Darkness

A monsoon night, a light drizzle. Old Delhi railway station: the train for Amritsar stands, some coaches plunged in darkness, others sporadically bathed in light. It’s eight o’clock. The train is to leave at nine but its inside lights have not yet been switched on. The scattered lights on the platform dimly glow up some of the compartments. The number ‘I’ is visible on one of them; this must be a first-class coach.

The notice outside the door had her name printed on it. She saw coolies coming towards the train, and wondered if they were coming to her coach to put more luggage in it. If the coolies were accompanied by a woman in decent clothes, she would wish for the woman to enter her coach; but it was likely that once she noticed the ‘I’, the woman would invariably move on.

She felt a sudden surge of anger at her husband. How many times had she asked him not to book a first-class ticket? The train passed through all of Punjab — what if she was all alone in the coach? Of what use was comfort if one had to spend the entire night in fear? She felt a flutter of hope when she spotted someone in a railway uniform with papers and a pen in hand. Maybe he would approach the booking list outside her coach and write a woman’s name on it. And then that woman would come in. Very likely, she would have a child with her. She’d sit down, settle herself and then, when the train began to move, she would unscrew the top of the canister she had with her — every Punjabi traveller carried a canister full of food— and she would surely offer some to her. ‘Here, you must also have something! Sweets, rotis, something!’ 

Maybe women who boarded first-class coaches did not carry canisters. Hm! How was that possible? Perhaps she would turn out to be the wife of the railway officer. Senior railway officials got first-class passes and—but that officer walked right past her, singing some song from a film. And her name remained on the coach all by itself. Her Muslim name. Her trademark. Her identity. A red flag. And she had to spend the entire night in Punjab. There was rain, there were clouds, and there was darkness. One tends to be frightened in such situations. It had been years since anything had happened in Punjab. But what kind of comfort was that — anything could happen, anytime, anywhere. Why did such things happen? No one had the answer to that question!

Her friends had come to drop her. Her husband, too. But all of them were staying put at their homes; she was the one travelling by herself all night. She’d reach Amritsar the following morning. She wouldn’t tell anyone that she actually had to go beyond Amritsar; everyone would figure that she was a Muslim woman going to Amritsar.

When she stretched out her arm to take the paan her husband was offering her, she noticed a middle-aged Sikh man passing her compartment for the third or the fourth time, peering at the list, looking at her, looking away, and placing his hand on his kirpan. Why was this middle-aged Sikh man patrolling her compartment? Surely, he belonged to the generation that had left behind home and land in what was now Pakistan. No, ‘left behind’ was the wrong term. All of that had been snatched away from him. And, who had snatched it away from him? Her eyes went once again to the list on which her name was written. Her Muslim name, her trademark. The Sikh knew that she was all alone. The men standing at the door of the compartment were Muslim, too, but it was clear they were not travelling with her, for they were all standing outside. Besides, she had very little luggage; it couldn’t belong to more than one person. It was clear that she was alone. Whispering, she asked one of the young men, ‘Have you checked whether the doors can be bolted from the inside, bhaiyya?’

He responded nonchalantly, ‘Yes, apa. I have checked them. They can be fastened on both sides.’

Now she was irritated. How stupid of him to call her ‘apa’ so loudly! But, then again, what difference did it make? The way her name was hanging on the door, it seemed she herself was hanging by it. In the meantime, the lights inside had been turned on. Her meagre luggage was under the lower berth, her bedding spread out on it. Those who had come to drop her came in and sat down. How comfortable the berth was! A wooden surface folded out of the metal wall of the coupe. She placed her flask on it and pulled an Urdu novel out of her handbag; really, first-class was quite luxurious. But there was that Sikh again, walking past, staring at her. Was he touching his kirpan, tied to his waist under his baggy shalwar and kurta, or was he merely adjusting his shalwar? Oh! She saw that he had boarded the second-class compartment, adjacent to hers. What if, at a smaller station, he… Stories of communal riots that she had read in the papers began crossing her mind. This was the same train that was once the Peshawar Express. As the engine whistled, she looked expectantly at her husband and friends and then at the adjacent compartment, where she saw the elbow of the man resting on the window frame. She pulled herself in and glanced around her compartment. She was all alone.

She quickly shut both the doors, fastened the bolts, checked the latches, looked under the bottom berths, and checked the top berths too. The train lurched into motion. Once again, wistfully, she looked at her husband and friends on the platform. They were waving to her. She waved back mechanically. The train was picking up speed. As she stopped waving and stood up, her heart skipped a beat.  She had forgotten to check the bathroom! The train switched from one track to another, causing her to lose balance and grab the top berth to steady herself.

Hesitantly, she took some steps towards the bathroom. But, was it a good idea to open the door? What if someone was hiding in there? Why was the latch of the bathroom door shaking? Was someone inside? She stood there, staring at it. It kept shaking. The train changed track once again, and she swayed once again. Of course! The latch was shaking because the train was moving. She grasped the handle and pushed the door. It swung open and she found herself lurching into it with the motion of the train. There was no one inside.

She returned to her compartment, sat down on her berth, and wiped her face. Craning her neck, she tried to look out but couldn’t because the windows were barred with iron bars. She tried the other window but that too had bars across it, all she could see was the elbow of the person sitting in the other compartment. Probably the Sikh man. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep while seated. Thank heavens there were bars at the windows, she sent up a small prayer. She turned off the lights. Even then, if one were to peer into her compartment from outside, and despite there being a glass window as well as the barred one, it would be quite apparent that there was only one passenger inside, and that too a woman. Not that one would need that: printed outside the compartment were the words ‘Ladies Coupe’ and, right below them, her name. Her identity.

She pulled a quilt out of her hold-all, rolled it up, and placed it on the upper berth. Then she covered it with a sheet. She placed her pillow at the head of the berth, such that if someone were to peer into her compartment from outside, it would seem as though someone was sleeping up there. When she sat back on her berth, the train had begun slowing down. It was approaching a station. Very quickly, she spread her bedcover on her berth. There was no need to pull out a mattress in a first-class wagon. The berth was cushioned enough! Damn this first-class! Had she been in third class at that moment, she would have been at peace!

Excerpted with permission from “Darkness and Other Stories” by Razia Sajjad Zaheer and translated from Urdu by Saba Mahmood Bashir, published by Zubaan Books, 2025.