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Tohon

The Final Journey

After the liberation of Bangladesh in December 1971, the Pakistani government interned the Bangladeshi military personnel and civilian bureaucrats living in West Pakistan. In late 1973, after the signing of the India-Pakistan-Bangladesh War Repatriation Agreement, we (my parents and three brothers) returned home from the confinements of the Quetta military camp. Firstly, we were transported to Karachi, Sindh province via train and then after several days wait in a make-shift camp we were flown to Dhaka, Bangladesh via international chartered flights.

On the particular morning military trucks rolled in to pick the detainees up from the Quetta camp. By the time the truck unloaded us at the railway station, the train was already full. It was a chaotic situation with men, women and children, accompanied by their luggage and provisions. We managed to board a crowded third-class compartment.

This was a special train with a special consignment and tight security. We became increasingly anxious about the unexplained delay. The military men were probably making sure that all the detainees were accounted for.

While waiting, I remembered the movie Von Ryan’s Express, World War II adventure film starring Frank Sinatra and Trevor Howard. The screenplay concerns a group of Allied prisoners of war who conduct a daring escape by hijacking a freight train and fleeing through German-occupied Italy to Switzerland. Here in this train, we were not making a daring escape, nor were we prisoners of war, but we were certainly prisoners in the hands of Pakistani army.

At some point the whistle blew and shortly thereafter we felt a jolt – the wheels began to roll and the train was on the move. It was around midday and we were one step closer to home.

As an instinctive habit, I looked at the faces in the compartment one by one, discreetly, without making eye contact. I came to a halt, spotting something unusual.

A small boy, about three years old, lay curled up on his mother’s lap, covered with a blanket. I could only see his face and it was milk-white. I looked at his mother. She was a young woman with fair skin. I thought the boy may have inherited his mother’s complexion but with an even whiter shade.

Several hours passed and the train kept moving steadily through the Baluchistan’s mountainous region. With the sun behind the mountains, darkness began to shroud the earth making the compartment’s light bulbs shine brighter.

The boy moved, waking up from his sleep. His mother looked for something to use, then helped the boy to urinate into a coffee mug, nudging her husband to help hold him still. When the father picked the boy up, I realised that he was much older – more like six years old.

The mother passed by me as she proceeded towards the toilet. My eyes fell on the mug she was carrying, and I froze. From what I saw in the mug I understood why the boy was milk-white. I realised that little blood could be left in his veins.

Night fell and it was pitch dark outside. I saw the shadow of the compartment through the windows rushing at speed. My eyes were glued to it. It seemed I was riding the shadow, hurtling into the eternal darkness.

I did not find a seat and my feet were unable to hold me up any longer. So, I leaned against the luggage and fell asleep. When I woke up it was probably midnight. Neither the shadow nor the train were moving – I did not know why. Then at some point there was a mild jolt, which seemed more like a soft collision between two trains, and we started moving again.

Several hours later I woke up with the first rays of daylight hurting my eyes. At the same time, in the midst of the train’s clamour, I heard a sob.

Hours later when the train stopped at a station three men hustled into our compartment: an army officer with two jawans. The father carried the boy wrapped in a chador in his arms. My father accompanied them as they stepped down from the compartment and headed towards the lone railway station in the middle of nowhere.

The train with all its passengers stood silently in reverence. Hours later, the men returned after placing the milk-white boy in his final resting place in this arid, remote, wilderness – for him, a home of ultimate peace, tranquility and bliss.

A piercing whistle ruptured the stagnant silence. As the wheels began to roll, the grief-stricken mother sobbed again, covering her face with the blanket, probably trying to feel her child’s warmth one last time.

About the Author
Tohon is the author of 'My Awakened Soul', New Generation Publishing, London, 2023.
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