It was the summer of 1947. I was a twelve-year kid and in the 7th class in the Middle School. I had gone to spend my summer vacation with my elder sister in Jagraon, a city and tehsil of Ludhiana District in the (East) Punjab. The country was in the grip of political high fever with the Muslims intent on dividing India to create Pakistan, a dreamland of the Indian Muslims. Of course I was too young to comprehend the intricacies of the entire hullabaloo that was going on; the big news was that Pakistan would be born in a couple of months. No body understood at that time on what a massive scale it would affect the lives of the common people. Nobody was thinking of leaving their ancestral homes and hearths in East Punjab and physically moving to the new land.

I was in Jagraon when the communal riots broke out in Punjab. I remember that during the night lying in my cot on the roof of the house, I could see the houses burning in the darkness. The loud slogans of “Sat Sri Akal” and “Allah-u-Akbar shattered the stillness of the night. In due time, the train services were suspended. Then arrived the D-Day, August 14, 1947. A new country took shape on the world map. The whole subcontinent was wrapped in flames and brutal killings became the daily events.

On the morning of August 14, 1947, it was the month of Ramadan, announcements were made on the blaring loud speakers mounted on the vehicles driving past the Muslim residential areas informing them that they should immediately leave their homes and head towards a refugee camp situated outside a village some 9/10 miles away. Those who wouldn’t leave would be staying behind at their own risk; in other words they would lose their lives. Shortly afterwards, the main road leading out of the city was clogged by a huge mass of crawling and confused humanity. In the distance, one could still hear the shouts of Allah-u-Akbar indicating that many were fighting the last battle of their life.

The sun was blistering hot. We had bare necessities with us; practically every thing was left behind. We were walking towards an unfamiliar destination. Protection was provided by some units of the Indian army. It was a haphazard crowd of humans, cattle, bullock carts (they were relatively lucky who had them because they didn’t have to trudge like others), etc. There was a general, unspoken bitter feeling in the hearts of everyone against the hostile Sikhs and Hindus. There were also rows of well-meaning non-Muslims (Hindus and Sikhs) standing on both sides of the road with pales of drinking water to help those who needed a drink, particularly the children. I could understand this humanitarian act but the hearts were numbed by the violence, blood-shed, loot, and arson all around. This kind act did not touch any heart and nobody cared for a drink. Most of them were fasting anyhow.

After several hours of trudging, we reached the area, which had been planned for the refugee camp. It was spread over sand dunes, which blazed in the hot sun. Now after such a long time, I don’t remember the details such as who pitched our tent and how it was done because we didn’t have any resources to do so. The reason is that for many, many years after my life in the camp (about one month or so), I tried to forget every thing about it although it was hard to do so. It continued haunting me every so often. I wished that those few months of my summer vacation were obliterated from my memory.

I remember that ration of a few fistful of jawar flour was given to each family for them to fend for the whole day. There were rumors that one seer (2.2 lbs) of wheat flour could be procured in exchange for one tola of gold by underhand dealings but I don’t know if anybody went for that bargain. Those who have eaten a jawar chapatti know that it becomes hard and stiff like a piece of wood a short time after it is baked and gets cold. Life was hard particularly when it was under a constant threat. But the humans have a natural mechanism in their make up for adaptation to whatever circumstances are there. So we adapted (perforce) effortlessly although uncertainty always hovered around us and was never far.

One day about noon-time, my nephew and I walked outside the camp and came to the top of a sand dune. We were just standing there and leisurely gazing around. Down below two or three men were cutting grass from a green patch of land and collecting it for their cattle. Suddenly some four or five Sikhs appeared from nowhere galloping their horses and waving their drawn swords and they attacked the miserable and defenseless grass cutters. Just in a few moments, the flame of life was extinguished in their bodies and the great warriors disappeared in the direction from which they had come. Nobody cared to look at us and we walked back silently and slowly engrossed deeply in our individual thoughts. We didn’t mention this gruesome incident to anybody nor did we ever talk with each other about it later on. This was not an unusual event in those horrific days. Life was cheap as it is now in Iraq (according to one news report, about 100,000 civilians have lost their lives since the outbreak of the war) and other war torn areas in the world.

One night I was awakened by the shrieks of some girls who were victimized by the soldiers of the army, which was posted for our protection. This again was not uncommon and the feelings of pain and hurt had somehow simply numbed.

