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I was on the train without a ticket, I closed my eyes and let the gentle rocking of the carriage lull me into a peaceful slumber. Suddenly, I heard a loud noise that jolted me awake. I opened my eyes and saw some men entering the cabin. They were wearing army uniforms, with the Indian flag on their shoulders. They were handcuffed and escorted by the police, who looked stern and hostile. I remembered the news I had seen on TV, about some prisoners of war being sent back to India.
Two of them started fighting, shouting and cursing at each other. I noticed one of them, who was pretending to sleep, remove a key from the policeman's pocket. It fell on the floor, and rolled near my leg. I had to get off soon, the ticket collector was coming. He would check my ticket and see that I had no money. He would throw me off the train, or worse. I had to escape. "Bas kuch ghanton ki baat hai, phir tum sab ka khel khatam," the policeman said, pointing at his gun. His voice was cold and cruel.
My eyes widened in horror. They were going to kill them. They were going to shoot them like dogs. I looked at their faces, and imagined their dead bodies. "Will their families ever know?" I thought. Did it matter, if they were Indians? Did it matter, when all our last forms will look the same. So many bodies lay in the morgue, unclaimed and forgotten. Would they end up there too? As the attendant fell asleep, I asked out of curiosity, "Hind se hai?" Their uniforms confirmed it, and they nodded. One of them, who was sitting close to me, whispered, "Uski paanch saal ki beti hai, agar aapne..." He motioned to the key near my leg. His eyes were pleading and desperate. I wasn't supposed to get involved, but I did.
My father was snatched away from me. I had no purpose in life, they did. They had families, friends, dreams. Nobody can fight their fate, their instincts. I couldn't escape mine. I handed him the key, and saw the ticket collector and the slowing train. My destination was outside. I cleared my throat and slowly got up. As I turned, I was blocked by the ticket collector in front of me.
"Ticket?" He asked, with a suspicious look. I stood there and slowly shook my head, "Nahi hai."
"Nahi hai? Aapko pata hai bina ticket safar karna jurm hai? You have to come with us to the station." He grabbed my arm and tried to drag me away. Before I could move, the soldier who sat closer to me stood in between us and pushed the TC away, "Run". He had freed himself and his friend. He was not running away, sacrificing his life. He wasn't fighting for his freedom, for his survival. Something took over me, I grabbed his wrist and started running.
He pulled me along, as we dodged the other passengers and the police. I ran, but my foot was aching. I had injured it while jumping off the first floor. The soldier stood and he knelt down, "Jaldi, warna dono pakda jayenge." He urged me to climb on his back. I glanced back, they were gaining on us. They had guns, we had nothing. I climbed on his back, and he started running. It would have looked funny, a soldier being chased and a woman on his back, but right now we were on the run. We were fugitives, outlaws, rebels. I admired his strength, his courage, his determination.
