Train to Delhi Read Free

‘This man knocked frantically for admittance, but we couldn’t let him in.’
    â€˜Would that have really helped?’ Gautam said. ‘We’re dealing with bloodhounds, not human beings.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Urdu, I guess,’ said the bishop. ‘Do you know this language?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜So, it hasn’t turned out to be a calm day, after all.’ Father Jones said, in an almost self-derisive tone.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜How sadly mistaken we both were.’
    â€˜Yes, Father.’
    â€˜This may trigger off another round of violence.’
    â€˜Most likely.’
    Again the bishop’s eyes strayed towards the dead man.
    â€˜Shouldn’t we inform the police?’ he asked Gautam.
    â€˜But would it serve any purpose? I’m certain they’re in league with these killers. They move in much after all is over.’
    â€˜Then there is no law and order.’
    â€˜No.