Penguin Book of Indian Railway Stories Read online

  The S.M. gave up. What he reported is not on record as these probably have been burnt long ago, but the fact remains that it cost these two planters Rs 25 each for breaking rules—boarding a train while in motion.

  The Coolie

  HOT PLATFORM, SEETHING WITH humanity and flies. Fruit and sweet vendors plying their trades add to the general air of noisy confusion. Sleeping forms lying about are herded in every available patch of shade.

  An incessant chorus of babbling mynas add to the din.

  Trains, great fiery snorting monsters, forge their way from out of the heat haze and disgorge their cargo of passengers or goods.

  Bare footed sweating coolies plunge into the melee. The sleeping figures, roused to activity, jostle and run with the rest.

  Pandemonium reigns . . . . Packages are humped on straining backs . . . . Hoarse cries to clear the way . . . . And outside the tongawallahs seethe towards the station entrance in their eagerness to find a fare.

  Nowhere is the scene without interest.

  Slender women clutching brown babies follow, with a tinkle of anklets and bangles, in the wake of their husbands. Some are huddled in the voluminous folds of the disguising burkha lest alien eyes should gaze upon their charms. There, a fierce black bearded Hillman from the frontier; here, a Bengali babu complete with spectacles and umbrella. A demure child-wife, with soft shy eyes, passes with her veil half blown back from her frightened face—never before, perhaps, has she travelled and the bustle and roar bewilder her.

  In the goodsyard coolies toil unceasingly. Wagons filled with sacks of grain or flour, bales of cotton, bundles of hide must all be unloaded. They work rhythmically to a monotonous chant. Muscles ripple beneath gleaming brown skins. For the most part they are happy. There are many worse things in life than being a coolie in regular employ.

  One old man stands apart, and, with a hint of wistfulness in sunken eyes, watches the young men work. Days there were, when he, too, could labour as they.

  What had it mattered when a wagon had been opened to reveal heavy piled up sacks? He had been wont to hurl himself upon them and, full of bursting energy, heave them one by one into the yard.

  Those good days were gone.

  His failing strength had been remarked upon—well he knew the head coolie to be his enemy. He had borne tales to the great ones—tales and lies, too, which told how the old coolie was lazy and also of how he would rip open a corner of a sack in order to steal a few handfuls of corn.

  Of course the great ones had believed and he had been dismissed. He harboured no resentment for was it not ever thus?

  Later, the head coolie had been found pilfering and he, also, had been sent away; the sahibs were ever just!

  As yet the erstwhile coolie had not told his wife and growing family of the misfortune which had befallen. She was about to bear another child and women at such times must be protected. Each day her husband set out as though to work. Wearily, he would pad along the dusty highway—soon his few savings would be gone and what then? But they would last out until the child was born, and by that time, who knew, he might find work.

  The old scene and the old life fascinated him, and so each day he came and stood apart, watching—ever watching.

  The seeds of weakness were in his body, the lifting of a few more heavy loads and oblivion—his soul would speed away from his worn out body, he would dwell in the realms of the spirits of his forefathers. This must not be, for who would care for his house and family?

  Thus, and ever thus, he pondered in his simple mind.

  * * *

  Each morning before the sun rose to full glory it was the custom of the memsahib to ride. The syce brought the little chestnut mare up to the steps and many a morning she shied away and lashed out dislodging a pot of ferns.

  The memsahib laughed gaily and thought of the exhilarating gallop across the maidan.

  ‘Have a care, old lady, I don’t like the look in that animal’s eye?’

  Again the memsahib laughed and paid scant heed to the cautioning words of her husband. Springing lightly into the saddle she was out of the gate with a scurry of hoofs.

  The syce shook his head and voiced his thoughts to the mali: ‘That one has a heart of evil, she is no fit ride for the memlog!’ And the wise mali agreed.

  But the mare was going quietly now, the memsahib patted the arching neck. She loved her morning ride—no Indian liver for her, the warm blood coursed strongly through her veins.

  Ahead was the funny old man whom she passed each day; always he salaamed her and smiled. She liked his old face, today she would speak to him.

  ‘Ah, buddha, to where do you go each morning?’ she called.

