Joined in pain

AUGUST 14. I recall that day vividly. Even after 54 years, every detail is etched on my mind. We were living at Sialkot with my parents and two brothers, one older than me and the other younger. We had no intention to leave town. My father, a doctor, was at the top of this profession. We had a lot of property — many shops and several flats. Where would we go? And why should we? Mohammad Ali Jinnah, founder of Pakistan, had said, ‘‘You cease to be Hindus and Muslims; not in the religious sense but otherwise. Now you are either Pakistanis or Indians.’’

My elder brother was the only one who said that one day we would be forced to leave our home. We laughed. We considered him too pessimistic. How would anyone force us out of our own house? On August 14, servants were still setting the table for lunch when we heard the steps of people running on the road below our two-storey house. We ran to the windows but we could see only the fag end of the crowd.

My father shouted to ask a passer-by what was happening. He said loudly that some people were chasing a sadhu. It shook us. This was the first incident in our town. A few Muslim refugees had spotted a sadhu on the roadside and followed him. The police rescued him in time. Horrified, we returned to the lunch table. No one spoke.

But fear was writ large on every face. Before we could regain our composure, there was the rushing of feet on our staircase. Someone flung the door open. Arjan Das, the district jail officer, was there. He was a family friend. ‘‘You cannot stay here. This is not safe. I am taking you to my place,’’ he said. None questioned him. He was an official, he knew best. My mother hurriedly packed a suitcase. We literally sat on one another in the small car Arjun Das was driving. The jail was on the outskirts of the town. But the road leading to it did not show any untoward activity. It was partly crowded, partly empty, as usual. We felt relieved when we drove into the jail premises. I told my mother I should return to town to constitute a peace committee. Some of us, Hindus and Muslims, did so whenever there was tension. Arjan Das stared at me but my father allayed his misgivings by saying, ‘‘Don’t bother about what the boy is saying.’’ Arjan Das told us that he, as a Hindu officer, had opted for India. He advised us to leave Pakistan. He had heard from his Muslim colleagues that the Hindus would have to go to the other side. My father and I did not believe him.

In the security of the jail, behind the high walls, the whole day we heard the sound of firing and explosions at a distance. In the evening all of us came out of the room to see the fires rising above the town: the skyline was on fire. My mother was standing beside me. She tapped my shoulder and whispered, ‘‘The entire town is lit because it is your birthday.’’ Yes, I remembered, August 14 is my birthday. Radio Pakistan was repeating Jinnah’s speech, ‘‘You cease to be Hindus and Muslims. You are either Indians or Pakistanis’’.

One Muslim family came to my father — he was their doctor — the following day and took us all to the cantonment where they lodged us in a bungalow. It was so spacious, it became a mini refugee camp. Some of our friends and relatives joined us. Over the next few days, the place became a transit camp. People would stay with us until they arranged to go to Jammu, 20 km from Sialkot or to Lahore, about 120 km, for their onward journey to India.

What should we do? It was apparent we could not stay in the cantonment for long. But, except my elder brother, we were not willing to migrate to India. We believed it was a passing phase. Like other disturbances, this too would subside. Normalcy always returned, with Hindus and Muslims going back to their moorings and mutual relationships. This time the uneasy conditions were annoyingly long.

Refugees from India were pouring in with their tales of woe, vitiating the atmosphere still further. Our Muslim friends told us about the anger building up. We decided to go to India for some time and to return once things settled down. It was going to be one month after partition. Things were more disturbing than before and we, in the small town of Sialkot, still were not aware of the destruction and killings raging through the two parts of Punjab. My mother and I rode in a tonga from the cantonment to our house to pick up more clothes for our stay in India. Everything was intact. The roads were crowded but there was no trouble. My mother had collected a shahtoosh shawl when we had hurriedly left with Arjan Das. She changed it for a Kulu one, less expensive. We relocked the house, never realising it would be our last visit. As we descended the stairs, my mother remarked that if anyone wanted to break in, the lock would not deter him.

My father was keen on sending us, his three sons, along with an army major, on transfer to India. He had come to thank him for having treated his family. His jeep was full. My father persuaded him to accommodate one of us. We drew lots and I was the unwilling winner. My mother was worried about me. Nawab, a friend with whom I served on peace committees, had come to tell her in my absence to send me away quickly because some people were not happy with my efforts at peace.

The major’s jeep was loaded with luggage. He, his wife and the orderly, who was driving, sat in the front, and the two children and I were pushed to the back with the luggage. My mother gave me Rs 150 and asked me to stay at Daryaganj with her sister, married to a head clerk in Delhi. There was no farewell or goodbye because we promised to meet in Delhi around the middle of October, a month later.

Hardly had the jeep covered 20 km and hit the main road when it stopped. There was a sea of humanity. Many rushed towards us. Suffering was writ large on their faces. Weeping, they told their stories — how they had been hounded from their homes and how scores had been put to death. The scene woke me up from my fantasy that there would soon be normalcy and people would return to their homes. I realised that there was no going back. It was the forced migration of population. People going to the other side were Hindus and Sikhs. As the jeep crossed the border, we witnessed the same scene, a stream of people flowing into Pakistan. They were Muslims. Both sides had seen murder and worse; both were refugees

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