglo-Indians and British missionaries, was alleged to be engaged in a diabolic conspiracy against ‘our efforts to consolidate the fruits of freedom’.

  ‘As for Mahatma Gandhi,’ the paper commented, ‘his self-professed saintliness wouldn’t help us run the administration. His utterance that while he loves the individual Englishman, he is against all forms of imperialism, is too mild a protest against our erstwhile rulers, who had ruthlessly exploited our motherland for over two hundred years. How can we call him Father of the Nation when he has dedicated himself exclusively to the welfare of Muslims? While he should have stayed back in Delhi to participate in the celebration of our independence, he chose to work for the Muslims in Noakhali. His prayer meetings, at which he recites verses from the Koran, are an affront to our Hindu dharma. What has the Mahatma to say about the desecration of our sacred temples and the molestation of our women in Pakistan? If he persists in his one-sided commitment, he may soon have to pay dearly for it. In fact, his recent speeches and actions leave us in no doubt that he is itching for martyrdom, so that he may be ranked with Jesus Christ, Thomas Beckett and the Buddha.’

  The paper went on to say: ‘At this critical juncture, what we need is an Indian Jinnah, a Hindu Messiah, who would fearlessly weed out all treacherous elements from our Holy Land.’

  The article
concluded with the slogan: ‘Har Har Mahadev.’

  Althugh Our Land was immediately banned, some copies of the issue, carrying the inflammatory article, still dodged the police. Mimeographed leaflets of this editorial were secretly circulated all over the country. Within two days, India was in the grip of another cycle of communal frenzy. Thousands of Muslims were massacred, their houses burnt, and their property looted. Muslims too retaliated furiously.

  In Delhi, William Thornton imposed a curfew from dawn to dusk. All public places—clubs, hotels, schools and colleges—were closed for two days. The curfew was lifted for only three hours in the morning to enable shoppers to pick up their groceries.

  Ironically, as the communal violence spread, the weather cooled off. On the blackest day of rioting, the sky unfolded a large rainbow, all the seven colours laid out in sharply demarcated bands, like variegated silken pennons. Then poured down the rain, relentlessly, over the dead bodies of men, women and children rotting on the pavements, waiting to be hauled away by the police.

  Gautam had told Berry all about Haseena and how he’d committed himself to helping her. Both of them now worked out a plan for the great rescue. But Gautam was caught up in a terrible anxiety. Would the curfew be over by next Saturday?

  Fortunately, it was lifted on the third day, and as Gautam reached his office, his chief editor announced a special issue of The Challenge to expose the reactionary ideology propagated by Our Land. ‘If India,’ he said, ‘was to forge ahead, she must shake off all religious bigotry. The basic issues involved were more economic than communal.’

  All this fell in with Gautam’s own planning. When he asked his editor if he could be sent to Allahabad, another hotbed of violence, to report on the scene there, and also do an article on communal harmony, his suggestion was readily accepted.

  On Friday evening, as he sat on the divan in his room at Anand Parbat, piecing together his notes for the article, his mother walked in, looking flustered.

  ‘Purnima’s here to see you. I hope there’s no more trouble for us.’

  ‘What trouble, mother? You’re such a timid thing,’ he said. ‘Now that I’ve got my divorce, what can that woman do?’

  It was a subdued Purnima that shuffled in. She sat on the floor, near the window.

  ‘What’s the news this time?’ he asked, sharply.

  ‘All’s well, sir.’

  ‘Then why do you keep shadowing me everywhere?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I just came to see you.’

  ‘Nobody ever visits for just seeing …’

  Gautam kept up the ribbing, piqued by this woman’s brusque intrusion.

  ‘Sir, there was a wrangle between Mr Trivedi and Mohinder sahib the other day.’

  ‘How does that concern me?’

  ‘Mr Trivedi didn’t think it proper for Mohinder sahib to visit our house so often. It was a sort of moral pollution, he said.’

  Gautam felt amused to hear this pedantic expression. Since when had Trivedi been fired with the missionary zeal to ensure moral hygiene in his neighbourhood? Where was he when the romance was running at high tide during Gautam’s visit abroad? Why had he started watch-dogging for him when it was all over? He felt tempted to ask Purnima if the neighbours had already heard about the divorce—Trivedi and the others. But that would have boosted her status as a confidante.

  ‘Look, Purnima, I’m no longer interested in all this,’ he said. ‘Unless you have something else to say, I’m afraid I must get back to work.’ And he picked up the pad on which he’d been writing his notes.

  But she didn’t budge. He now realized that he was somehow stuck with her for a while.

  ‘I also came to know if you’d, please, let me work for you,’ she said. ‘I don’t wish to stay with Memsahib any longer.’

  Ah, the double agent, Gautam said to himself. Or, had Sarita suddenly become conscious that Purnima knew too much?

  ‘But you already have a comfortable job—salary, saris, tips,’ Gautam said, and he nearly added, ‘the excitement of backbiting, muck-raking.’ But he merely continued: ‘I’m sorry we don’t need any domestic help … My mother herself cooks for me, and this is a small house.’

  ‘I could sleep on the verandah, in the kitchen—anywhere,’ she said. Then, drawing a little close, ‘I do plead guilty, sir—for several reasons.’

  ‘What?’

