Sardarji for company

(Hindustan Times, 26 September 1983)

I felt happy that my train journey this time would have a cinematic touch. Next to me, in Rajdhani chair car was a charming, sociable lady. She was traveling alone and going all the way - to Calcutta.

The train moved, I exchanged pleasantries and started a dialogue with her. A voice came from behind. "Excuse me, are you together, please?" It was a Sardarji with a lady next to him. Totally displeased at this uncalled for interruption, I replied: "Yes, we are seated next to each other and are traveling together." But in a battle of wits, he had the fact coughed out of me. He turned to his co-passenger and asked her: "Madam, would you like to have a lady companion?" Exasperated with Sardarji's overflowing figure she was only glad to respond in the affirmative. Sardarji then talked my neighbour and exchanged seat with her. Thus, among the three of them - to the total elimination of me - they made the new arrangement even before the train had crossed a kilometer or two. So became Sardarji my neighbour-in-law. To register my hostility, I took out the 400-odd page novel and made my intentions clear - that I would have nothing to do with him whatsoever throughout the journey.

A few minutes later, Sardarji greeted me, in an effort to establish rapport. I heard him, but I did not respond. He repeated: "Namaste Bhai Sahib". Unwilling though I was to be a 'bhai' to such an inhospitable person who took special pains to disturb what had come my way, I did not want this time to disrespect his age (should be 15 years senior). So I turned to him and said 'hello' only to return to my book. 'I am sorry I might have caused you some inconvenience. But you see, it does not look nice to drink sitting next to a lady and let her feel insecure. That is why I made this arrangement' Sardarji explained. "Between us, you see," he continued, 'we can have a few pegs and have an enjoyable journey'. I corrected him that I was a teetotaler. 'In that case", he insisted, 'you should eat some nick-nack items at least' and placed before me cashew nuts, peanuts, chips, mixture, etc. That made all the difference. I obliged him and reinforced myself each time he sipped his glass. I have always held that, like time, food is a great healer. We recognized thus each other's existence and established diplomatic relations.

An hour later, we were busy exchanging all information about ourselves. While my biography was drab and dry, I hung on his lips (whisky smell notwithstanding) was he narrated his account; especially his narrow escape from death during the India-Pakistan partition riot.

It was the first day of the riot. He was in a train going from Chakwal to Rawalpindi. On hearing that trouble was brewing, all passengers got down - but not Sardarji; he was bent on going to college. In the next station, the mob looked for the only Sardarji in the train, pulled him down and gave him left and right, and recommended that he should be put under the rails. A Maulvi quoted a verse from Quran that an unripe fruit should not be plucked. Sardarji was spared. The train moved; he bolted himself inside the toilet. When the train stopped at the next station, here also the mob looked for the Sardarji. One elderly gentleman in the train who knew the Sardarji's hideout suggested to him to escape through the other side. This he did only to find people chasing him minutes later. He ran for his life and landed in a prohibited military area. The choice was clear - blows from the mob or guns of the military fellows. Sardarji climbed a tree and clung to it for hours. When the mob dispersed, he quietly slipped. He was spotted by a group of local railway employees who were engaged in saving their non-Muslim brethren. They asked him if he knew any of his people in that locality so that they could arrange for his stay. He named one and was taken there; but the lady of the house refused to identify him, related to him though. Ultimately he was allowed to stay in, but she persisted him to go away as quickly as possible as she feared that his presence would endanger their lives as well. Next morning the local group gave Sardarji a porter's uniform and asked him to escape. He reached home to the inexplicable joy of his parents who had written him off.

"Anytime facts are more interesting than fiction", I said to myself as I slipped the novel back into my briefcase with the book mark still on page 1, and got ready to get down at Howrah Station.