Train to Delhi

by Shiv Kumar Kumar

  She heard the words in stark amazement, her eyes dilated, her face flushed. Across the road, a policeman’s horse snorted, a tonga-driver lashed his horse into a canter, a military truck rattled past …

  ‘How?’ she asked, finding it difficult to believe what she’d just heard.

  ‘I got him near the fort—with his own knife,’ Gautam’s voice was a murmur. ‘In sheer self-defence.’ He paused. ‘You see, he’d come after us. It’s a well-knit mafia—the pimp, the panda and your kidnappers. But I still feel guilty, somehow.’

  As Gautam narrated the incident, Haseena’s eyes sparkled, an expression of relief rippling across her face.

  ‘I love you very much,’ she cooed.

  ‘Because I’ve killed him?’

  ‘No, for profounder reasons,’ she breathed. ‘And everyone at home now knows about you and me—mother, uncle and Salma.’

  ‘I should have guessed … your letter.’

  She blushed, looking away, as though she didn’t want him to bring it up.

  ‘Why don’t you change and come with me to mother?’ she said, handing him the bag in which she’d brought him a sherwani and a fez. ‘She’d be delighted to hear about the incident from you … I’ll wipe off my kumkum meanwhile.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, walking away to the Gents, near the tea-stall.

  As they now walked into Mohalla Kashana, Gautam in his Muslim dress and Haseena without the kumkum, he saw armed police posted at all street corners. There were no blacksmiths fabricating weapons on the pavements. He wondered if the open arsenal had now moved underground. No crowds on the streets too, no vendors anywhere around.

  Haseena’s mind was still occupied with the killing.

  ‘So the lizard was your saviour,’ she said, as she led him into a bylane.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Imagine if you hadn’t been so nimble-footed.’

  ‘You’d have got your release—your freedom.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To go to Pakistan,’ he said, smiling, ‘with your family.’

  ‘You’re utterly mistaken.’

  ‘Then what would you’ve done?’

  ‘I’d have sought out your parents, and stayed with them,’ she replied. ‘One doesn’t fall in love twice.’

  Haseena wished she’d been in a burkha, covered from head to foot, sheltered from the spoken word, in a discreet veil of privacy.

  Gautam felt he could almost hear his heart beating.

  They stopped at a corner to let some policemen cross the street.

  ‘I’ll try to keep you happy, Haseena.’

  ‘Commitment doesn’t look for happiness,’ she responded. ‘It just wants to belong.’

  ‘At times I wonder if I really deserve you.’

  ‘Love has nothing to do with deserving either,’ she said.

  Gautam felt impelled to kiss her, right there on the pavement. As he gazed at her face, it seemed so remote, so spiritual.

  ‘In any such relationship,’ she resumed, wistfully, ‘the body is not the ultimate thing, it’s the joy of surrender.’

  ‘Haseena, do you remember all the beautiful things you said in your letter?’ Gautam asked.

  ‘Oh, please …’ she said, embarrassed.

  ‘Of course, sometimes you can say unkind things too.’

  She looked at him, surprised.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That bit about virginity.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you have liked to marry a virgin?’ she asked, a touch of poignancy in her voice.

  ‘Then would you have liked to marry a divorcee?’ he countered.

  When they stepped into the house, they saw Begum Rahim on her knees, praying—her head covered by a thin veil, her hands raised, palms upwards. Sheikh Ahmed rose from his cane chair as he saw them enter, but he didn’t say anything lest he disturb his sister in her namaz. It was only after a few minutes that Haseena’s mother opened her eyes.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, looking surprised. ‘You’re back so soon—both.’ Then, turning to Gautam, ‘You see, I pray each time Haseena goes out—for her safety, for peace … I hear there’ll soon be a raid on our mohalla.’

  ‘Why should you worry?’ said Gautam. ‘Wouldn’t your prayers be enough protection against any danger? And, then, the authorities now mean business.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ she replied.’They’ve been doling out assurances all these days. Words, words …’

  ‘Look, ammijan,’ Haseena interjected, ‘Gautam’s here with some good news for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The man killed on the river was my abductor.’

  ‘Oh, let Allah be praised!’ Begum Rahim exclaimed.

