TRAIN TO PAKISTAN

 

TRAIN TO PAKISTAN

It is the summer of 1947. But Partition does not mean much to the Sikhs and Muslims of Mano Majra, a village on the border of India and Pakistan. Then, a local money-lender is murdered, and suspicion falls upon Juggut Singh, the village gangster who is in love with a Muslim girl. When a train arrives, carrying the bodies of dead Sikhs, the village is transformed into a battlefield, and neither the magistrate nor the police are able to stem the rising tide of violence. Amidst conflicting loyalties, it is left to Juggut Singh to redeem himself and reclaim peace for his village. First published in 1956, Train to Pakistan is a classic of modern Indian fiction.  

Dacoity

From Calcutta, the riots spread north and east and west: to Noakhali in East Bengal, where Muslims massacred Hindus; to Bihar, where Hindus massacred Muslims.

By the time the monsoon broke, almost a million of them were dead, and all of northern India was in arms, in terror, or in hiding. The only remaining oases of peace were a scatter of little villages lost in the remote reaches of the frontier. One of these villages was Mano Majra.

There are only about seventy families in Mano Majra, and Lala Ram Lal’s is the only Hindu family. The others are Sikhs or Muslims, about equal in number. It is the local deity, the deo to which all the villagers—Hindu, Sikh, Muslim or pseudo-Christian—repair secretly whenever they are in a special need of blessing.

The railway assistant takes heavy aluminum lamps to the signals and sticks them in the clamps behind the red and green glass. In the mornings, he brings them back and puts out the lights on the platform.

The mullah at the mosque knows that it is time for the morning prayer. He has a quick wash, stands facing west towards Mecca and with his fingers in his ears cries in long sonorous notes, ‘Allah-o-Akbar’. The priest at the Sikh temple lies in bed till the mullah has called. Then he too gets up, draws a bucket of water from the well in the temple courtyard, pours it over himself, and intones his prayer in monotonous singsong to the sound of splashing water.

Five dacoits rob Ram Lala and threw bangles in Jaggut Singh (son of the dacoit Alam Singh who was hanged two years ago) house. Nooro (Her blind father, Imam Baksh, is the mullah of the mosque) his lover. An officers’ rest house just north of the railway bridge. It is a flat-roofed bungalow made of khaki bricks with a veranda in front facing the river. Mr Hukum Chand, magistrate and deputy commissioner of the district.

When it comes to an open fight, we can be a match for any people. I believe our RSS boys beat up Muslim gangs in all the cities. The Sikhs are not doing their share. They have lost their manliness. These Gandhi disciples are minting money. They are as good saints as the crane.

We Hindus never raise our hands to strike women, but these Muslims have no respect for the weaker sex. Hindus from Pakistan were stripped of all their belongings before they were allowed to leave. No one in Mano Majra even knows that the British have left and the country is divided into Pakistan and Hindustan. Some of them know about Gandhi but I doubt if anyone has ever heard of Jinnah.

Since the partition of the country there had been an additional interest. Now the trains were often four or five hours late and sometimes as many as twenty. When they came, they were crowded with Sikh and Hindu refugees from Pakistan or with Muslims from India. People perched on the roofs with their legs dangling, or on bedsteads wedged in between the bogies. Some of them rode precariously on the buffers. Several well-to-do young men, educated in England, donning peasant garb to do rural uplift work. Some were known to be Communist agents. Some were sons of millionaires, some sons of high government officials. All were looking for trouble, and capable of making a lot of noise. The flag-mast draped in yellow cloth with a triangular flag above the conglomeration of mud huts. On the flag was the Sikh symbol in black, a quoit with a dagger running through and two swords crossed beneath.

‘Sat Sri Akal.’ Guru on horseback with a hawk on one hand. He could be a Muslim, Iqbal Mohammed. He could be a Hindu, Iqbal Chand, or a Sikh, Iqbal Singh. It was one of the few names common to the three communities. ‘There is no crime in anyone’s blood any more than there is goodness in the blood of others,’

Bhai Meet Singh, Imam Baksh. Police liked English officers. They were better than the Indian. All sepoys are happier with English officers than with Indian. Educated people will get the jobs the English had. We were slaves of the English, now we will be slaves of the educated Indians —or the Pakistanis. Get the bania Congress government out. Get rid of the princes and the landlords and freedom will mean for you just what you think it should. More land, more buffaloes, no debts. The only ones who enjoy freedom are thieves, robbers and cutthroats.

