‘But, first, let me have a quick look out,’ Gautam whispered. ‘I’ve been having nightmares about your jailer.’
‘He’s been behaving rather oddly towards me,’ she said. ‘I hope he’s not suspicious.’
Softly, he unbolted the door and peeped out. There was no sign of the man right down to the passageway’s end. He must be drinking away in the lounge.
Gautam shut the door and said: ‘The coast’s clear. Now to the terrace!’
‘Follow me,’ said Haseena.
They stepped into the passageway, and through the rear door came to the terrace. As they sat for a few minutes on the parapet, Gautam looked all around, taking in the fields which stretched up to the southern end of Darya Ganj. Then they climbed up the tower.
From there, Gautam could survey the entire area. He could even see the turrets of the Mecca Mosque near Neel Kamal, the dome of the Victoria Zenana Hospital and, further down, the archway of the Delhi railway station.
‘Now let me take over,’ he said. ‘I guess I’ve mapped out our route. About thirty minutes to the mosque, then on to the station—if all goes well.’
But as they were coming down the tower, a dazzling flashlight caught their backs. Then they could hear the footsteps of someone hurrying up from the eastern side of the terrace. Haseena looked back and at once recognized the face. It was Pannalal, closely watching their movements. So, the man was keeping them under his constant surveillance, from a discreet distance.
‘There’s the devil, Pannalal,’ she whispered to Gautam, who felt frozen to the marrow of his bones. ‘Put your arms around me … Hug me. Kiss me. Do something quick, please. He is not used to his customers just talking away.’
At once Gautam took her in his arms, bending over her mouth for a kiss. But he felt like an actor who has to do it under a blinding camera light, with the director shouting away: ‘No, do it again … action!’
As he brought his mouth close to her lips, the footsteps faded away into the distance. The man had obviously felt reassured that it was only a sort of foreplay before the couple returned to their room for a bout of love.
‘I guess he has now moved away,’ Gautam said, his heart still pounding against his ribs. ‘Well, it’s now or never. I’ve spotted a strategic point to jump off the terrace onto the battered end of a wall, just knee-high.’
‘Let’s go.’
First, they softly paced towards the vantage point, Gautam’s arm still clasping her waist. Then suddenly, he leapt off. With amazing promptness, Haseena too jumped after him. Now they were running breathlessly, across the fields, along the furrowed rows of cabbages and cauliflowers. But they’d hardly gone a few yards deep into the fields, when the flashlight caught them again. Then came a menacing cry: ‘I’ll get you both in a moment,’ the pimp thundered. ‘I’ll suck your blood. I know what you’re up to.’
The bald patch on Pannalal’s pate gleamed like a sheet of Belgian glass in the candid moonlight.
As Gautam looked over his shoulder to see how close the man was, he caught sight of the naked blade of a long knife, glistening above his flashlights. Then the sound of a splash. Their pursuer had slumped into a marshy spot which they’d cleared already.
‘Keep running, Haseena! He’s slipped … This may give us a lead.’
But she was nimbler on her feet than even Gautam himself, for she’d waded through a small strip of water while he was trailing behind, a little out of breath.
Ahead of them lay a shallow puddle, a remnant of last Thursday’s rain, and then the main road which curved round the southern edge of Darya Ganj, like a sabre.
Gautam and Haseena sped along the road’s edge, then turned sharply into a bylane. There they saw a house ablaze with a solitary fire engine fighting the flames. The sight of a huge crowd brough the couple some solace. They were out of danger; now they could easily thread their way through the mêlée and steer clear of Darya Ganj.
As Gautam was escorting Haseena through the crowd, he heard someone shout: ‘It must be some bloody Muslim arsonist! We’ll wipe out the whole lot of them.’
Another voice joined in: ‘We’ll pack them off to Pakistan.’
Then a maddening cry rumbled in the air: ‘Har Har Mahadev!’
‘Let’s keep pushing ahead,’ Gautam said to Haseena.
