Train to Delhi Read online

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Best of Faiz

  Nude before God

  First published in 1998 as A River with Three Banks,

  The Partition of India: Agony and Ecstasy by

  UBS Publishers’ Distributors Pvt Ltd, New Delhi

  Published by Random House India in 2013

  Copyright © Shiv K. Kumar 1998

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  EPUB ISBN 9788184004250

  To

  my father

  Late Shri Bishan Das Kumar

  1

  It was the quietest day of the week—comparatively speaking, of course. Only one death reported in the press: ‘a member of the minority community’ shot by ‘some unknown person’, from a speeding jeep, near the Red Fort. Although censorship had sternly warned all media against attributing such killings to any community, it was never difficult to guess which community had committed any particular crime. From the report of the solitary killing that morning, it was, for instance, clear that some helpless Muslim had been gunned down by a fanatic Hindu in yet another act of vendetta for what the Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan had suffered. But now it seemed as though, after a hectic spell of arson, rape and massacre, Delhi was gradually winding down—at least for a short while.

  So when free India voluntarily chose to install Lord Louis Mountbatten as its first governor-general, it was commented that it desperately needed the guidance of this member of the British royalty to help it set up an effective administrative machinery. But he soon became so popular that he was nicknamed ‘Pandit Mountbatten’. On the other hand, many Indian gossip columnists played up a different story. According to them, Lady Edwina Mountbatten had a crush on Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, for didn’t this fair-complexioned, Harrow-Cambridge-educated man also look like a prince? So, the least Nehru could do for his lady-love’s husband was to offer the top position in an independent India.

  But neither Mountbatten nor Nehru—nor even Mahatma Gandhi—could restrain the Hindu and Sikh refugees who had fled from the newly created nation, Pakistan, and who were now lusting for Muslim blood.

  In the early afternoon of that quiet day, a young man in a light grey suit was dropped by a taxi at the mouth of a narrow street. He began to jostle his way through a crowd of shoppers who were picking up their groceries before another curfew would immobilize life in the capital.

  There wasn’t much of a rush further down the street where a few refugee vendors had spread their wares: coarse woollens (sweaters, stoles, stockings, gloves), necklaces and bracelets in coloured beads, and tiny bronze gods and goddesses. Behind a low wooden table used as a bargain counter, a vendor’s young wife was feeding her little infant, her moist, right nipple showing through her partly unbuttoned choli, as her husband held up an idol of Lord Shiva to a lanky, indifferent customer whose eyes had meandered towards the young mother’s ripe breast. The young man in the grey suit also glanced at the woman, but he didn’t stop. Anxiety rippled all over his face. Emerging at the other end of the street, he turned sharply round a corner and strode towards a cathedral. He paused at its front gate for a moment, flicked a speck of dust off his jacket, then trudged across a vast courtyard towards the bishop’s residence. Even before his hand could reach the call-bell, the door opened as though reflexively, and a white man in a crisp silken robe peered out.

  ‘Mr Gautam Mehta?’ he inquired, raising his right hand as if in benediction.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Come in, please.’

  Gautam Mehta took in the bishop at a glance. He was a medium-statured, stocky man in his late fifties—a sallow face, bulbous nose, sagging jaw, sea-blue eyes, and high cheekbones. The hair on his head was sparse; in fact, a round patch of baldness showed just above the forehead. But what held Gautam’s immediate attention was a pair of hands—white, soft and sensitive—hands that must have been moulded by years of prayerful posture in offerings of love, compassion and forgiveness.

  The bishop led his visitor through the drawing room to his study, a small oval-shaped room stacked with books. On the front wall hung a large canvas of a wounded Christ lying on Virgin Mary’s lap. Jesus’s face, petulant and confused, looked like that of a soccer centre forward knocked off his feet near the goal. Gautam wondered if the painting had been done by some novice pavement artist. In a corner stood a small aquarium filled with Chinese goldfish, frisking about in limpid, blue water.

  Pointing to a padded leather chair, the bishop said, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Gautam.

  The bishop himself took his seat in a swivel chair.

  ‘It’s much quieter here,’ said the bishop. ‘I guess the city is calm today.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘I hope it stays so.’

  ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘But one never knows.’

  ‘No, Father.’

  A white cat with black whiskers slunk into the room, stared pointedly at the visitor, then glided sinuously towards the bishop, who took it up on his lap and began caressing the nape of its neck, his mobile fingers running up and down its fluffy back. Purring, the cat closed its eyes, as though in serene composure.

  ‘A very pretty cat,’ Gautam remarked, more as an ingratiating gesture than out of any appreciation of the animal’s beauty.

  ‘Yes, Belinda is just adorable.’ The bishop paused. ‘Would you care for a soft drink, Mr Mehta—lemonade or pineapple?’

  ‘Please don’t bother.’

  ‘Do have something. It’s a scorching day.’

  ‘A lemonade then, please.’

  With Belinda under his arm, the bishop disappeared into the house. Gautam heard him asking his servant for two lemonades. It was a gracious voice, as if the bishop were seeking a favour. Gautam somehow felt assured of the success of his mission though his face was still tensed up.