  ‘And guess who killed him?’ Haseena asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gautam!’ Haseena exclaimed exultantly. ‘Yes, he did it.’

  Begum Rahim’s dazed eyes probed Gautam’s face.

  Sheikh Ahmed and Salma also stared at him, stunned.

  ‘It seems he’d come after us,’ said Gautam, ‘all the way from Delhi. He ambushed me near the fort. So I had no choice but to …’

  ‘Oh Allah!’ Begum Rahim raised her hands prayerfully, out of joy and gratitude.

  ‘Maybe I was able to defend myself because of your blessings, your prayers,’ said Gautam sombrely.

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘May I ask a boon of you, ammijan?’ asked Gautam.

  Haseena’s mother felt touched to be again addressed as ammijan.

  ‘Allah alone is the giver of boons, my dear,’ she answered.

  ‘But this one is for you to give.’

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘I want to marry Haseena,’ he almost stuttered, tense and anxious. ‘I need your blessings.’

  There was no immediate response from Haseena’s mother, who was now lost in some deep thought. While Salma kept staring at Gautam, Sheikh Ahmed broke in: ‘But what about the different worlds? In our shariat, you’ll have to receive the Kalma Sharif, accept Islam, before any such marriage could be solemnized.’

  ‘I’ll do it, gladly.’

  As Gautam spoke these words, his eyes settled on the kalma inscribed in gilded letters on the plaque, above the mantelpiece. Then he turned to Haseena, whose face was glowing like a candle in a crystal vase.

  His answer had made everyone speechless; a hush descended upon the room.

  ‘But what about your parents? Will they accept your conversion?’ asked Sheikh Ahmed, looking sceptical.

  ‘Nobody else matters.’

  ‘Look Ahmed,’ Haseena’s mother interjected. ‘There’s nothing more to say. If it’s God’s will, let it be.’

  ‘Thank you ammijan,’ said Gautam. ‘God bless you!’

  ‘There’s, however, one snag, my son,’ Begum Rahim said. ‘As you know already, we’ve decided to migrate to Pakistan—and that decision is absolute, irrevocable.’ She paused for a moment, then resumed: ‘I can’t let Salma be whisked away next. You can’t take charge of the entire family when there are abductors lurking everywhere. So, it’s time to go—to another country, I know, not ours. Leaving Allahabad would be the greatest wrench. But there’s no alternative. Ahmed will, however, stay back for a while to manage a few things—he’ll join us later.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Gautam.

  ‘So it’s for Haseena to decide,’ said Begum Rahim; then turning to her: ‘Do you also want …’ she broke off, as if not knowing how to round it off.

  ‘Yes, ammijan.’

  ‘Then God bless you both.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gautam said. Then after a brief pause, he added: ‘Since I’d planned to complete my assignment before returning to Delhi tomorrow, may I take Haseena with me this afternoon as well?’ That, as you know, was our programme today.’

  ‘Isn’t she yours now, my son, to take care of?’ Haseena’s mother asked.

  But as Gautam stood up to leave, Haseena’s mother said, ‘I wonder if you could help us
with our immigration papers. We don’t know anybody in Delhi.’

  ‘Surely, ammijan. I should be able to get it done.’

  As they both returned to the traffic lights near the tea-shop, Gautam went into the rest room to change into dhoti and kurta, while Haseena put on her kumkum.

  Then they stood on the pavement, waiting for some tonga or taxi to take them downtown. Gautam felt that before returning to Delhi, he should really go around the city to be able to report to his paper authentically.

  A taxi pulled up beside them on the road, and a face peered out of the rear window.

  ‘Hi, could you help us, please?’ the man asked. ‘We want to see Nehru House, but our cabby doesn’t seem to understand us.’

  It was an American couple, Gautam guessed, out sightseeing. Americans, he knew, were particularly welcome anywhere in the country for their warm friendliness and their dollars—in spite of the communal turmoil.

  ‘You mean his birthplace?’ Gautam asked, drawing close to the taxi.

  ‘Yeah,’ the American tourist replied, getting off, a heavy camera slung across his shoulders, a copy of the Blue Guide in hand, while his wife kept sitting inside.

