In the quiet village of Mano Majra, time moved slowly. Nestled by the Sutlej River, it was a place where Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims lived as one, bound by years of trust and friendship. The villagers woke to the temple bell and the call of the muezzin, knowing life would go on as it always had. But the summer of 1947 was different. Partition had drawn a bloody line across the land, and rumors of violence began seeping into their peaceful world.

One night, under a sky full of stars, a train rolled into Mano Majra’s station. But no passengers stepped out. The station master, curious, walked towards it, lantern in hand. As he slid open a door, the lantern fell from his grip. Inside, packed from wall to wall, were bodies—men, women, and children. The train smelled of death. The village, once filled with laughter and gossip, now whispered only of fear.

Jugga was the village rogue, a tall, broad-shouldered man always in trouble. He wasn’t afraid of fists or jail, but he was terrified of one thing—losing Nooran. She was the daughter of the village weaver, a Muslim girl with eyes that saw right through him. They met in secret, hidden in the sugarcane fields, whispering dreams of a life together. But now, with Muslims being forced to flee, Nooran was to leave on the next train to Pakistan.

Meanwhile, Iqbal, a well-educated city man, had arrived in the village. He spoke of peace and unity, but the villagers looked at him with suspicion. “What can one man’s words do when the world is drowning in blood?” they asked. Iqbal himself wondered if his education meant anything when faced with blind hatred.

The news of the ghost train spread beyond the village. Strangers arrived—men with swords and guns. “An eye for an eye,” they muttered. A plan was made: when the next train left, carrying Muslims to safety, it would never reach its destination. The bridge ahead would be destroyed, sending the train into the river. A massacre in the dead of night.

Jugga overheard their whispers. His heart pounded. Nooran would be on that train. He had to stop them. But how could he, a single man, stand against an armed mob?

As the fateful night approached, the village held its breath. The train, filled with frightened families, stood waiting at the station. The killers hid near the bridge, ropes and swords in hand.

Jugga ran. His feet pounded against the earth as he reached the bridge. The ropes, thick and strong, were tied to the beams. His fingers bled as he pulled at them. The mob saw him. “Jugga, stop!” someone shouted. Blades flashed in the moonlight. He pulled harder. One rope snapped. A sharp pain tore through his back. He gritted his teeth. Another rope. Then another. His vision blurred, his body weak. But he kept going.

The train’s whistle screamed into the night. The wheels turned. The mob rushed towards him. Jugga gave one final pull SNAP The last rope broke. The train roared past, untouched. Nooran was safe. The killers fled, their plan in ruins. Jugga collapsed, his breath shallow. The village would remember this night forever.