But just as he was about to get her out of the crowd into a bylane, Gautam’s eyes caught Mohinder, who was standing on the compound wall of the burning house, a scrapbook in his hand. Was he reporting this incident?
Gautam had begun to seriously consider resigning from The Challenge, if that was the only way to avoid seeing Mohinder in the offices of his paper. If the man turned around to see Gautam ‘running away’ with a young beautiful woman, wouldn’t he report it all to Sarita?
‘Is he someone you know?’ Haseena asked, as she saw Gautam’s eyes riveted on the man.
‘Not really …’ Gautam said, now shaken out of his thoughts. ‘We must keep moving on.’ Then, looking at his watch, ‘We have only half an hour …’
‘Do you think we’ll make it to the station?’
‘I hope so,’ Gautam replied, leading her across the lane.
‘Hey, Gautam!’ someone shouted, jumping out of a jeep parked along the curb. ‘What are you doing here? Reporting?’
It was Bala Subramaniam, special correspondent of The Evening News, and secretary of the Press Club.
‘What a surprise!’ Gautam exclaimed, taking the man’s hand in a nervous clasp. ‘I’m not reporting, Bala … But can you help me? I’m in trouble.’
‘You do look flustered.’
‘Can you take us to the railway station?’ he asked. ‘We’re being pursued.’
‘All right, get in both of you.’
While Haseena climbed into the rear, Gautam sat in front with Subramaniam. ‘Eh, who’s she?’ Bala whispered into his ear. ‘A real smasher!’
‘A friend,’ Gautam replied, smiling.
‘Gallivanting?’
‘I’m on a secret mission. I’ll tell you later.’
The jeep leaped forward. In a few minutes they were at the station.
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Gautam. ‘It was a question of life and death.’
‘I’m glad I could do something for you.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t hold you back from reporting the fire,’ said Gautam.
‘It looks like you are on your way to some scoop … Good luck!’ Bala waved to Gautam and jeeped away.
As soon as Berry saw Gautam and Haseena, he rushed towards them.
‘Bravo!’ he cried out, gleefully. ‘But, look, what you’ve done to yourself. Splashed all over with mud.’ Then, turning to Haseena he added, ‘It must have been quite a sprint.’
‘It was traumatic,’ she replied, still gasping for breath.
Then, after a pause, Berry announced: ‘I’ve some good news for you both … Two berths in a reserved coupe. A damned luxury these days, isn’t it?’
‘Great!’ Gautam exclaimed. ‘But how did you manage it?’
‘Some name-dropping—William Thornton, for instance.’
‘But you haven’t met him.’
‘I know his friend—Bob.’
Haseena stood by, now feeling relaxed and secure.
As they started walking towards the platform, Gautam narrated to Berry how they had had a close brush with death.
‘Oh, God!’ Berry said, looking quite surprised. ‘Well, in that case, he may be still on the chase.’
‘Yes.’
Berry then pushed a handbag into Gautam’s hands, and said: ‘Why don’t you both go into the waiting room and change into something better?’
A little later, the couple emerged, all spruced up. While Haseena was now draped in Sonali’s sari and blouse, Gautam was dressed in a three-piece suit.
The platform presented a gruesome spectacle. The refugee special had arrived from Amritsar only an hour ago to unload hundreds of Hindu and Sikh refugees from Lahore, Multan and Peshawar—men
, women and children. They were all squatting on the platform, huddled together, their hair unkempt, lips famished, faces moribund.
The Hindu Welfare Association had organized its camp in a corner of the platform itself, with ample supplies of medicines, food and clothing bought with the donations from the rich businessmen of Delhi. Some volunteers were even trained to give first aid for minor bruises.
But how could these volunteers help men with amputated penises, young women whose breasts had been chopped off after they’d been raped? It wasn’t the physical pain so much as the social stigma these destitutes would have to endure for the rest of their lives. Their tales of suffering had incensed some of the volunteers to wreak vengeance. Frantically, they now prowled about looking for any Muslims on the platform.
Someone spotted a young Muslim couple trying to hide behind a newspaper stall. They were at once pulled out, stripped and knifed to death, their killers shouting: ‘Blood for blood! Death to all Muslims!’