  ‘Huzoor, I go to the railway station to work,’ he lied, for he was the one-time coolie who had been dismissed.

  ‘So? And the work is hard and the hours are long?’

  ‘All work is good, memsahib!’

  She laughed and carelessly flicked the pony with her whip. Maddened the chestnut mare reared, clawing the air with its forelegs, then it seized the bit between its teeth and dashed wildly down the road.

  The memsahib was unprepared, she lost her head. The pony swerved, tried to jump a mud wall, blundered and fell, throwing its rider.

  The memsahib lay stunned.

  The coolie, very much afraid, ran to the spot.

  ‘Memsahib—memsahib?’ he called anxiously.

  There was no movement from the prostrate figure. The memsahib’s topee had fallen off and a blue bruise was darkening her forehead.

  ‘Of a surety I shall be blamed for this!’ muttered the coolie.

  He would have liked to run away and hide but he could not leave her thus—besides she had smiled at him.

  Wondering if it would kill him he stooped to hoist the unconscious girl on to his shoulders, just in the same way as he had carried the sacks of grain. He found her heavier than he expected.

  With his burden he set off for the nearest bungalow. It was not far but his heart was throbbing curiously and his lungs did not seem to be working properly.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, I’m all right! It was only a knock on the head—what happened to the mare?’

  Rather pale and shaken the memsahib was reassuring her distracted husband.

  ‘Darling, are you sure you’re all right? I shall have that brute shot!’

  ‘No, no! It was all my fault—she’s a topping ride. Please, Bobby, don’t be silly! How did I get here, anyway?’ she asked, looking round the strange bedroom.

  ‘Oh, some old coolie carried you—thank God. These people are such fools, often they’d rather leave one to die.’

  ‘Of course—I remember, I was talking to him. Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hanging about for backsheesh, I suppose,’ he said, ungratefully.

  ‘He seemed a nice old man—works at the station,’ she replied, while once again she visualized the rather wistful tired face.

  It was decided that the memsahib could be moved back to her own bungalow by car. She felt giddy when she tried to walk and her husband put a steadying arm round her.

  Outside the gate was a curled up, moaning figure. She recognized it.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ she cried, ‘that is the old man who brought me here! Oh! Bobby, he’s hurt—we must do something!’

  ‘All right, dear, I’ll see to it later. Let me get you home first—.’

  ‘No! We can’t leave him like this!—Bobby?’

  He could not withstand her pleading.

  * * *

  The old coolie was taken to the Mission Hospital.

  He was hopelessly crocked—years of weight-lifting took their toll. He fought his way back to health and a semblance of his old self.

  Once, the memsahib visited him. He was greatly touched by her solicitude.

  ‘I am afraid you will never again be strong enough to work at the station,’ she said, gently.

  The old eyes dimmed.

  ‘Preserver of the P
oor,’ he began, ‘this unworthy one craves, forgiveness. Of my work at the station I spoke not the truth—.’

  The whole pathetic little history came tumbling out, finishing with: ‘Be not angry with thy servant!’

  ‘I am not angry,’ she replied, ‘and I would help you. You risked your life for me, it is only right that I should reward you.’

  The old man’s eyes lit up with a gleam of hope—visions of his family starving had tortured his illness and retarded his recovery.

  If only she could re-establish him at the station! A goodsyard chowkidar perhaps! The great white lords were all powerful—to be back on any sort of work at the station was the height of his ambition, and had he not been dismissed on a false charge?

  Eagerly his eyes scanned her face. Would it be too much to ask?

  She smiled. ‘What would you that I should do for you?’

  ‘Huzoor, even I, mean and humble as I am, have my pride. If of the memsahib’s goodness a small position of trust at the station—such as chowkidar—could be found for me?’ The voice trailed off uncertainly.

  ‘I will see. If it is possible it shall be done.’

  * * *

  Now he walks proudly on his nightly rounds, guarding the sacks of grain that he was once supposed to have tampered with.

  Many are the blessings which he calls down upon the head of the kind lady.

  ‘Long may she prosper!’

  And long may he prosper.

