The Train From Mayiladuthurai – Part I

It was shortly after 1947. A rust colored train chugged out of the Sholapur railway station towards Bombay. Pulled by a steam engine draped in soot it sped slowly through the changing landscape. The arid brown landscape after Raichur had transformed into a hilly verdant one. A fortyish man sat in the first class compartment accompanied by a young boy. He had taken the train from Mayiladuthurai the previous day and changed trains in Chennai. As the train made a turn – he immediately wondered if the tracks had been inspected thoroughly – more twists and turns in the hilly area – unlike the flat plains – where the tracks ran straight for miles. He was a railway fitter from Mayiladuthurai (Mayavaram) taking his young nephew back to Bombay after the summer holidays. As a railway employee, the first class compartment was one of the few perks he enjoyed and proudly at that – for he could transport his nephew in luxury. He was quite attached to his nephew, the son of his sister, who was married to a very important man in Bombay. He had to sell some of the ancestral land, but he got her married off to the personal assistant to one of the richest men in the country.

Every summer, he came to Bombay and took his sister’s children back to their little town near Thanjavur and he treated them royally as all uncles are expected to. They played with his four children, three sons and a cute little daughter. This year, he had insisted that the boy stay back a few more weeks, while his siblings left earlier with their mother. Hopefully they will tell their father – his brother-in-law how well they were treated by their Uncle. His brother-in-law’s younger brother had now become the personal assistant to Devika Rani and he was hoping that maybe he could get a glimpse of this famous actress and visit a movie studio this time. He was looking forward to getting to Bombay and enjoying his sister’s cooking at their Matunga flat.

As they neared the bridge over the river Sina, the train slowed down and came to a halt. He looked out saw the halt signal on the semaphore system. This junction still did not have the new color based systems yet. He looked around the compartment – there were not too many people. He could hear a baby chuckling a few seats away behind him. His nephew had dozed off to the train movements – probably reminding him of the cradle. He thought about going out and having a chat with Railway staff and get to know the reasons for the halt signal. He was going to ask the couple across the aisle to keep an eye on his nephew when he heard what sounded like a door slamming. He heard a crowd and then a loud scream from not too far away and then it started. A mob had entered the train, armed with knives, sticks and swords. No reason was given other than a war cry in a language not of the sub-continent – praising God. There was no way out- as the mob had split up and entered from both sides of the first class compartment. His nephew’s life at stake, he quickly took the sleeping boy and pushed him under the seat. He would rather die and than face his sister, if her son were harmed. As the mob came in, he fell and draped himself over the little boy. It was over in a few minutes. He was bleeding from knife wounds, his body and head hurting from blows. His nephew was safe. That was all that mattered – not his wounds, not the bleeding from his stomach and back. There was carnage everywhere – the little baby and her parents no more. All in the name of a faith. This spontaneous burst of savagery was a result of some perceived provocation in the nearby town – for which innocents gave their life.

He made his way back to Bombay, proud that his nephew was not hurt and returned him to his sister and brother-in-law – the family honor intact. His brother-in-law arranged for him to be treated at his company’s hospital (the perks of marrying his sister well) and he returned back to Mayavaram, a proud but wounded man. He was looking forward to returning to his routine. He loved trains and loved all things mechanical. He had taught himself to fix watches and served as the local watch and clock repairman as well. He had scrounged around and made a toolbox himself along with assorted imported tools that he could afford during his visits to Bombay.

He never recovered fully, his wounds inside had not healed and a few months later he felt that he had to go to the patnam (big city) and he told his young wife that he was leaving for treatment. She was his second wife and he loved her dearly. The first one had died early and without children. She was very pretty and her brother was one of the most highly regarded Vedic scholars. Even the Kanchi Acharya consulted him on matters of import – he thought with pride. His daughter was getting cuter by the day and it will not be long before he needed to get her married off.. It was getting close to Deepavali and he wanted to get these wounds taken care of and come back before Deepavali. He waved to his little ones – the two youngest ones, the daughter was 7 and the youngest boy 4 years old. He told his eldest to take care of the family and second one to help his brother out. His wife insisted he take the eldest with him. With his eldest, he left on the train from Mayiladuthurai.

He reached Chennai in the morning. He made his way to a distant relative’s house, changed and left for the Royapettah General Hospital – one of the best Government hospitals in Chennai.

A few weeks later, outside a small house in Mayiladuthurai the post man called out “thanthi thanthi” (”Telegram”). The little girl and the little boy rushed out – curious. They were wearing new clothes. Their mother asked the second son to go out and get the “thanthi”. In the last one her husband had sent, he had promised to come back soon. The post man wanted to get home – he was not supposed to be working that day and the little brats in the streets were setting up crackers and snickering when it exploded as he bicycled over them. The second son opened the thanthi and as he read his legs gave away – his father had passed away on the first day of Deepavali . His father’s life taken prematurely in the name of another faith. That evening, he walked to the Mayiladuthurai railway station and stood there, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he recollected the last memories of his father boarding the train from Mayiladuthurai.

This family now had something in common with the people of Melkote. (See ” The Meaning of the Diya“)

This is a true story pieced together from the recollections of the “nephew”, the young wife, the little daughter and the sons. See “the train from Mayiladuthurai Part II. It covers the struggles of the young woman, Saraswathi Ammal, as she deals with the loss of her husband to savagery, as she navigates through life in a in a small south Indian town, dealing with widowhood, ostracized by her community and raising four children.