Encounter at a Train Station.

Rohini Gupta

11 July 2007, 17:56

I was very young when mother told me we were leaving Lahore, but when I asked why she just said, now be a good girl and don’t make a fuss, and gave me an errand to run. Father muttered about fools who don’t know enough to leave a good thing alone. Mother frowned as if she did not agree with him, but she said nothing aloud and neither of them explained anything to me.

I didn’t want to leave and go and stay with my unknown uncle in Delhi, but no one listened to my protests. Life was carefree and happy. I was born and grew up in this small red roofed house. I knew all the kids at school, we studied together and in the evenings we played under the great trees lining the avenue. My life was simple and I never knew that it could change, but change it did.

Father began to lose his temper and started snapping at us. Mother began to sit by the window, frowning in thought, refusing to speak to me. If I tried to get her attention by pulling her sari she was distant as if I was a distraction. I ran out of the house whenever I could.

In school it was no better. Girls I had known since childhood suddenly stopped coming and disappeared without saying goodbye. My best friend was absent one day and others whispered that her parents had left the city. Our classroom was full of empty benches but, when I cried for my lost friends, mother only said, don’t worry you will make new ones.

I didn’t want new ones, I didn’t want my life to change. We lived very simply and we were happy. My father taught music. Mostly classical based ragas with a little light music thrown in. His students came from very well to do families, arriving in their own horse carriages with nannies and servants. They were respectful and sincere and ‘Masterji’ was often taken for a ride in those carriages to visit the mansions of their fathers. Once in a while, as a special treat, I was also invited.

Father did not earn very much but he lived with dignity and I remember him telling me that respect was far more important than money. Mom said nothing but I heard an aunt complaining that she had married below her station, and her family always brought her solid gold chains and bangles when they visited.

Mom did not show them to father. He would not have approved. He was unaware that mom had a little pile of gold in the bottom of the large metal rice bin. But she showed it to me and told me that it was all kept for me. She made me promise not to say a word about it.

Mother spent weeks sorting out old clothes and giving bundles away, cleaning out shelves and packing boxes. She would not let me help, telling me I just got in the way. I was happy to go outside and play instead.

I asked my playmates what was going on, but they did not know either. We had heard that some group was creating trouble, and there were whispers that others wanted the British empire to leave, but we all laughed, knowing that we were too old to fall for that one.

Summer came, hot and sweaty. Father spent weeks calling on the parents of his students, telling them that he was leaving and collecting his dues. All too soon we were packing everything in battered old trunks, ready to leave before monsoon made it difficult to travel.

When the day came mom took out the bundle at the bottom of the rice tin and tied it in the folds of her sari. I asked why she did not put it in the trunks with the other stuff, and she just gave me a push and said, “go take your bath, your father will be calling any minute now.”

On a bright summer day we left our old life and drove in a horse carriage to the station. Mother looked sadly back, but I was too excited. I had never been on a train before. We were early, of course. Mom and I found our cabin and father made sure the porters stowed our trunks safely beneath our bunks. Mother took out a chain and chained each handle to the metal legs of the seats.

I sat at the window fascinated by the bustle outside. I had never seen a place so busy and so noisy. Everyone seemed to be shouting at everyone else. People rushed past my window so fast I barely had time to see them.

Father came in with leaf plates of hot samosas and tiny clay containers of masala tea. I ate the delicious samosas, pressing my face to the window bars. The shouting seemed quieter as a group of young men come down the platform. The crowd parted respectfully for them, even the impatient porters stepped aside. They were all young, cheerful and dressed in crisp white cotton kurtas and most of them carried a flag.

“Papa, Papa, what flag is that ?” I asked. It did not look like the red, white and blue flag that flew on the Governor’s mansion.

Father came and looked out and his face darkened. “They are here also. Will they never stop getting everyone into trouble ?” He was so angry that I didn’t ask any more though I had a thousand questions. Father very rarely got angry.

I knew mom didn’t agree with him. She never argued but when she didn’t agree she would fiddle with her sari, twining the end round and round her fingers. She was doing it now as she moved up beside me to look out of the window.

The intent look on her face made me peer at the group with interest. They were coming to the train, waving a flag with a spinning wheel. Most of them wore white kurta pyjamas, but in their midst was a much older man who wore only a white dhoti. He was thin and wiry, wore only a cloth draped over his shoulders and round old fashioned spectacles. He walked briskly but carried a long stick. He didn’t seem to fit among those jaunty young men.

I turned to ask mother about him. Father had gone to the door leaving the two of us alone. Mother pressed close to the window and, under the cover of her back she did a quick pranaam. Her face was transfixed. She kept looking as if she couldn’t turn away. Father was still standing at the door muttering under his breath.

To my surprise and delight the whole band came right up to our compartment, passing under our window. The main group went ahead but a few came right to our door. Father stepped back quickly, trying to close the compartment, but he was too late. One of the men looked in, saw only the three of us and he held the door open for the others.

My father said stiffly, “this compartment is reserved. Please go to another.”

The young man didn’t answer, looking away.

“Do you have a ticket, young man ?” my father persisted.

The young man turned to him, smiling. “From whom should I buy a ticket, sir ? This is my ticket.” he gestured to the flag.

