By: Hania Bilal
The night train comes clattering down the tracks, still several feet away. The far-off warm glow magnifies till the light is blinding, the squealing of the engine amplifies into a deafening wail. Instinctively, the people cover their ears as the thundering gets larger still, until all that can be seen is a rapid blur. They barely move. Their eyes are glazed and their expressions subdued. Old couples bent over by the weight of their massive suitcases, hardly moving. A policeman straightens himself and adjusts his collar with an air of importance, the bystanders hardly giving him a second glance.
It is a cold night, the kind that leaves many shivering and trembling. The raucous metallic shriek indicates the passengers of its arrival, in all its glory of corroded iron and withering paint. They begin to shift around, pushing and shoving to be the very first to enter as soon as the doors open. The policeman, with some effort manages to push open the reluctant handles, stiff with arthritis. The siren screams, warning of its departure. Less than half of the people had somehow managed to squeeze into the already suffocating spaces, some clinging with broken nails between the doors, half of their bodies dangling out. The driver hails curses at them, wrenching them so hard, they fall onto the tracks. They scramble out, before the engine lets out a shrill screech and the train is off.
It takes a plunge into the dark and at an agonizing pace, lurches forward. Through the safety glass of the carriage, the turmoil taking place inside comes into view. Many corpses lie on the bloody carpets of the wagons, and upon inspection, identified as Muslim bodies; on their way from India to Pakistan. A pungent, rotting smell hangs in the air. Out the window, the endless expanse of green hues rolls on and on till time and space morph into one, stretching out over the horizon. The landscape flattens and vegetation, scarce. It seems that as the background transforms into shades of grey, so do the people. Through the carriage, witness the shadows of men, hunching over with razor sharp nails and blood thirsty eyes. Their faces are contorted with malice. A lost Hindu makes the mistake of entering the Muslim’s cabin, and upon declaring his religion, it’s a pity how his life is torn apart as if he is the manifestation of all Evil.
In another cabin, a conversation carries on in a secluded cabin between a British official and the cook. With some degree of sympathy, the cook says, “But alas, it wasn’t your fault was it. These subtle hints of hatred toward the other were always there, wallowing in us. Now we finally have an excuse to murder, a free pass for sending their men to hell.” … “Will this ever end? Will both sides be able to live with each other again?” He lets out a hoarse, shallow laugh, “Sahab, I am nothing more than a poor bawarchi. What do I know?”
In the dead of the night, a train passes through centuries of history, landmarks and monuments. It cuts through these like the border expurgating friendships and families for the sake of a separate homeland. Little children are torn apart by policeman from the tight embrace of their mothers as they twitch convulsively and fall to the ground screaming. Spouses fight back tears as they bid farewell to their home and settle for a new life. Youthful men roar with pride as they cross over to the other side, filled with broken promises and hopeless dreams. Freedom at last.
(Photo from here.)
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