The Exodus
Piddu grew up in a tiny, quiet hamlet nestled in the green hills of District Kangra, Himachal Pradesh. He lost his father, when he was just five years old. His mother raised him alone facing many hardships. She survived on the meager ,wages she earned by working in the village fields. Whenever a wedding took place in the area, she would help with the household chores to earn a few extra money. Life was tough in hills then , it still is.
In those days, young men from the Himachal hills followed a familiar path. After completing their basic schooling in the villages, they ventured down to the plains under British rule. Most moved to bustling hubs like Amritsar, Jalandhar, or Lahore. Some managed to open small shops, while others secured modest government jobs.
Piddu’s life took a turn for the better when he landed a permanent position as a postmaster in Lahore. With a steady income secured, his mother quickly arranged his marriage to a young woman named Neera. Within a year, Neera gave birth to twins.
Lahore was a grand, sprawling town, vibrant with the glamour of British civilization. Seeking familiarity in the big city, a few Himachali families flocked together, living side by side in the narrow, winding streets near the Sant Nagar. Piddu and Neera moved into this close-knit community, building a comfortable life for their new family.
The political atmosphere grew volatile as the map was rewritten and two independent nations were born. Overnight, the country fractured. Riots flared up across the land, homes were destroyed, and millions of people were forced to flee for their lives. A massive exodus began as terrified families crossed the newly drawn borders between India and Pakistan.
Realizing that staying in Lahore was no longer safe, a few Pahari families decided to make their escape. Leaving during the day with heavy bags was a deadly risk, so they chose the cover of darkness. Packing only their absolute barest essentials, Piddu and Neera slipped out into the night and headed for the Lahore railway station.
The train left Lahore station at around seven in the evening. It was devoid of proper electricity , heavily packed, with people crammed inside the carriages like sacks of wheat. Somehow, amidst the desperate, pushing crowd, Piddu managed to claim a tiny, space right near the carriage toilet. Neera squeezed onto their single metal trunk, tucking her tiny infants tightly against her bosom to protect them from the crushing weight of the crowd.
The peak summer heat was suffocating. Inside the third-class compartment, the air was thick, hot, and heavy with the stench of sweat, iron rust, and panic. The usual sounds of travel were replaced by a tense, breathless silence, occasionally broken only by sound of prayers and the soft cries of frightened children. Exhausted by the terror of the past few days, the stress of leaving , and the oppressive heat , Neera’s eyes grew heavy. She eventually fell into a deep, heavy sleep, her arms still locked around her babies.
Outside the barred windows, the vast plains of Punjab rolled past under a bright moonlit sky, presenting a haunting contrast of pure peace. Rich, emerald fields of wheat and tall stalks of sugarcane swayed gently in the night breeze, glistening with silver dew.
Nature remained entirely untouched by the sudden madness of men and the artificial borders they drew. The soil smelled of timeless fertility, and the ancient rivers flowed with the exact same rhythm they always had, completely oblivious to the tragedy unfolding on the tracks above.
Piddu noticed that one of the twins had stopped moving completely, a panicked Piddu leaned down and pressed his ear to the infant's tiny chest. The baby was dead. The scorching heat, the lack of air, and the crushing crowd had been too much for his fragile body to bear. The child had quietly left this unkind world. The dead baby was on Neera's left shoulder.
Looking at his sleeping wife, Piddu’s mind spun into a state of wild, desperate grief. They were returning to their native village to start a completely fresh life from scratch. Why carry a dead child back to his mother's doorstep? Driven by frantic panic, he decided to act quickly before Neera could wake up and see the tragedy. The train roared onto the massive Beas River Railway Bridge between Amritsar and Jalandhar, its iron wheels vibrating violently over the water. In the dim, shadowy darkness of the compartment, Piddu reached down. He carefully lifted the still, quiet infant from Neera’s left shoulder and, with a swift motion, hurled the small bundle out of the window into the rushing, deep waters below.
As the bundle left his hands, a tiny, sharp cry shrieked through the night air.
Terrified and confused, Piddu froze. At that exact moment, the full moon broke free from a thick shroud of clouds, casting a bright, clear light directly into the carriage. He looked down at his wife. Neera was still fast asleep, a look of serene peace on her face as the moonlight washed over her.
But Piddu's blood ran cold. The dead child, cold and motionless, was still resting securely on Neera’s right shoulder. In the pitch blackness of the corner, he had miscalculated. The baby he had just thrown into the dark, roaring river was his living, breathing child—whose final cry was now swallowed forever by the speeding train.
- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya
21.05.2926
