700 in train lay dead, it could've been us

I was in Class V and very well remember those evenings when 40-50 of us would gather in the streets and raise slogans — “Inquilab Zindabad”, “Hindu-Muslim-Sikh-Isaai, Aapas Mein Hain Bhai-Bhai”.

Things were fine in Chak 135, our village in Sillanwali tehsil of Sargodha, but the inevitable happened. India was partitioned and even as we failed to foresee, a month later, we found ourselves packing. Father had come home and declared that we’d be leaving for India by the special train for Sikhs the next day.

On the morning of September 10, 1947, a tonga from father’s office came to drop us at the railway station. We were barely 100 yards away when we heard screams, and returned home immediately. Later, we got to know that four-five people had been killed. At 2 pm, we set out again. The police had arrived and we were told it was safe to travel. But train journeys were hardly safe those days. We had heard of all the passengers being butchered.

We were sharing the compartment with one Bachan Singh and his wife. Their 25-year-old son had been killed two days ago. “Mera bachcha maar ditta,” the woman kept crying.

Night fell and my father was saying the evening prayers before dinner when the train suddenly came to a screeching halt, bringing down all our stuff. We were surrounded by around 500 people. “Kaafiron ko maaro,” they exhorted. The military personnel fired at them. They fired back. This went on all night. Mother was so distressed, she would rush to the washroom every now and then. We were sweating profusely, living on water from toilets. At times, goons would attack the train with lances, sending shivers down the spine. My mother wanted my father to kill her and my elder sister.

In the morning, when the firing had stopped, we saw dead men all around — the sugarcane fields a mute witness to the madness unleashed. But it hadn’t ended yet. Many were still hiding in the fields. Around 2 pm, the Baloch military came with machine guns and fired into the fields; 60 were shot dead. We were finally safe, but couldn’t move further as the track had broken. To reach Lahore, we would have to walk 1 km and take another train. My father took the family and some belongings to the next train. I stayed back to watch the rest of the stuff, alone amid the stench of decaying bodies.

We reached Lahore around 10.30 pm. We had the option of getting on to the train coming from Baheda, but decided to take some rest, exhausted as we were by fear and the weather.

The Lahore station was empty. Men got down. Almost 36 hours later, we had fresh water to drink. A gentle breeze was blowing. Menfolk lay on the platform and were soon fast asleep.

All of a sudden, there were gunshots. We were under attack. The military started retaliatory fire. We ran inside and closed the doors of the train only to realise that my elder brother, Inderjeet, was still on the platform, sleeping. We shouted at him, but he wouldn’t listen. I saw my mother feel helpless. “Inder! Inder!” she kept calling. Amid a burst of gunfire, an acquaintance, also travelling by our train, ran to the platform to bring my brother to safety. The firing eventually stopped, but no one dared to step out.

At 10 am the next day, the train began its journey to Attari. On the way lay stranded the train from Baheda, the 700-odd people travelling in it now dead — men, women, young, old. It could well have been us. In the last 75 years, I haven’t forgotten that sight.

The mood remained solemn until we reached Attari where 400 to 500 people were waiting to honour us. A langar had been organised, but we were advised to eat only a little as we had been hungry for far too long. By the evening, many had heard of the Baheda train massacre. They sought revenge and asked father to join. He refused to be part of that madness, he just wanted to continue with his journey to a new land.

We went to Jalandhar and Ambala, eventually, where we rebuilt our lives.

— The writer is ex-Chandigarh Police officer (As told to Sarika Sharma)