Train to Delhi

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

I
t 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 responded 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.'