The journey of Books
I haven't had much time to do anything off late. All I can manage is work and few hours of reading stuff at night before I become drowsy. So, while I pretend to be busy and stay away from most chores, I've been reading a lot. Books I've finished this month include Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand), H2G2: The H2G2, H2G2: The restaurant at the end of the universe (Douglas Adams), and Train to Pakistan (Khushwant Singh).The motivation behind all this reading is a race (to finish the book), which I figured is a great way to read a book. You get done quickly, always have someone to discuss it with, and well, sometimes you win. I lost the Atlas Shrugged race, though it was close, and I'm leading the H2G2 race by an entire book! So, Train to Pakistan was read by the napping Hare, while he waits for the Tortoise to catch up! Infact the Hare now plans to read LOTR : Book 1 before getting on with the race again. (Are we there yet??)
I did intend to write a little bit about every nice book that I read, but I will refrain just yet because I'm reading (very) popular fiction and well, people have preconceived notions about the same. One thing that I would like to point out for sure, I was given the impression that Train to Pakistan might be a disappointment. It wasn't. After a long time I read a book that I couldn't put down till I finished it. A 2 page description of the monsoons in India was an absolute delight to read.
The description of the 'Ghost Trains' brought back memories of the stories my Grandmom used to tell me about their journey to India during partition. It took my paternal grandparents 14 days to cross the border, and the trousers my grandfather started in were reduced to tattered shorts when he reached his parents house in India, where most people failed to recognise him. My paternal grandparents finally crossed the border aboard a train, and at the last station on the Pakistan, as the train slowed down, people with swords could be seen waiting to massacre the passengers. As they approached the station, the driver of the train had a change of heart, knowing well the fate of the passengers if he did stop, and Instead he went full steam ahead without the customary stop at the station. If it weren't for that driver, my grandparents would probably have perished that very day.
My maternal grandfather has similar stories to narrate about his ordeal at the time of partition. My maternal grandmother came to Delhi aboard a plane, but my grandfather had to make his way through by conventional means. First, he was given poisoned pan (betel leaf) by a friend who came to see him off at the railway station. He spat it out when he realized that it was poisoned. My granddad has a 'Om' 'ॐ' tattooed on the back of his hand. He covered that using a piece of cloth, as if he was hurt. Is train was infact attacked, and he had to blend into the crowd, and not get noticed as a Hindu refugee, so he joined the people moving the dead bodies around, and moved the bodies of several of his friends and did this job for a while to remain inconspicuous. He did finally manage to make it to Delhi in due course without getting recognised. He says that he moved the dead bodies of several of his neighbors and friends while he was at it.
These stories always gave me goosebumps, as did the story narrated in Train to Pakistan. I was specially touched because my family was directly affected by the partition. We still fail to identify with our roots. My family's customs are a mixture of the customs of the erst wile Punjab and Multan. So, when I am asked, what my native place is, I can either go into a lengthy description of why I have no native place or say 'Punjab' and ignore the interpretation. Ignorance maybe bliss, but then at such instances it does pinch not having a native place, a village, an origin.
So the point is, the book was a good read, and at the cost of sounding preachy, I think it deserves a few hours of everyone time.
So, till the tortoise catches up, I'll attend a meeting and take a nap :)
