It was pre-Partition time. We lived in one of the biggest railway colonies of the then BNR (Bengal Nagpur Railway) in Bengal. As far as possible, the British had segregated the houses on communal lines. But some departments were allocated houses for their staff members in both sections of the township. One Muslim family used to stay opposite our house in a predominantly Hindu locality. The father of the house was a watchman in the station executive office. So everybody called him havaldar. His was a single door quarter but through the huge window facing our house we could see its interiors.
He had a moderately large family. His eldest daughter, fair and beautiful was married but used to stay in her parents’ house. She used to supplement the family income by stitching clothes on her hand-operated sewing machine. There was peace and tranquillity all around us. But one vicious night all hell broke loose. The Hindu-Muslim riots flared up.
There were war cries from both sides. ‘Allah ho Akbar’, ‘Bajrangbali’ and what not. The women of our house and some other women in the colony took shelter in our house. This was in the belief that my father would use one of the two guns he owned if required. The trauma made them to make a beeline to the toilet on after another. The havaldar locked his house and left with family to a Muslim-dominated area. So we thought. There were several fatal and serious casualties on both sides. A bullet hit one gentleman in his chest. There was open looting of shops and houses. The British took prompt action by deploying auxiliary forces comprising mostly railway employees and brought the situation under control. A truckload of auxiliary forces came to the havaldar’s house and opened the top lock of the door. To everyone’s horror the havaldar came out of the house. He was pale as a cucumber. Apparently he sent his family away but chose to stay back. After the havaldar and security people left, his house was ransacked. In the looting process the sewing machine was dropped by a miscreant in our backyard.
After several days, calm descended and life resumed as normal. All families returned to their respective houses. So did the havaldar’s. A day or two later as I was walking on the gravel path next to havaldar’s window he beckoned me. I was around 9 or 10-years-old then. I stopped to listen to what he was saying. He began, “Beta do you know or saw anyone stealing our sewing machine?” He enquired, “it is the only lifeline for my daughter whose husband is unemployed.”
Even though I had certain reservations about Muslims due to circumstances prevailing at that time, I was moved by his plea. I told him that I had seen a machine lying in our backyard but was not sure to whom it belonged.
I left in a jiffy and brought the machine quickly. The moment he saw it, his face lit up and from his expression one could make out the joy and association he had with it.
“God bless you, son, he wished.” I have had the chance to help many people thereafter, as many would have done, but returning the sewing machine to the havaldar will remain the noblest one.