  ‘Well, the place is really known as Anand Bhavan,’ said Gautam, ‘not Nehru House.’

  Immediately, the taxi-driver nodded his head as though the riddle had been solved.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said the man, his freckled face glowing in the sun. ‘Can we give you a ride?’

  ‘In fact, we are going the same way,’ Gautam answered. ‘We’d be grateful.’

  ‘Most welcome,’ said the man. ‘Come on in … Maybe you could also tell us what else to see in town. There’s, I understand, also the sacred cave under the Kali Satum Temple?’

  ‘Yes, the driver should know that one too,’ Gautam said, beckoning Haseena to sit in the rear, while he sat in front with the driver.

  ‘We’re Americans,’ the man said. ‘This is my wife, Alice, and I’m Jim Clarke. Call me just Jim.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Gautam, looking back; then he added, ‘this is my fiancée, Haseena, and I’m Gautam Mehta. Call me Gautam.’

  ‘Gautam, isn’t she real pretty?’ said Alice.

  ‘Well, she’s all right for me,’ Gautam replied, darting a furtive glance at Haseena.

  ‘Look at him,’ Alice said, turning to her husband, ‘as if he doesn’t know what he’s got there. A fancy doll, that’s what she is.’

  Haseena flushed. There was a brief pause.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Hindus?’ Alice asked.

  Obviously, the American couple had not guessed anything from their names; otherwise, Gautam thought, they should have sensed the communal mix-up.

  ‘I’m a Hindu,’ Gautam said, thinking it unnecessary to bring in his conversion to Christianity. ‘But my fiancée is a Muslim.’

  ‘But is it at all possible?’ Jim asked, utterly surprised.

  ‘Not ordinarily,’ Gautam replied, seeing that even these foreigners had understood the communal situation in India.

  ‘But what’s wrong if you’re in love?’ said Alice.

  ‘Of course,’ said Jim. ‘It’s just that the two communities are at war with each other, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ interjected Haseena. ‘But should religion be a barrier?’

  ‘No,’ replied Jim, impressed with the sudden sharp remark of the young Indian woman. ‘What a shame we kill each other in the name of God!’

  ‘That happens when our religion is just a political posture,’ said Haseena, ‘not a matter of conviction.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Alice; then looking at her husband: ‘Isn’t Gautam lucky to have someone like her? Beauty and mind!’

  Haseena turned crimson.

  ‘Eh, Jim, why don’t you tell them about the panda we met on the river this morning?’ said Alice.

  ‘Oh that guy? … He sure was something, Jesus.’ He paused. ‘What was his name, honey?’ he turned to his wife.

  ‘Panda Bhole,’ she answered.

  At the mention of the name, Gautam and Haseena sat up in their seats, startled.

  ‘You know,’ Jim resumed, ‘he was a real leviathan. We took several pictures of him. He just kept jabbering away in his native tongue, so our guide couldn’t give us all that he said. But I remember his telling us how he’d met a Muslim couple masquerading as Hindu honeymooners. He was going on as if he was after them. What kind of religious man was he?’

  He stopped only when the taxi braked in front of a buffalo, straying across the street, its owner just ambling behind the animal. The taxi was now racing through the eastern sector of the town.

  ‘Gautam, how can one tell a Hindu from a Muslim?’ Jim asked.

  ‘They look about the same,’ Gautam answered, ‘specially Hindu and Muslim women in saris, except that a Muslim woman doesn’t put on the kumkum—a dot on the forehead. Sherwani, a knee-length, tight-fitting jacket, and a fez is the dress for a Muslim man, while a Hindu ordinarily wears a dhoti and kurta.’

  ‘Like what you are wearing?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why has Haseena put on that dot?’ asked Alice, taking a side-glance at her.

  ‘Since we have to move about in a predominantly Hindu city,’ replied Gautam. ‘It’s a shame …’

  ‘Now we understand,’ said Alice. ‘You know, we love India in spite of the little mess you are in these days.’

  ‘It’s a lot of mess,’ said Gautam. ‘I do hope it’ll be cleaned up soon.’

  ‘But whatever the problems,’ said Jim, ‘India is now a free country. You always had our sympathies, you know.’

