Train to Delhi (2 page)

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 momentarily 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 …

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

D
arya 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.