Train to Pakistan (21 page)

The boy cleared his throat, shut his eyes and began to recite the names of the Gurus. He ended by asking for the Gurus’ blessings for the venture. The assembly went down on their knees and rubbed their foreheads on the ground, loudly proclaiming:

In the name of Nanak,

By the hope that faith doth instill,

By the Grace of God,

We bear the world nothing but good will.

The crowd stood up again and began to chant:

The Sikhs will rule

Their enemies will be scattered

Only they that seek refuge will be saved!

The little ceremonial ended with triumphant cries of Sat Sri Akal. Everyone sat down except the boy leader. The prayer
had given him a veneer of humility. He joined his hands and apologized to the assembly.

‘Sisters and brothers, forgive me for disturbing you at this late hour; you too, Bhaiji, and you, Lambardar Sahib, please forgive us for this inconvenience and for any angry words that I may have uttered; but this is in the service of the Guru. Volunteers will now adjourn to the other room; the others may rest. Sat Sri Akal.’

‘Sat Sri Akal,’ replied some of the audience.

Meet Singh’s room on the side of the courtyard was cleared of women and children. The visitors moved in with the volunteers. More lamps were brought in. The leader spread out a map on one of the beds. He held up a hurricane lantern. The volunteers crowded round him to study the map.

‘Can you all see the position of the bridge and the river from where you are?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ they answered impatiently.

‘Have any of you got guns?’

They all looked at each other. No, no one had a gun.

‘It does not matter,’ continued the leader. ‘We still have six or seven rifles, and probably a couple of sten guns as well. Bring your swords and spears. They will be more useful than guns.’ He paused.

‘The plan is this. Tomorrow after sunset, when it is dark, we will stretch a rope across the first span of the bridge. It will be a foot above the height of the funnel of the engine. When the train passes under it, it will sweep off all the people sitting on the roof of the train. That will account for at least four to five hundred.’

The eyes of the listeners sparkled with admiration. They nodded to each other and looked around. The lambardar and Meet Singh stood at the door listening. The boy turned round angrily:

‘Bhaiji, what have you to do with this? Why don’t you go and say your prayers?’

Both the lambardar and Meet Singh turned away sheepishly. The lambardar knew he too would be told off if he hung around.

‘And you, Lambardar Sahib,’ said the boy. ‘You should be going to the police station to report.’

Everyone laughed.

The boy silenced his audience by raising his hand. He continued: ‘The train is due to leave Chundunnugger after midnight. It will have no lights, not even on the engine. We will post people with flashlights along the track every hundred yards. Each one will give the signal to the next person as the train passes him. In any case, you will be able to hear it. People with swords and spears will be right at the bridge to deal with those that fall off the roof of the train. They will have to be killed and thrown into the river. Men with guns will be a few yards up the track and will shoot at the windows. There will be no danger of fire being returned. There are only a dozen Pakistani soldiers on the train. In the dark, they will not know where to shoot. They will not have time to load their guns. If they stop the train, we will take care of them and kill many more into the bargain.’

It seemed a perfect plan, without the slightest danger of retaliation. Everyone was pleased.

‘It is already past midnight,’ said the boy, folding up the map. ‘You’d all better get some sleep. Tomorrow morning we will go to the bridge and decide where each one is to be posted. The Sikhs are the chosen of God. Victory be to our God.’

‘Victory to our God,’ answered the others.

The meeting dispersed. Visitors found room in the gurdwara. So did Malli and his gang. Many of the villagers had gone away to their homes lest they get implicated in the crime by being present at the temple when the conspiracy was being hatched.
The lambardar took two of the villagers with him and left for the police station at Chundunnugger.

‘Well, Inspector Sahib, let them kill,’ said Hukum Chand wearily. ‘Let everyone kill. Just ask for help from other stations and keep a record of the messages you send. We must be able to prove that we did our best to stop them.’

Hukum Chand looked a tired man. One week had aged him beyond recognition. The white at the roots of his hair had become longer. He had been shaving in a hurry and had cut himself in several places. His cheeks sagged and folds of flesh fell like dewlaps about his chin. He kept rubbing the corners of his eyes for the yellow which was not there.

