Train to Delhi (20 page)

‘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

I
t 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?'

‘I don't know,' replied the policeman. ‘Will you remain inside your restaurant for the next three hours? These are our orders.'

The manager went inside his restaurant, utterly confounded.

Then a jeep, with a superintendent of police at the steering wheel and the police commissioner seated beside him, penetrated a lane along the Diamond Cinema, followed by a dozen armed policemen on foot. But a few yards further down the lane, the jeep had to be abandoned because the passage was too narrow. The commissioner now led his party on foot, wedging deeper into the area. The snorting of the jeep had, however, already awakened most of the residents who began to look out of their windows, astounded and terrified.

As an old bearded man, in a soiled sherwani, emerged from a dilapidated room, shuffling towards the street urinal, the superintendent of police ordered him to stop.

‘Who are you?'

‘I live over there, sir,' the man replied, pointing towards his room across the lane. He felt almost paralysed to see armed policemen prowling all around.

‘With your family?'

‘Alone, sir,' came the tremulous reply.

At this point, William Thornton himself stepped forward. The appearance of someone, looking like an Englishman, decorated with epaulettes and medals, scared him out of his wits.

‘There is a brothel around here, old man … Where's it?' The commissioner asked him in Anglicized Hindustani.

‘I don't know, sir,' the man stuttered.

Poking him in the ribs with the butt of his revolver, the superintendent of police shouted: ‘Don't waste our time!'

The pressure of urine deepening in his bladder, and fear gripping his heart, the old man lost his nerve. Of course, he knew where the brothel was, but he was also aware that a word from him would endanger his life. The mafia would wipe him out forthwith. So he stood there, mute and bewildered.

The superintendent of police now grabbed him by the beard and punched him hard in the stomach. The old man doubled up, and began to cry.

‘You want another?' the superintendent asked, pulling hard at his beard.

‘They'll kill me, sir,' stuttered the man, looking beseechingly at the commissioner.

‘Who're they?' asked William Thornton.

‘Pannalal, Suleiman Ghani and the others.'

The first name rang a bell in Thornton's mind. Wasn't this the name his control room had picked up in the wireless message from Allahabad? The papers had put him out as ‘a Hindu pilgrim from Delhi'. Although Pannalal was a common Hindu name, the commissioner decided to link it up with the killing on the Ganges—as a strategy.

‘Pannalal is already dead,' said the commissioner. ‘Killed in Allahabad. Didn't you read about it in the papers?'

The old ignoramus merely blinked like an idiot, then replied: ‘There'll still be Suleiman Ghani, sir—he'll get me.'

‘He's been arrested,' said the commissioner. ‘So why are you afraid?'

‘I can only point out the house from here, sir,' he replied, his voice a mute whisper.

‘That should be all right,' said the commissioner. ‘You needn't be fearful of anybody now. We'll guarantee you full protection. So tell us—quick.'

But as the old man pointed his finger towards a large mansion further down the lane, the commissioner saw someone with a gun leap across its roof to the adjoining terrace. Immediately, he ordered a sniper from his party to shoot him down. As the bullet got the man on the housetop, a shriek slashed the air, followed by the sound of a body falling down.

‘Well done!' said the commissioner, turning to the sniper.

‘But how could Ghani be arrested, sir?' the old man asked, looking distrustfully at the commissioner. ‘That man just shot down was he.'

Merely grinning, the commissioner ordered his men to cordon off the brothel. Its front door was then rammed open, and the party trooped in. Within a few minutes, Ghani was captured, his leg bleeding profusely. He was carried away in a police jeep.

By now all the lights in the lane had been switched on, and stunned faces peered out of the windows and balconies. But nobody dared come out into the lane even though it was evident that the brothel had been raided.

As William Thornton and his men entered the building, they were shocked to witness a gruesome spectacle. A woman, in her mid-forties, with a bottle of kerosene oil in her right hand, was forcing a young girl into a blazing fire in the courtyard. But each time she caught hold of her, the other girls pulled her out and instead tried to shove the woman herself into the fire.

‘Take that woman into custody,' the commissioner ordered a policeman.

She was dragged out of the house and whisked away in a jeep.

For a few minutes, all the young girls, Hindu or Muslim, couldn't believe they'd been rescued. They looked about dazed; then a full-throated cheer broke through: ‘Shukriya! Thank you, sir!'

Like a flock of caged birds, suddenly set free, they fluttered about the courtyard, happy and excited.

‘You are our saviour, sir!' exclaimed the tall girl who'd narrowly missed getting pushed into the fire. ‘A few minutes more and she'd have done us all to ashes.'