Train to Delhi

by Shiv Kumar Kumar

  ‘Haven’t I learnt enough from you?’ Gautam’s mother quipped. ‘Even at this age you won’t let me alone.’

  ‘Love’s not just that only, silly woman.’

  ‘Won’t you let me sleep now?’ a yawning voice mumbled, ‘I’m tired.’

  But, a few minutes later, Gautam heard their bed creaking.

  Next evening, he took Berry along with him, instead of his father. He was surprised to see Gandhi back at the prayer meeting right on time, calm and cheerful. This time Gautam decided not to ask him any question—just sit there and drink in every word he spoke. After the usual prayers, Gandhi spoke in a voice that was sombre, deep and resonant: ‘If I am to die by the bullet of a madman, I must do so smiling. There must be no anger within me. God must be in my heart and on my lips. And you promise me one thing. Should such a thing happen, nobody will shed a tear.’

  As soon as the meeting was over, Berry said to Gautam: ‘That guy is a teaser.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I felt he was teasing me into thinking—that life was more than just hoarding, that it was giving, sharing, not taking …’

  ‘Well, haven’t you been a giver too—in your own way?’

  ‘Come on.’

  Gautam felt that Gandhi’s prayer meetings somehow kept him close to Haseena; he could hardly ever keep her out of his mind. Wouldn’t the Mahatma have blessed his decision to marry a Muslim girl?’

  As for his mother, he noticed a distinct change in her attitude. Had his father been working on her in his own subtle way? Earlier, she used to get disturbed whenever a letter arrived from Allahabad. But this morning, when she picked up a letter from the mailbox, she beamed.

  ‘From her, I guess,’ she said.

  ‘You know it, mom,’ he smiled.

  Then, hurriedly looking through the letter, he turned to her.

  ‘Here’s something for you.’

  ‘What’s it? Why don’t you read it out to me?’

  Gautam began to read out a bit from the letter: ‘Don’t push your mother. Let her take her own time. One should always be patient with one’s mother.’

  ‘Very mature and perceptive,’ Gautam’s mother now said; then added: ‘Most unlike you.’

  Gautam just smiled.

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Very beautiful.’

  ‘When will you bring her to me?’

  ‘Very shortly, mom,’ Gautam said. ‘And don’t forget I love you very much.’

  ‘You flatterer!’

  Three days later, Gautam applied for leave and left for Allahabad.

  As soon as he reached there, his first concern was marriage—now that both families had agreed.

  It was a simple and brief ceremony in Haseena’s house, without anybody in the neighbourhood knowing about it, except the qazi. All that Gautam was required to do was to recite the kalma, and adopt a Muslim name. ‘Just for form’s sake,’ Haseena’s mother said. Readily, Gautam took the name ‘Saleem,’ although Haseena didn’t look very pleased. So, it was as Saleem that he stayed in their house in Mohalla Kashana. The next day, Gautam sent a telegram to Berry, informing him about the date and time of his train’s arrival in Delhi, although he knew that nothing could be certain in those abnormal times.

  24

  Like a snake of interminable length, the refugee special, with its trail of dull-brown bogies and a massive engine puffing out white hot steam, clanged into the Delhi station. Here, it was scheduled to stop for about an hour to pick up some more passengers, mostly Muslim, before proceeding to Wagah, near Amritsar, the terminal point on the Indian side of the international border. Since these specials ran only twice a week between Delhi and Amritsar, on Sundays and Fridays, hordes of Hindu raiders would prowl about the platforms on these days, looking out for the Muslims migrating to Pakistan. In spite of the armed police posted at all vulnerable points, these assaulters would somehow succeed in stabbing an unwary man, or whisking away a young girl.

  On this Sunday, however, there was an unusual police arrangement to guard the train which had just come in from Patna. It had brought Muslims from the eastern parts of India—Allahabad, Lucknow, Kanpur and Agra. As far as possible, the Muslims from a particular city were accommodated in the same compartment so that they might have a sense of camaraderie and collective security. Since these helpless creatures would have found it very risky to get off at any intervening station for food or drinks, the government had made arrangements for doling out packets of food at certain convenient points. Several Muslim philanthropists and secular peace organizations had also contributed generously towards their safe and comfortable journey to Amritsar.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Kelkar,’ Berry said, turning to the police officer. ‘Of course, you may recognize him …’

  ‘Indeed,’ Gautam responded, recalling the officer with a touch of leucoderma on his face, the one who had provoked his ire near St. John’s.

