Memoir: A professor from Calcutta posted in Rawalpindi finds himself caught in Partition violence

Wednesday, October 8, 1947

The train was waiting to depart. Our hope was that by the next day my son and I would be free from this hell. Capt Dilwar Khan put us into a compartment and left. It was quite cold. We put on some warm clothes and were sitting there comfortably, when a red-faced Englishman peered in through the window and asked angrily, “Who has given you permission to travel in the Military Special train? Get out! Get out!”

There were about a dozen men and women in the compartment. They got off without a word. In the next compartment, there was a group of civilians with their families. The Englishman threw them out as well. Since they were a little tardy about getting off, he lost his patience. He grabbed a small tin trunk and threw it out. It landed on the head of a small girl, who started bleeding profusely. When the people on the platform and the soldiers of the Dogra Regiment got agitated, the Englishman disappeared.

I learnt from a havildar that this Englishman was Col Colson of the Dogra Regiment. He was travelling with this battalion to Delhi. At about 8 pm, Dilwar Khan came up to us and asked, ‘Why are you standing outside?’ We told him what had happened, including the bit about the little girl being hit on the head and bleeding.

A little later I saw Dilwar Khan deep in conversation with Colson. They were pacing up and down the platform with long strides, like two enraged tigers. I overheard a bit of the exchange:

“I will not take civilians on a Military Special.”

“If you don’t take my people, I will not allow the train to leave.”

“Remember you are talking to a colonel.”

“And you should not forget you are talking to a captain in the Pakistan army.”

“I will report you to the authorities.”

“Do that. This train is not moving.”

I don’t know what happened after that. They went off in different directions. A little later Dilwar Khan returned and took me to see a Dogra subedar. He said, “Subedar saab, I have come to you with my guru. Please make sure that my guruji reaches Delhi without harm. This is my request. Guruji is a Hindu, and I am a Muslim.”

Dilwar looked intently at the subedar, who obviously could not understand why a Muslim should feel so much for a Hindu. He was bewildered for a little while; then he held Dilwar’s hand and promised he would take us safely to Delhi, no matter what Colson said. Nobody else got a chance to get on to the train that night.

A Punjabi lady and a gentleman holding the hands of two children came towards the train. Colson arrived rapidly from somewhere and stopped them. He ignored their pleas and pushed them away. The woman fell down and started crying. The desperation was so evident on their faces that everyone on the train expressed their sympathy with a loud “Hai! Hai!”

I was able to make a bed on the lower bunk and lie down, but though it was only the beginning of October, it was cold. I did not sleep a wink all night. I kept looking at my watch and wishing for the morning. At 5 am, there was another altercation between Dilwar and Colson. After arguing for about half an hour, Colson agreed to take a few civilians on the Military Special. At dawn the soldiers and a few civilians climbed into the train. We got on too. The subedar came down once to check where we were.

Thursday, October 9, 1947

The train finally left at about 7.30 a,m. We heaved a sigh of relief. About fifteen minutes later, the four soldiers who were in our compartment suddenly said, “Get down and sit on the floor. There may be shots fired.” We sat on the floor of the compartment. Fifteen minutes later they told us we could get back on the seats.

Some of the passengers asked the soldiers why they had asked us to sit on the floor, since nothing happened. “Something could have happened. We were lucky that nothing did happen,” said one of the soldiers. “When this train was going between two hills beyond Peshawar, some hidden enemies had fired on the train and killed about ten soldiers. The wounded have been sent to hospital.”

At about 11 am, we reached Jhelum. At noon, the train had still not left the station. The soldiers got down and, with their guns ready, walked up and down guarding the train. Then bags of vegetables and flour, plates, buckets, and a whole lot of other things were brought off the train. A chulha was lit. A large wok was placed on it. Baskets of chopped vegetables were washed. Some flour and water were put into a large vessel and a few sepoys sat down to knead the flour. Soon there was a mountain of rotis. We thought that the train would take off as soon as the soldiers had finished eating.

Meanwhile, we saw a few hundred local Muslims standing about two hundred yards away from the train on either side and looking at us. We ate the bread and butter we had brought.

The sepoys finished eating. All the cooking vessels, etc., were loaded on the train. The guards were changed, but the train did not move. And no one could tell us when it would. It was almost dusk when I learnt that the train would not be moving that night. There was not enough room for all the passengers, so the women and children slept on the train and everyone else slept on the platform, while the soldiers kept guard. But no one slept because it was bitterly cold.

Friday, October 10, 1947

At dawn I saw the engine pushing the train backwards. I quickly figured out what was happening. It was for the health of the passengers. First everyone headed off to the trenches surrounded by matting and then they had baths. The sepoys, wearing small dhotis, got together on one side. A Brahmin wearing the sacred thread sat on a small stool and read the Gita, and even explained it. At the end of the reading, the soldiers received the sacred prasad in their hands and did a pranaam before getting up.

Now it was time to eat. We breakfasted on stale bread and got ready to starve for the rest of the day. The other passengers bought some food from some of the stalls nearby. The soldiers gave a few people some food.

In the evening I heard that not only was the train not going forward that night, but the civilians were going to be sent immediately to a refugee camp. Most people were stricken and began cursing Colson. Later I heard a rumour that a few bridges had been destroyed, so this train would have to wait in Jhelum for another eight days or so. Another rumour was that the train would be returning to Rawalpindi. One of the soldiers told a group of refugees that some more refugees were coming to Jhelum in a lorry, and would be travelling on this train. This seemed a plausible explanation.

Once again, we had to spend the night on the platform, under the stars.

Excerpted with permission from The Maker of Eternity: A Memoir Across Empire, War and Home, Suresh Chandra Guha, translated from the Bengali by Rajyashree Dutt, Speaking Tiger Books.