Beyond the Lines: An Autobiography Page 2

  I envy those who have an implicit faith in god. They do not have to seek explanations because they don’t need any. I am convinced that there is something called destiny which makes you choose a particular path from the many before you. In my own life, I have preferred one option over another without really knowing why, and that has made all the difference. I studied law but settled on journalism. I tried to join the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) but failed to make it. Had I been successful I would have retired 25 years ago, but this is destiny. Perhaps my faith springs from something I read years ago inscribed on a tablet on a restaurant wall near Jama Masjid in Delhi: Waqt se pehley nahin, Mukaddar se ziada nahin [Not before your time, nor more than your destiny].

  My wife, Bharti, is quite the opposite. She has implicit faith in god and is a practising Hindu who goes to the temple every day and fasts on the days enjoined by her religion. She organizes havans for her children and grandchildren on their birthdays and has dragged me along to many pilgrimages, from Amarnath in the north to Rameshwaram in the south.

  I have, however, always believed in the pir buried in the back garden of our house in Sialkot. I respect him as a family elder or patron, protecting us all from any unpleasant events. Even when I left Murray College at Sialkot to join Forman Christian College in Lahore (Government College refused me admission), I carried with me the blessings of the pir, my unseen guardian. I feel he represents something spiritual; something akin to bhakti or sufism. Did this dependence make me a coward? Anyone could bully me. I accepted beatings in the brawls in which I was unwillingly involved. A physically strong person always impressed me. Aptly, my mother had nicknamed me Bhola (innocent).

  Over the years, I developed a taste for classical music, both Indian and Western. My wife helped me appreciate the nuances of Indian classical music, particularly the ragas. I have, however, been unable to assimilate or appreciate even the rudiments of the other fields of art. I have no skill whatsoever in assessing a drawing or a painting.

  I once had a humbling experience when I tried to buy some paintings. Many years ago, near Charminar in Hyderabad there were some shops offering a variety of small paintings. Pretending to be an expert, I went to a shop and selected twelve from which I thought I would shortlist three. The shopkeeper, a venerable old man, watched me intently and after some time he stopped my selection. He curtly told me that I did not understand the paintings and those I had selected had little merit.

  Hurt but dumbfounded I looked at him. He took back all the paintings I had put aside and reached for a small one on the shelf I had scanned. ‘Take this,’ he said, handing over the painting. ‘This is a present from me on the promise that you will never buy a painting on your own.’ I have kept that promise and the painting I was gifted has been praised by many, and adorns one of the walls of my sitting room.

  Much later in life once M.F. Hussain came to my house in New Delhi. He was transporting canvases on a bicycle while walking alongside it. He requested me to buy at least one painting and the price he sought, if I recall correctly, was Rs 100 or so. I refused because I could not afford it then, and in any event I remembered the advice of the Hyderabad shopkeeper that I should not buy any painting on my own.

  My mother, Puran Devi, was very particular about customs. She really believed that antiquity gave them credibility. She burnt her spinning wheel when my first son Sudhir, her grandson, was born. The custom had it that a grandmother would be so occupied by her grandson that she would not have time to sit at the spinning wheel.

  A practising Sikh, my mother regularly attended the gurdwara regularly. Marriages between Hindus and Sikhs were common in those days. She would read us the Guru Granth Sahib every Sankrant (the first month of the Indian calendar) and give us halwa prepared at home. My father had ‘Singh’ affixed after Gurbaksh, his first name. However, unlike the Sikhs, neither he nor my grandfather had long hair. It would be fair to say that we blended the traditions of Sikhism and Hinduism.

  The first name of my brothers, like mine, was chosen by a granthi (preacher) from the Granth Sahib, the holy book of Sikhs. There was no such custom for girls. My sister got her name from my grandmother. My name at birth was Kuldip Singh but I dropped the ‘Singh’ after Partition, not wishing people to think I was a Sikh when I wasn’t one. I also saw no validity in claiming to be a Sehajdhari (a term used for people who have cut hair or shaven beard but believe in the Sikh Gurus and Guru Granth Sahib).

