1947 Uncut

The sun shone so bright it hurt my eyes

I can remember sweating so much I couldn’t stand straight, bending over every now and then just to wipe the perspiration off my forehead. 

All around me were people; all of us silent, waiting, wishing and praying that the next arrival be swift and lively.

After waiting about 20 or so long minutes, during which I may have forgotten how to breath, the bells sounded, jolting me to life. Around me shapes began to shift, vertical beings began to pace, those sitting anxiously moved limbs to-and-fro.

Suddenly I remembered - Ayesha - In the commotion I had all but forgotten her, I found myself making my way backwards through a sea of bodies, towards the wall of the platform. 

By the time I had found her - the rusted hunk of metal that was our train, had arrived - 

"Good or bad, how does it look darling?" 

Her soft voice did little to ease the knot in my throat. Behind me the soul shattering wails of a saree clad women rendered anything I was about to say useless. 

I shook my head in dismay telling her to wait while I observed the situation.  

Again, I moved through - the now parted - congregation.

The wailing woman now had gone voiceless, her companions alongside her were siting with their dupattas in their mouths, weeping on the floor, some were accompanied by their men, others were alone, as they would be, for the rest of their lives. 

Two rail workers talking in a fast rough foreign dialect (which i assume now was Pashto) moved towards my direction, I rudely grabbed one by the arm; the situation at hand was one of urgency. no time for niceties. 

I asked him in the common tongue, "kia surate haal hai?" to which he replied "saab, na poocho, ye bhi khali hai" 

I let go of his arm, my heart fell, heavy as a brick. I made my way to the door of the nearest carriage, glancing inside, my stomach churned, it took all my effort not to gag and vomit right there. 

The stench was overpowering in the humid summer heat. A consistent yet faint buzz rang through, flies, beings of the aftermath, making their presence known. The lack of ventilation in the cabin did no favors. 

My disgust quickly turned into rage as my eyes settled to the dim cabin light. 

They were piled on each other like bags of wheat. 

no. manure. Wheat would have been a shade lighter.

I couldn’t make out the faces, not understanding which was which, man, woman, child; all entangled. 

Some were missing limbs. Others complete torsos. Most had waxed faces, embedded with the last emotion they had felt, skin curdling horror. 

I could imagine hearing the shots, the shrieks and wails and the air being cut with metal. 

After about three minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer and turned around to exit the cabin, one foot outside, I turned again instinctively, for a final glance and that’s when I saw it.

It was the size of a fork, jutting out beneath the piles of martyrs like a frail twig beneath dense logs, the tips wiggled ever so slightly. 

Only God knows how i managed to spot it, it was fate. I believe it till this day, nothing else.

I rushed over, tripping on my own feet, and began pulling the bodies aside one by one, my heart thumping faster with each lifeless form I pushed aside. Finally, beneath the bones and flesh I saw it. No bigger than my arm, face grimy, caked with dry blood, the babe could be no more than two. 

It did not speak, did not move. I gripped the hand and called, to no avail.

So, I sat down right there in the mud, blood, excrement and filth. to me there was nothing else in the world anymore, all I saw and felt was this tiny thing before me. 

I put my ear to the chest, I could hear a thumping, dim, but it was there. After what seemed like decades there was movement. 

At once I felt the tiny hand wrap around my finger with such startling furiosity, the grip so tight I dare not move for fear that it would cease. 

The eyelids parted and in those hazel eyes I saw no innocence, I saw not a child, not a man, nothing. 

Only hollowness.

- From 1947 Uncut a short by Muneeb Sahaf