Page 23 of A Shimla Affair
Ratan Babu paced the room and looked at Afreen. ‘The railway line, which connects Shimla to the rest of India, is the single most valuable English construction in town, maybe all of India. It is how the English get here every summer, transferring their administration from Delhi. It is also the only way in and out, unless one wants to slog on the road. By disrupting this connection, the train can be stopped. To attack the railways, to stop the train and save the men, would not just do what we intend, but would also be symbolic.’
Sood smiled. ‘I am sure Guruji would be happy to hear what you have to say. We will have to find out exactly when the men are being transported.’
‘That can be managed,’ Ratan Babu said, ‘And then we obstruct the route of the train. What do you say, Afreen?’
‘If you will,’ she answered, and I could hear in her voice that she was pleased.
Sood approached me. ‘Are you with us?’
His forwardness took me aback. It was one thing to hide Afreen’s secret from Noor, but it was something entirely different to participate. I looked at Ratan Babu’s face, full of excitement, and my sister’s innocence reflecting in her eyes, eager to make her mark in the world—whether we liked it or not, they were now family. I thought of Charles and his earnest smile, his letter, and how I could never be a suitable wife forhim. I thought of poor Noor, and where she would be once the hotel was taken away from us. The order to leave the hotel after the summer hung sharply over our heads, but then I realized its loss would also mean freedom. It would mean we would be free to make our mark in the world, free to fight. I felt a surge of anger at our situation, that the one thing that was left to us in the world, the hotel, was now being taken away.
The glaring lights of Hollywood taunted me teasingly. Ships took to the water in Bombay, leaving me behind.
I nodded.
Perhaps there really would be some honour in fighting for the country this time, finally following our father’s footsteps.
Shimla calling,a voice inside me whispered again and again.Shimla calling.It felt like a lifetime ago that we were obsessing over a custard.
8
It was known across town that while building the railways, British engineers could not figure out a way to traverse the hills surrounding Shimla. The hundreds of precise curves, viaducts and tunnels along the railway were all made thanks to the expertise of Baba Bhalku, Shimla’s very own saint, rather than a modern engineering feat. Legend has it that all they had to do was bring Baba Bhalku to the proposed railway sites. With his deep knowledge about the inner workings of the terrain, all he had to do was point where a tunnel or bridge should be constructed.
Ratan Babu and Mr Sood approached Baba Bhalku’s apprentices to find out the weakest link in the rail route, where it would be easiest to break and disrupt the train journey to help the men escape. The apprentices’ recommendation of tunnel forty-three made sense: it was small, unmanned and dark. Its exit led the way down to a village, where the men could easily walk to. All we needed was a small, easy gunpowder bomb to induce a minor landslide that would force the train to stop at that exact location—granting freedom to the marked men who unknowingly signed up to die on foreign shores.
Involved as we were in the Kalka–Shimla Rail Sabotage, Afreen and I were finally invited to meet Guruji.
We stood with Ratan Babu outside a decrepit, thatched house under pouring rain, trying to shield ourselves under a metal shed that appeared to be on the verge of collapse, water dripping down its sides with alarming force. The wet cold was getting through my coat, right to my very bones. Afreen stood quiet and resolute, exchanging an occasional smile with Ratan Babu, who paced up and down in whatever little place was available to us. I knew the road to liberation was never easy, but it was starting to get really uncomfortable here.
Just at that moment, a man wearing a shawl around his shoulder and a woollen cap that covered most of his face appeared before us. He gestured to follow him further into congested lanes. It was hard to guess where the streets ended and the dwellings stacked on top of each other began, and I realized it was the same area to which I had followed Afreen all those weeks ago. The man walked quietly, craning his neck to look in all directions, checking for witnesses. The bottom of my sari was drenched, but I had long given up on staying dry.
We went through a door, entering a dark corridor. I was conscious of my loud, beating heart, my wet hands turning sweaty, and the feeling of Afreen and Ratan Babu close to me. The room we finally stood in was cold, lit with candles and lamps at the back. Our guide took off his cap and left the room. Eventually, another man emerged.
It was immediately clear that this was Guruji; he had an aura of revolutionary importance. He stood tall and broad shouldered, had a beard that looked scruffy and neat at the same time, and wore a woollen shawl wrapped around a khadi kurta and a turban resting on his head. Ratan Babu went and touched his feet. Guruji patted him on the back. His eyes, sharp andpiercing, then immediately rested on Afreen and I, even as they embraced Ratan Babu.
‘Vande Mataram, Guruji,’ Ratan Babu greeted him. The man nodded his head, still staring at us.
I realized we hadn’t covered our heads, and I pulled the edge of my sari closer to me, as we both folded our hands and bent our heads. I found myself hypnotized by the man’s presence, magnetic and yet so reserved. It was hard to imagine what he might be thinking right now, as he stood in front of us, so enthralling and visceral.
‘So, these are themalkinsof the hotel up on Sunset Hill,’ Guruji said.
I glanced at his face, unsure whether it would be too disrespectful to look directly up at him.
‘I was an admirer of your father. Our methods differed but our goal was the same,’ he said.
The mention of father made me warm up. ‘You knew him, Guruji?’
He laughed. ‘Much more than that … it’s a story for another time. But your hotel now sucks up to these English sahibs day in and day out.’
We stiffened, and Afreen said, slowly but surely, ‘It was a necessity, Guruji. We are here, at your service. We want to fight for our independence.’
He grunted. ‘That’s good. They say it true and they say it well: “He who fights for the freedom of his land will be embraced by the gods”.’
I nodded meekly.
‘The good women are here, willing to fight. They too must have duties,’ he said to Ratan Babu. ‘But these duties are not easy. Children have it easy these days; back when I was a young man in Calcutta, a bunch of us men lived together in the garden house of Dr Dutt. Not so we could have a good time together,but so we could live under strict discipline. We were up at four, meditating, fasting, training, obeying our Guru, from dawn until dusk. We trained not just our bodies, but also our minds, involved in only one purpose. We thought about our goal and nothing else. Tell me, child, are there not three of you Mistry girls?‘
‘Our eldest sister, she doesn’t know. She wants us to be safe.’