Iqbal fell asleep, dreaming of a peaceful life in jail. Early next morning, Iqbal (People’s Party of India)was arrested. The policemen: they were not human like other human beings. They had no affections, no loyalties or enmities. They were just men in uniform. Punjabi policemen were not the sort who admitted making mistakes.

It is Mahatma Gandhi’s government in Delhi.

Name: Mohammed Iqbal, son of Mohammed Something-or-other, or just father unknown. Caste: Mussulman. Occupation: Muslim League worker - Chundunnugger police station.

An old framed picture of King George VI with a placard stating in Urdu, BRIBERY IS A CRIME. On another wall was pasted a coloured portrait of Gandhi torn from a calendar. Beneath it was a motto written in English, HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY. Places for parking cars were marked according to seniority, and certain entrances to offices were reserved for higher officials. Lavatories were graded according to rank and labelled SENIOR OFFICERS, JUNIOR OFFICERS, CLERKS AND STENOGRAPHERS and OTHER RANKS. 

Kalyug 

All trains coming from Delhi stopped and changed their drivers and guards before moving on to Pakistan. Those coming from Pakistan ran through with their engines screaming with release and relief. Lambardara (Banta Singh). Trainload of dead.

Monsson detailed description. All incoming refugees must proceed to the camp at Jullundur. An individual’s conscious effort should be directed to immediate ends like saving life when endangered, preserving the social structure and honouring its conventions. His immediate problem was to save Muslim lives.

Clerks and letter writers who wrote Urdu or Gurmukhi were literate, but not educated.

Mano Majra

Muslims sat and moped in their houses. Rumours of atrocities committed by Sikhs on Muslims in Patiala, Ambala and Kapurthala, which they had heard and dismissed, came back to their minds. They had heard of gentlewomen having their veils taken off, being stripped and marched down crowded streets to be raped in the marketplace. Many had eluded their would-be ravishers by killing themselves. They had heard of mosques being desecrated by the slaughter of pigs on the premises, and of copies of the holy Quran being torn up by infidels. Quite suddenly, every Sikh in Mano Majra became a stranger with an evil intent. His long hair and beard appeared barbarous, his kirpan menacingly anti-Muslim. For the first time, the name Pakistan came to mean something to them—a refuge where there were no Sikhs.

The Sikhs were sullen and angry. ‘Never trust a Mussulman,’ they said. The last Guru had warned them that Muslims had no loyalties. He was right. All through the Muslim period of Indian history, sons had imprisoned or killed their own fathers and brothers had blinded brothers to get the throne. And what had they done to the Sikhs? Executed two of their Gurus, assassinated another and butchered his infant children; hundreds of thousands had been put to the sword for no other offence than refusing to accept Islam; their temples had been desecrated by the slaughter of kine; the holy Granth had been torn to bits. And Muslims were never ones to respect women. Sikh refugees had told of women jumping into wells and burning themselves rather than fall into the hands of Muslims. Those who did not commit suicide were paraded naked in the streets, raped in public, and then murdered. Now a trainload of Sikhs massacred by Muslims had been cremated in Mano Majra. Hindus and Sikhs were fleeing from their homes in Pakistan and having to find shelter in Mano Majra. Then there was the murder of Ram Lal. No one knew who had killed him, but everyone knew Ram Lal was a Hindu; Sultana and his gang were Muslims and had fled to Pakistan. An unknown character—without turban or beard—had been loitering about the village. These were reasons enough to be angry with someone. So they decided to be angry with the Muslims; Muslims were basely ungrateful. Logic was never a strong point with Sikhs; when they were roused, logic did not matter at all.

All Muslims of the neighbouring villages have been evacuated and taken to the refugee camp near Chundunnugger. Some have already gone away to Pakistan. Others have been sent to the bigger camp at Jullundur.

‘What have we to do with Pakistan? We were born here. So were our ancestors. We have lived amongst you as brothers.’

‘I will not go to Pakistan,’ It was as if in every home there had been a death. Not many people slept in Mano Majra that night. They went from house to house—talking, crying, swearing love and friendship, assuring each other that this would soon be over. One of the trucks was full of Pathan soldiers and another one full of Sikhs. f ‘All Muslims going to Pakistan come out at once. Come!’