It sounded strange. I wondered if I should tell him you got tickets from the ticket counter. Didn’t he know that ?

Two other young men came in, put cloth sling bags down, stepped out of their footwear and started to make themselves comfortable. My father said sternly, “You have no tickets. I have reserved this compartment. I must insist you leave at once.”

The young man was very polite, “Please bear with us, sir. We will not come in your way. There is no room for us all on this train so we just have to sit where we can.”

They sat near the door, leaving plenty of space between us, putting their bags carefully between them and mother and me.

“I will call the conductor,” my father threatened. His threat had no effect. He waited for a moment, and he went purposefully out of the door.

As soon as he was gone my mother did a calm namaste to them all and said “May you be victorious.”

“With your blessings, Mataji,” the young man said. “You do not seem to agree with your husband.”

My mother put an arm around me saying softly, “Was it really him? Was it ?”

“Yes, mataji, it was.”

My mother closed her eyes. “Thank Ram, I have had his darshan,” she said fervently.

My father came back scowling without the conductor. He stood glaring at them. “You people are only here to create trouble.” he said. “Why cant you let us live in peace ? You will set fire to the whole country.”

One of the other young men said, “I hope so, sir, I certainly hope so.”

“You are insane,” my father grumbled, “What can you possibly hope to gain ? You cannot succeed. They will shoot you and then they will shoot us as well. Is that what you want ? Answer me. Is that what you want ? Do you want to see our whole civilization destroyed ? Do you ?”

He was trembling with fury. I gaped, I had never seen him so angry before. I could only stare at him open mouthed. Mom started to say something. He glared at her and mother shut up at once and looked away.

The young man said, “yes, sir, that is just what we want. We want to destroy this whole civilization. We want to breathe the air of freedom. If you are content with your slavery….”

“I am no man’s slave,” my father shouted. Suddenly ashamed he lowered his voice. “ I like my life. They do not trouble me. I do not trouble them. I live a good life. There is food for my wife and daughter, and new clothes at Diwali. What more can I want ?”

The young man looked at my mother. “Is that what you also want, mataji ?”

Mother did not look at him, she looked away.

Father said angrily, “of course, that is what she wants. To bring up our daughter in peace. What else ?”

The young man kept looking at my mother. “Is that so ?” he asked her.

I felt the resolution come into my mother. Once in a while mother would become firm. Mostly she gave in quietly to everything father said, not even advancing an opinion. But once or twice, when she made up her mind not even father could shake her. I saw her lip strengthen and knew something strange was happening.

Father, of course, was oblivious. He saw nothing. He said, “tell them you only want our Premala to grow up in peace. Tell them.”

Mother got up in one swift move. She went past father and reached the young man. She took the saffron flag. He gave it up willingly, smiling. It was as if he understood something that father had not. Mother took the flag, came to me and put it in my hand. Carefully she closed my fingers over it and closed her hand over mine, so that we both held the flag.

She did not say a word or look at my father. Father opened his mouth and shut it aghast. He made a move to snatch the flag from my grasp.

For a reason I did not understand, maybe because it meant so much to mother, the flag was very precious to me. I shrank and mother shielded me with her body.

Father stopped dead. He didn’t know what to do. He was beginning to feel like a fool in front of these young men. He hesitated.

The young man folded his hands. “Mataji my pranaams to you. The Mahatma has always said the future of our country lies in the hands of its women. But until today I did not understand him. Now I see he is right as always.”

Suddenly shy, my mother returned his pranaam. I clutched the flag hiding it behind her. I didn’t know what was going on but I knew something very important had just happened.

Father fumed silently. Mother looked out of the window. I saw that her eyes were shining. I had rarely seen her so happy before. I felt happy too and I kept the flag. Father went back to his seat and said no more.

I remember little of the rest of the journey but I still have the flag.

A lot has happened since then. I know what the flag means now. And I know who it was, on that long, hot summer day, who came onto our station and onto our train, dressed in his white dhoti, on his way to some meeting, some great momentous event that would shake our world in just the way father feared.

Our world was shaken and we survived and won our freedom. I never learned the young man’s name and in later years I wondered if he survived or gave his life as so many young people did in the war of independence. I remembered him often when life became tough.
I asked mother about that day, once, a decade later, and she looked at me and said simply, “I would have joined them if I could.” I knew she had not gone because of me. My father never guessed how close she came to getting up and crossing to the other side of the compartment.

On that day I knew nothing about independence. I had no idea what the mahatma in his simple white dhoti stood for, but I wanted him to succeed. With all my heart I prayed for his success. Because it was so important to mother, even though I was too young to know how much it would mean to me.

Comment

  1. Very interesting.. I love period stories and this is really one of the most interesting ones I’ve read in a long time! Keep it up Rohini, you rock as always!!

    — Cyrus · Aug 9, 19:40 · #

  2. I liked your story. Is written with feelings.

    — kashmira · Jul 5, 10:12 · #

  3. Its a simple and touching remembrance you have penned. Shows the stark contrast in values in humans. Also sharply brings out the difference in the attitudes of people of our country and the politicians. There is only lip service. There is no genuineness.
    I cherish this feeling protrayed in your essay.

    — Anita Kripalani · Jul 10, 09:05 · #

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