  In keeping with the intermingling of the two faiths in our daily lives, we celebrated both Hindu and Sikh festivals. Diwali was the biggest celebration in our house, and then my parents would insist that we wore new clothes. There was always a Lakshmi puja which my mother performed and subsequently the tradition was followed by my wife. Once, a Muslim couple, family friends of ours, dropped in while we were performing the ritual Lakshmi puja. My mother abruptly stopped the puja, and requested them to join in. They did, in the sense that they sat quietly on the floor and watched the proceedings.

  The idol of Lakshmi (goddess of wealth) was placed on a pedestal and everyone bowed before it. My mother asked them to do the same. They just smiled and kept a distance. She did not realize even later that for a Muslim to bow before Lakshmi was tantamount to idol worship, which is prohibited in Islam. Our Muslim friends were, however, well aware that my mother didn’t mean to hurt their feelings. She was just ignorant of their religious practices. This was true of most Hindu and Sikh families who lived in the midst of a Muslim majority in Sialkot. All that they knew was that Muslims ate halal meat, unlike Sikhs who relished jhatka, but we respected communal sensitivities.

  My mother was a liberal and bore no prejudice against Muslims. She would say that they were just like us. She however practiced discrimination without even realizing that she was doing so when it came to the untouchables. She would not allow the girl who swept the floor at home to enter her kitchen. Once when she did by mistake, I heard my mother shouting at her endlessly while washing the kitchen floor with buckets of water, which ironically were brought by the same girl from a nearby well.

  I would watch the girl intently. Wearing a thin white dhoti, she showed her shapely legs and a swash of thick hair between. I was twelve or thirteen then, and felt an indescribable surge of desire whenever I saw her nakedness. I did not go near her, not because she was a dalit, the preferred term today, but because of fear of what the family might think. I was just scared.

  The untouchable girl, however, made me conscious of the caste system in Hinduism. Even in my school, some boys sat on the bare floor while we had the benefit of jute mats. Once I startled my teacher when I asked him why everyone couldn’t have a jute mat. He gave me the stock reply that they did not pay the full fee. However, when he saw that I was not convinced, he said it was because they were untouchables. I found it revolting but did not raise my voice. Upper castes remained upper and lower castes lower. This had been accepted for centuries and even those who felt repulsed did not challenge the practice. I did however wonder how long this order would survive.

  My mother gave me an explanation of sorts: The untouchables were those who had committed ‘sins’ in their previous life and were paying for them in this birth. I did not accept the rationale then and I continue to be confused about the philosophy of inflicting punishment now for deeds committed in another life. The philosophy of karma, as preached by the Gita, is what the Hindu philosophy is about. It made me somewhat smug but not accepting of injustice or inequity.

  Despite the somewhat tense atmosphere in Sialkot, we led a normal life until the announcement of Partition on 12 August 1947 which changed everything. I was twenty-four year old. It was like a spark thrown at the haystack of distrust. The subcontinent burst into communal flames. The north was the worst affected and to some extent Bengal. Pent-up feelings among both Hindus and Muslims, stirred by the communal propaganda disseminated over several years, gave vent to widespread anger. This was aggravated by the fact that the administrators were divided along r
eligious lines.

  Trouble began almost simultaneously on both sides of the new border on 13 August. Lahore and Amritsar got engulfed after the killing of Sikhs at Rawalpindi and of Muslims in the Sikh-ruled states in East Punjab. Soon it became a bloodbath, with furious mobs roaming the bazars with weapons. People went on a rampage of killing, looting, and kidnapping, especially of women and children, and setting homes ablaze. Even the sky of the relatively quiet Sialkot was radiant. We helplessly watched the fires in the distance. My mother tiptoed to me and whispered in my ear: these are only lights; today is your birthday (14 August).

  Initially, we had taken shelter with the jailor, Arjun Das, who later supervised the hanging of Mahatma Gandhi’s assassin, Nathu Ram Godse, at Ambala Cantonment.

  I did not witness India becoming an independent state on the night of 14–15 August because I was with my family in Sialkot. Radio Pakistan played nationalist songs which were Islamic in tone. I switched over to All India Radio and heard the replayed version of Nehru’s speech. His words still resound in my ears: ‘Long years ago, we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially….’

