Train to Delhi Page 2

  Oh God: Don’t let Salma stir out anywhere. Sometimes I wonder why our British rulers chose to leave us to these Hindu bloodsuckers.

  God be with you all!

  Abdul

  The letter stunned Father Jones. So deeply was he moved that moisture welled up in his eyes. Was it the legacy of the Original Sin? Oh Christ, how could he endure all this? Evil was rampant everywhere. There was no help.

  ‘Will you write to his wife, please?’ he turned to Gautam. ‘Tell her …’ But his voice broke down. He stood staring at the dead man.

  The bishop had been in India for only six months, but was now witnessing this communal holocaust. No, he would not forsake his flock here. Hadn’t God preordained his staying on—to do his duty unto Christ? If he now ran away with his other compatriots, who would reclaim lost souls—like Mehta’s?

  As Father Jones stood transfixed, deeply immersed in his musings, Gautam gazed at the dead man, whose face had acquired a new eloquence in the light of his poignant letter. Suddenly, he recognized a striking resemblance between Abdul Rahim and his own father—the same wheatish complexion, arched eyebrows, chiselled chin and nose. A handsome face, altogether.

  ‘So, it hasn’t turned out to be a calm day, after all.’ Father Jones said, in an almost self-derisive tone.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How sadly mistaken we both were.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘This may trigger off another round of violence.’

  ‘Most likely.’

  Again the bishop’s eyes strayed towards the dead man.

  ‘Shouldn’t we inform the police?’ he asked Gautam.

  ‘But would it serve any purpose? I’m certain they’re in league with these killers. They move in much after all is over.’

  ‘Then there is no law and order.’

  ‘No. Delhi’s only hope is William Thornton, our commissioner of police. But what can a single man do?’

  ‘Thornton? An Englishman?’ asked Father Jones.

  ‘No, Anglo-Indian. Father English, mother Kashmiri.’

  ‘I see,’ the bishop murmured. ‘I’m glad you were with me this afternoon.’

  ‘But do you realize, Father, what you are doing for me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let Christ be with you hereafter—let him guide your steps.’ His voice was a murmur; then it rose: ‘Be careful, Mr Mehta, as you go home. There’s madness on the streets.’

  ‘No harm will come to me since I live in a Hindu locality.’

  ‘That’s good,’ the bishop said. ‘Then, until Thursday.’

  Turning to Samuel, he now asked him to have the dead body removed for a burial in the backyard of the church.

  As Gautam walked out of the church into the street, he was surprised to see all quiet everywhere. Where had the rioters disappeared? Or had the police warned them to stay away so that the law could stage a sham investigation into the killing?

  Once out on the street, fear suddenly gripped him. What if he was ambushed by some Muslims? He felt as though the dead man’s eyes were following him.

  He kept on walking, engrossed in his thoughts. Down the street, all the vendors had folded up their stalls. The entire place had been taken over by armed policemen who moved about cockily, brandishing their neatly polished batons.

  Near the Red Fort there was no taxi, only a solitary tonga, with a hefty Sikh perched on the front seat. Gautam thought it safe to take this vehicle, with a sturdy Sardar as his escort.

  ‘Can you take me to Darya Ganj, please—Hindu sector?’ asked Gautam.

  The driver shot a glance at Gautam, his blood-red eyes glistening even in the evening light.

  ‘Yes, but only via the Jumna route,’ the Sikh grunted. He then spat vigorously, his spittle landing on the far end of the pavement. ‘I think there’s trouble near the southern end of Faiz Bazaar.’

  Gautam understood it was only a ruse to touch him for more money.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Fifteen rupees.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

  As the rickety vehicle, pulled by a shaggy horse, jerked into a rattle on the road, the driver started a friendly conversation, as a palliative for the exorbitant fare he’d hooked out of his passenger.

  ‘Are you a refugee from Pakistan, sir?’

  ‘Yes—from Lahore.’

  ‘Lost everything?’

  ‘Only property—my family came through, intact.’

  ‘Were you with your family in Lahore, sir?’