‘What am I to do?’ he wailed. ‘The whole world has gone mad. Let it go mad! What does it matter if another thousand get killed? We will get a bulldozer and bury them as we did the others. We may not even need the bulldozer if this time it is going to be on the river. Just throw the corpses in the water. What is a few hundred out of four hundred million anyway? An epidemic takes ten times the number and no one even bothers.’

The subinspector knew that this was not the real Hukum Chand. He was only trying to get the melancholia out of his system. The subinspector waited patiently, and then dropped a feeler.

‘Yes, sir. I am keeping a record of all that is happening and what we are doing. Last evening, we had to evacuate Chundunnugger. I could not rely on the army nor my own constables. The best I could do was to ward off the attackers by telling them that Pakistan troops were in the town. That frightened them and I got the Muslims out in the nick of time. When the attackers discovered the trick, they looted and burned every Muslim house they could. I believe some of them planned to come to the police station for me, but better counsel
prevailed. So you see, sir, all I got was abuse from the Muslims for evicting them from their homes; abuse from the Sikhs for having robbed them of the loot they were expecting. Now I suppose the government will also abuse me for something or the other. All I really have is my big thumb.’ The subinspector stuck out his thumb and smiled.

Hukum Chand’s mind was not itself that morning. He did not seem to realize the full import of the subinspector’s report.

‘Yes, Inspector Sahib, you and I are going to get nothing out of this except a bad name. What can we do? Everyone has gone trigger-happy. People empty their rifle magazines into densely packed trains, motor convoys, columns of marching refugees, as if they were squirting red water at the Holi festival; it is a bloody Holi. What sense is there in going to a place where bullets fly? The bullet does not pause and consider, “This is Hukum Chand, I must not touch him.” Nor does a bullet have a name written on it saying “Sent by So-and-so”. Even if it did bear a name—once inside, what consolation would it be to us to know who fired it? No, Inspector Sahib, the only thing a sane person can do in a lunatic asylum is to pretend that he is as mad as the others and at the first opportunity scale the walls and get out.’

The subinspector was used to these sermons and knew how little they represented the magistrate’s real self. But Hukum Chand’s apparent inability to take a hint was surprising. He was known for never saying a thing straight; he considered it stupid. To him the art of diplomacy was to state a simple thing in an involved manner. It never got one into trouble. It could never be quoted as having implied this or that. At the same time, it gave one the reputation of being shrewd and clever. Hukum Chand was as adept at discovering innuendoes as he was at making them. This morning he seemed to be giving his mind a rest.

‘You should have been in Chundunnugger yesterday,’ said the subinspector, bringing the conversation back to the actual problem which faced him. ‘If I had been five minutes later, there would not have been one Muslim left alive. As it is, not one was killed. I was able to take them all out.’

The subinspector emphasized ‘not one’ and ‘all’. He watched Hukum Chand’s reaction.

It worked. Hukum Chand stopped rubbing the corners of his eyes and asked casually, as if he were only seeking information, ‘You mean to tell me there is not one Muslim family left in Chundunnugger?’

‘No, sir, not one.’

‘I suppose,’ said Hukum Chand, clearing his throat, ‘they will came back when all this blows over?’

‘Maybe,’ the subinspector answered. ‘There is not much for them to come back to. Their homes have been burned or occupied. And if anyone did come back, his or her life would not be worth the tiniest shell in the sea.’

‘It will not last forever. You see how things change. Within a week they will be back in Chundunnugger and the Sikhs and Muslims will be drinking water out of the same pitcher.’ Hukum Chand detected the note of false hope in his own voice. So did the subinspector.

‘You may be right, sir. But it will certainly take more than a week for that to happen. Chundunnugger refugees are being taken to Pakistan by train tonight. God alone knows how many will go across the bridge alive; those that do are not likely to want to come back in a hurry.’

The subinspector had hit the mark. Hukum Chand’s face went pale. He could no longer keep up the pretense.

‘How do you know that Chundunnugger refugees are going by the night train?’ he asked.

