Rija Farhan
The full moon beamed down on the barren land, filtering through the windows of the train. Echoing through the quiet carriages, the rhythmic beating of the engine felt like the only thing keeping us alive.
Wearily, I leaned my head against the glass, shuddering at its cold touch against my dry, cracked cheek. My eyes felt heavy. I forced myself awake and gazed at the expanse of fearful faces around me, each crowded into the rows of seats or piled across the floor of the aisle.
I felt my mother’s trembling hand rest atop my own as she forced a smile.
“It’s okay, Ali,” she murmured before beginning to pray, the faint words shaking under her breath. “God, give us strength to make this journey, to keep my children alive.”
Just as the words left her mouth, the train halted to a sudden stop, the force jerking my head forward to collide into the seat in front. A sharp pain shot through my skull. Panicked murmurs began to swell through the compartment. In the distance, shouts of men drew closer. My mother gripped me tightly with one arm, and Jamal and Arya with the other as her eyes flickered shut. She began to pray more fervently, as a tear streaked down her thin face.
The storm of men drew closer. The compartment doors swung open with a screech as silhouetted warriors emerged, the moonlight reflecting off of the curved blades of their swords.
“This land will be free of you lot!” The Sikh’s roared, as the train stood paralyzed on the tracks.
The screams of terrified passengers were overpowered by their war cries. I clung to my mother as a Sikh warrior stepped forward. His murderous eyes locked onto mine. My heart leapt into my throat.
“STOP! You wouldn’t dare kill us,” a man’s deep voice boomed through the carriage. He wore a blue and white striped hat that sat lopsided on his head.
The Sikh at the front of the mob lowered his arm, glaring at him with a burning hate in his eyes.
“And why would that be?” he spat, pointing his sword at the driver’s neck.
“There is a train filled with Hindus arriving. The only way your people will get to India is if this train reaches its destination safely first. If we die, so do your people,” uttered the driver, trying to hide the slight tremor in his voice.
But hadn’t all the trains already left Wagah Station? The carriage was struck with a silence that hung like a suffocating fog in the air. Would the Sikh’s believe him? The leader furrowed his eyebrows, glancing back at his companions. My stomach turned inside out. Gripping onto the edge of my seat, my tips turned white. Finally, he sheathed his sword, leading the others to do the same.
“This is not the end,” he threatened menacingly, before turning away.
From the window, I watched him and his men scurry into the dark night before turning to my mother. Her eyes sagged with relief as she hugged me to her chest, though I could still hear her heartbeat race.
“Where we’re going, things will be much better,” she promised me weakly.
I nodded, understanding what was at stake, one wrong move and we would not have made it. If we are to survive, I must be brave. The train pushed forward on its journey as the moon, a silent witness, cast a silvery glow over the landscape. I leaned my head against the glass and looked at the sky.
The storm had finally cleared, but the chance of another remained.