  The officer also felt a little embarrassed to recognize the journalist he’d shouted at after an attempted rape of a Hindu woman.

  ‘How are you, sir?’ enquired Kelkar.

  ‘Fine,’ said Gautam.

  ‘I should again like to apologize …’ Kelkar said, lowering his eyes.

  ‘Please …’ Gautam said, ‘no more of that.’

  ‘In fact,’ Berry said, addressing Gautam, ‘you should now thank him for all the arrangements he’s made for you—under Mr Thornton’s direction, of course.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Gautam.

  ‘Incidently,’ Berry added, ‘Mr Kelkar will also accompany you all on this train, right up to Amritsar, with a troop of armed policemen.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  Gautam then looked into the compartment and beckoned Begum Rahim, Haseena and Salma to come out. After escorting them all to a special waiting room, the officer walked away.

  When they were all together in the room, Berry handed over the immigration papers to Gautam, who passed them on to Haseena.

  ‘For the two ladies,’ Berry said, his eyes straying towards Salma. He was struck by the remarkable resemblance between the two sisters—the same chiselled features, deep brown eyes, wheatish complexion …

  As Haseena and Salma were busy looking at the papers, with Begum Rahim almost dozing off in the chair from exhaustion, Berry whispered into Gautam’s ear: ‘Two hours!’

  ‘There you go again.’

  ‘Annoyed?’ Berry murmured. ‘I just thought I wouldn’t mind taking Salma as my second wife, if Sonali didn’t return. Look, even their names alliterate—Sonali, Shyama, Salma!’

  ‘You could have two more if you embraced Islam,’ Gautam said, now feeling relaxed.

  ‘Why not?’ Berry said, throwing another furtive glance at Salma. ‘Would you like me also to come with you up to Amritsar? For protection’s sake?’

  ‘No, thanks. It should be a lot safer without you.’

  As the guard blew the whistle, Kelkar returned to the waiting room.

  ‘The commissioner has advised you, Mr Mehta,’ he said, ‘to travel in the general compartment for the Hindus and Sikhs only, so as not to arouse any suspicion.’

  ‘I understand,’ responded Gautam.

  As the train chugged into motion, there was a sudden outburst of shouting: ‘Death to all Pakistanis! Pakistan Murdabad! Kill the bloody Muslims!’ But the armed policemen on the platform kept the raiders away from the train.

  Only half of the seats in the compartment had been occupied. All the passengers were turbaned Sikhs, holding kirpans in their hands, while their women were dressed in shalwar and kameez. Although the law didn’t permit anyone to carry a lethal weapon, the Sikhs had been granted immunity on religious grounds.

  Gautam seated Haseena and Salma in a corner away from the door, while he himself sat next to Begum Rahim. He’d already given them Hindu names—while Haseena still remained Seema, Salma was named Durga, and their mother just mataji.

  On the seat opposite, right across the a
isle, sat a young Sikh couple—the husband was a huge creature, but his wife was a delicate woman who was feeding her little infant, under the flaps of her dupatta.

  ‘How far are you going?’ the young mother asked Haseena, pressing her child close to her breasts, a benign look on her face.

  ‘We’re going to Amritsar,’ Haseena replied.

  ‘To visit the Golden Temple?’

  Gautam understood that the woman was looking forward to a long chat. There was, of course, nothing else to see in Amritsar except the Temple.

  ‘Yes,’ Gautam intervened, fearing Haseena might somehow slip up. Then, turning to his companions, Gautam rolled out their names, also announcing the relationships: ‘My wife, her sister and my mother-in-law.’

  The young woman’s husband, his eyes flitting from Haseena to Salma, also heard the names. Then, taking off his turban and pressing the pleats of his beard against his chin, he said: ‘It wasn’t any fun at the Delhi station.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Gautam.

  ‘We couldn’t get a single Muslim,’ he said, his eyes glowering, face tense. ‘I don’t know why there were so many policemen on the platform today. I couldn’t put my kirpan to any use.’

