It was September of 1947, Britishers had inflicted deep division both upon India and its communities.

People are always victim of such conspiracy, they had in accordance become barbarians, cutting throats and filling up trains, tracks and pavements with dead bodies as if they had some target to achieve, Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus alike.

Maqbool had boarded Punjab Mail from Delhi to Lahore, knowing well that travel on this route had been marked "wholly insecure" by West Punjab administrstion.

"Will we make it alive?" Asked his wife trembling, her eyes beaming little hope and much fear.

"Perhaps" he mumbled nervously. 

She held her little daughter in her arms, "Listen, nothing should happen to my Zarina I am telling you".

The train packed to the roof and over, started to crawl, gaining momentum as did 3800 pacing hearts on board. Every minute of this journey appeared like a lifetime.

"If we pass through Punjab then we are saved" said a fellow traveller.

"Heard that this very train from Lahore to Delhi was attacked by a mob of 200 armed rioters between Jallo and Wagah last week in Pakistan..."

"Shutup!" said Maqbool, "Just shutup, don't you see there are women and children around?" he chided glacing across the compartment with people stuffed together in humidity and smell of sweat.

Before the conversing passengers could react, an uproar from outside turned many pale with fear.

"We have been attacked! A mob is coming" screamed someone from behind as commotion erupted within the coach, howling mothers held their screaming children wishing they could vanish into air and escape from the horror.

"Calm down, don't panic its not an attack, some people travelling in between bogies fell under the train it is told" said someone descending from the roof through the door and into the compartment.

Every millimeter of Maqbool's body seemed to have developed its independent heart beating fast and each one being completely out of his control.

"We sold off all our Gold and jewellery to a scrap dealer, got little money we could carry" said someone, "All our wealth, land and approach could not arrange an aeroplane ticket but only this compartment and its dirty floor where we sit"

"There lies my wife on the floor, flies dancing all over her dirt smeared dress, back home she had six maids at her beck & call, not an iota of dust ever sat upon her clothes" said the other

A sudden cry followed by wailing emerged from the far corner of the compartment, an asthematic grandmother had suffocated and passed away, "She died praying for us all" announced a weeping relative.

Amongst so many stories of dispair, sorrow and fear, Maqbool and his wife found unexpected consolation, afterall everyone seemed to be sailing in the same boat metaphorically.

No sooner had this relaxation started to settle, the train slowed down and came to a gradual halt.

Beads of perspiration started to appear on foreheads, not a single sound emanated from any part of this dimly lit coach, there was an eerie 'sweat drop' silence all around until there was some heavy banging on the doors, "Open up.....quickly" said a couple of voices.

Time, minds, people and life froze in a jiffy, certain & painful death loomed just outside the coach doors.

Husbands and wives grasped hands, mothers kissed their children, pressing them hard against themselves. Elders put their hands on the heads of their children and grand children to bless them one last time knowing well that it was all futile.

"Open up" voices from outside grew louder prompting the youth within the coach to wriggle nearer to the windows and peep out where an army squad of Gurkha soldiers stood, deployed by administration to ensure safe passage of the refugee train.

They climbed up and boarded each of the coaches as the train started to move again on its fateful journey that fortunately culminated at Lahore.

Old grandmother's final prayers it seemed had been answered ●●●