  ‘No, I’d come to Delhi a couple of years earlier.’

  ‘Lucky,’ he said, his face turning ashen. ‘My family had the worst of it … Two of my sisters were carried away. My old man’s throat was slit before my mother’s eyes. Then he was roasted alive. I was the only one to escape. Oh, those blasted Muslims!’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear this.’

  ‘But we got one Muslim this afternoon, near St. John’s. An old bearded fellow. That was a good catch.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Gautam wondered if the Sardar was himself one of the killers of Abdul Rahim.

  2

  Darya Ganj lies sprawling like the stomach of Delhi whose head is the Central Secretariat raised in red sandstone, and whose legs and feet taper off into the Delhi University campus, and the refugee colony known as the Kingsway Camp. Delhi’s vast belly covers about a square mile between the Delhi Gate and the Red Fort, its intestines coiling round a multitude of narrow streets and bylanes running on either side of Faiz Bazaar, which acts as a watershed between the two belligerent communities, Hindu and Muslim, sworn to eternal enmity.

  Along one side of Faiz Bazaar are the prosperous Hindu establishments—banks, clinics, restaurants, bookshops and insurance companies. Behind this forefront lie bungalows and multi-storeyed apartments, owned or rented by the Hindu staff attatched mostly to various offices on the main road. Tucked away in the hinterland of this residential area are the regional offices of The Times of India and its allied publications.

  Nearby, are a couple of three-star hotels (though in respect of service and amenities they could be ranked starless), which cater to the lower middle-class clientele. Farther, in the rear, is a lacklustre street that runs parallel to the main road. It is cluttered with grubby bakeries, slipshod general stores, wayside tea-stalls and private coaching institutes.

  The original town-planners had indeed provided a few parks between complexes of apartments, but these are now rarely frequented by the local residents because of heaps of garbage that lie stinking there.

  Although the rear segment of this part of Darya Ganj is walled in by a battered, historic rampart, it offers no protection whatsoever against burglars at night or trespassers during day. Under its fractured cupolas now sleep at night beggars, pickpockets and daily-wage earners.

  In contrast with the affluence of the Hindu sector, the other sector, inhabited by Muslims, looks rather impoverished. There are no banks or bookshops here, only petty stalls of tobacconists, book-binders and vegetable sellers. A small dilapidated mosque, sooty and unplastered, offers some religious solace to the Muslims of this area.

  The only redeeming feature of this side of Faiz Bazaar is a large restaurant, Neel Kamal, whose cuisine is a great attraction for the entire capital. Although owned by a Hindu refugee from Pakistan, it draws its patrons from all communities—Hindus, Sikhs, Christians, Parsis and even Muslims.

  Neel Kamal’s hospitality is limitless. It offers its patrons everything—‘wine, women and song’—to use an apt cliché. No wonder, it is also a hang-out for pimps, who can be seen nearby at the tobacconist’s stall. One of them may ask you genially if you’d be interested in ‘some good stuff—virgin or married, Hindu or Muslim.’

  For the customers of modest means, or those who prefer an open-air romantic setting for a brief fling, there are the historical ruins known as Kotla Feroze Shah, just a few yards away from the Delhi Gate. Or, if you could spend a little money, you may hire a room for any part of the day o
r night at the Bridge Hotel, a subsidiary of Neel Kamal, next to the Kotla ruins.

  It was a roundabout tonga ride via Kotla Feroze Shah, where the Sikh tonga driver stopped, hoping to pick up an additional passenger or two. Since there was nobody on the road at that time, he poked the horse’s behind with a bamboo stick, then lashed him into a canter, shouting a Punjabi abuse: ‘You impotent bastard, fit only to sleep with your mother!’ As though insulted and injured, the animal broke into a gallop, raced past the Delhi Gate police station, till it was reined in near Neel Kamal. Here, Gautam paid off the driver and waited for a long column of military trucks to rumble past before he could cross the road.

