Darshan by Amrit Chima Page A

hanging oil lamps were lit, dimly illuminating the uneven wooden planks in the darkness before dawn. The girls began their search, peeking behind benches, laying their little bodies down, their heads hanging over the platform to check the dark tracks where Harpreet might be hiding. They called out, “Bebeji?” There was no answer. Avani began to cry, terrified without her elephant, begging for it as Kiran dragged her to join Lal so they could wait for their mother. They waited until the sky grew less dim and the train station master came and he tipped his hat and went into his small office. And then they waited more. Avani fell asleep. She slept until the train came. Kiran pulled at her and they jumped down off the bench. They glanced at Lal, who drooled and wept and covered his face, and then they went to search without him. They boarded the train, and Kiran asked the passengers questions, pulling Avani through the cramped cars, bodies pressed against each other, fighting dog-like for space. The whistle blew a shrill blast and the train began to move.
    Baba Singh jerked out of his daze.
    “It’s okay, Baba,” Khushwant whispered to him. “We will find them.”
    The city was dark when they arrived at Amritsar’s train station. It smelled of auto fumes and greasy, fried foods. Baba Singh looked into the crowd with a sick feeling, at the moving rickshaw and car traffic outside the main building. He had never been to the city before, and though he had imagined it larger and more bustling than Amarpur, he was not prepared for the enormity.
    “Stay close,” Yashbir said.
    The movement and flow of people inside the station was a gargantuan swell. Coolies in white dhotis followed the well-dressed wealthy with suitcases atop their heads. A million conversations in the chattering crowd melted into one colossal roar of activity. Families wailed and bid farewell as one of their own handed paper tickets to a conductor, who validated boarding passes with practiced efficiency. Train windows were flung open and a thousand hands waved desperately to their families.
    “Excuse me!” Yashbir shouted, waving down an official. “Excuse me!”
    “Yes,” the man replied, his eyes wide with impatience.
    “We are looking for the train from Amarpur.”
    “From where?”
    “From Amarpur, ji.”
    The man frowned and began to flip through some papers. “Amarpur,” he muttered. He paused, then looked up. “Already gone to Calcutta.”
    “Did you see two little girls?” Desa asked, indicating how tall they were. “One of them four, the other seven.”
    “I have not,” the official said, then pointed off to the left. “For lost luggage and persons, the superintendent’s office is that way.”
    But the superintendent had not seen them either and suggested they buy tickets to Calcutta.
    “But what if they got off?” Ranjit asked, frustrated.
    The man gave him a blank look. “I do not know what you want me to do.”
    “Help us,” Desa said, reaching out to the man. “Please.”
    “The ticket booth is there,” he replied, ushering them out and shutting the door to his office.
    They weakly looked around.
    “I will go,” Ranjit finally said. “If they are in Calcutta, I will find them.”
    Yashbir shook his head. “You cannot go alone.”
    “One of us has to,” Ranjit replied, already stepping away from them and into the crowd toward the ticket booth. “Stay here. Look everywhere.”
    “Wait!” Desa shouted, thrusting Avani’s elephant at him. “Take it.”
    Ranjit took the wooden toy. “I will find them,” he said and disappeared.
    The rest of them stayed in Amritsar until morning, until Yashbir told them they had to go back. They had no leads that could take them from the station into the city.
    Desa refused. “ They would not have given up,” she cried. But when she stepped outside into the madness of morning traffic, she relented with dismay. Everywhere was simply too vast. She bent her head, and Yashbir led