Then I saw that Kapur Sahib had returned and was standing outside the door, animatedly talking to a Sikh officer of the army. Eventually the two came into the SM’s office, and the Sikh officer said to me, ‘Doctor Sahib, please come with me.’
I had seen how the soldiers had behaved just a few minutes earlier, and so I thought that now their officer had come to do the job more properly. But a few more words from him convinced me that he wanted only to help me. I told him I’d appreciate it if he could locate my servant and my friend and his son who had been taken outside with our baggage. He ordered two of his own Sikh troops to stand guard over me and himself went out to search. Returning a short while later with my three companions, he said, ‘I shall not look for your bags. It may put you at risk. I only want to get you out of here quickly and to some safe place.’ I told him I agreed with him. And so we stepped out of the station master’s office, with him leading the way.
Ah, the ‘colourful’ scene outside! Hundreds of armed men were milling around in front of the station building. One of the men was in shiny white clothes; he appeared to be their leader. There were several trucks standing nearby, loaded with fuel wood -- I guess, to burn the corpses right away, for I could see some smouldering heaps of ashes here and there.
A portion of the crowd surged toward us, led by that white-garbed man. Our benefactor, Captain Gurudhyan Singh, raised his Sten gun and told the crowd not to come any nearer. The crowd stopped, but its leader shouted, ‘Why did you come here to get him?’
‘I didn’t come here to get him,’ the Captain replied, ‘I came here on another task. But when I learned who this man was I decided to take him away with me.’
‘No, give him to us.’
‘Don’t you feel ashamed as a Sikh when you ask another Sikh to betray these decent people?’
‘All right,’ the leader then said, ‘you go ahead and fulfil your promise. But then drop them off at the main intersection.’
‘No,’ the Captain replied, ‘I’ll drop them wherever I choose.’
We had kept walking during this exchange and now reached the Captain’s station-wagon. He told us to get in and himself escorted the leader back to his crowd. In that brief interval, the driver of the car, a Baluchi Muslim, told me, ‘He is all right, this man. He will not betray you.’ One loses all senses when fear takes over, for I heard what the man said but I felt as if it had nothing to do with me. Then Gurudhyan Singh came running back, jumped into the car with us, and ordered the driver to drive away fast.
My friend was no longer inebriated; in fact, he was now so scared that he appeared more witless than I did. As we drove along, he started muttering, ‘Where are you taking me? My house is in the other direction. Turn the car around. I want to know how my poor mother is.’ Gurudhyan Singh said to him, ‘Bhai Sahib, I don’t know you. I’m taking the Doctor Sahib with me. If you wish to come along, do so, otherwise I’ll drop you right here by the road.’ ‘Yes, yes, drop me here,’ my friend replied, but I intervened and told his son to hold on to him. We had gone a little distance further when my friend again spoke up, ‘All right, drop me here. That’s my friend’s house over there.’
Gurudhyan Singh knew the house. It belonged to Mr Bedi who was at the time the Session Judge at Jalandhar. So he said, ‘Fine, you can get down here.’ But again I told the boy to stay where he was. He did. His father, however, stepped out of the car and went off toward the house. As it happened, we had stopped at the back of the house. The captain turned to me and said, ‘God knows if that man would reach where he’s going, for there seem to be some snipers around. They’re shooting from those upper-storey windows.’ He then had the car turned around and taken to the front gate of the house. My friend, however, had reached safely and was then telling Bedi Sahib about my situation. Bedi Sahib knew me well. He had even visited the Jamia once, when he had spent quite a bit of time observing our projects. Hearing the sound of the car, he came running out to us and began insisting that I should stay with him. Gurudhyan Singh responded, ‘Bedi Sahib, friendship is nice, but do you have any way to keep him safe here?’ Bedi Sahib replied, ‘I have a unit from the army lodged here. He’ll be quite safe with me.’ It was then that, Gurudhyan Singh left me, my servant, and the boy with Bedi Sahib and took his leave.
Both Bedi Sahib and his wife took great care of us, and urged us to stay with them as long as we wished. My friend, however, started clamouring to be taken to his own house. Finally, Bedi Sahib put him in his own car and sent him away, accompanied by three soldiers. My friend’s son didn’t go. He knew Bedi Sahib, and the latter insisted that our friend should leave him behind.
I saw some horrific sights from the roof of Bedi Sahib’s house. Houses were in flames everywhere. Even a few of the mansions near his place were burning. Deeply ashamed of what was happening, Bedi Sahib felt truly heartsick, but he didn’t know what to do. Pointing to a mansion nearby, he said, ‘A police officer now lives in it. A Deputy Superintendant of Police! He arrived here from Lahore just two days ago. His brother was slain there. His own house was plundered. When he reached here he had nothing, not even a pair of clothes. Yesterday he took the charge of his duties here. Now he lives in that mansion and watches these burning houses as so many fireworks.’
