This afternoon, I met up with Benson face to face in Varrock main city centre. I saw him looking peculiarly at me by the fountain. He had the traditional English greasy combed hair; a pale, expressionless face, and looked at me; his face revealed nothing but secrecy…
“Afternoon Mr Shah. You received my letter I suppose…yes…well, have you thought about the move? He glared at me tranquilly. I learned that this man had a stylish accent.
“Yes, I am willing to go there until this war is finished.” I chose my words wisely as I didn’t want to mess around with this highly ranked officer.
“Well, in that case, you can move right away…here’s your ticket, and don’t miss the flight for tomorrow…”
“I won’t” reassuring him.
18th October 1941 – Immigrants Office
Dear diary,
I reached India about a month ago, and I am at the immigrant place near the airport. I am with the police, and to them, I am an immigrant. The security men are chasing up my records from Great Britain. They are trying to find evidences if I have been in trouble with the police before; if I have done anything wrong to get myself into trouble. They are treating me really bad – as if I am a real bad citizen.
“Please, let me phone Benson. Just one quick phone call-”
“Who is this Benson?”
“He is a highly ranked officer who brought me here in the first place.” The security guy looked sternly at me.
“O.K – just one quick phone call, and that is it. Make sure you don’t do anything funny ‘cause if you do – you know the consequences.” He handed me his mobile, and I dialled the number, pressing each key forcefully.
“Hello, this is Mr Shah – is this Benson?”
“Yes…I remember you, how are you, how’s the refugee camp?
“I am in an immigrant place – stuck and I need your help to clear me off-”
“Sorry, can’t help you…” He switched the phone off. I felt so angry with him.
He got me in this mess; why can’t he help me get out of it? I thought he was the person who would help others…
Well, I am stuck here for another eight whole months…
22nd June 1942 – South India
Dear Diary,
I am finally free from the immigrants place. I am once again a free man…I had to get transport to the refugee camp. It cost me loads for the ride, but there was no other choice. I had to get there…I travelled all the way to the southern ends of India, where the desolated camp stood right there, before me.
“This is it – the refugee camp. That makes it about 1500 rupees.”
I had no choice but to agree to this greedy man.
My first expression was dirty, polluted, bleak, and the site that I saw before me disgusted me. I knew that it wasn’t going to be fun here, but I had to stay positive. First of all, the commander of the refugee’s gave me a warm welcome, but as I saw other refugees in the camp, they looked at me tediously. I knew that they didn’t want me here.
“What’re you doing here” spat out an American refugee.
“I had to immediately evacuate the city.” I couldn’t care less about the rudeness people had around here. I just had enough of this place. I want to go home. I want to be with my family. With these thoughts, the evening swiftly went passed, as how a droplet of water slowly, but steadily reaches the ocean.
29th June 1942 – At the refugee camp.
Dear Diary, I have just spent a week here, at the refugee camp. I feel isolated, miserable, and I am missing home and my family. All we get here is a place to stay and a very short provision of food. We get rice and bread three times a day, and normally, we have to fight for the short quantity of food. I have no friends, and I just solemnly keep my sorrow thoughts inside myself, and I simply wait for someone to help me…just waiting…