‘We have a dozen trucks and all you people who are going to Pakistan must get on them in ten minutes. We have other villages to evacuate later on. The only luggage you can take with you is what you can carry—nothing more. You can leave your cattle, bullock carts, charpais, pitchers, and so on with your friends in the village. If we get a chance, we will bring these things out for you later. I give you ten minutes to settle your affairs. Then the convoy will move.’ 

Karma 

An old peasant with a grey beard lay flat on the water. His arms were stretched out as if he had been crucified. His mouth was wide open and showed his toothless gums, his eyes were covered with film, his hair floated about his head like a halo. He had a deep wound on his neck which slanted down from the side to the chest. A child’s head butted into the old man’s armpit. There was a hole in its back. There were many others coming down the river like logs hewn on the mountains and cast into streams to be carried down to the plains. A few passed through the middle of the arches and sped onward faster. Others bumped into the piers and turned over to show their wounds till the current turned them over again. Some were without limbs, some had their bellies torn open, many women’s breasts were slashed. They floated down the sunlit river, bobbing up and down. Overhead hung the kites and vultures.

The place looked like the scar of a healed-up wound. Two soldiers were left to guard the grave from the depredations of jackals and badgers.

‘Do you know how many trainloads of dead Sikhs and Hindus have come over? Do you know of the massacres in Rawalpindi and Multan, Gujranwala and Sheikhupura? What are you doing about it? You just eat and sleep and you call yourselves Sikhs—the brave Sikhs! The martial class!’ he added. ‘For each Hindu or Sikh they kill, kill two Mussulmans. For each woman they abduct or rape, abduct two. For each home they loot, loot two. For each trainload of dead they send over, send two across. For each road convoy that is attacked, attack two. That will stop the killing on the other side. It will teach them that we also play this game of killing and looting.’

‘what have the Muslims here done to us for us to kill them in revenge for what Muslims in Pakistan are doing. Only people who have committed crimes should be punished.’

The last Guru, Gobind Singh, made it a part of a baptismal oath that no Sikh was to touch the person of a Muslim woman. And God alone knows how he suffered at the hands of the Mussulmans! They killed all his four sons.

A trainload of Muslims is to cross the bridge to Pakistan. If you are men, this train should carry as many people dead to the other side as you have received. The Guru asked for five lives when he made the Sikhs. Those Sikhs were supermen.

In the name of Nanak,

By the hope that faith doth instill,

By the Grace of God,

We bear the world nothing but good will.

The Sikhs will rule

Their enemies will be scattered

Only they that seek refuge will be saved!

 

Mr Hukum Chand, Deputy Commissioner, on the first of October 1947, at ten a.m.

ANGLO-AMERICAN CAPITALIST CONSPIRACY TO CREATE CHAOS (lovely alliteration). COMRADE IQBAL IMPRISONED ON BORDER.

Trainloads of dead people came to Mano Majra. We burned one lot and buried another. The river was flooded with corpses. Muslims were evacuated, and in their place, refugees have come from Pakistan. The bullet is neutral. It hits the good and the bad, the important and the insignificant, without distinction. For the Hindu, it means little besides caste and cow-protection. For the Muslim, circumcision and kosher meat. For the Sikh, long hair and hatred of the Muslim. For the Christian, Hinduism with a sola topee. For the Parsi, fire-worship and feeding vultures. It needs courage to be a coward. Laid the Granth Sahib to rest for the night.

He who made the night and day,

The days of the week and seasons.

He who made the breezes blow, the waters run,

The fires and the lower regions.

Made the earth—the temple of law.

He who made creatures of diverse kinds

With a multitude of names,

Made this the law—

By thought and deed be judged forsooth,

 

Air, water and earth,

Of these are we made,

Air like the Guru’s word gives the breath of life

To the babe born of the great mother Earth

Sired by the waters.

Making fine speeches in the assembly! Loudspeakers magnifying their egos; lovely-looking foreign women in the visitors’ galleries in breathless admiration. ‘He is a great man, this Mr Nehru of yours. I do think he is the greatest man in the world today. And how handsome!

The rope snapped in the centre as he fell. The train went over him, and went on to Pakistan.

