Train to Delhi (24 page)

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 over 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.

‘Sorry, Mr Mehta,' he said. ‘I couldn't see you earlier. I hope you had no trouble.'

‘No, Mr Kelkar.'

When the passengers saw the police officer talking so deferentially to Gautam, they felt awed.

The train took about two hours to reach Amritsar. Here, as directed by William Thornton, the local superintendent of police escorted Gautam's party to the international border. By the time they got there, it was already morning, with the sun slowly rising above the horizon.

Gautam warmly thanked Kelkar for all his help.

‘Will you, please, also convey my gratitude to the commissioner?' said Gautam.

‘I will,' he said, and jeeped away.

It was an unending ant line of Muslim migrants, trudging close upon each other's heels. Some of them were carrying only a handbag or a small suitcase, their sole movable property to be carried across the border. Famished and wrinkled faces stared blankly into space. Occasionally, a child whimpered for food or drink, only to be shouted down by his or her parents. As the line moved forward, at a snail's pace, some started up a conversation with the others, sharing memories of what they were leaving behind—their ancestral homes, their friends and their relatives. They were not certain what awaited them in the new country. It was a journey into the unknown.

At the end of the line was the immigration checkpost, which looked like a customs barrier. It had been set up on the southern edge of a bamboo bridge, across a river which drove a discreet wedge between the outskirts of Amritsar and Mumtazpur (a small village on the Pakistani side).

As Salma and her mother inched forward, Haseena and Gautam walked alongside, nobody saying anything. They heard only the buzzing of their thoughts, like bats flapping their scaly wings in the dark.

The die had been cast and there was no going back.

The Pakistani immigration officer scrutinized the papers of Begum Rahim and Salma very closely; he then ushered them across the border, smiling like St. Peter at the gates of heaven.

But before Haseena's mother took Salma across the bridge, she turned back, leaning tearfully over the bamboo railing.

‘God willing, we'll meet again,' she cried out, ‘Inshallah.'

‘Inshallah!' Gautam responded.

Haseena stood mute. Tears welled up in her eyes and her lips and hands quivered. Then she waved to her mother and sister.

Another cry wafted across the bridge:

‘Khuda Hafiz! God be with you!'

‘Khuda Hafiz!'

Gautam and Haseena stood on the southern bank of the river, waving to two shadowy figures, gradually fading into the crowd on the other side. Then they were gone, as though sucked into some whirlpool.

Gautam took Haseena's hand gently into his right palm, looking deep into her eyes.

‘I love you,' he breathed.

‘I love you too,' Haseena's voice was a mere whisper; then dovetailing her fingers into his, she mumbled: ‘Now, call me Haseena Mehta.'

‘No, my love,' he said. ‘Not Haseena Mehta.' Then, carried on the crest of some powerful emotion: ‘Just Haseena Gautam—our first names only … Yes, we'll start a new race—sans caste, sans religion, sans nationality.'

Their handclasp deepened into a warm pressure; a current flowed from one body to the other.

As Haseena leaned her head against his shoulder, he caressed her hair. Then, looking at both sides of the river, he saw the same chequered fields of maize. He wondered if the long drooping ears of their stems also heard the mute cries of the displaced, who walked across the bridge every day.

The sky was now covered with mountains of clouds—white, inky blue and grey. They assumed all sorts of fantastic shapes—of giant dinosaurs, their long necks craning forward, of the skeletal remains of some primordial mammals, of an army of soldiers on the rout. Ceaselessly, they sailed across the bridge, from India to Pakistan, casting fugitive reflections in the tawny waters of the river.

Suddenly, a flock of birds shot into the sky, and began to circle joyously over the maize fields on either side, as though scornful of the happenings on the earth below. Their spangled wings, poised securely against the wind, glimmered in the morning sun. Their puny belly tanks charged with some inexhaustible fuel, they flew round and round, up and down—and warbled.

A
cknowledgements

I
am grateful to Amitendu Bhattacharya, my young friend, who has helped me with proofreading and editing.

A N
OTE ON THE
A
UTHOR

S
hiv K. Kumar has donned many hats and lived many lives: poet, novelist, short-story writer, playwright, translator, academic and critic. He was born in Lahore, where he received his school and college education. He obtained his doctorate in English Literature from the University of Cambridge. Prof. Kumar has published thirteen volumes of poetry, five novels, two collections of short stories and a play. His poems have appeared in several renowned newspapers and journals like the
New York Times, Poetry Review
(London),
Western Humanities Review,
among others—and been broadcast on the BBC. In 1978, he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (London). He received the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1987 for his collection of poems
Trapfalls in the Sky.
In 2001, he was awarded the Padma Bhushan for his contribution to literature.