Train to Pakistan (20 page)

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind what the train contained. They were sure that the soldiers would come for oil and wood. They had no more oil to spare and the wood they had left was too damp to burn. But the soldiers did not come. Instead, a bulldozer arrived from somewhere. It began dragging its lower jaw into the ground just outside the station on the Mano Majra side. It went along, eating up the earth, chewing it, casting it aside. It did this for several hours, until there was a rectangular trench almost fifty yards long with mounds of earth on either side. Then it paused for a break. The soldiers and policemen who had been idly watching the bulldozer at work were called to order and marched back to the platform. They came back in twos carrying canvas stretchers. They tipped the stretchers into the pit and went back to the train for more. This went on all day till sunset. Then the bulldozer woke up again. It opened its jaws and ate up the earth it had thrown out before and vomited it into the trench till it was level with the ground. The place looked like the scar of a healed-up wound. Two soldiers were left to guard the grave from the depredations of jackals and badgers.

That evening, the entire village turned up for the evening prayers at the gurdwara. This had never happened before, except on Gurus’ birthdays or on the New Year’s Day in April. The only regular visitors to the temple were old men and women. Others came to have their children named, for baptisms, weddings and funerals. Attendance at prayers had been steadily going up since the murder of the moneylender; people did not want to be alone. Since the Muslims had gone, their deserted houses with doors swinging wide open had acquired an eerie, haunted look. Villagers walked past them quickly without turning their heads. The one place of refuge to which people could go without much explanation was the gurdwara. Men came pretending that they would be needed; women just to be with them, and they brought the children. The main hall where the scripture was kept and the two rooms on the side were jammed with refugees and villagers. Their shoes were neatly arranged in rows on the other side of the threshold.

Meet Singh read the evening prayer by the light of the hurricane lamp. One of the men stood behind him waving a fly whisk. When the prayer was over, the congregation sang a hymn while Meet Singh folded the Granth in gaudy silk scarfs and laid it to rest for the night. The worshippers stood up and folded their hands. Meet Singh took his place in front. He repeated the names of the ten Gurus, the Sikh martyrs and the Sikh shrines and invoked their blessing; the crowd shouted their amens with loud ‘Wah Gurus’ at the end of each supplication. They went down on their knees, rubbed their foreheads on the ground, and the ceremony was over. Meet Singh came and joined the men.

It was a solemn assembly. Only the children played. They chased each other around the room, laughing and arguing. The adults scolded the children. One by one, the children returned to their mothers’ laps and fell asleep. Then the men and women
also stretched themselves on the floor in the different parts of the room.

The day’s events were not likely to be forgotten in sleep. Many could not sleep at all. Others slept fitfully and woke up with startled cries if a neighbour’s leg or arm so much as touched them. Even the ones who snored with apparent abandon, dreamed and relived the scenes of the day. They heard the sound of motor vehicles, the lowing of cattle and people crying. They sobbed in their sleep and their beards were moist with their tears.

When the sound of a motor horn was heard once more, those who were awake but drowsy thought they were dreaming. Those that were dreaming thought they were hearing it in their dreams. In their dreams they even said ‘Yes, yes’ to the voice which kept asking ‘Are you all dead?’

The late night visitor was a jeep like the one in which the army officers had come in the morning. It seemed to know its way about the village. It went from door to door with a voice inquiring, ‘Is there anyone there?’ Only the dogs barked in reply. Then it came to the temple and the engine was switched off. Two men walked into the courtyard and shouted again: ‘Is there anyone here or are you all dead?’

Everyone got up. Some children began to cry. Meet Singh turned up the wick of his hurricane lantern. He and the lambardar went out to meet the visitors.

The men saw the commotion they had created. They ignored the lambardar and Meet Singh and walked up to the threshold of the large room. One looked in at the bewildered crowd and asked:

‘Are you all dead?’

‘Any one of you alive?’ added the other.

The lambardar answered angrily, ‘No one is dead in this village. What do you want?’

Before the men could answer two of their companions joined them. All were Sikhs. They wore khaki uniforms and had rifles slung on their shoulders.

‘This village looks quite dead,’ repeated one of the strangers, loudly addressing his own companions.

