At midnight the train halted near the outer signal. It just stopped there, for no apparent reason, and sent up two shrill blasts into the night. But no one listened to its angry Calls and the signal remained where it had been in the upright position. The driver shouted to the stoker to push in more coal and build up some vacuum so that they could move off as soon as their Way was cleared. After giving these instructions he said that he was going up the line to check things for himself. Buster Anthony, as they called him, jumped a good three feet clear of the steaming locomotive, yelled for a torch which his companion threw to him, and went hobbling along the track. He had done this line a hundred times before and knew each bend like the palm of his hand, Even though he could not see anything because the night was pitch dark, he did not really mind because he knew the station building wasn’t very far off.
Outside, he looked hopelessly into the night for a light or a conspicuous mark he could recognize. He saw nothing. The hurricane wick railway signal lamp that had been hoisted atop the signal had been blown off by the wind, or probably lifted away by some nearby village boys. The outer signal now looked like a tall steel giant lurking in the night to grab him as he passed by. Towards the east where the platform should have been it was even quieter. There was a deathly stillness in the air. Even a tiny glow from the Station building would have been a comforting sight in this ceric night. But all signs of human life were missing and the driver of the 64 down was lonely. He sensed that all was not well. Normally, he wouldn’t have taken any notice of it but when one was driving the last train out of Lahore with a full load of helpless refugees, and suddenly in the middle of nowhere one was halted, then one could be running into trouble. It had happened before. The drivers had halted just as he had, and the occupants of the trains had been slaughtered.
Suddenly Anthony felt uneasy and even angry with himself. For the country, the Railways, the Division and all that crap, and within the last one month this was his 20th trip. There was really no need to be a hero and chalk up the 21st. But then, damn Joyce, she had always been so fond of Lahore. Had it not been for last night when the entire Railway Colony was on fire they wouldn’t have packed up in such a hurry. The station master at Lahore had wanted volunteers to take the trains up to Amritsar and he had jumped at the idea. Fine he had said, he was game. The whole idea, of course, was to get the family out to safety and then switch over to goods train which, in any case, was safer going because the mobs always went for human blood.
Then the other thought that gave him some comfort was the fact of his being Anthony Peters, son of Michael Peters, full-blooded Anglo-Indian from Jabbalpore and therefore not really a party to the present fun and games. After all, why should any of the Hindustanis or Pakistanis be after his blood? The bloody feud that was now raging this part of the country was really no concern of his, as long as they ran the trains well, just like his father Micha and Uncle Stanley had been doing, they were all right. The Anglos had no friends and no enemies, they were middles. Their job was to run the trains, raise kids and go to church on Sundays, be promoted as chief locomotive inspectors and head drivers of crack express trains and live all their lives in the trains. They didn’t give a damn whether those trains were running from Lahore to Amritsar or the other way around. As long as there were trains to run they were in business.
A shrill jackal like sound pierced the still surroundings. Anthony looked back and saw the huge, steel carcass far away now, belching smoke and flames. For a moment he wanted to run back into its safe, warm belly, rev up and be gone with his train. Signal or no signal. But then years of experience had bound him down to the signal, the railway man’s god. He wasn’t going to break the regulations just for the heck of it. A raw shuttle driver may have done that, but not Anthony Peters, crack mail driver of the Lahore locomotive sheds. Though there wasn’t much likelihood of any train coming from Amritsar now, one could never be sure of the odd loose engine rushing by to pick up a sudden load. Cautiously he made his way up to the outer cabin.
Back in the train all appeared quiet, but in fact it wasn’t so. The sleeping mass of humanity that was barely visible in the dark coaches had by now been awakened from its fitful slumber. The few open windows were quickly pulled down, and the women and children huddled into the farthest corners, away from the windows and the danger. Some of the elderly people who were more cautious had already made a rush for the space below the seats and tucked themselves away from prying eyes and direct firing rifle shots. Some of the braver ones drew out their Kirpans and inched towards the doors. The few lucky ones with rifles moved off to the two exits that had been kept in case the train was set on fire. These exits were rightly considered to be the likely entry points and had to be guarded from the rushing mob, the men with the guns took their womenfolk and children to their side of the carriages, and this caused a lot of resentment among those who had no weapons. By this time everyone on the train had made their own little groups. The villagers from Chak Narowal had built theirs around the two gunmen, retired Risal dar Santa Singh and the Old DFO Chaju Ram. Santa Singh still had his Japanese rifle along with 50 rounds, now looking a bit rusty with age. Chaju Ram also had a rifle. This group of 60 odd people felt reasonably secure because of their guns.
