The Incident

Based on true events during the horrific violence of the partition of India around 1948; the protagonist was my grandfather, former Director General of Post & Telegraph of India.

The year was 1948; the place was a relatively quiet part of what was to become the capital city. Of course, `relatively quiet’ simply meant that there were fewer killings and slightly less reason to believe that humanity and insanity were synonymous. He was from the South, posted up here in the North in spite of his ethnicity. His meteoric rise in the Department of Post & Telegraph was checked only by the overarching jealousy of his colleagues and his own ironclad sense of integrity. He was not a young man anymore — — 44 years old, a wife who renewed his faith in the miraculous every day and beautiful children. The country having learned the concept of civilization from her colonial masters, the government house he lived in was palatial with at least five manservants.

With all this, he yearned only to be back in the South. Not that the madness had spared his hometown, but it was at least tempered down to acceptable levels. Up here the hate that had consumed his country covered every inch of the landscape. He sat in the verandah in the evenings staring silently at the horizon trying to ignore the screams in the distance. There was the almost constant sound of sirens and the patter of police boots. His wife and children knew better than to disturb him when he sat outside. Occasionally his oldest son would sit with him and talk about nothing in particular.

On one of these evenings as he sat alone lost in his thoughts, he heard a commotion at the gate. A heated argument had erupted between the gatekeeper and a man who was obviously under a great deal of stress. The artificial peace having been shattered, he ordered his wife to lock all the doors and proceeded to the gate to deal with the matter himself.

As he approached the gate, then man became more agitated and then without warning broke through the gate and past the startled gatekeeper. He was quickly wrestled to the ground by the able and embarrassed gatekeeper scarcely five feet from where the master of the house stood. His first thought was that this was a particularly aggressive beggar or politician ignoring for a moment the many qualities that the two share. But up close he could see the expression of absolute terror on the man’s face. He appeared to be rather young, although the times made it impossible to guess anyone’s age with reasonable accuracy. Life expectancy or even life was not a high priority among the masses. The man on the ground gasped for breath and then addressed him,

“Sir, please, I need to talk to you. I need your help. It is a matter of the gravest importance.”

He was surprised at the supplication. He continued to stare at the stranger who lay before him, bent and broken. The clothes he wore were expensive in spite of suffering indignities of the past few days, or were they weeks? Months? He was wrapped in a thick, long jacket, which bulged suspiciously all over. The man pleaded again:

“Sir, you are my last hope!”

The plea stirred something inside him. Perhaps it was his conscience rebelling at his compatriots’ madness. Perhaps it was old-fashioned decency that chose to assert itself at a most inconvenient time. Before his rational self could gather its compelling arguments to throw this bum out on the street, he gestured to the gatekeeper to loosen his hold. Without saying a word, he motioned them to follow him into the house.

His wife was not pleased, but she said nothing. A lifetime of acceptance and stoicism did not permit her to show any hint of disapproval. Only he could tell that she was unhappy. A foolish action like this could get them killed by the so-called defenders of the faith, or worse. The times called for untrustworthiness; survival depended on it.

The visitor looked visibly relaxed now. He loosened his jacket a little but wouldn’t take it off. He began talking…

“Sir, I am a Muslim.”

The gatekeeper gave a start but regained his composure. He looked at his employer with more than a little disapproval.

“I hail from what is now the other side of the current boundary of hatred. For many years I have been selling watches in this city. Fine, expensive watches, Swiss watches even.”

At this point he threw open his jacket with a flourish and everyone gasped. It was loaded on the inside with timekeepers of every imaginable fashion. Or so it seemed until he peeled off the jacket. Strapped to both arms like some grotesque bangles were even more watches. They were packed with no room to spare, jostling each other from shoulder to wrist. It was a strange, strange sight.

No one said anything for some time. After what seemed like an eternity of window shopping, he addressed the visitor:

“What do you want from me?”

“Sir all I ask is that I escape with my life intact. My family is waiting for me across the border. Please sir, you are my last hope.”

The man looked at him in wonder.

“What do you think I can do? I am a civil servant with a family. I cannot hide you here. That would put my family under grave risk.”

“Sir”, came the faltering voice, “you are an important man. Surely you can use your influence to get me out of here. Please sir…”

At this point he broke down in tears, fear and fatigue competing gamely for his mental dissolution.

He left him with the gatekeeper. He needed to think and he would make no decision without consulting with his wife. She rarely presumed to give him advice, but he knew he would be lost without her. He found her in the kitchen making coffee for the guest, a Southern tradition. In a few short sentences he told her what had transpired. She remained silent and they both stared at each other. Culture and tradition bound them strongly and prevented any overt display of affection, support or love. The silent gaze said it all, another parting gift from the visiting imperialists. She gave him a questioning look. He nodded yes and walked out, coffee in hand.

He approached the visitor and handed him the warm drink. He took it gratefully and nearly burned his throat trying to drink it all at once. The rampaging mob would have torn him limb from limb had they gotten hold of him and his wracked body was still shivering from the adrenaline shock. He looked up expectantly when he heard,

“It won’t be easy, but there may be a way.”

Amazingly enough, there was still mail service amidst the madness. The plan was to ship him across in a mail truck. As the man continued talking, tears welled up in the visitor’s eyes. He knelt down and holding on to his benefactor’s legs, wept like a child. The man disengaged himself gently and continued,

“This may not work. Save your thanks for when you reach home safely.”

He was never one to mince words.

After a long chat with the gatekeeper, he went to bed. Sleep of course was not inclined to keep him company this night. He lay there watching the stroboscopic patterns created by the ceiling fan wondering whether his family would survive his little skirmish with history. They would be slaughtered like sheep if word of this leaked out, especially in this `enlightened’ capital city. He was seized by a sudden anger at God and the universe, even though he considered himself an atheist. No one should have to make such choices, he raged quietly. He glanced over to his left and saw his wife watching him silently. Time was frozen for a moment while they communicated and he found some peace after that.

Early next morning he sent one of the manservants to the main office. He requested the westbound mail truck to make a stop at his house. The truck arrived promptly since he was after all one of the elite. He went to fetch the visitor who was waiting, fear leaking out of his eyes. The man told him that he would make the long trip in a mail sack. It would be unceremonious, but it was the only option that had a reasonable chance of success. The visitor stood speechless for a few moments and then began peeling off a considerable number of the expensive watches. He thrust the pile towards his benefactor and offered them as payment for a life to be saved. The man smiled and shook his head. He didn’t expect any payment nor did he want any. The visitor pleaded the salesman in him briefly taking over the ravaged shell. But the man refused gently, but firmly. The guest was sent off shortly after, bundled in a regulation mailbag.

Many months passed and the visitor was all but forgotten. The country was trying to heal, limping towards recovery, and forgetting was an essential part of that process. The letter arrived without fanfare; the visitor had crossed over safely.

The man smiled and showed the letter to his wife. They moved to the verandah to enjoy each other’s company, to the delicious accompaniment of fine Southern coffee.