"That looks like a nasty wound, Khan Sahib", said the fellow passenger, seeing his bandaged forearm.
"Its better now", he answered cautiously, a drop of sweat coming down his forehead.
Within some hours he was off the train at Karachi and onto the ship to independent India, away from his homeland.
He hurriedly removed the itching bandage to reveal his tattooed name - Lachhmi Narayan it read.
A Happy Independence Day to all of you. Celebrating the day of our freedom, we sometimes forget the pains associated with it. I recently saw the BBC Documentary The Day India Burned and the movie Train to Pakistan, both portraying the horrors of partition.
The pain I just mentioned is not just the physical one felt by those who travelled miles through days and nights and even got killed mercilessly at the hands of the anti-social elements, but it is also the emotional pain of leaving one's homeland, parting from the loved ones and the fear of the difficult times to come.
Here, I have tried to relive the journey made by my paternal grandfather, Late Shri. L.N. Grover from his homeland (in present Pakistan) to India upon the partition. He was lucky that he survived this journey due to the small trick he played and thanks to that I am in the world today. (Update: And as IP corrects me in the comments section, thanks to that I am in India today, rather than Pakistan.)
I dedicate this 66-Fiction (rather non-fiction; inspired from 55 Fiction, on the occasion of my 66th post) to all those who were not lucky enough and perished making this journey of their lifetime. My mother's both grandfathers were two of them. The paternal one died saving the honour of his daughter-in-law(my maternal grandmother). Also, my mother's maternal aunt and her daughter jumped into a river to save their honour.
P.S. I can't help but write 55 Fictions, cinquains and now 66 Fiction these days because of the lack of time, thanks to the upcoming examinations.