  At a quarter past seven, the daylight still lingered nostalgically over the housetops. It appeared as if the sun had gradually withdrawn all its advance pennons at the day’s end. In a few minutes, the sky was covered with a medley of dull orange, hectic crimson and murky grey. But, in spite of the shades of evening, the heat still held the capital in its relentless grip. There had hardly been any rain during the entire month of August, as though nature had deliberately smothered the monsoons to provide a grim backdrop to the drama of hate and violence being enacted in Delhi, during that cataclysmic year—1947.

  As the last truck rolled past, Gautam strode across the road. He wondered if he would have time even for a brief word with his wife, Sarita. If the commissioner of police decided to clamp a curfew as a punitive action for the wanton killing near St. John’s, Gautam would surely be stuck in Darya Ganj for the night.

  To console himself against any such eventuality, he reasoned that a prompt and ruthless administrator like William Thornton wouldn’t have waited this long to strike. If he could post armed police around the Red Fort area within minutes of the killing, he would have also ordered a curfew without any delay. No, Mr Thornton had wisely refrained from creating a panic in this part of the capital, over an isolated incident.

  After sorting out his thoughts under a lamp post, Gautam walked slowly down a street and stopped in front of a bungalow—his own home until about a week ago. But now he was about to enter it, almost like a burglar, to confront his wife. Yes, Sarita was still his spouse till he got his divorce, and the conversion certificate was the key to his release. ‘That Mr Mehta,’ his lawyer was never tired of repeating, ‘is the only respectable and expeditious way out. All that your wife has to say in the court is that you’re now a Christian. And that entitles her to a divorce. Otherwise, the Hindu law is a vicious python that never slackens its clasp.’

  A gentle knock at the door evoked a brusque response.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  The voice was unmistakably Purnima’s; but no sound of footsteps was heard down the hallway.

  Waiting for the maidservant to show up, his eyes caught the nameplate, nailed above the mailbox: ‘Gautam Mehta, Assistant Editor, The Challenge’. It would soon be removed, he guessed, now that he had surrendered the house as a part of the divorce deal. Then he began to gaze idly at the door—at the grains of its teakwood panels till he was deeply absorbed in the figure of a fish staring at him out of the wood. Strange, he mused, he’d never noticed it before. As he let his right hand run over the panel, as if to feel the fish’s contours, he suddenly flinched as a globule of blood oozed out of the tip of his forefinger. Pulling out the splinter which had stuck into it, he wiped off the blood with his left thumb. He’d better not touch anything in the house any more, he cautioned himself.

  Only last week, he’d chanced upon a greeting card, hidden away in an old copy of Good Housekeeping (oh, the irony of it!): ‘On our son’s second birthday. Love: Mohinder.’ He’d then felt as if he’d been pushed into a deep crater of seething lava.

  And how stupid of him, his thoughts ran on, to have taken lightly the argument between Sarita and the gynaecologist, the former insisting that her pregnancy was only seven months. Hadn’t she computed her periods most meticulously? Asking him to bed the very night he’d returned from Singapore so that her menstrual chronograph might start ticking straightaway! While, in fact, Rahul had emerged a full nine-month, chubby boy, on the auspicious Diwali evening. A special gift from Lord Rama—and from Mohinder, his colleague and friend! And all this time he’d loved Rahul as his own child.

  Then came the defiant words, ringing into his ears: ‘So what! If you want a divorce, I’ll let you have it. Any time!’

  The tape had run itself out. How many times during the past week he’d been ambushed by these horrid memories?

  Suddenly, he realized that he had stood at the door a long time, waiting for Purnima. He wondered how much this woman knew about the affair between Sarita and Mohinder.

  He gave the door another knock.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Mehta?’

  Someone greeted him from across the street. Turning round, he saw Padamnath Trivedi, who lived in the house opposite.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Trivedi? I’m sorry I didn’t notice you.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen you for quite some time—almost a week now.’

  The prying devil must have kept a diary to record all his comings and goings, Gautam said to himself. Would he also know anything about his wife’s love affair?

  ‘I was out of town,’ said Gautam.

  A tenuous lie, he thought, should throw him off the scent.