  ‘Every Indian knows that,’ said Gautam. ‘You were with us all the way.’

  Alice broke into a broad smile, gratified.

  ‘India has a glorious future,’ said Jim.

  ‘But a bleak present,’ Gautam quipped. ‘First, we must have peace before we can settle down to our freedom.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Jim. ‘Heard about our Statue of Liberty?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you know how we feel about freedom,’ said Alice.

  The taxi pulled up in front of a two-storey palatial building, glistening under a lingum-shaped dome, looking like an observatory—a spacious lawn in front, guava and mango trees on either side.

  ‘I guess, you may have already seen the place,’ said Jim, ‘but we’d be delighted if you could stay with us a little longer. We could then all go somewhere and have tea or something.’

  Haseena, who was feeling impatient to be alone with Gautam, said, ‘We’d have loved to stay with you but, unfortunately, we have to go somewhere.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Alice. ‘But we hope we’ll meet again.’

  ‘Yes, come and visit with us,’ said Jim, ‘in Cleveland, Ohio—our home town.’

  ‘Maybe we will, some day,’ said Gautam.

  Instantly, Jim took out his wallet from his hip pocket. As he unzipped it, there flashed out several plastic folds showing his identity card, his driving licence—and some snaps. Taking out the photographs, he said: ‘These are our kids—five of them. Three daughters, two sons. Pam, Karen, Mary, Jack and Chris … But isn’t that kind of unbalanced? I always ask Alice to produce one more son so that the family may be evenly paired.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Aren’t they charming?’ Gautam said, looking at the snaps. Gautam and Haseena got off at the next traffic light, saying goodbye to the American tourists.

  A quick tour of the city showed Gautam the enormity of communal tension. In spite of the police patrolling all parts of the city, it seemed as though the two communities, sworn to eternal enmity, were primed for another clash, mostly over Pannalal’s killing. How very ironical, Gautam thought, that while he strongly believed in communal harmony, tolerance and peace, he had himself become the cause of tension in the city.

  As he brought Haseena back to the Kashana Gate, he became sullen. This was the moment of parting.


  ‘I must leave for Delhi tomorrow,’ he said, his voice heavy, ‘to report to duty on Monday.’

  ‘I know,’ Haseena also sounded low.

  ‘But I’ll be back,’ said Gautam, ‘as soon as I am able to do something about the immigration papers for Salma and ammijan.’

  ‘That may take quite a while, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Perhaps Berry could be of some help if he’s got to know the police commissioner through an English friend of ours.’

  ‘That should certainly expedite matters.’

  ‘I propose to escort ammijan and Salma personally to Wagah, near Amritsar.’

  ‘Is that the international border between India and Pakistan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Haven’t you taken too much upon yourself?’ Haseena said, looking at him ardently.

  ‘If I have your love, I could walk through fire,’ he said.

  That night he sat up, till early morning, to finish the report he’d been commissioned to do for his paper.

  21

  It was a blitzkrieg, planned and executed with the uncanny precision of a hyena. Straight from Bob’s party, William Thornton first drove off to Asaf Ali Road to ensure that the arson in the cinema hall wouldn’t lead to rioting, then to his control room. Hurriedly, he summoned all his aides and ordered a surprise raid on the brothel behind Neel Kamal, exactly at 11:45, the following night. He directed that half an hour before the raid, all entrances and exits within a mile of the restaurant should be sealed off. A crack party of armed policemen, led by himself, would then comb all the lanes around Neel Kamal to locate the brothel!

  That evening, the weather took a sharp turn. A little before sunset, the sky became overcast with clouds; then at about half past ten, a heavy shower drove away almost all pedestrians from Faiz Bazaar and its bylanes. Even the tobacconist near Neel Kamal, who ordinarily kept his stall open till midnight, pulled down the shutters and went home. The entire place now wore a weird look.

  Precisely at 11:15, a fleet of police jeeps zoomed in from two opposite directions, from Delhi Gate and Victoria Zenana Hospital. Batches of policemen jumped off their jeeps, taking positions at the mouth of each lane. Surprised by this unusual operation, the manager of Neel Kamal asked one of the policemen: ‘Is there a riot or arson anywhere around?’