What was going on?

The faces of the people turned ashen with fear. They had come to realize that they hadn’t been arrested so they could be kept safe. There was some other reason behind it.

Many army men surrounded the train immediately. Some of them entered the compartments and started shouting orders.

‘No one move. Stay inside.’

They selected a few young boys and ordered them to go down, saying, ‘You will have to cook.’

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ one army man asked Alen’s father, who had started cooking barley.

‘My son is ill. This food is for him.’

‘You were told not to cook. Why have you lit the stove? Who has allowed you to bring this?’

‘The sirs allowed me. Because my son is ill.’

‘Turn off the stove. Stop cooking.’

‘Please don’t do this, sahab. My child will die.’

‘The son of a bitch will not die. You bloody Chinese will not die so easily.’

‘Please don’t say that, sahab. Don’t call my son a dog. He has done no wrong.’

‘What did you say? He has done no wrong? Then who has? Us?’

Slapping him hard, the guard snatched the stove away and threw out the saucepan, spilling the barley on the floor. On his way out, he ordered in a loud voice, ‘Open all the windows on this side.’

‘Now what will I do? My child will die.’ Alen’s father started crying.

Khagen Baishya came to him and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring the stove back.’

The guards ordered twenty to twenty-five young men from different compartments to bring down huge cooking utensils, bags of rice, lentils and other material from the train.

‘Only one hour! Cook khichdi,’ an officer ordered, as he sounded his whistle.

It was not cooking but a battle. There was no time to wash the uncooked rice and lentils. Some of them collected water in huge saucepans from the nearby pond and ran to the train for everyone to drink. After their thirst had been quenched, they stretched their glasses, bowls, kettles, plates and whatever they had through the windows to get more water to take with them.

In exactly forty minutes the whistle blew again.

‘Time over. Stop cooking. Serve the khichdi through the windows. Quick. Quick.’

The profusely sweating cooks looked up at the officer in surprise and said, ‘The khichdi is half-cooked, sir.’

‘Shut up, you,’ the officer thundered. ‘If it isn’t cooked, so be it. You will have to eat it as it is. If you don’t want to, throw it away. Finish serving within fifteen minutes.’

The cooks ran to the train with the huge saucepans. People emptied their utensils to take the food. Before everyone could be served, the whistle sounded again. The children and the old failed to get any food in the scuffle.