My third novel, Delhi, had a prolonged gestation. The idea of telling the story of my city, in which I had spent most of my life, came after I had read Ivo Andric’s The Bridge on the Drina, which tells the story of Yugoslavia through events that occurred on a bridge. (Andric won the Nobel prize for Literature.) First I read all I could find of contemporary accounts of different periods: Prithvi Raj Raso for the Rajput rule in India, the life of Hazrat Nizamuddin and the writings of Amir Khusro for the Sultanate, Taimur’s memoirs, volumes on the life of Emperor Aurangzeb, the poet Mir Taqi Meer, of Delhi devastated by Ahmad Shah Abdali, the later Mughals and the trial of the last Emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar. For the British period, I relied largely on my ancestors; my father and grandfather had taken the lion’s share in the construction of New Delhi. Likewise for the impact of Partition and the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi. I examined Pyare Lal’s documentation of the last day of the Mahatma. The final chapter, the murder of Mrs Gandhi and the massacre of Sikhs that followed, were deeply imprinted in my mind. The daunting task was to string these episodes together and make them read like one continuous story. Over twenty years I tried many methods of linkage and admitted failure to find a satisfactory one. At one stage, I decided to give up the project. I let my colleague, David Davidar, have a look at it. He suggested inserting a few more chapter links. I did so. Even so I was not happy with the final product. However, three editions of the novel sold out before the first copy was available in the bookstores. Despite being panned by the literary critics, it remained at the top of best-seller lists for some months. There is no accounting for the tastes of readers!

New Delhi

October 1995

Khushwant Singh

Train to Pakistan

Dedication

For My Daughter
Mala

Dacoity

The summer of 1947 was not like other Indian summers. Even the weather had a different feel in India that year. It was hotter than usual, and drier and dustier. And the summer was longer. No one could remember when the monsoon had been so late. For weeks, the sparse clouds cast only shadows. There was no rain. People began to say that God was punishing them for their sins.