In a message dated 06/25/2003 7:44:29 AM EST, [EMAIL PROTECTED] writes: << I am posting it, with his permission, in three parts. >>
This is the third and final of the subject three-part article (c) by Ansbert M. Barrie from Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada: It was my turn in the upper bunk. I climbed up and crawled in, falling into a fitful sleep. The Peshawar Express chugged towards Amritsar, final stop on the Indian side of the border and holy city to the Sikhs. The train jerked to a stop at Amritsar. I tumbled off the bunk with a blood curdling screech. Upset family members had gathered around me. Had a kirpan found its way into my bosom? Relief replaced concern when it was discovered that this was not the case. I rubbed my eyes and gathered my wits. Dim platform lights revealed many turbaned Sikhs glaring menacingly at us through the window. Dad glanced at his watch. It was 1 a.m. Grandma's eyes were closed, her lips moving in silent prayer. The tension was palpable. What we feared came to pass. A well to do Muslim family of two men, two veiled women and three small children was making its way to some first class coaches ahead of ours. Following them were two coolies bearing their luggage. The men, dressed in sherwanis, long black, tight fitting coats buttoned down the middle and red fez caps probably belonged to the business community. Their courage in not attempting disguises was admirable, though ill advised. The Sikhs were glaring ominously. The Muslims, unruffled, continued to strut on proud as peacocks. When the coolies had deposited their loads in the car an argument flared up. The atmosphere became tense as the quarrel carried on and insults were flung back and forth. Many turbaned heads were turning in that direction. "You sons of pigs!" yelled the coolies. "Keep a civil tongue in your head," cried the older Muslim gentleman. Any reference to pigs before a Muslim is the grossest insult. A slap was followed by a scuffle. Women screamed, babies cried. An enraged mob surged towards the contestants screaming abuse. Frenzy engulfed the entire crowd. "Turn out the lights and hit the floor," yelled the English officer as he made for the door on the platform side. This done, Dad and Herman hastily drew the blinds as the Englishman secured and leaned against the door. Hearts were pounding, blood pressures rising and children were whimpering as we huddled on the floor. Dad mopped his perspiring brow as he gazed anxiously around the coach. "God bless our souls," intoned Grandma as she crossed herself automatically. Meanwhile, the riot outside continued unabated. There was a crash of shattered glass. Loud thuds were audible against the compartment walls as sticks and stones were employed in the assault. The noise was deafening. The cries of babies and women mingled with the moaning of the injured reached a crescendo as the battle raged on. After what seemed an eternity, the police arrived blowing whistles and barking orders. Assisted by the fire brigade which somehow managed to unravel their hoses, they attempted to control the mob. Two teargas shells were lobbed into the crowd. Coughing and choking displaced cursing and swearing. Slowly, very slowly, the situation was brought under control. We could hear protesting rioters being dragged away. When the sound and fury of the battle had died down, the officer slowly raised the blind over the door he was guarding. "The worst seems to be over," he said. "However, don't raise the other blinds yet." Dad turned the coach lights on dim. Sweat was pouring down his face. We were sweltering in the stuffy, humid atmosphere. Gingerly, I crept towards the door and peered out in the direction of the recent disturbance. The platform was a watery mess with debris, turbans and fez caps all strewn over. Watchful soldiers guarded the subdued rioters sitting on the haunches, nursing their wounds. "Ahmed, Ahmed," whimpered the Muslim women amid the fitful sobbing of the children. One more blind was raised. "Let's say a prayer," said Mother. I had already made my Act of Contrition in anticipation of meeting the Creator. We knelt down, thanking God for His care during our ordeal, beseeching Him to deliver us safely from Amritsar. We returned to our seats raising two windows facing the tracks. The Army was in full cry, dragging stragglers to waiting paddy wagons outside the station. Many stretchers were borne out of the area. I counted three with white shrouds. The women and children were hysterical despite their miraculous escape from the wrath of the crowd. The acrid smell of tear gas hung in the air. We were detained more than two hours to allow security guards to check each coach thoroughly and allow railway staff to assess the damage. Damaged coaches were shunted off. Continuing the story, we slowly, stealthily pulled out of Amritsar and made our way to Lahore. THE END. My friend Ansbert, whom we called Bertie but who now prefers Bert, must have been in his early teens at the time of partition. We carpooled to work in the American Embassy, Karachi. He has been a permanent bachelor and its always fun chatting with him on the 'phone. Henrietta Mirande Barrie, Bert's Mother, died last September at the ripe age of 92 in Calgary, Canada. Her obituary reads in part: She was predeceased by her husband Albert (1967)............ lovingly remembered by her eight children............ eighteen grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. Pat de Sousa Maryland, USA ########################################################################## # 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 # ##########################################################################