  Our family decided to visit India for some time till the communal frenzy subsided. Even for one-bag travel I had to return to the house to bring my clothes. My brothers and parents too needed some things. My mother and I hired a tonga at Sialkot cantonment, a comparatively safe place where we had taken shelter, after moving from Arjun Das’s residence, at a bungalow owned by Ghulam Qadir, a multi-store owner and a friend of my father.

  My mother and I did not know the tongawalla, who was a Muslim. It was a distance of some 10 km from the cantonment but not even once did it occur to anyone that someone could attack us on the way at a time when people were baying for each other’s blood.

  When we had hurriedly left home on 14 August, my mother had carried with her a precious shahtoosh shawl. She carefully folded it and put it back in her trunk, taking with her an ordinary Kulu shawl. She said she did not want to spoil her good shawl by taking it to India. I had taken with me the hardback edition of Jean Christopher by Romaine Rolland. I put it back on the shelf and picked up a paperback which I thought I could afford to throw away in India before returning home. My mother packed three suitcases, one for me, the other for my two brothers, and the third for my father and herself.

  My mother and I sat for some time at the dining table. We were sad, probably struggling to avoid the thought that we might never return, not to mention the feeling that we would have to start our lives afresh in India. Neither of us realized that it would be our last visit to our home.

  I wish I had words to describe the poignancy of those moments. How can I express the thought of leaving everything behind? It was akin to being crushed in the embers of memory. I feared that everything had been reduced to ashes. My mother did say when, locking the outer door, that she had a strange premonition of never returning again.

  On 12 September, when we were discussing our travel plans, a Hindu army major who had decided to go to India came to bid my father goodbye. He was indebted to him for the medical attention given to his children. The major inquired if he could do anything for him. ‘Take my three sons with you,’ was my father’s request. The major was obviously embarrassed. He said he wished he could but there was no space in his jeep. At best, he could accommodate only one person with a handbag.

  The entire family insisted that I should be the one to accompany the major but when they found I was unwilling, my father suggested we draw lots. Whether it was managed or accidental, I was the reluctant winner. I tried my utmost to wriggle out but everyone said that it was destined. I could not sleep that night, and after a long time I put my head in my mother’s lap, asking her to caress my hair as she used to when I was a child. I was afraid to face the future.

  I wanted to return to the days when I had no worry, no fear. Now I wanted to cling to each member of my family, apprehending that I might never see them again. Even before embarking on the journey, we had heard innumerable stories of migrants being killed on their way to Pakistan or India. On many trains in Pakistan, all non-Muslim passengers were killed, while Muslims were butchered on trains in India. I imagined the worst as I fell asleep. We had decided not to travel together, only one at a time.

  The major’s jeep arrived with his wife and two children on the morning of 13 September. It was crammed with luggage and there was also an orderly sitting at the back. My mother had packed two trousers and two shirts for me in a handbag. She also gave me Rs 120. With tears rolling down her face, she reminded me to stay at Daryaganj, Delhi, with her sister, Kunto masi, who was married to a head clerk at the central secretariat.

  It was an avalanche of migration. Humanity in its entirety appeared to be on the move on both sides. No one expected it; no one wanted it, but none could prevent it. The two countries blamed each other as they tried to grapple with the unexpected tragedy and the other concomitant and chaotic problems of Partition after experiencing a few heady days that Independence had brought.

  Jinnah picked on the Sikhs whom he had tried to wean away from India on the promise of an autonomous state (Azad Punjab) on the border of Pakistan and India. His secretary, K.H. Khurshid, many years later told me in Lahore that Jinnah had never visualized such large-scale massacre and migration occurring after Partition. His idea of Pakistan, Khurshid said, was that of a parliamentary democracy where there would be no difference between Muslims and non-Muslims on the basis of religion.

  In India, Vallabhbhai Patel was anxious that all Hindus and Sikhs should leave West Pakistan; he cared little for the Muslims who he thought had better leave India as they had achieved what they wanted: Pakistan. For Jawaharlal Nehru, secularism was a matter of faith and he was known to personally chase away Hindus looting shops owned by Muslims in New Delhi.