  No, he told himself, he mustn’t give himself away. He must summon his memory, quote promptly and aptly from the Bible to pull off what he had in mind. For the past one week, he had given the book the same close study that a medical student would give to Gray’s Anatomy.

  Still holding the cat, Father Jones returned to his chair, followed by a dark man carrying two lemonades on a china tray.

  ‘Thank you,’ Gautam said, taking one glass from the tray.

  ‘Thank you, Samuel,’ said the bishop, putting down Belinda in order to take the other glass.

  Just as the servant withdrew, the bishop swivelled in his chair, and pulled out an envelope from the top drawer of his rosewood desk. Waving it in his right hand, he said: ‘Maybe if you’d telephoned me, we could have at least talked before …’ His voice trailed off. ‘You see, I got nothing out of your letter.’

  If the bishop’s tone had not been genial, Gautam would have felt somewhat rattled.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ said Gautam. ‘Since writing, I guess, comes more naturally to me than speaking, I thought I’d rather send you a letter.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the bishop re
sponded with a gleam of understanding in his sea-blue eyes. ‘Incidentally, isn’t your paper a bit too radical—secular? That’s what I’m told. I don’t read it myself though.’

  ‘I’m responsible only for the literary section—stories, reviews, poetry and miscellaneous articles. Sometimes I myself do a piece on the cultural scene in Delhi. Only last week, I wrote something on tolerance and non-violence. Almost a sermon.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ The bishop’s face returned to its pristine glow, as though his mind had been cleared of some dark cobweb. After a brief silence, he added, ‘I’m happy you’ve decided to come to Christ, voluntarily. Not many people would do that, you know. Was your decision …’

  Gautam had anticipated the question Father Jones was finding difficult to articulate. He moved in promptly.

  ‘It’s not easy, Father, to explain these matters of the spirit and heart. Perhaps I should just say that I’ve felt, all these years, an irrepressible urge …’ He paused, taking the bishop’s measure. ‘Maybe it started when I was just an undergraduate, with my interest in Cardinal Newman, then with other Catholic writers—Francois Mauriac, Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene …’

  Gautam was pleased with his well-rehearsed speech, and more pleased to notice Father Jones lapping it up.

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Father Jones said, drawling out the last word.

  ‘And then,’ Gautam was now warming up to his subject, ‘look at what my co-religionists are doing these days. All this pious talk about Brahma, ahimsa, the Higher Self, cow worship, and then this senseless killing of innocent Muslims! Of course, Muslims have done no better in Pakistan.’

  ‘It’s all very sad.’

  ‘Yes, very tragic. Don’t you see, Father, that Christians alone have kept their heads cool?’ He glanced at the bishop for approval. ‘I believe in karma,’ he continued, ‘concrete action—not just words.’

  Belinda, who’d hunched up on the floor near the bishop’s chair, suddenly craned its neck forward, riveting its burnt sienna eyes on Gautam’s face. For a moment he thought that the beautiful, perceptive animal had seen right through him.

  ‘Yes,’ said the bishop, nodding at Gautam’s words; then, after a moment’s pause, he added: ‘I hope you wouldn’t mind waiting a couple of months. I have in mind the usual process of initiation—Bible classes, seminars, catechism. Sort of a religious apprenticeship, you know. Literature is one thing,’ he looked directly at Gautam, ‘but the Book of Books is something entirely different.’

  Gautam’s face darkened. The mere thought of any delay was agonizing. If only this man knew what he’d been through. To hell with Hinduism, Islam or Christianity, he said to himself—all that he wanted was an instant release, a way out of this labyrinth, a quick, painless deliverance.

  ‘But, Father, haven’t I already waited long enough?’ he asked. ‘What about all those years of apprenticeship?’ He decided to fire his first biblical shot: ‘I was hoping that when I knocked at the door, it would open unto me.’

  The bishop was taken aback, but he quickly recovered.

  ‘Haste in such matters, Mr Mehta, is not good. In any case, shouldn’t you have brought your wife along too? It would have saved time for you both.’

  ‘I’d thought of that,’ Gautam answered, sensing now a loss of initiative. ‘But, unfortunately, she still seems to have reservations. It’s her orthodox Hindu background, I guess.’

  He broke off, hoping to regain his self-possession. ‘But, Father,’ he resumed, ‘isn’t an unbelieving wife converted through her husband? Isn’t that what Paul is getting at in Corinthians?’

  Surely, Father Jones now realized that this man knew his Bible intimately.

  Belinda, who’d glided across the floor to the door, darted another searching glance at Gautam. It was an uncanny stare that almost chilled him.

  ‘Yes, that’s what he intended,’ said the bishop. ‘But I should like to avoid any discord in the family—as far as possible.’

  ‘No discord whatsoever,’ Gautam said, still recovering from the eerie spell of Belinda’s gaze. ‘In fact, we’ve talked about this matter, and I feel she’s gradually coming around.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It’s just that I shouldn’t like to push …’

  ‘No coercion, please,’ Father Jones interjected. ‘We should come to the Lord only out of the freedom and power of our soul. Like yourself.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Gautam turned to Belinda, but her gaze was now riveted on the aquarium, where it observed one goldfish furiously chasing another.