  The Luck of John Fernandez

  J.W. Best

  ONCE CLEAR OF THE WESTERN Ghats, it is to some people surprising that the traveller from Bombay does not see more of the Indian jungles from the windows of his comfortable railway carriage. Surprising, in view of the enormous area of forest land that exists in peninsular India; but not to be wondered at, however, when one grasps the fact that railways must take the easy way through the level plains whose wealth of grain and farm produce they tap. Railways and forests have little use for one another. As passengers, we naturally think of the lines solely from our own point of view—speed and comfort. We forget that the carriage of our mean bodies is an insignificant business compared with the transport of heavy goods.

  Once past the scrub clad slopes of the Western Ghats, which are hardly worthy the name of jungle, the railways across the Central Provinces hardly touch the forests. A patch at Bagra on the Jubbulpur line, and another at Donragarh on the Nagpur line, and that is all we see. So the traveller naturally asks himself, Where are these jungles of which we read so much?

  Let him look from his carriage window across the rich crop laden plains, over the fields of tall waving millet of white speckled cotton, of pulses in ordered lines, or dark green wheat, and he will see, often many miles away, the shapes of distant blue hills on either side of the line. They overlook the sunny plains almost the whole way across the continent. Sometimes they are close enough for the passenger to see their base in detail, but more often only half their mass is visible above the line of the horizon. Perhaps the most outstanding of these hills is Dalla Pahar in the Bilaspur District, one of the most striking hills that I have ever seen, rising like a dark pyramid in the middle of a network of rice fields. As the train approaches, the tip of the hill first shows above the line of the distant horizon; soon the hill grows rapidly, so that when the carriages thunder over the Champa bridge Dalla Pahar stands like a dark sentinel brooding over the glaring plains.

  In the long journey across the continent, those who know the hills watch them fascinated. These are the jungles of India, silent mountain tops, shaded valleys, and the deep foliage of the trees—what are their secrets?

  Few indeed who penetrate the forests know what passes in their gloomy shelter. The deer are in the midst of plenty, but live, and feed, and breed, with swift death in their tracks. The heavy shouldered tiger, when his luck is out, so pressed for food that he must descend to a diet of frogs and crabs along the river beds; in more prosperous times he is so sated with food that half his kill is left to the bare-headed vultures and slinking hyaenas. Here roam the mighty bison, the dark skinned truculent boar and the clumsy bear.

  As one looks across at these hills one can picture the brilliant peafowl, the screaming parrakeets, the furtive jungle fowl, the ungainly hornbill; and there is a great longing to be among them.

  A small arm of the forest—rather, a little finger—crosses the railway for a short distance near Bagra. This you must picture to yourself, unless perchance you pass the place in the train as you read. Low forest, some bamboos, many thorns and deep shade beneath the shimmer of sun-kissed leaves above.

  The name of Fernandez is as much honoured and is as well known in India as that of Jones or Evans in Wales. When I write of John Fernandez who worked as an engine driver on the railway at Itarsi in 1920, I am not referring to the one of that name that you know or knew. There may be fifty of them in Itarsi, they may all be engine drivers and they may all be known to their friends as John. Again I say that you do not know my John Fernandez and you will not find him in Itarsi. Did he ever exist? You ask. I am not going to give away either John or myself.

  John was a good Catholic as well as a good father to his large family of children. He adored children, especially his own for whom he thanked God daily. John knew, like so many other fathers, that children need food and clothing, which cost money. John found it difficult to make both ends meet on his engine driver’s pay in normal times. Now matters were worse with other calls on his purse. Moreover, Mrs Fernandez wanted to possess a gramophone.

  Lent had been carefully observed in the Fernandez bungalow, and we find John at Easter much worried about finances. He spoke about it to the good Father, whom all loved—heathen, heretic, and Catholic alike—asking for advice.

  ‘Father,’ he said, ‘Lent has saved my pocket. Now at Easter I should like to make a present to my wife, and to smell good roasted meat in the house again. I cannot afford the present, and it is going to be difficult to find the money for the house.’

  ‘My son,’ replied the Padre, ‘put your trust in God and the intercession of St Anthony, remembering to take such opportunities as are sent you.’