The platform presented a ghastly contrast—of exuberant compassion and heinous brutality. While some volunteers were consoling and distributing food and milk to the refugees, others were busy scouting about for Muslim victims. Word had gone around that the Howrah Express, carrying Muslim refugees from Patna, Lucknow and Allahabad, would arrive early next morning. So most of the volunteers were now keyed up for the attack. The train must be wiped out, they said: all young women whisked away and all men massacred.
And this must be done before William Thornton moved in.
Since Berry had been on the platform for about an hour, waiting for Gautam and Haseena, he’d witnessed several poignant scenes. Impressed with his stout body, a pockmarked young volunteer had even asked him to join them in the raid on the Howrah Express train from Calcutta, next morning.
‘There’ll be many young women, you know—and you may have the pick of them.’
‘No, thank you … I just came to see off my brother and sister-in-law. They should be here any moment.’
‘What a pity!’
‘Maybe some other day,’ Berry said.
‘You’ll be welcome any time. We’re here day and night serving our Hindu brothers and sisters.’
Berry was discreet enough to hold back all this from Gautam and Haseena, who had already been through a great ordeal. So, he led them quickly across the flyover bridge to platform thirteen. But they’d hardly crossed over when the guard blew the whistle. At once they rushed towards the reserved coupé. While Gautam and Haseena jumped onto the train, Berry stood on the platform waving to them. Suddenly Gautam, who was standing near the door, clasping the handrails, cried out to Berry:
‘Oh God! There he is—Pannalal!’
Berry turned round to see the pimp running along the platform, followed by a group of armed volunteers. While Gautam disappeared inside the compartment, Berry leapt on board, clasping the handrails.
‘Is there any Muslim couple in that coupé?’ asked the pockmarked volunteer.
Berry recognized him as the young man who’d asked him to join in the raid on the train, the next day.
‘Don’t you remember,’ Berry replied, ‘that I’d come to see off my brother and sister-in-law? I’ve just got them seated.’
‘He’s lying,’ yelled Pannalal, drawing close to the train. ‘There’s a Muslim girl in there.’
The guard blew another whilstle, and the train jerked into motion. Berry asked the pockmarked volunteer: ‘Why don’t you look at the reservation chart out there?’ Then, pointing towards a brown sheet of paper pasted near the door, he added: ‘There, you may see the names—Mr and Mrs Gautam Mehta!’
The volunteer shot a glance at the chart, as he continued running alongside the train.
‘It’s all right,’ said the volunteer.
‘It’s that man,’ Berry now shouted to the volunteer, pointing to Pannalal, as the train was still inching out of the platform, ‘There’s a rabid Muslim for you—Abdul Hameed. Strip him and you’ll see the circumcised devil.’
The entire band of volunteers now swooped down upon the pimp. But before Berry could see him stripped, the train had chugged away.
‘It appears I’ll have to travel with you till Hathras, the next stop,’ Berry said to Gautam. ‘In any case, let me now make sure you have no more trouble.’
‘Thank you very much for your help, Berry sahib,’ Haseena said, regaining her composure.
‘Bhai sahib—that should be more appropriate now that I’ve adopted you as my sister-in-law.’
Haseena nodded, smiling.
‘Why don’t you stay away from Neel Kamal for a few days?’ Gautam advised Berry.
‘Worried?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll take care of myself,’ Berry said.
As the train reached Hathras, the next stop, Berry jumped off, and taxied back to Delhi.
12
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ Gautam said, as he saw Haseena brooding, her chin resting on her right palm.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, now raising her head.
‘There’s always something to a mere nothing.’
‘Well, how I have made you go through all this—for my sake,’ she said.
‘Maybe I’ve done it all for myself,’ Gautam countered. ‘Someday you’ll understand.’ He smiled.
‘I was, in fact, thinking of my father,’ she resumed. ‘You see, today is his birthday … How some mysterious destiny controls our life rhythms.’
‘Oh dear!’ Gautam exclaimed.