‘I got it from the camp commander. There was danger of
attack on the camp itself, so he decided to get the first train available to take the refugees out. If they do not go, probably no one will be left alive. If they do, some at least may get through, if the train is running at some speed. They are not planning to derail the train; they want it to go on to Pakistan with a cargo of corpses.’

Hukum Chand clutched the arms of his chair convulsively.

‘Why don’t you warn the camp commander about it? He may decide not to go.’

‘Cherisher of the poor,’ explained the subinspector patiently, ‘I have not told him anything about the proposed attack on the train because if he does not go the whole camp may be destroyed. There are mobs of twenty to thirty thousand armed villagers thirsting for blood. I have fifty policemen with me and not one of them would fire a shot at a Sikh. But if your honour can use influence with these mobs, I can tell the camp commander about the plans to ambush the train and persuade him not to go.’

The subinspector was hitting below the belt.

‘No, no,’ stuttered the magistrate. ‘What can influence do with armed mobs? No. We must think.’

Hukum Chand sank back in his chair. He covered his face with his hands. He beat his forehead gently with his clenched fist. He tugged at his hair as if he could pull ideas out of his brain.

‘What has happened to those two men you arrested for the moneylender’s murder?’ he asked after some time.

The subinspector did not see the relevance of the inquiry.

‘They are still in the lockup. You ordered me to keep them till the trouble was over. At this rate it seems I will have to keep them for some months.’

‘Are there any Muslim females, or any stray Muslims who have refused to leave Mano Majra?’

‘No, sir, not one remains. Men, women, children, all have left,’ answered the subinspector. He was still unable to catch up with Hukum Chand’s train of thought.

‘What about Jugga’s weaver girl you told me about? What was her name?’

‘Nooran.’

‘Ah yes, Nooran. Where is she?’

‘She has left. Her father was a sort of leader of the Muslims of Mano Majra. The lambardar told me a great deal about him. He had just one child, this girl Nooran; she is the one alleged to be carrying on with the dacoit Jugga.’

‘And this other fellow, didn’t you say he was a political worker of some sort?’

‘Yes, sir. People’s Party or something like that. I think he is a Muslim Leaguer masquerading under a false label. I examined …’

‘Have you got any blank official papers for orders?’ cut in Hukum Chand impatiently.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the subinspector. He fished out several pieces of yellow printed paper and handed them to the magistrate.

Hukum Chand stretched out his hand and plucked the subinspector’s fountain pen from his pocket.

‘What are the names of the prisoners?’ he asked, spreading out the sheets on the table.

‘Jugga badmash and …’

‘Jugga badmash,’ interrupted Hukum Chand, filling in a blank and signing it. ‘Jugga badmash, and …?’ he asked taking the other paper.

‘Iqbal Mohammed or Mohammed Iqbal. I am not sure which.’

‘Not Iqbal Mohammed, Inspector Sahib. Nor Mohammed Iqbal. Iqbal Singh,’ he said, writing with a flourish. The
subinspector looked a little stupefied. How did Hukum Chand know? Had Meet Singh been around calling on the magistrate?

‘Sir, you should not believe everyone. I examined …’

‘Do you really believe an educated Muslim would dare to come to these parts in times like these? Do you think any party would be so foolish as to send a Muslim to preach peace to Sikh peasants thirsting for Muslim blood, Inspector Sahib? Where is your imagination?’

The subinspector was subdued. It did seem unlikely that an educated man would risk his neck for any cause. Besides, he had noticed on Iqbal’s right wrist the steel bangle all Sikhs wear.

‘Your honour must be right, but what has this to do with the preventing of an attack on the train?’

‘My honour
is
right,’ said Hukum Chand triumphantly. ‘And you will soon know why. Think about it on your way to Chundunnugger. As soon as you get there, release both the men and see that they leave for Mano Majra immediately. If necessary, get them a tonga. They must be in the village by the evening.’

The subinspector took the papers, and saluted. He sped back to the police station on his cycle. Gradually, the clouds of confusion lifted from his mind. Hukum Chand’s plan became as crystal clear as a day after heavy rain.