Khauf

His nerves were on edge with fear. As he sat his knees shook so much it seemed as if he was about to have an epileptic fit.

There had been riots in the city for the last four days. The curfew was lifted for a few hours in the morning and in the evening. During those hours some people went out quickly to buy a few essential things for the day, while others went out quickly to create trouble – to set fire, stab, or leave a few corpses behind – and went back home even before the curfew was re-imposed. Bombay was overflowing with hot news and hot blood, even though the radio and TV continuously announced that the situation in the city was under control and that life was returning to normal.

In order to prove that the situation was normal, local trains had begun to run again since the previous day. Even though most of the compartments were empty, the sight of lights on the railway tracks helped to somewhat dispel the darkness of the last few days. The sound of a train rattling past the settlements on both sides of the tracks, over which a heavy and stony silence had settled, brought back hope of life again.

Yasin used to listen to the rattle and also often got up to watch the trains pass by. Tomorrow would be the fifth day of his absence from home. They must have given up waiting for me, he thought. Must have begun to search for me. The day was about to come to an end when his patience snapped. As soon as the curfew was lifted in the evening, he went to Andheri station. The platform was deserted, but the indicator was still flashing the schedule of the trains.

The train pulled into the platform slowly, unlike its usual style – as if it was scared, afraid, cautious. There were a few passengers on the train. He couldn’t decide which compartment he should enter. The majority of the passengers were Hindus, gathered together in groups of twos and fours. He continued to hesitate on the platform, but jumped into a compartment the moment the train started. He chose an empty compartment. He looked all around carefully and then sat huddled in the corner seat of the last berth from where he could keep an eye on the entire compartment. He began to breathe more easily as the train picked up speed.

Suddenly, Yasin saw a shape emerge from the other end of the compartment. He nearly fainted. His knees began to tremble again. He crouched so that if the man came towards him, he could either hide under the berth, or confront him – take up position in front of him.

The door of the compartment wasn’t far. If he jumped out of the running train, he faced no other danger except death. Even if the train slowed down, then the man… Suddenly, the man stood up in his place. He stood and looked all around. There was no sign of fear or nervousness on his face. He was most certainly a Hindu – that was Yasin’s first reaction. The man slowly walked up to the door at the other end of the compartment and stood near it. His muffler fluttered in the breeze like a torn flag. He continued to look outside for some time. Then it seemed as if the man was testing his strength against something. Yasin couldn’t see him clearly from where he was sitting. It seemed, however, that the man was either pulling something, pushing against it or trying to lift it. Yasin thought that he was breaking something. Suddenly, the rusty door moved with a jerk and banged shut with a loud rattle. It was lucky that Yasin didn’t let out a scream. Even the man was startled and looked all around him. He looked for a long time in the direction where Yasin was hiding. Yasin suspected that the man had either seen or heard him. The man’s strength had added to his fear. If there was a confrontation would he be able to fight him? The man slowly walked towards the door on the opposite side and stood near it.

The train crossed a deserted station in Jogeshwari. If it had stopped, Yasin would have got off. But the area was under curfew and the train did not stop there… Perhaps, the curfew bound areas would have been safer – at least the police would have been around. Now even the army had been called out to patrol the city. One could see army trucks, with green and khaki stripes, roaming through riot-torn areas, loaded with armed soldiers in green and khaki uniforms, their rifles ready, pointing out of the trucks. The police had become quite useless. No one was even afraid of it. Mobs threw stones and soda-water bottles at policemen fearlessly – and even bulbs filled with acid. When the police fired tear-gas shells, people in the mob picked them up with wet handkerchiefs and threw them back at the police. What action had the police taken when the bakery in Sakinaka, where he worked, had been set on fire? The police had stood at a distance and watched the spectacle, while they themselves had to run through narrow lanes to save their lives and hide in a garage of battered and half-stripped cars. There had been eight to ten of them. God bless Bhau! As they were running, Bhau had grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him into a small shed next to a tea-shop. Bhau knew that he was a Muslim. Bhau was a Hindu. Why had he run? Bhau had told him that a blood-thirsty mob never stopped to find out the names of its victims. Its thirst was either quenched by blood or by fire. Burn it. Kill him. Destroy everything. Its anger cools down only when nothing remained before it.