‘It’s the living who are left to suffer,’ Haseena said, in a heavy voice, ‘while the dead are out of it all.’
‘How true.’
‘Because,’ Haseena continued, ‘the dead leave all their problems to others—and these others are sometimes complete strangers. Like yourself.’
‘Maybe there’s a mystic force that binds all humans together, dead or living, relatives or strangers.’
Haseena’s gaze settled on Gautam’s face; she was trying to fathom the meaning of what he’d just said.
The only sound audible in the coupé was that of the ceiling fan, whirring away above their heads, like a caged bird, fluttering helplessly against the steel bars. But the air it churned up was sultry; a sense of prickly stuffiness persisted even though the night had somewhat cooled down.
‘Did they leave his body on the street, exposed …’ Haseena’s voice came on again.
‘No,’ replied Gautam. ‘After the rioters left, his body was carried inside the church for a burial. I saw it all.’
‘Then someday I may go and pray over his grave,’ she sighed, ‘even though he had a Christian burial.’
‘What difference does it make to the dead?’ Gautam said.
‘You’re so right.’
‘And aren’t there other kinds of death,’ Gautam said, knitting his brows, ‘worse than the body’s extinction? … The trauma of betrayal, your wife’s affair with your own friend and colleague, your son not being your own …’
‘Are you married?’ Haseena asked, her eyes searching his face for the clue to his agonized look.
‘W-a-s!’ Gautam drawled out the monosyllabic word as if to charge it with poignancy. ‘I was divorced only a few days ago,’ he said, with a lump in his throat, and then added: ‘Remember the man standing on the compound wall of that burning house?’
‘Who was he?’
‘My wife’s lover!’
‘I understand,’ she said, then drawing close to him, ‘you’ve also been through hell.’
Hell—the word rang like a knell.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘But not darker than the one I’ve been through,’ Haseena resumed. ‘Imagine a group of young abducted girls, holed up in a house, murky as a dungeon, forced into prostitution at knife-edge. I don’t know why I submitted myself to all that ignominy … But each time I let a customer take me, I felt as though I’d thrown a bone to a dog.’
‘Then wasn’t I also a dog when I came to take
you at the Bridge?’ Gautam asked.
‘No, no,’ she responded, repeating the word emphatically. ‘You never touched me … you were a perfect gentleman.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But I am still baffled how someone like you could lend himself to such a situation.’
‘It was Berry’s idea,’ Gautam said, ‘to let me have some fun after my divorce … At first, I almost hated myself …’ He paused. ‘But now I think how fortunate I was to meet you …’
‘Mysterious are the ways of Allah,’ she said.
Both of them now lapsed into a long spell of silence as if they were listening to the train, hypnotized by its own thud-thudding, which had acquired a sort of musical notation—two accentuated notes followed by a pause. Outside the window, the trees on either side of the track looked like tall guardsmen in the pale moonlight.
Suddenly, the train screeched to a halt. As Gautam peeped out, he noticed that it was just a small wayside station with hardly any passengers visible on the platform.
A knock at the door.
‘Who is it?’ Gautam rose to answer.
‘The attendant, sir,’ a voice replied. ‘Some coffee?’
‘What station is this?’ Gautam asked, opening the door to see a middle-aged man in khaki shorts and shirt.
‘Besa, sir.’
Gautam looked at his watch; it was a quarter past twelve.
‘Coffee?’ Gautam turned to Haseena.
‘This is hardly the time for it.’
‘Then, let’s wait till morning—for breakfast,’ said Gautam.
‘I can take the order for it right now, sir,’ the man said. Then writing on his coupon, he asked: ‘Two breakfasts?’
‘He seems to have taken us for a honeymoon couple,’ Gautam whispered into Haseena’s ear.
Her lips curled into a smile.
‘Breakfast will be served at Kanpur, sir, at seven,’ said the attendant.
‘Fine,’ said Gautam.
As the man shuffled away down the aisle, Gautam said: ‘Why don’t you get some sleep, after that sprint? Tomorrow may be another hectic day.’
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