Train to Delhi

by Shiv Kumar Kumar

  ‘Nonsense,’ Gautam said. ‘I did it—I got him with his own knife, but out of sheer self-defence.’ A pause. He then added: ‘Hadn’t you got him stripped on the platform? So he came after us …’

  Berry craned his neck forward to take a close look at Gautams’ face.

  ‘Are you fantasizing?’ he said, sceptically. ‘How could a spineless, non-violent creature like you kill a tough, sly guy like Pannalal?’

  Then, as Gautam narrated the entire incident, Berry felt as though he was listening to an incredible tale.

  ‘But now a greater ordeal awaits me,’ Gautam said. ‘Facing my parents.’

  ‘You’ll come through.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gautam mumbled, standing up to leave. ‘My old man must be wondering why I’m fooling around with Christians and Muslims.’

  By the time Gautam got to Anand Parbat, it was about eleven. Answering the door, his mother flashed a cold, stern look at him. After the divorce, she’d started negotiating her son’s second marriage; in fact, she already had in mind a couple of girls, beautiful and educated.

  Then Berry blew up the bombshell.

  ‘Running away from me, mother?’ Gautam held her back by the hand.

  ‘What’s left for me to look forward to?’

  ‘I know you’re very angry with me … But then you don’t know enough.’

  ‘Maybe I know too much,’ she flared up, and walked away.

  It would be futile arguing with her now, Gautam thought. She was obviously worked up. His father, who was reading something in his room, emerged on hearing Gautam’s voice.

  ‘It was a long stay, Gautam,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, father. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Got your assignment done?’

  ‘I’ve brought it along. I’ll hand it in tomorrow, though I should have done it today.’

  They were just hedging around, Gautam knew. But, thank God, his father didn’t look tense like his mother.

  ‘I met Berry the other day,’ his father said, in a heavy voice.

  ‘Yes, he’s told me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I stopped by at Berry’s house for a few minutes.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘Are you angry with me, Dad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I need your blessings.’

  ‘You already have them,’ said Shyamlal, tenderly. ‘And don’t you worry about your mother. She’ll come around. Give her a little time.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Gautam said, intensely moved by his father’s ready approval.

  Gautam’s eyes fell upon a large leather-bound book whose green title caught his attention—The Koran. He picked it up from his father’s table, fascinated by the picture on the jacket—an angelic reader, bending over an open page, on which the sunbeams descended from the sky.

  ‘Yes,’ Gautam’s father said, asking him to sit in a chair close by. ‘I’ve been reading this for the past couple of days.’

  ‘I understand …’ Gautam wondered if his father was still inwardly troubled about something.

  ‘You know,’ said Shyamlal, ‘I should thank you for bringing me to this great book.’ Then, taking it from Gautam’s hand, he opened it on a page underscored in red. ‘Will you read out this bit—aloud?’

  The passage was titled ‘The Laws’, from one of the sermons given by the Prophet:

  All human beings are created as a family

  A single community

  Then God sends His Prophets

  Bearers of glad tidings,

  Who guide those who believe in Him

  And punish the evil.

  As soon as he finished reading, his father asked: ‘Now isn’t that what Lord Krishna also says in the Bhagavadgita? ‘Whenever righteousness declines and evil prospers, I assume a visible shape and move as man with man, guiding the virtuous, punishing the wicked …’ Don’t you have here two Prophets saying the same thing?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘And yet there’s so much hatred between Hindus and Muslims.’

  ‘Then wasn’t Prophet Mohammad,’ remarked Gautam, ‘also an avatar?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ replied his father. ‘Like Jesus, the Buddha, Guru Nanak and even Swami Dayanand. Didn’t you notice in this passage from the Koran that God sends, from time to time, His bearers of glad tidings? There, you have a clear enunciation of a sort of universal prophethood that embraces all religions—Hinduism, Christianity and Islam.’

  Gautam now sensed how his father had worked himself into this rhetoric. Had he really come around to this realization, or was he merely rationalizing his son’s love for a Muslim girl?