  ‘Well, Mr Mehta,’ the bishop said, drawing a deep breath, ‘if that’s the case, we should perhaps go ahead without any delay. I have no right to keep you away from the Lord.’ He stopped to look straight at Gautam. ‘How about next Sunday? We would have a special service for you so that the entire congregation could bless you.’

  Gautam was shocked. Any such public ceremony would be a disaster. Being a journalist himself, the press would surely pick it up. He’d hoped instead for a quiet, private ceremony on some weekday, with only two or three people in attendance. The certificate of baptism was all that he wanted to grab. That was his passport to freedom. But, despite the bishop’s disconcerting suggestion, he resolved to keep cool.

  ‘Certainly,’ he replied, smiling. ‘You may do it any time, Father …’ he paused, glancing at the bishop, ‘but, I have always felt that true prayer is strictly a private affair, an intimate communication between man and God—something done in the silence and tranquillity of one’s soul.’ Suddenly, he brightened up, as though a divine prompter had offered him the master cue. ‘Remember the passage in Matthew, Father?’

  ‘Which passage?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, pressing his forehead with his fingers as if to extract some words from the deep reservoir of his memory. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘I have the words: ‘and when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites, for they love to stand and pray in synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by men … But when you pray, go into your room, and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.’ Gautam paused for a moment, then added, with a complacent smile, ‘I don’t think I’ve missed a word.’

  ‘You certainly know your Bible!’

  ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘It’s just that this passage has always been my favourite.’

  ‘That was a noble thought,’ the bishop said. ‘The Lord alone can look into the deepest recesses of your soul.’

  Belinda slunk out of the room, as though crestfallen, for hadn’t it lost some mysterious battle to Gautam?

  Picking up his diary, the bishop resumed: ‘Would next Thursday be all right? We’ll make it a brief and quiet affair.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘But you’ll have to bring someone along as your witness.’

  ‘I will.’

  Just as Gautam stood up to leave, an outburst of shouting blared in from the street. Then came the clamour of frenetic knocking at the front gate, accompanied by ear-piercing cries for help. But a menacing voice slashed the air: ‘Kill him! Har Har Mahadev!’ followed by another deafening yell: ‘Sat Sri Akal!’

  Instantly, some members of the church staff—junior priests, wardens and servants—rushed into the courtyard. Father Jones and Gautam also ran towards the gate. Pounding upon the gate, someone was trying to crash through. Just then a head loomed above it, a poignant cry exploding in the air: ‘Help me, please, h-e-l-p!’ A man was struggling to scale the gate. But each time his head surfaced, his feet slipped and he sank to the ground. The steel gate stood firm, impregnable.

  As the church warden unlatched the gate, there slumped on the floor the body of an old bearded man—his chest, neck and abdomen riddled with stab wounds. His intestines lay sprawling about. Gazing at the dead body, Gautam felt as though the man was staring back at him, in stark terror.

  Two of the bloodthirsty mob’s ringleaders looked momentaril
y at the bishop. Then, as though overawed by the dignity of this Englishman, they beckoned their followers to move on.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Father Jones exclaimed, crossing his chest with his right hand. ‘Is it another crucifixion?’ he muttered in anguish. Then, turning to Gautam, he added: ‘This man knocked frantically for admittance, but we couldn’t let him in.’

  ‘Would that have really helped?’ Gautam said. ‘We’re dealing with bloodhounds, not human beings.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ the bishop said, looking at the dead body. ‘I wonder who this unfortunate creature is.’

  This prompted to action his servant, Samuel, who had till now stood aghast. Gently, he began to pull the body across the gate into the courtyard. Then he turned it over, rummaging through the pockets of the dead man’s blood-stained jacket, from one of which he pulled out an envelope, stamped and addressed, as though the man had just stepped out to mail it. Samuel handed it over to his master who, after opening it, passed it on to Gautam.

  ‘Urdu, I guess,’ said the bishop. ‘Do you know this language?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  The letter was addressed to Sultana Begum, wife of Abdul Rahim, Mohalla Kashana, Aghapura, Allahabad. Taking the letter in his hand, Gautam read out a quick rendering in English, in a voice that was heavy and tremulous:

  Dear Begum,

  No trace of Haseena so far. I’ve been all over Delhi. Hindus and Sikhs are prowling about everywhere, thirsting for Muslim blood. I have to be wary because of my beard, which attracts prying eyes. But so far Allah has been my protector.

  This morning I talked to a Muslim shopkeeper in Urdu Bazaar, near Jama Masjid. I was shocked to learn that most of the girls abducted from Allahabad, Lucknow and Patna have been brought to Delhi, where they are forced into prostitution. O Allah! And, in this nefarious business, both Hindus and Muslims are operating as close accomplices. I shudder to think of our dear child.

  Spent all morning in Jama Masjid—on my knees, rubbing my nose against the sacred ground. Will Allah listen to my prayers?

  Shall write to you tomorrow again. Insha Allah, after meeting this shopkeeper. He has promised to put me in touch with one of the leading pimps, Suleiman Ghani. I may have to pay a heavy ransom to get Haseena out, if she’s still alive …