  John felt that the sum of fifty rupees would be wealth indeed if it could be come by honestly. But how? Miracles are scarce in these days—that sort of miracle, anyway.

  The good Father had as firm a belief in prayer as a sound doctor has in castor oil. As an expert, the Padre had no hesitation in recommending St Anthony, who he knew to be a specialist in the particular kind of trouble that was affecting John. This is an age of specialists. The Padre had far more faith in St Anthony in his particular line of business than most doctors have in recommending their pet appendix snippers to their patients. John had a blind faith in the good Father—who indeed was a saint—and was therefore ready to put his shirt on St Anthony. So they both prayed. Of course prayer is not so fashionable as it was, but many folk still practise the healthy custom, which the Church of Rome is so old-fashioned as to encourage. She has not of course a monopoly in the virtue, but does set an example.

  Their prayers were answered, as you will see if you have the patience to finish this story.

  Some ten miles away from Itarsi, the railway crosses the sandy bed of the Tawa River by a bridge, then dives into a tunnel to emerge in that little finger of jungle that stretches over the line near Bagra. Here on the Railway line Fernandez found the answer to his prayers.

  South of the railway, a short day’s march distant, the Denwa River joins the Tawa. Here, where all is forest, dark rocks and overhanging bamboos shade the deep pools of clear water in the rivers. The further side of the stream is flat with rich alluvial soil on which grow many bér plum trees. At the time of which I write the grass beneath the trees had been closely cropped by game, leaving the many yellow plums that had fallen to the ground exposed to hungry eyes. A few large trees were scattered about which gave welcome shade where the sated animals could sit and chew the cud. The general effect was parklike and peaceful. T
he only sounds to be heard were the occasional whistle of a fruit pigeon as it piped its content in the higher branches of the trees, or the splash of a kingfisher probing the depths of the pool.

  Beneath the shade of a green fig-tree, a sambur stag rested with legs tucked beneath his brown body. He had fed well on the luscious yellow plums; supplementing his diet with a salad of the fresh green dhub grass along the river bank. Now, with an occasional twitch of his large round ears, he sat in the shade watching the deep blue of the pool set like a jewel in the golden sand. His antlers, thickly beaded, heavy and dark, proclaimed him the father of his tribe. Every twenty seconds or so an upheaval in his stomach followed by a jerk in his throat would return the food to his mouth for the final meal. The stag took his time, chewing slowly as with half-closed eyes he watched the peaceful scene around him. In the deeper forest to his rear, the midday silence was rudely broken by the harsh call of a monkey. The stag stopped his rumination and slowly moved his ears as he tuned them to the direction of the warning call. Hearing the harsh cry of alarm repeated by many other monkeys, he rose, his antlers knocking noisily against a branch above him as he turned to face the danger, stamping his forelegs menacingly on the hard ground. What was it? A domestic affair in the monkey world? The bad dream of an ape? A false alarm at a wandering Jackal? The stag raised his head as he sniffed the still air. Ah! Dogs! Cruel red dogs, hungry and without mercy. Panic stricken, he turned from the foul stink of them towards the river sands splashing through the pool and clattering up the rocky slope on the other side of the water. The dogs, twelve couple of them, followed lean and hungry. The water boiled and hissed as they took it in the stag’s wake. Then, silent footed, they followed their quarry whom they could hear crashing through the low growth on the ridge above them. They settled down to a steady hunt, certain of their prey. They followed at a dog’s pace. The stag moved along in sudden rushes, each time prompted by the silent approach of the leader of the pack. His pursuers never hastened, being sure of their prey. Once the stag tried to break back, but was headed. Twice he attempted to make the sanctuary of the Tawa River on his left, each time only just escaping the cruel white fangs. After an hour of being hunted, the stag began to show distress. His flanks heaved and his eyes had a dazed look. Driven from his normal haunts, he was in strange forest where, for fear of man, beasts seldom venture. With thoughts only of the terror behind, the poor beast plunged on with the dogs closing in upon him as he struck the wire fencing of the railway line. Rising quickly he stood between the rails with bristling mane and fierce glaring eyes as he lowered his proud head for the charge. A dog ran in behind him. As the stag spun round he slipped on the slipper way and fell.