The rattling of the other door startled him. That man had now shut both the doors at the other end of the compartment. He stared for sometime in the direction where Yasin was hiding. Fear gripped him once again. Why was that man shutting the doors of the compartment? Did he want to kill him, and, leaving his blood-soaked corpse on the train, get off at the next station? The train was slowing down – it was approaching a station. The man’s steps were more confident than before. He was slowly walking towards Yasin. Yasin’s breathing grew more labored. He felt cold sweat trickle down his face out of sheer terror. His breathing became heavy.

He couldn’t swallow his saliva. If only he wouldn’t start hiccupping, or coughing, otherwise, lying under the berth, he would be….

The train stopped at a station. The man calmly walked up to the door which opened onto the platform and stood next to it. He had one hand in his pocket. He must have a weapon in it – a pistol, a knife? Yasin thought of making a dash for it and jumping out of the other end. But by the time he got out of his hiding place, that man would have ripped open his stomach. Why only his stomach? His throat too, so that he couldn’t scream. He peeped out like a thief. That man was looking out of the train. The platform was utterly desolate – one couldn’t even hear footsteps. Yasin wanted someone to come into the compartment. But how did he know who would come in? A Hindu? A Muslim? Let it be another Hindu. He may be kind-hearted like Bhau. How readily had Bhau made him wear his sacred thread and escorted him from the tea-shop up to his own small room. He had kept Yasin there for four days.

Bhau had told him, “I am a Maratha, but I don’t eat meat everyday. If you want, I’ll get some for you. I am not sure what kind would be available. I don’t understand anything about halal-walal. The situation outside is so bad that vegetables are rotting in Andheri but there is no one to sell them. You can loot as much as you want.”

The radio, however, continuously announced “The situation in the city is slowly returning to normal. The trains are running. In some areas, even the buses have begun to ply again.”

During those four days, he had been very worried about his family. Even they must have been worried about him. He was afraid of one thing though, Fatima going to the bakery to look for him. He could see the railway tracks from the hovel he was hiding in. He could also see the trains but Bhau had not let him go.

The train started with a jerk and brought Yasin back to the present with a jolt. That man was holding the door-handle with his left hand and standing complacently. His right hand was still in his pocket. The train crawled and dragged itself for some distance. Why didn’t it pick up speed? There could be no reason for not getting the signal, not many trains were plying anyway – no train had yet gone in the opposite direction. The train continued to drag itself slowly for a long time. It continued to crawl and, finally, it stopped on the Bhayander Bridge. Below it was the bay from which, according to newspaper reports, dead bodies were often fished out.

Yasin found it difficult to breathe. Terror had made life impossible. Why doesn’t that man take his hand out of his pocket? It was obvious from the look in his eyes that he was about to attack. What would happen when he attacked? Would he ask him to come out? Or would he grab him by his hair, pull him out and, in a flash, place a knife at his throat? What would he do? Why doesn’t he do something?

Suddenly, the man pulled his hand out of his pocket and began to pull and push against the door again, to shut the third door. Now all the routes of escape were being closed. In any case, there was the sea down below. He would certainly be killed if he jumped. He had reached the extreme edge of fear: he was being trapped in a cave.

He suddenly jumped up from his hiding place. That man looked at him with shocked surprise. He put his hand in his pocket. Yasin didn’t know where he got the strength from. He shouted, “Ya Ali,” grabbed the man’s legs and threw him out. As the man fell, Yasin heard him scream, “Allah…”

Yasin stood still. The train began to move. Yasin was surprised – “Was he also a Muslim?” But having freed himself from the noose of terror, he felt as if he had escaped from the jaws of death.

That night he told Fatima, “It had to happen that way. I had no immediate proof of being a Muslim myself.”

(Translated by Alok Bhalla.)