  The refugees carried with them not only bitterness and vengeful thoughts but also stories of atrocities in the cities and villages where they had lived peacefully with other communities for centuries. If Partition was on the basis of religion, the killings only served to carve deep furrows.

  Whoever was to blame, or rather, more to blame, these few weeks of madness on both sides of the border embittered relations between the two countries for decades into the future. Three generations have already suffered and one does not know how long this dark alley is. The two countries have differed on every subject, at every step. Fear and mistrust of each other has made even trivial matters major issues.

  So wide was the hiatus soon after Partition that Jinnah thought at one time of breaking off diplomatic relations with India. He confided to his chief of staff, Lord Ismay, in September 1947, that ‘there is no alternative but to fight it out’. Jinnah genuinely believed that India wanted to dismember his country, a fear that haunts Pakistan to this day.

  As I got into the jeep, I looked towards my mother who was trying to hold back her tears. My father was stunned and distraught. However, they were relieved that at least one member of the family would be making it to safety. My brothers were laughing but how unreal their laughter sounded! Wistfully, I looked towards them and waved my hand in farewell.

  The journey to Sambrial, about 20 miles from Sialkot, was uneventful, but as soon as the jeep reached the main road it stopped. A wall of men blocked the road. It was a stream of Hindus and Sikhs from distant towns trekking to India. It was a harrowing sight. They looked haggard: gaping wounds, torn clothes, and meagre belongings all told the story of their suffering. They were victims but not of ‘riots’, a word that fell far short of describing what had happened. A sadistic desire to kill each other had overtaken the two communities.

  I still remember an old Sikh with a flowing beard flecked with grey, nudging me and trying to hand over his grandson. ‘He is all we have in the family,’ he implored, ‘take him to India. At least someone from the family should live.’ A young woman thrust her child into the jeep. ‘I shall
search for you and collect my son,’ she said. How could I take their children into the jeep when I did not know about my own future? I just kept silent. How could I explain? How? How?

  Leaving these helpless people behind was heart-wrenching but there was nothing I could do. It seemed as if we had lost the past but were not sanguine about the future. I was worried about my parents. I wished I could tell them that there was no going back to our home. They must come out quickly and forever. We had to start from scratch.

  The catholicity of Hinduism and the compassion of Islam: if such sentiments survived, they made no difference. Villages after villages had been annihilated, the Muslim habitations destroying and burning the Hindu–Sikh ones and Hindus and Sikhs, in turn retaliating or taking the initiative in wiping out the Muslims. I had a glimpse of all these as I travelled in the jeep.

  Riots, in fact, had erupted in Punjab in March 1947 itself. Rawalpindi and Jhelum were the most affected, where many Hindu and Sikh women jumped into wells to save themselves from rape and kidnapping. Lahore became a battleground between Hindus and Sikhs, on the one side, joining hands, and Muslims on the other. This was the city where Master Tara Singh, a Sikh leader, had unsheathed a sword in front of the state assembly building and had raised the slogan of Khalistan.

  The killing of Sikhs in Rawalpindi as well as the rape of women who did not jump into wells to save their chastity was the turning point for the community. Till then Master Tara Singh, their leader, was equivocal in his thinking, wondering whether to stay on in Pakistan where Guru Nanak Dev, the founder of Sikhism, was born, or migrate to India where the Master was confident of security because of Hindu–Sikh religious kinship. Both shared the same beliefs and held sacred more or less the same gods and goddesses. The Sikhs had not forgiven or forgotten the Mughal atrocities at the hands of Aurangzeb and some other Muslim emperors. Similarly, the Muslims recalled the killings perpetrated by Hari Singh Nalwa, Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s chief of the Sikh army. I have often wondered why the Punjabi Muslims never cultivated the Sikhs. Both were ahle kitab (people of the book or scripture), the Sikhs have the Guru Granth Sahib and the Muslims the Quran-i-Sharif. Neither suffer from the caste system or prejudice.