 

Summary:

Train to Pakistan, a historical novel by Khushwant Singh, is widely praised for its powerful and accessible portrayal of the human tragedy during the 1947 Partition of India. Set in the fictional village of Mano Majra, the story explores how political upheaval destroys decades of peaceful coexistence between Sikhs and Muslims, forcing readers to confront the personal impact of communal hatred. 

Plot summary

The novel chronicles the fate of Mano Majra, a remote village near the new border between India and Pakistan. The villagers—mostly Sikhs and Muslims—have coexisted peacefully for generations, with their daily lives revolving around the rhythmic schedule of the trains passing through. 

This harmony shatters when a "ghost train" arrives from Pakistan carrying the corpses of murdered Sikhs and Hindus. This incident, along with the escalating violence in the region, poisons the village with suspicion and fear. Against this backdrop, the story follows several key characters: 

• Juggut Singh: A local Sikh "badmash" (criminal) whose love for a Muslim girl, Nooran, becomes a central moral force.
• Iqbal Singh: An educated, social-worker-turned-political-activist who arrives to stir political consciousness but finds himself helpless against the rising tide of violence.
• Hukum Chand: A cynical, corrupt magistrate who grapples with his conscience as he struggles to maintain order. 

The climax occurs when a plan is hatched to massacre a train carrying Mano Majra's Muslims to Pakistan. Juggut, fueled by his love for Nooran, ultimately makes a heroic sacrifice to save the train, and with it, his village's humanity. 

Major themes

• Communal harmony and violence: The novel effectively contrasts the long-standing, pre-Partition harmony of Mano Majra with the sudden and senseless communal violence that rips the community apart. The story highlights how easily prejudice and paranoia can be fueled by propaganda and rumors.
• The human cost of Partition: Rather than focusing on high-level politics, Singh zeroes in on the perspective of ordinary people caught in a geopolitical storm. The events in Mano Majra serve as a microcosm for the larger, devastating human tragedy of the Partition.
• Love and sacrifice: The bond between Juggut and Nooran transcends religious barriers, representing a powerful force of humanity against the surrounding hatred. Juggut's self-sacrifice is a poignant reminder that love and human values can prevail even in the darkest times.
• Corruption and moral ambiguity: Characters like Hukum Chand expose the cynical and self-serving nature of authority figures during the chaos. The novel suggests that no one, regardless of power or moral standing, emerges from the tragedy untainted. 

Critical reception

• Authentic realism: Critics praise Singh's raw, realistic, and unadorned prose, which makes the narrative accessible while amplifying its emotional weight. His writing creates vivid imagery that places the reader directly in the dusty, tense environment of Mano Majra.
• Strong character development: The complex, grey-shaded characters are a major strength, embodying the moral struggles faced by people during the Partition. The transformation of Juggut from a "badmash" to a hero is particularly compelling.
• Impactful and accessible: Many reviewers recommend the book for its ability to convey the horrors of Partition to a new generation of readers. While tackling heavy subject matter, its concise nature ensures a powerful and gripping reading experience.
• Enduring relevance: Published in 1956, the novel's themes of religious intolerance, political manipulation, and the human cost of hatred sadly remain relevant today.

Train to Pakistan a fictional novel by Sri Kushwant Singh, published in1956. It is based on the horrific true incidents of dark days of India’s partition.  The writer takes us on time machine literally to the frontier state of India, the Mano Majra , the tiny village in the banks of Sutlej River. The simplicity, poverty of the villagers highlighted before our eyes. The writer doesn’t hesitate to criticize the top leaders Gandhi and Nehru through the characters he created.

He narrates slowly how the harmony between Sikhs and  Muslims changed overnight. The dual mental suffering of the Police, Soldiers, Magistrate is naturally  portrayed – one side their duties and on the other side the revengeful mentality based on their religion.

While the Train from Pakistan comes with thousands of dead bodies, thousands more flooding through Sutlej, lakhs of refugees who lost their everything in life and became lively dead bodies  – how the Train To Pakistan witnessed the border crossing situation is a simple climax. The Badmash becoming Hero, the supposed to be courageous revolutionary people and all other government people being helpless and timid. While reading the book one does not feel it as a novel – but feels as if the true drama is being played in front of us.

While this incident would have happened in October 1947 – but being an Indian we should know our history, how the common people suffered because of partition of Akhand Bharath, while the liberals, elite, politicians... enjoyed the fruits of freedom.

Jai Hind.

Chandrasekhar Channapragada

Bengaluru

26th October 2025