As I watched all that, even my slow brain finally grasped the reality. The next morning, when Bedi Sahib again told me to stay with him as long as I wished, I said, ‘Please Bedi Sahib, if it’s at all possible, get me back to Delhi.’ ‘In that case,’ he replied, ‘we must hurry. You must go back today. Otherwise, who knows how far worse things might get?’ I immediately agreed. Bedi Sahib then arranged for me to be escorted by some soldiers to the Jalandhar Cantonment railway station—not the City station where the previous day an interesting incident was left unfinished. My servant, it turned out, had some money with him, enough for our fares, so I didn’t have to borrow any from Bedi Sahib. We boarded the train, while our escort stood guard on the platform outside our compartment.
Finally, our train started. It was entirely filled with people who had come fleeing from Lahore and the towns near it after the carnage there. I shuddered as I listened to them talk. One had a sister killed. Another had lost his father. A third’s brother had been butchered. Someone’s wife had been abducted. As I listened to them, I wondered: why don’t they kill me? One of them mentioned that Professor Brij Narain had been killed in Lahore. He was a well-known economist. And a supporter of Pakistan too. I knew him personally as a generous and learned man. It occurred to me that I’d have no reasonable ground to object if one of the people attacked me to avenge Professor Brij Narain’s murder.
Soon the train reached Ludhiana. The scene at the railway station was horrific. There was no killing going on, but the enraged and panicky crowd milling on the platform was enough to make you pray for God’s mercy. After a few minutes my servant whispered to me, ‘Miyan, those men we met in Jalandhar yesterday, they’re here on the platform. They have seen you, and are now talking among themselves.’ I could only assume that they were plotting to finish today what they couldn’t the day before. However, just then a train arrived from Delhi; those men boarded it and went back to Jalandhar. I guess their practice was to examine the trains coming from Delhi at Ludhiana, and make note of all the Muslim passengers. Then at Jalandhar they ‘welcomed’ them properly, ‘assisted’ them with their baggage, and once they were outside, made all ‘necessary arrangements’ for them.
Our train stayed at the Ludhiana station for another hour. Several earlier trains going to Delhi had been attacked and so the station master had requisitioned a unit from the army to act as our escort. We were told that we must wait for the soldiers to arrive from Ambala. I can’t tell you how long that one hour seemed. All around us in the compartment were grief-stricken people, sobbing and weeping as they shared the horrors they had experienced. And when they recognised someone in the crowd on the platform they shouted: did you see our mother? Any news of my sister? Did your brother manage to escape? The answers shouted back only added to their pain.
Suddenly a young man entered the compartment, came over to me and asked, ‘Are you Dr. Zakir Husain?’ I told myself, ‘The summons have come,’ but to him I said, ‘Yes, I’m he.’ He then bent down and touched my feet. ‘Bhai,’ I exclaimed, ‘what are you doing?’ He replied, ‘But, sir, you’re my teacher.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know you.’ He said, ‘It’s true you don’t know me, but you’re my teacher’s teacher. I studied with Surya Kant Shastriji, and he was a student of yours. He often spoke to us about you.’
Then he said, ‘You’re doing something awfully risky travelling in this train. It’s filled with people fleeing away from Punjab.’ ‘Bhai,’ I replied, ‘I have to go to Delhi, and this is the only train that goes there. I came to Jalandhar yesterday; now I must get back.’
I then asked him to tell me about himself. He had been a lecturer in a college. His house was attacked in the riots, and he had barely managed to escape with only a bundle in his hand—a bundle of the examination copies he had been grading. His affection and kindness greatly moved me. I regret that I can’t recall his name now. He never got in touch with me later to assert any claim on me. Anyway, he instructed two of his youthful companions to sit with me, and told me not to step out of the compartment for any reason. ‘Just tell these boys if you need anything to eat or drink. They’ll go and get it for you. We don’t know when the train will start again, and right now things are very bad on the platform.’ One of the two youths who kept me company was named Chabra. He presently works in some government office here in Delhi and has stayed in regular touch with me.
Finally, by God’s grace, our train started again, and eventually we reached Delhi. Me and my servant, with nothing but a durrie and an empty lota between the two of us.
The letter has grown long. I don’t know what moved you to ask me about that incident, but I didn’t feel like writing about it briefly to you. When I recall the incident, or someone reminds me of it, I truly am amazed at my own stupidity. But then I don’t feel any regrets either. Perhaps I much more prefer putting my trust in others through stupidity than trying to be smart and suspecting their intentions.
What I saw in Delhi after I returned made insignificant what I had witnessed at Jalandhar. Such wretched scenes of meanness, barbarism, and ruthlessness that they left you stunned. But, with the passage of time, all those experiences have faded. Now I only remember this: Kapur Sahib, a Hindu unknown to me, learned somehow who I was; he then spoke to a Sikh army officer, another stranger to me, who put his own life at risk to save mine; Bedi Sahib, who looked after me like a brother; and then that young student and his friends who escorted me back to Delhi.
I escaped death, but I can’t decide whether I’m happy about it or ashamed.