This was actually the most sought after carriage in the entire train. The old and the sagging, the rich zamindars and the murabba owners, the small town traders, the womenfolk and the children, all were there. In this dingy citadel they sat, including Joyce, who was huddled in one comer. The top bunks had been pushed up and in the space thus saved sat the multitude on their haunches, sweating and smelling, some on small musty tin boxes, and others on the cloth bundles, now their sole earthly possessions. It was a little funny and a little sad seeing these small treasures being hoarded like gold sovereigns. Banta Singh, the opium eater, had his five tolas worth tucked in under his white muslin kurta now a dirty brown. Mai Bhajno, the seventy year old spinster with the meaty tooth, was carrying her golden toothpick tied around her neck with a black thread, Seth Charanji Lall, the kariyana merchdnt from Narowal, was carrying gold rings now safely secured to the inner seam of his salwar. He obviously was in the most unenviable position of the lot, and had quietly struck a secret deal with Chaju Ram in return for special protection for the journey period. Of course had Charanji Lall known or even suspected that the firing pin assembly of the rifle hadn’t worked for the last ten years and was really a status symbol as far as the DFO was concerned, more reliance for protection duties would have been rightly placed on Santa Singh of the horse cavalry. But since ignorance is bliss and destiny had so willed it, such misplaced hopes were not to be questioned, and everyone was as happy as they could be under the circumstances. Joyce had wanted to travel in the engine but Anthony had refused, saying it was safer being locked up in the compartment.
Ajit, the seven year old grandson of Risal dar Santa Singh, sat in his bapu’s lap and toyed with the rifle that was now loaded but with safety on. Alongside sat his elder sister Baljecto, an uncertain fourteen and very beautiful. Anyone who didn’t know would have thought that the boy and the girl sitting next to Santa Singh were his son and daughter, but that wasn’t the case. Ajit’s father and mother had died a long time ago in Narowal when the tractor in which they were returning from the Chaklala weekly fair had overtime, crushing them beyond recognition. Santa Singh had lit the pyre. This moment had been the first traumatic event in his otherwise sedate and colorless life, the second was the partition. And God only knew whether the third was around the comer. The train had halted somewhere outside, he knew, and this wasn’t a good sign. There wasn’t one human sound about like one hears on crowded railway platforms. No one talked inside the carriage and no one moved, as if in a trance. But even with the deathly silence inside the carriage, they heard nothing. Santa Singh sat stiffly in one comer, erect and wide awake, sensing trouble but not really knowing where it lay.
Anthony reached the outer cabin and shouted to whoever might be within. There was no reply. He went through the open door and found the cabin empty. The intercom telephone from the assistant station master’s office was ringing intermittently. He grabbed the receiver and spoke quickly. “Listen man, what is the holdup for the 64 down? It’s has been whistling from the signal. Are you deaf or something?” ‘Who is that? Who are you?” came an excited voice from the other end. ‘Stop bloody well asking me who I am! I am Anthony, the driver of the 64 down, the refugee special. Are we going to spend the entire night here? Get a move on. Why isn’t the signal down?’ ‘If you’d listen, mister, you might get some” sense into your head. I am Nazrul Ahmed, the new ASM here. Can you hear me? They are waiting for you all in the sugarcane fields near the cabin. The cabin man has run away and has probably joined them by now. I always knew he is unreliable thief. You start the trip and run for it mister if you can, the agitated voice crackled on. ‘Listen, is there any train coming from the other side?’ Anthony shouted to the stranger. (Cont’d in next issue.
Article extracted from this publication >> August 14, 1996
