Dear Friends: My Paki friend, Ansbert (Bertie) Barrie, mailed me the subject article last month. He is now settled in Canada -- Kelowna, British Columbia. It was published under the heading "Reflections" in the A. I. I. T., pp. 6-9 (no explanation of the acronym).
I am posting it, with his permission, in three parts. It revived old memories and you may feel likewise. Best Wishes: Pat de Sousa Maryland, USA PS: Check out <A HREF="http://www.catholic-goan-network.net/";> http://www.catholic-goan-network.net</A> (Karachi Country Web Page) for an article I wrote a couple of years back on Karachi (Kurrachee). ----------------------- THE PESHAWAR EXPRESS (c) by A. M. Barrie It was a cool Agra evening on August 3, 1947, when we boarded the Delhi Mail on the first leg of our journey to Rawalpindi, Pakistan. My father was in the civil service and was on another of his many transfers this time to the far north of the Indian sub-sontinent. In a few weeks India was to be granted independence and partitioned into India, where the majority is Hindu; and Pakistan, a new Muslim state. We had lived eight years in Agra, a city situated on the eastern edge of the mighty Thar desert. Agra, as its Indian name implies, means "fire fell." It was the imperial of the grand moghul kings, one of whom Shah Jehan (King of the World), built the Taj Mahal, a mausoleum of marble and precious stones in memory of his Queen, Mumtaz Mahal. I attached no political or economic significance to my father's move to Pakistan. I love to travel, to discover. I remember poring over atlases, yearning to visit those places with strange-sounding names. Eight years were long enough in any one place. Besides, I loved the train. Our family had seven children ranging in age from 14 years to three months. My maternal grandmother and Herman, my mother's brother, were included in the family. Many of our friends and neighbours were at the station to see us off. Some would soon be leaving for England or Australia; others had elected to remain in India. At exactly 6 p.m. the guard waved his flag and blew his whistle. Amidst final embraces, tearful faces and wet handkerchiefs the Delhi Mail, with a hiss of steam and a puff of smoke, began to move. The British had divided the Indian railways into many sections to serve their far flung colony. The Delhi Mail with its dull red coaches was a broad gauge service of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway. Three coaches in front were first class air-conditioned coaches, patronized by top government officials and the wealthy. These were followed by four second class carriages. The rest were third class cars with hard benches which were usually packed like sardines since they were used by the poorer passengers. Comfortable couches bordered our second class accommodation. Overhead, on either side of the compartment, two fans cooled and circulated the air. Dad and Herman spent the three hour ride to Delhi in the restaurant car sipping Solan beer. The Delhi Mail passed through green fiends and verdant forests. Now and then, families of frightened deer bounded gracefully away from the approaching train. Night was falling. Evening mists began to shroud the surrounding fields and forests. By 9 o'clock we alighted on the clean, well lit platform of New Delhi. There to greet us were our cousins. Luggage collected we were driven to a bungalow where Aunty Dot, Father's sister, lived. Three days were all we spent in New Delhi with its parks, shopping malls, broad clean streets and grassy boulevards. Passages were booked for the morning of August 7, for the final and most perilous part of our journey. Pre-independence India was in a ferment. It was a time of anxiety, apprehension and bloodshed. Communal rioting between Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims were commonplace. In many large cities, torrents of blood flowed through the streets. Trains were derailed, buses bombed. In tumultuous times in a nation's history, rumours spread, many based on fantasy, old wives tales and the occasional unfortunate experience with our fellow men. We were particularly afraid of the Sikhs with their black, bushy beards, piercing brown eyes and Kirpans (long swords). In those frenzied months they went back to the basics and carried daggers. Most of our journey was to be through Sikh country. Ad Independence day drew nearer, streams of refugees poured across the border. They crammed into buses; crowded on trains or huddled on bullock carts with their meagre belongings. Roads and highways were cocked with stricken people fleeing one area to find sanctuary with their religious brethren. Many had lost their all as India and Pakistan were born in blood. Against this backdrop the plucky Barrie clan set out for Pakistan. We started for Old Delhi station the previous afternoon, planning to spend the night in the restrooms there as our train was to leave early the next morning. Our heavy luggage was booked the day before. We still required three tongas to take us to the station. A tonga resembles a huge wooden box, balanced on two sturdy wheels, drawn by a single blinkered horse. The upholstered seats which could seat six comfortably are arranged back to back. A canvas canopy, folding inwards in good weather, affords passengers shelter from sun and rain. When empty the sheer contraption tilts backwards through the sheer weight of its rear end. Passengers in the back continuously experience the eerie sensation of falling off the edge of a precipice. The "tonga wala" (driver) gladly abdicates his front seat to accommodate extra fare. In this circumstance he guides the horse perched on the front left foot rest. The horses galloped, trotted or cantered through odorous bazaars, teeming with shopkeepers, costermongers, hawkers, customers, rich men, poor men, beggar men, and, thieves. Dad guarded his pockets with extra vigilance. A quick flick of the wrist by a deft passer-by would have left us penniless. (We had no American Express travellers cheques.) The aroma of Indian cuisine teased our nostrils. The stench of rotting garbage offended them. At last we reached the station, a sombre grey edifice with two turrets. It was once a fort. Hordes of emaciated coolies converged on the tongas as we reached the entrance. All offered their services at competitive rates. In the melee that followed, Dad had his hat knocked off. The hat retrieved, the coolies selected and directed under the watchful eye of Herman, we hurried to the waiting rooms where we spent an uncomfortable night. Early next morning, having spruced ourselves as best we could, we all assembled on Platform 8, where at 7 o'clock on the dot, the Peshawar Express teamed in, belching steam, spewing coal ash, then coming to a halt. Organizing ourselves into a tight little unit, for it is easy to become detached in a swirling mass of humanity, we battled our way through the milling crowd to the second class coach reserved for us. Herman opened the door and we all trooped in. After storing our luggage on the racks provided, seat allocations were made and the clan settled down. The North Western Railway was a meter gauge service, therefore, the cars were not as commodious as the GIP. The washroom, located in far front corner was equipped with a wash basin, a toilet and a mirror reflecting distorted images. I watched intently as the scene unfolded outside my window. The setting compared with a city under aerial attack. Anxious passengers followed by overloaded coolies, collided with hawkers attempting a final sale. White uniformed guards and smart looking policemen in khaki strutted proudly along the platform or stalked suspicious characters. They seemed serene and nonchalant amidst the tumult around them. The whistle blew. Slowing, laboriously the train exerted forward. Grandma clutched her rosary -- it was the second day of her novena. She was a slight woman of gentle and pious disposition. The hardest word that ever tumbled from her lips was "dang." This caused her to blush. Grandma was a boon to Mother in the care and upbringing of the children. Here was a woman who lived for others. To be continued. ########################################################################## # Send submissions for Goanet to [EMAIL PROTECTED] # # PLEASE remember to stay on-topic (related to Goa), and avoid top-posts # # More details on Goanet at http://joingoanet.shorturl.com/ # # Please keep your discussion/tone polite, to reflect respect to others # ##########################################################################