  ‘Is everything all right with you, Mr Mehta?’

  The man now strode towards him, itching for a chat. But, fortunately, a face now peered out of the door.

  ‘Sorry, sir, to have kept you waiting so long,’ Purnima said, looking quite surprised. ‘Someone had just brought in the news about a killing near the Red Fort. So we were terrified to open the door to strangers.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  Then came another voice, harsh as a matron’s.

  ‘Is it Gautam? … At this late hour?’

  Two pairs of eyes now glowered at each other.

  3

  Gautam followed Sarita into his own house, like an unwelcome visitor, while Purnima walked away to her own room. But the maidservant kept her window half-open to see and hear everything. She knew there’d been an explosive confrontation now—something she’d missed for about a week. As Sarita was leading him down the hallway, she fired her first salvo: ‘What has brought you here at this hour? You know, the radio has just announced curfew at ten.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ he mumbled, somewhat surprised. So the invincible Thornton had lost his nerve—for once. But what really alarmed him was the menacing thing that now loomed in front of him. Her thundering voice had already knocked him off. But, pulling himself together somehow, he added: ‘I just wanted to have a brief word with you.’ Gautam almost stuttered.

  ‘Spit it out, will you?’ She shot at him again. But before Gautam could even open his mouth, she turned around. ‘Or, maybe, you better wait for me in the drawing room till I put Rahul to sleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, meekly.

  Sitting alone in the drawing room, he looked all around—and mused. This was the house he’d designed himself, the architect hardly making any modifications. Behind this room, detached from the main house, was his study where he could retreat to work in peace and solitude (though he’d soon realized that even the intervening fourteen-inch walls were not quite soundproof against his wife’s ceaseless hollering). On the other side were two bedrooms—one had been furnished as Rahul’s nursery, while the other …

  But he suddenly felt as though his heart had missed a beat. There, in his bed, Mohinder and his wife must have played together, night after night, while he was abroad. Since this bedroom lay in the farthest corner of the house, behind the front verandah, her lover must have found it convenient to walk in and out, unobtrusively, any time.

  No, he jerked himself out of his reverie; he shouldn’t sink into these gruesome thoughts—that way lay insanity. He wouldn’t then be able to face the divorce proceedings. This streak of effeminacy, this lapsing into melancholia, could be his undoing. Look at this wom
an, he told himself. She fights back with complete sangfroid. No sniffling, no wavering, no regrets. That’s the way to do it, man.

  Suddenly, little Rahul toddled into the drawing room, followed by Sarita. So the child must have heard his voice.

  ‘Daddy!’ he cried out gleefully, his eyes still drowsy.

  Gautam picked him up gently on his lap, and kissed him on the left cheek. Since he’d always loved him as his own, how could he now disown him? It would be very heartrending—even though he saw the imprint of Mohinder’s features etched indelibly on the child’s face.

  ‘Put him down, will you?’ snarled Sarita. ‘You don’t have to impress me with your magnanimity.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to impress …’

  ‘Never mind … We don’t have much time, you know.’

  She pulled the child away, and sat on the sofa, facing Gautam squarely. Rahul shrank on his mother’s lap, dazed and terrified.

  She had now done her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, looking rather attractive in her pink Kanchivaram sari. A translucent matching blouse partly revealed her breasts. A stray curl dangled casually near her left ear. Gautam also noticed a diamond nose ring. A gift from Mohinder? Why had she taken so long to dress herself for the confrontation? Did she want to show that she was still young and beautiful, capable of taking care of herself?

  ‘I just came to tell you about my meeting with the bishop,’ Gautam now said, his voice almost a whisper.

  ‘Oh, the certificate!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you were to meet him tomorrow.’

  ‘No, it was today.’

  Then, fixing him with a cold stare, she said: ‘You certainly sound excited. It looks as though you’ve pulled it off.’

  He felt the stab of her irony.

  ‘Well, he asked me to meet him again on Thursday, this time along with a witness.’

  ‘Marvellous!’ she exclaimed. ‘And the witness, I imagine, would be your Berry.’