‘The Guru has been merciful to this village. No one has died here,’ answered Meet Singh with quiet dignity.

‘Well, if the village is not dead, then it should be. It should be drowned in a palmful of water. It consists of eunuchs,’ said the visitor fiercely with a flourish of his hand.

The strangers took off their shoes and came inside the large hall. The lambardar and Meet Singh followed them. Men sat up and tied their turbans. Women put their children in their laps and tried to rock them to sleep again.

One of the group, who appeared to be the leader, motioned the others to sit down. Everyone sat down. The leader had an aggressive bossy manner. He was a boy in his teens with a little beard which was glued to his chin with brilliantine. He was small in size, slight of build and altogether somewhat effeminate; a glossy red ribbon showed under the acute angle of his bright blue turban. His khaki army shirt hung loosely from his round drooping shoulders. He wore a black leather Sam Browne: the strap across his narrow chest charged with bullets and the broad belt clamped about his still narrower waist. On one side it had a holster with the butt of a revolver protruding; on the other side there was a dagger. He looked as if his mother had dressed him up as an American cowboy.

The boy caressed the holster of his revolver and ran his fingers over the silver noses of the bullets. He looked around him with complete confidence.

‘Is this a Sikh village?’ he asked insolently. It was obvious to the villagers that he was an educated city-dweller. Such men
always assumed a superior air when talking to peasants. They had no regard for age or status.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the lambardar. ‘It has always been a Sikh village. We had Muslim tenants but they have gone.’

‘What sort of Sikhs are you?’ asked the boy, glowering menacingly. He elaborated his question: ‘Potent or impotent?’

No one knew what to say. No one protested that this was not the sort of language one used in a gurdwara with women and children sitting by.

‘Do you know how many trainloads of dead Sikhs and Hindus have come over? Do you know of the massacres in Rawalpindi and Multan, Gujranwala and Sheikhupura? What are you doing about it? You just eat and sleep and you call yourselves Sikhs—the brave Sikhs! The martial class!’ he added, raising both his arms to emphasize his sarcasm. He surveyed his audience with the bright eyes daring anyone to contradict him. People looked down somewhat ashamed of themselves.

‘What can we do, Sardarji?’ questioned the lambardar. ‘If our government goes to war against Pakistan, we will fight. What can we do sitting in Mano Majra?’

‘Government!’ sneered the boy contemptuously. ‘You expect the government to do anything? A government consisting of cowardly bania moneylenders! Do the Mussalmans in Pakistan apply for permission from their government when they rape your sisters? Do they apply for permission when they stop trains and kill everyone, old, young, women and children? You want the government to do something! That is great! Shabash! Brave!’ He gave the holster on his side a jaunty smack.

‘But, Sardar Sahib,’ said the lambardar falteringly, ‘do tell us what we can do.’

‘That is better,’ answered the lad. ‘Now we can talk. Listen and listen very carefully.’ He paused, looked around and started again. He spoke slowly, emphasizing each sentence by stabbing
the air with his forefinger. ‘For each Hindu or Sikh they kill, kill two Mussulmans. For each woman they abduct or rape, abduct two. For each home they loot, loot two. For each trainload of dead they send over, send two across. For each road convoy that is attacked, attack two. That will stop the killing on the other side. It will teach them that we also play this game of killing and looting.’

He stopped to gauge the effect he had created. People listened to him with rapt open-mouthed attention. Only Meet Singh did not took up; he cleared his throat but stopped.

‘Well, brother, why do you keep quiet?’ asked the lad, throwing a challenge.

‘I was going to say,’ said Meet Singh haltingly, ‘I was going to say,’ he repeated, ‘what have the Muslims here done to us for us to kill them in revenge for what Muslims in Pakistan are doing. Only people who have committed crimes should be punished.’

The lad glared angrily at Meet Singh. ‘What had the Sikhs and Hindus in Pakistan done that they were butchered? Weren’t they innocent? Had the women committed crimes for which they were ravished? Had the children committed murder for which they were spiked in front of their parents?’

Meet Singh was subdued. The boy wanted to squash him further. ‘Why, brother? Now speak and say what you want to.’