  Outside the window, some urchins were chasing a mad man who’d stripped himself stark naked.

  ‘I played chess with God last night,’ the lunatic was squealing away, ‘and I beat him—hands down. Poor thing! When he grinned, I noticed that he’d several abscessed teeth. Bleeding gums too! And they still call him God Almighty.’

  ‘How much did he lose to you?’ asked one of the urchins.

  ‘A tenner! But I let him go. You know, he is also a pauper like me.’

  The man then broke into a peal of laughter.

  The noise brought Gautam’s mother to the window. Looking at her husband and son, she said: ‘I see madness everywhere, even inside this house. There’s just one lunatic out there but there’re two right in here.’

  ‘Don’t be so nasty, Radha,’ Shamlal cut in. ‘Why don’t you let us talk in peace?’

  She shuffled away, grumbling. ‘All right, why don’t you settle everything between the two of you?’

  ‘Don’t be upset, Gautam,’ said his father, ‘she’ll be all right.’ He paused. ‘I just want to ask you something … How far have you gone with this Muslim girl?’

  ‘I want to marry her, father.’

  A brief silence.

  ‘Will it be a Muslim wedding?’ Shamlal asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Thank you, father.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Any time—in Allahabad …’

  ‘I see,’ Shamlal muttered. ‘Then go ahead, my son.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gautam said. A pause. ‘Her mother and sister want to migrate to Pakistan. They see no future in India. And I have offered to escort them up to Amritsar.’

  ‘I understand,’ said his father. ‘But wouldn’t that be a very dangerous undertaking?’ There was a tremor in his voice as though something had disturbed his equanimity.

  ‘Someone will have to do it for them … Perhaps Berry could help. He knows the police commissioner.’

  ‘Then it’s all settled.’

  ‘You’ve been more than a friend to me.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be the only relationship between father and son?’ Shamlal said.

  Using William Thornton’s influence with the Pakistan High Commission, Berry was able to get the immigration papers processed expeditiously. The police commissioner also offered to arrange for an armed police escort for Berry’s friends for their train journey from Delhi to Amritsar. Wasn’t Thornton grateful to Berry for his tip in busting the brothel?

  The next morning, Gautam wrote a detailed letter to Haseena, informing her that he had secured his parents’ approval—and that he had also got the immigration papers for her mother and Salma. But he added that he might have to stay back in Delhi for about a fortnight to attend to his official duties before he could apply for leave.

  23

  ‘I believe Mahatma Gandhi is essentially a radical socialist,’ said the editor of The Challenge. The creaking of the ceiling fan partly drowned his voice.

  ‘But what about his religious eclecticism?’ Gautam responded, inwardly anxious to know what his editor had to say about his article on communal harmony.

  ‘That was only a camouflage,’ the editor replied, his eyes flashing under his thick brows, which almost joined across his nose bridge.<
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  In spite of his stern appearance, Gautam had always liked his boss for his pliant willingness to be challenged. In fact, everyone on the staff knew that the more you disagreed with him, the more he admired you.

  ‘But hasn’t he written a very perceptive treatise on the Gita?’

  ‘There too,’ the editor said, ‘he is basically concerned with the concept of social justice … Didn’t he say only the other day that the lowliest of our people are the true salt of the Indian nation?’ He paused. Then, he added: ‘Incidentally, haven’t you also stressed the point that the poor man, whether Hindu, Muslim or Christian, is indifferent to communal politics? He just wants his bread and shelter.’ Then, nodding his head in affirmation, he added, ‘That was well said.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Gautam said, feeling gratified.

  He then wondered if his editor had heard about his conversion to Christianity—also about Mohinder’s marriage to Sarita. But, surely, he couldn’t have known anything about his love for a Muslim girl. There, even his radical socialism would have perhaps failed him, for wasn’t he at heart a committed Hindu?

  ‘My only quarrel with your article is,’ the editor said, looking directly at Gautam, ‘that it has a palpable religious slant … You seem to be moving towards Gandhi, as you understand him—towards a sort of universal religion.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Gautam said, ‘because I can’t divorce the Mahatma’s political views from his deeper awareness of religion as a force that should bring man closer to man.’