  ‘Oh!’ Gautam stuttered.

  ‘We’d have travelled much lighter with a hundred Muslims wiped out,’ the man said, caressing his weapon.

  ‘My husband has been thirsting for Muslim blood,’ the young mother interjected. ‘I wonder if he’ll ever be satiated … I often ask him if Guru Nanak would have approved of all this killing.’

  ‘Well, he has his own reasons, I guess,’ Gautam said, scared of provoking her husband into any argument.

  ‘That’s it,’ blurted out the man. ‘Haven’t we reasons enough? What are those bastards doing to Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gautam mumbled, though cursing himself for giving in out of fear.

  ‘My wife is a simpleton,’ the Sikh said; then, looking proudly at his child, like a lion eyeing his cub, he added, ‘I hope he’ll take after me.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Gautam said, now pulling out of his handbag an old copy of The Challenge, and fanning it out to hide his face.

  What perturbed him most was the way this man kept leering at Haseena and Salma.

  It was now late evening. The train was speeding up somewhere between Ambala and Jullunder. From there, Gautam thought, it’d be just a couple of hours to Amritsar. In the weird silence and deepening darkness, the engine’s occasional whistling sounded like some wraith summoning everyone to the netherworld.

  Gautam looked at Begum Rahim, sitting near him, mute and frozen with fright.

  ‘Why don’t you have a nap, mataji?’ Gautam said, turning to her.

  ‘I’m all right, son. I’ll sleep a little later.’

  Haseena too was wide awake; only Salma had dozed off.

  As Gautam looked about the compartment, he noticed that almost all the passengers were now fast asleep, a couple of them were even snoring. The young Sikh mother had stretched herself on a berth, clasping the child close to her bosom. The only person awake was her husband, his lascivious gaze riveted on Haseena’s face.

  Gautam heard the continuous rattle of a door handle, which sounded like a band of chained prisoners, clanking about in a cell. As he rose to secure the door, Haseena’s mother gently pulled at his shirtsleeve.

  ‘Please keep sitting here,’ she whispered, her face ashen.

  ‘All right, mataji,’ he said, dropping back in his seat.

  For the first time Gautam felt like praying. As a young man, he’d always scoffed at it as man’s innate weakness. Man prayed, he then believed, whenever he was broken, gripped by some fear, or was impelled by greed to ask God for some material favours.

  But now an irresistible urge seized him. Yes, he must pray for this helpless Muslim family. He closed his eyes and started mumbling to himself: ‘Haven’t I suffered enough already, O God? I know I’ve no right to ask anything of you. I have lied and I have killed. But, then, what about your divine grace, your willingness to forgive and bless. I now beseech your help, not for myself but for these destitute women.’

  He broke off when the door rattle stopped.

  Suddenly, Gautam heard the train grinding to a halt. A few minutes later, the lights went off, followed by loud cries and wailing. All the sleeping passengers, men and women, now leapt to their feet. Panic-stricken, Gautam peered out of the window to see Kelkar dashing along the rail track towards the engine. Looking about himself, he noticed that the tough Sikh was gone.

  ‘It’s a raid,’ someone cried out from the adjoining compartment.

  Then Gautam saw Muslims jumping out of the train, screaming, running helter-skelter, pursued by the raiders who brandished their kirpans, knives and sticks—yelling: ‘Sat Sri Akal! Har Har Mahadev!’ It was now clear that some gang had ambushed the train in the middle of the night to massacre all the Muslims on board.

  The other Sikhs in the compartment also rushed out, unsheathing their kirpans. Gautam was surprised to see their womenfolk sitting unruffled, obviously aware that the attack was directed against the Muslims only.

  Gautam heard some voices below his window:

  ‘They’d tied a buffalo in the middle of the track.’

  ‘That’s why the driver had to brake to avoid a major accident.’

  ‘It must have been all pre-planned.’

  ‘I’m glad we Hindus are no longer behaving like grass-eaters.’

  Gautam now felt some pressure against his body. Turning, he noticed that Haseena’s mother had fainted, her head leaning against his left shoulder.