‘I am an old bhai; I could not lift my hands against anyone—fight in battle or kill the killer. What bravery is there in killing unarmed innocent people? As for women, you know that the last Guru, Gobind Singh, made it a part of a baptismal oath that no Sikh was to touch the person of a Muslim woman. And God alone knows how he suffered at the hands of the Mussulmans! They killed all his four sons.’

‘Teach this sort of Sikhism to someone else,’ snapped the boy contemptuously. ‘It is your sort of people who have been
the curse of this country. You quote the Guru about women; why don’t you tell us what he said about the Mussulmans? “Only befriend the Turk when all other communities are dead.” Is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ answered Meet Singh meekly, ‘but nobody is asking you to befriend them. Besides, the Guru himself had Muslims in his army …’

‘And one of them stabbed him while he slept.’

Meet Singh felt uneasy.

‘One of them stabbed him while he slept,’ repeated the boy.

‘Yes … but there are bad ones and …’

‘Show me a good one.’

Meet Singh could not keep up with the repartee. He just looked down at his feet. His silence was taken as an admission of defeat.

‘Let him be. He is an old bhai. Let him stick to his prayers,’ said many in a chorus.

The speaker was appeased. He addressed the assembly again in pompous tones. ‘Remember,’ he said like an oracle, ‘remember and never forget—a Muslim knows no argument but the sword.’

The crowd murmured approval.

‘Is there anyone beloved of the Guru here? Anyone who wants to sacrifice his life for the Sikh community? Anyone with courage?’ He hurled each sentence like a challenge.

The villagers felt very uncomfortable. The harangue had made them angry and they wanted to prove their manliness. At the same time Meet Singh’s presence made them uneasy and they felt they were being disloyal to him.

‘What are we supposed to do?’ asked the lambardar plaintively.

‘I will tell you what we are to do,’ answered the boy, pointing
to himself. ‘If you have the courage to do it.’ He continued after a pause. ‘Tomorrow a trainload of Muslims is to cross the bridge to Pakistan. If you are men, this train should carry as many people dead to the other side as you have received.’

A cold clammy feeling spread among the audience. People coughed nervously.

‘The train will have Mano Majra Muslims on it,’ said Meet Singh without looking up.

‘Bhai, you seem to know everything, don’t you?’ yelled the youth furiously. ‘Did you give them the tickets or is your son a Railway Babu? I don’t know who the Muslims on the train are; I do not care. It is enough for me to know that they are Muslims. They will not cross this river alive. If you people agree with me, we can talk; if you are frightened, then say so and we will say Sat Sri Akal to you and look for real men elsewhere.’

Another long period of silence ensued. The lad beat a tattoo on his holster and patiently scanned the faces around him.

‘There is a military guard at the bridge.’ It was Malli. He had been standing outside in the dark. He would not have dared to come back to Mano Majra alone. Yet there he was, boldly stepping into the gurdwara. Several members of his gang appeared at the door.

‘You need not bother about the military or the police. No one will interfere. We will see to that,’ answered the lad looking back at him. ‘Are there any volunteers?’

‘My life is at your disposal,’ said Malli heroically. The story of Jugga beating him had gone round the village. His reputation had to be redeemed.

‘Bravo,’ said the speaker. ‘At least one man. The Guru asked for five lives when he made the Sikhs. Those Sikhs were supermen. We need many more than five. Who else is willing to lay down his life?’

Four of Malli’s companions stepped over the threshold. They
were followed by many others, mostly refugees. Some villagers who had only recently wept at the departure of their Muslim friends also stood up to volunteer. Each time anyone raised his hand the youth said ‘Bravo,’ and asked him to come and sit apart. More than fifty agreed to join in the escapade.

‘That is enough,’ said the lad, raising his hand. ‘If I need any more volunteers, I will ask for them. Let us pray for the success of our venture.’

Everyone stood up. Women put their children on the floor and joined the menfolk. The assembly faced the little cot on which the Granth lay wrapped, and folded their hands in prayer. The boy turned round to Meet Singh.

‘Will you lead the prayer, Bhaiji?’ he asked tauntingly.

‘It is your mission, Sardar Sahib,’ replied Meet Singh humbly. ‘You lead the prayer.’