My Most Memorable Journey

The year was 1979, when Surraiya Bi, my mother (Ammi) took the plunge to visit her family in India. She had not seen, talked or heard from them for eleven years. A few letters which came from India were insufficient for her. She missed her six brothers, her dead sister and her parents terribly. She planned to travel without Abbu (my dad).

India and Pakistan had tried to mend the broken fences and had recently opened the Wagah border. I don’t know what motivated her to take such a difficult journey with five children all under the age of 13. But she did it and boy, how she did it!

After the visa problem was solved, a few suitcases were bought and placed under the beds. Everyday we would see her buying and stuffing the suitcases with our clothes and gifts for her family.

We had never seen any of our six maternal uncles or our maternal grand parents. But every afternoon, after lunch Ammi used to turn the dial of our prized Phillips radio towards All India Urdu service where Lata, Rafi and Kishore would entertain us and cajole Ammi into a reverie. She would tell us captivating stories of how her father hunted deer in the jungle, how many elephants he had, of her fishing ponds, the mango groves, and of numerous relatives and cousins that she left behind after she married her cousin, who lived in Pakistan.

We crossed the Wagah border by walking. It was a strange feeling; just one white gate divided the two arch rivals. Same green plants grew from Pakistan to India. I remember I turned back after every few steps we took towards India to see the difference. But everything looked the same except for the color of the sky or the security guards posted on both sides of the border.

We took a train from Amritsar to Barrielly where my grandparents lived. It was like being in the twilight zone. I am sure the five of us felt the same. Except Ammi, she was excited, confident and in charge.

Looking at India from a third class compartment of Howra Mail was an experience I would never forget. People of all kinds of colors, smells and creed filled up even the tiniest crevices of the train. We were with the poor and the poorest. The tea selling boys gaped at us. The harijans smiled, the newly wed Hindu brides with sindoor hid their faces. The beautiful lush green crops waved by, the ancient mandirs and their bells jingled, the yellow clad sadhus showed us their rosaries. How can I forget the balm vendor who kept on repeating that his balm was ‘medical in England’ instead of made in England! Everything left its impact on me. I had a strange feeling. I didn’t talk to Ammi or anyone about it. Now when I reminisce the first morning in Howra mail; I realize that all five of us felt the same strange tinkling in our heads and in our souls. But we absorbed everything quietly. What fascinated me and my siblings the most were the long tresses of sardar jis.

I kept wondering how Ammi would recognize her brothers. When she last saw them, they weren’t even teenagers. There were never any photos, any messages or voice mails to share. India and Pakistan even censored personal letters in those days. But Ammi managed some how. It took her only a few seconds to recognize her brothers standing on the station, who ran clinging to the window of our compartment, sobbing and looking at all of us. Getting out of the train and hugging our uncles was another emotion. Too many strange un known faces surrounded us.

Then came the cycle rickshaws, there were at least four or five. The only mean of transport that we used in Pakistan was our red wolkwagon, driven by Abbu or Ammi alike. It was July and the sun was scorching! I wondered who invented a cycle rickshaw? All of us were quiet and lost, and a little guilty of forcing our weight on the poor rickshaw man.
After traveling at a snail’s pace for half an hour, we finally reached our grandparents home. The huge jamun tree laden with ripe jamuns and the black hand pump in the corner gave us all a little sense of comfort.

Surraiya Bi had finally reached India her place of birth after eleven years of yearning and praying. Her five kids stood behind her in dirty clothes and unwashed faces when she proudly started to introduce them…