  ‘Well,’ the editor’s voice now rose above the ceiling fan’s loud whirring, ‘you still have to know the man more closely to see how subtly his mind operates … Maybe, you’d like to follow up your article with something on Gandhi’s prayer meetings at the Birla House.’

  ‘I should love to …’

  ‘You may then see,’ the editor was back on his track, ‘that by juxtaposing all religions, he is, in fact, trying to neutralize any kind of religious commitment into his own brand of socialism—a social order cutting across caste, creed and colour. And since our nation, fed for centuries on these prejudices, is not yet ready for his Utopia, he may get hurt one of these days.’

  ‘He’s certainly far ahead of our times.’

  ‘Yes,’ the editor concurred. ‘Let’s have your comments on the prayer meetings which, I understand, are attracting large crowds.’

  ‘I should find this assignment very exciting.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the editor, ‘I’ll ask Mohinder to drop these meetings and cover only the local events.’

  The mere mention of this name stung Gautam. Was the editor discreetly trying to keep them apart, like a referee coming in between two incensed boxers? Gautam now realized the impossibility of continuing with his job at The Challenge in spite of his liking for the editor. How long could he avoid running into Mohinder, now his former wife’s husband?

  But, for the time being, he was caught up with the idea of covering the Mahatma’s evening prayer meetings. Prayers, sacred or profane, had begun to fascinate him—Father Jones’s for his long happiness, Begum Rahim’s for her deceased husband and Panda Bhole’s mercenary mumbojumbo at the Triveni …

  When Gautam announced his assignment to his father, Shamlal looked interested.

  ‘You never take me along anywhere,’ he said. ‘You cut me out of your baptism … What kind of friendship is this?’

  Gautam responded with a broad smile.

  ‘Of course, Dad, you’re most welcome,’ he said, ‘though I should caution you that it wouldn’t be anything like your Sunday havan at the Arya Samaj temple. And I’ll be on duty, awfully busy.’

  ‘I know all this,’ said Shamlal. ‘But don’t forget his prayer meetings are not for journalists only.’

  But just as Gautam got himself ready for the prayer meeting, the Mahatma announced his fast unto death. When the Government of India, under direction from Gandhi, ordered the police to evict, from all mosques, the Hindu refugees who’d started using them as their halls of residence, there were angry protests. Incited by the Hindu fanatics, the refugees burst into another round of communal frenzy. This provoked Gandhi into taking this desperate step.

  His fast worked as a miracle: peace committees, headed by senior leaders of both warring communities, mushroomed overnight. He took a glass of orange juice to break his fast only after he’d been assured of peace by both Hindus and Muslims.

  A week later, Gandhi announced the resumption of his prayer meetings at the Birla House, a palatial building owned by an affluent Hindu philanthropist, who always hosted Gandhi during his stay in the capital.

  As Gautam and his father arrived at the Birla House, an hour ahead of time, they noticed a group of people already gathered on the lawn facing a wooden platform. While Shamlal entered into conversation with some bystanders, mostly Punjabis, Gautam looked about, taking mental notes of the place.

  The prayer ground stood some distance away from the Birla House, which was raised in red sandstone. In between lay a rose garden on one side, and a number of petunia beds on the other. The gardener seemed to have tended the flower beds with scrupulous care. A few yards away, to the left of the prayer platform, stood a small family temple.

  Precisely at five, Gandhi emerged from the Birla House, and started walking towards the prayer ground, his hands resting gently on the shoulders of two young ladies. Immediately, the crowd rose in respect, a hush descending all over the place. Then everyone sat down quietly, after the Mahatma took his seat on the platform.