  Only after asking the monosyllabic question, prompted by his irrepressible curiosity, did Gautam realize how unwittingly he’d encouraged this woman to chatter on.

  ‘The milk you daily had, sir, was always generously watered …’ she said. ‘And, sir, the other man—’ she resumed, her face glowing to find in Gautam an intent listener, ‘how you trusted him as your friend and colleague, and loved his child as your own … He used to visit her almost daily when you were abroad. He’d slip in from the front verandah, then stay on for the night. They’d have drinks in your bedroom. What things I’ve seen and heard! What gross betrayal! My heart bleeds!’ Her eyes were now searching Gautam’s face to see how he was taking it all. ‘Oh God! How I’ve lived in sin all this time! If only I’d warned you earlier. Yes, I must take the blame … Only, occasionally, I used to have a word with Mr Trivedi. He’s a good man, sir—very understanding, very helpful.’

  Gautam nearly asked her to shut up at this point, but decided to let her flow on. Wasn’t she spilling the beans?

  ‘Now I wish to atone for all my past lapses,’ the woman continued, ‘by serving you.’

  Gautam noticed how hard she was trying to bring up some moisture in her eyes, but it didn’t work.

  ‘She’ll have to pay for all this,’ the tape started running again. ‘And pay very dearly too—that is, if there’s any divine justice. In fact, already they’ve started quarrelling. Now she accuses Mohinder sahib of having a soft spot for you, because you came to see Rahul. Who else would have done anything like that? Sometimes I wonder if the person to really blame is Mohinder sahib or Memsahib. You did well, sir—shook off that piece of dirt … I doubt if the other man will ever marry her. It served her right …’ She paused for a moment, then continued: ‘She returned from the court the other day, thoroughly unhinged. She told Mohinder sahib how very jubilant you were over your release. Why not? While she’ll now cry every moment—childless and husbandless—you’ll have a hundred years of peace and happiness. What’s the fate of a Hindu divorcee? Isn’t she like a widow?’

  What a devilish creature she was, Gautam thought.

  How he’d been carried away by her avalanche of words. He wondered if a man’s curiosity was any less than a woman’s. If Satan had worked assiduously on Adam, our first man too would have succumbed to temptation. But, of course, the Devil found Eve more exciting, more vulnerable.

  ‘Thank you for telling me all this,’ Gautam said. ‘But I’ve already told you we don’t need any help. Please go away immediately before the evening deepens. These are not normal times, you know.’

  What a damper on this loquacious woman! Purnima felt stung, deflated. As she rose to leave, her eyes were burning with rage and humiliation.

  11

  The next Saturday turned out to be quite calm—no arson, stabbing or rape reported by the media. It seemed as if the two days’ curfew had let the frenzy cool off. Almost all the national papers, specially The Challenge, denounced the communal press. Nonetheless, William Thornton was not the sort of administrator to take any chance over a possible resurgence of lawlessness. Fire engines had been stationed at all vulnerable points, and mounted police patrolled the streets round the clock. With such a show of force, the public felt secure to move about freely. All clubs, hotels, schools and colleges were back to normalcy.

  The plan had been worked out meticulously. Berry was to bring a handbag, with a couple of Sonali’s saris and two changes of dress for him, direct to the railway station, buy the tickets well in advance, while Gautam manoeuvred his escape with Haseena from the Bridge. Gautam was aware that if the operation misfired,
both of them might get killed.

  Gautam waited for Pannalal and Haseena in the foyer, near the Reception. The girl at the counter flashed a smile at him. Yes, the man was waiting for his call-girl; perhaps she even knew the arrangement for the evening, Gautam thought. In this underworld, there were no secrets—members of this mafia shared everything.

  As Gautam looked at the wall-clock, it showed twenty minutes past eight. Since eight, he’d been gazing restlessly at the swinging door; still no sign of Haseena and the pimp.

  Surely the man had overheard his talk with her. And, if the pimp had also somehow come to know that he was a journalist, it would be a disaster. Perhaps Pannalal was aware that while it was possible to get around the police, it never worked with the press. These thoughts kept Gautam on pins and needless.

  Suddenly, the door swung and there walked in the pimp and Haseena. Gautam nearly leapt forward to greet them.

  ‘Sorry, sir, for being late,’ Haseena said. ‘We were held up near the Delhi Gate by a policeman, but Pannalalji somehow managed to palm him off.’

  The pimp just grinned. Since there was no time to lose, it was Gautam who took the initiative. ‘Here’s seventy-five plus room charge, and another thirty for you, Pannalalji.’

  The pimp understood that the deal had been struck for three hours this time.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, baring his betel-stained teeth. ‘I’ve reserved the same room for you.’ Then he added, with a leery wink in his eyes: ‘Have a good time, sir.’

  Gautam merely nodded. He had bought an extra hour to cover up any possible delay in taking off. He looked back to make sure that the pimp had settled down in the foyer.

  As soon as they were alone in the room, Gautam announced his strategy. After a few minutes, she’d lead him to the terrace where they’d sit on the parapet for a while, then go up to the tower to survey the entire terrain. And then they would take off. It might be a mile to the Ridge Road on the other side of the fields. With slush all around, they’d also have to wade through mud and swamp. It would be calamitous if they missed the 10:30 train.