  ‘Mataji!’ the young Sikh mother exclaimed; then addressing Gautam: ‘Why don’t you sprinkle some water on her face?’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Haseena said. ‘She’s not been keeping too well, lately.’

  ‘Look at my husband,’ said the woman, ‘he must have joined the gang. Oh God!’

  As Haseena’s mother came to, Gautam said: ‘Why should we worry, mataji? It’s our own people doing it.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she stuttered, slowly opening her eyes.

  He’d hardly consoled her when a group of raiders charged into the compartment.

  ‘Any Muslims here?’ bawled out a stocky man, brandishing a dagger in his right hand.

  ‘No, please,’ the Sikh mother replied. ‘We’re only Sikhs or Hindus here.’

  ‘Sikhs are all right, but we must know about the others …’ he paused, his eyes now picking on Gautam. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A Hindu—Gautam Mehta,’ he replied, fear choking his throat. ‘And this is Seema, my wife, Durga, my sister-in-law …’

  ‘Will you stop this naming game?’ he growled. ‘I was asking only you … Understand!’

  ‘Haven’t I answered, please?’

  ‘Yes, but we’d have to look you over ourselves,’ he said, glaring at Gautam. Then, addressing the other women passengers in the compartment, he added: ‘We’ve caught many Muslims travelling in the general compartments, masquerading as clean-shaven Sikhs or Hindus, or even bareheaded sadhus. These treacherous Muslims …’

  ‘But this is a Hindu family,’ the Sikh mother intervened. They’re going on a pilgrimage to the Golden Temple.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just a trumped-up story,’ the stocky man said. ‘We must get at the truth.’

  ‘No harm in their checking him,’ another Sikh woman said, sitting at the far end of the aisle.

  ‘That’s it!’ grunted the stocky man. ‘So, come out at once, will you?’

  One of his companions now began to drag Gautam out of the train.

  ‘Please,’ Haseena’s mother implored, her hands folded, ‘spare him! … We are Hindus, he’s my son-in-law. You may kill me, if you like but …’

  ‘There’s something shady, surely,’ grinned the stocky man. ‘Otherwise, why this frantic pleading?’

  Gautam knew there was no way out. Terror-stricken, he allowed himself to be taken out, after handing ove
r the immigration papers to Haseena’s mother.

  ‘I’ll be back soon, mataji,’ said Gautam. ‘Don’t worry. Let them satisfy themselves.’

  As they led him deep into a maize field, Gautam looked about to see other members of the gang attacking the Muslim refugees.

  Finding his twenty-odd policemen pitted against a hundred raiders, Kelkar ordered his men to bring down the machine guns, and start firing. As the guns began to rumble in the air, the raiders started fleeing.

  Darkness lay all around, thick and heavy, shattered intermittently by the guns booming in the air.

  Gautam was taken behind a bush and ordered to undress.

  ‘Come on, man, quick,’ barked the stocky man; then, turning to one of his companions, he ordered: ‘Rip off his clothes if he doesn’t cooperate.’

  Blood mounting to his face, Gautam began to undress—first his trousers, then his underwear … He felt so sick that he nearly threw up. This, he thought, was the desecration of both his body and soul. He wished he’d been killed instead.

  As he stood stark naked, like a pale sacrifice offered to some demon, a flashlight probed his groin—then a rough hand probed him between his thighs.

  ‘No circumcision—he’s a Hindu all right,’ said a voice.

  ‘You may now dress up,’ said the stocky man. ‘We had to do it, you know.’

  As Gautam started dressing up, the raiders made off, leaving him alone in the maize field.

  Moisture welled up in his eyes, blurring everything around. He knew he’d now have to carry this scar on his soul all his life.

  Almost limping back into the compartment, as though he’d been grievously wounded in the leg, Gautam felt relieved to see Begum Rahim and the girls quite safe. All the other passengers had also returned to their seats—even the tough Sikh.

  Begum Rahim didn’t utter a word, nor did the girls, but they understood what he’d been through.

  Since the guns had frightened the raiders away, an eerie silence descended upon the place. Then came the guard’s piercing whistle. The engine lurched into motion, puffing out jets of white steam into the air. Striding along the rail track on his way back to the guard’s van, Kelkar looked into Gautam’s compartment.