  Then began the prayers. The first was a chant from a Buddhist scripture, the second a few verses from the Gita, the third a Parsi hymn, followed by Cardinal Newman’s ‘Lead, Kindly Light’. But as someone began to recite from the Koran, Gautam’s father exchanged an omniscient look with his son. The Mahatma had chosen precisely the same verses from the Koran:

  All human beings are created as a family

  A single community …

  The entire sequence of prayers then concluded with a rhythmical hand-clapping and head-swaying to the Ramdhun, the choral part of the evening’s programme:

  Called by diverse names

  Bhagwan or Allah

  You are the same, O Lord!

  Give every human being

  Sanity to perceive this.

  Then, in a feeble, husky voice, weakened by his recent fast, Gandhi asked if there were any Muslims in the audience. When he was told that there were none, he shook his head sadly. Gautam wished he had Haseena by his side that Thursday evening. Wouldn’t Gandhi have felt redeemed to know that a Hindu, turned Christian, was now committed to marrying a Muslim?

  A voice now rose, feeble but firm: ‘We have indulged in senseless killings, abductions, forced conversions, and we have done all this shamelessly.’

  Everyone could see a glow of righteous wrath in Gandhi’s eyes as the evening sun caught his face.

  Gautam felt as if the Mahatma had spoken to him exclusively. If only he’d known about Haseena’s suffering at the hands of the Delhi pimps! But as for ‘forced conversions’, in this case it was a voluntary act, though used as a subterfuge to secure his release. Pardonable, therefore.

  Nor was his killing of Pannalal senseless. Wasn’t that justified too, as a pure act of self-defence?

  When question time came, Gautam, troubled by his conscience, stood up to ask if killing was pardonable in certain special circumstances.

  ‘Never’, responded Gandhi, ‘for the means are as important as the ends, however, worthy they may be.’

  ‘Then why did Lord Krishna exhort Prince Arjuna to kill his own kinsmen on the battlefield of Kurukshetra?’

  There was a moment’s pause. Gandhi seemed to ponder over Gautam’s question.

  But before any answer came from the platform, something exploded in the air. Everyone jumped up in fright, except Gandhi, who kept sitting, serene and unruffled, as though the deafening blast was a mere firecracker. In a few minutes, it became known that someone had th
rown a hand grenade at the Mahatma from the garden wall, close by. The man was immediately nabbed and handed over to the police. But as he was being taken away, he was heard shouting: ‘We’ll do it again … We’ll kill this saviour of the Muslims.’

  There was now a commotion all over the place. Out on the street, Gautam and his father heard a mélange of voices:

  ‘Thank God, the Mahatma escaped unhurt …’

  ‘You must be another Mahatma,’ someone shot back from the crowd. ‘Do you know how many of us have been thrown out of the mosques by the government, while our temples in Pakistan are being used as urinals? We have no shelter now …’

  ‘I lost my entire property in Peshawar …’

  ‘My younger sister was taken away by the Muslim goons, in Lahore …’

  ‘And here is this fake saint reciting verses from the Koran!’

  ‘Let’s call him Maulana Gandhi, not Mahatma …’

  ‘Once he’s gone, we’ll settle scores with the bloody Muslims—now that their British protectors are not there.’

  ‘We’ll turn every mosque in Delhi into a brothel …’

  It was obviously a group of Hindu fanatics, refugees from Pakistan.

  ‘Maniacs!’ Shamlal whispered into his son’s ear.

  ‘Devils!’ Gautam exclaimed.

  But further down the street, they heard a couple of women talking to each other.

  ‘How could anyone kill the Mahatma when he walks about under God’s own umbrella?’

  ‘Isn’t he our new avatar—after the Buddha and Guru Nanak?’

  As Gautam lay in his bed that night, he heard whisperings in his parents’ bedroom. He could catch only some snippets of their conversation.

  ‘It seems Gautam’s gone completely under the Mahatma’s spell.’ That was his father’s voice, cryptic though tender.

  ‘God help him … I hope he’ll regain his sanity.’

  ‘Look, darling, can’t you see anything else beyond your rigid orthodoxy?’ His father’s voice was rather gruff this time. ‘Isn’t he your child?’

  ‘It seems he’s more yours than mine.’

  ‘Come on, my dear,’ he said pungently. ‘You don’t know what love is.’