Our worldly possessions now were only two steel trunks containing summer clothes and two holdalls stuffed with summer beddings and some miscellaneous items for a family of six – my parents, my elder sister, my brother Vijay, me, and the new infant, Gogo. My eldest sister, Vimla, was already married and her husband was posted in the irrigation department of the Indian part of Punjab. Tikka Saab, the brother next in line, was already in India.

On 17 October 1947 my father returned with the tidings that a special train for government servants would be leaving for Amritsar the next day. We packed our meagre belongings in no time. We had expected reserved seats in the train. However, when we reached the Chaklala railway station we saw a sea of surging humanity with all sorts of baggage already there. There was no question of reservation; it was free for all. An unusually long train could be seen at some distance.

There were very few coolies and they demanded fifty rupees a piece to carry the baggage. My father, Vijay and I carried the trunks. My sister and mother managed to drag the bedrolls till I was able to come back to carry one. We made for the nearest compartment. The first batch of occupants tried in vain to block entry to newcomers saying there was no accommodation. Those outside first begged and then became abusive and aggressive. The occupants had to relent more out of fear than sympathy. More families arrived by the minute. They did not ask, did not care and shoved their baggage through the door which had been half-barred by the pressure of baggage of the occupants. ‘There is no space,’ someone shouted from inside. ‘Never mind, we will go and sit on the roof. Just let our bags in.’ Soon there were more people on the roof of the train than inside. A large number of men clung to the doors and windows of compartments.

Our compartment carried a notice in English and Urdu: ‘To seat 17 persons only.’ I counted thirty men, women and children.

Soon the small compartment became a mound of trunks, bedrolls and all sorts of packets, big and small. Children clambered up the heaps of baggage and made a sport of rolling down, going up, and rolling down repeatedly.

We were relieved to notice that platoons of Gurkha soldiers mounted guard in front of the engine, in the middle of the train, and behind the last compartment of the train. They were protected by sandbags and armed with machine guns.

Having settled down in the safety of the compartment, all of us heaved a sort of collective sigh of relief. Across from us a newly married young couple sat snuggled together, the woman still in her bridal finery and forearms covered with ivory and multicoloured glass bangles. An old woman sat next to the man, probably his mother. Looking at the young couple, Vijay and I exchanged mischievous, knowing glances about what they might be feeling. Armed Gurkha soldiers patrolled the length of the train on both sides a number of times before they gave the all-clear. Then we heard the guard’s whistle. The engine hooted in response and the train started moving slowly. Soon it was dusk and the compartment was only lit dimly. Passengers began opening their packets of food — stuffed parathas and other snacks for the evening meal, some offering to share their food with others, a tradition of railway journeys in the country.

We were in the middle of our meal when we heard the sound of gunfire. The train came to a sudden halt and then began to reverse. After what seemed to be a long time, the gunfire became sporadic and then stopped. After that there was nothing to do except to try and sleep. But there was no place to even stretch our limbs. I dreamt I was sleeping on a plush bed in a palace. A jolt of the train woke me up and I found that I was lying on a heap of luggage. Such dreams came in repeated short snatches. Everyone was probably having similar dreams. It was indeed a long night. My father pulled out his pocket watch off and on and announced the time for general benefit. At long last, dawn peeped through the window shutters. Some people starting going to the toilet, the door of which was somehow kept free from any obstruction. Someone announced that we should be reaching Lahore soon. My father lifted the window shutter to check the name of the station the train was passing by. We were barely halfway to Lahore. He saw a crowd at the platform waving for the train to stop. Presumably they were refugees like us waiting to be evacuated. But the train did not stop. It was already overloaded and there was a risk that there might be an ambush. Those were not the times when people were bothered much about others.

About an hour later the train stopped again. Again there was the sound of exchange of fire. Someone climbed down from the roof and said that a burning tree had been laid across the rails and a crowd, shouting slogans and firing shots, had surrounded the front of the train not knowing that the train had a Gurkha escort. Instinctively, my mother stopped distributing whatever was left of the stock of our parathas. She whispered to us that we had to make do till we reached Lahore. ‘There we can buy something more to eat,’ she offered by way of reassurance. We understood.

But the whole day passed and there was no sign of Lahore. The train stopped twice more for extended periods. The sound of sloganeering mobs and the sight of distant arson accompanied by exchange of fire between the rioters and Gurkhas made us down the window shutters, keep quiet and hope for the best. For the time being hunger and thirst were kept at bay.

The train picked up speed and Vijay, still ‘Aslam’, started reciting chal chal fata fut, chal chal fata fut – a children’s rhyme mimicking the sound produced by wheels of an express train. That lifted the tension in the compartment.

[Niyogi Books has given Fair Observer permission to publish this excerpt from A Bonsai Tree: An Autobiography, Narendra Luther, Niyogi Books, 2017.]

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.