Finally, the day arrived when the refugees were to walk to the new holy land (Pakistan) to make home there. We would walk to Ferozpur (about 100 miles away) and then across to Kasur in Pakistan. There were all kinds of fears in the minds of the people. The overwhelming fear was: Would we be safe on the road to a far off destination because people did not trust the army units (I think they were Dogra units)? However, a sanguine change took place before the prescribed day for the move; the Dogra units were replaced by Baloch regiment and a sense of security pervaded the camp.

On the appointed day, we started in the form of a caravan (qafilah) with people jostling with one another avoiding knock-downs by the carts and the army jeeps and trucks. One of my nieces, the oldest one, had high fever the day we were to move. Luckily, she was one of the many, who was helped by the army which provided her a ride. We walked all day under the blazing sun. I remember, I went a little off the road looking for drinking water. I came to a well in which dead bodies had been dumped and it was choked with them. I stepped back with a sudden fright.

In the evening, we stopped for the night. Through out the night, people were calling for their relatives who got separated from them during the whole day’s trudge. This was a nightly event.

We were on the road for four days; on the fifth, we crossed into Pakistan. On the second day when we sojourned for the night, I heard some people shouting at some one. We discovered that a young mother was trying to bury her infant baby alive whom she couldn’t carry. People reproved her harshly for the inhuman act that she was about to commit. But her problem was also real; she found it hard to carry the baby every day while walking twenty to twenty five miles.

I also watched old people left behind by the roadside by their relatives because they couldn’t physically carry them (the old mothers and fathers). The old people could not walk such long distances by themselves. They watched their grown up children departing with wistful and anguished eyes and resigned themselves to what the fate had in store for them. I do not know if the army rescued them.

During the heat of the day, thirst was a common irritant because there was scarcity of drinking water along the road. People would drink from the stagnant water pools which were drying up due to the heat, wherever they found them. The water in them stank. I don’t remember what I did to quench my thirst during the first four days on the road but I know one thing that I couldn’t and didn’t drink from those stinking pools. On the fifth day when we were approaching Ferozpur, I couldn’t hold out any longer and I gave up. I kneeled down on the bank of a large pool and took a few sips. I could see some buffaloes waffling in the pool and refreshing themselves by their daily bath, about 100/150 feet away in the same pool.

Finally, we walked over the road bridge across the Byas River and stepped into the dreamland. The sense of fear, which had gripped my heart for the last month and a half dissolved and faded away and I felt relieved. My father picked us from the refugee camp and brought us to Lahore. My parents and other siblings were lucky to board the last train to Lahore from our village. They had arrived safely. My elder brother was employed in Lahore and we found shelter in his house. His house became our home.

Gradually, I returned to normal life and my summer vacation became a horrible nightmare which I had experienced and wanted so badly to forget. But a few things were indelibly imprinted in my consciousness which later became part of my sub-consciousness. In due time, I overcame my bitterness towards Hindus and Sikhs. It is said that time is the best healer.

When I went to work in Nigeria I came across many Indian employees with whom I couldn’t socialize much. Not that I disliked them; I simply didn’t make any effort for socializing. I had a few good friends from Pakistan with whom I would spend most of my leisure time. I am not a very outgoing person anyhow. According to Ghalib


Haiy aadami baja’ay khud ikk masher-e-khayal
Hum anjuman samjhatay hain khalwat hee kyon nah ho

I am usually quite happy and content with a book.

There were a couple of exceptions though. I remember there was one Hindu friend with whom I would occasionally sit and drink whenever I went to his town.The secession of Bangla Desh didn’t help to eliminate my bitter feelings. When I went to work in Nigeria the second time towards the end of 1970, India had already invaded East Pakistan. I was staying at the Catering Rest House in Sokoto in Nigeria. One morning as I was coming out from the dining hall after breakfast, a couple of Hindus shouted for my benefit, “Even if God wants to intervene now and save East Pakistan, He cannot.” I simply walked away.

I had a South Indian colleague doing Ph.D. at the Imperial College of Science and Technology, London (1968-70). He was helpful in several small ways and we became buddies. Now I have several co-workers from India and I’ve good working relations with most of them. I even socialized with a few of them and had good time. The Hindu wife of a Sikh colleague is the sweetest friend of my wife.

When I came to live in Pakistan, I heard some horror stories regarding the massacres of Hidus and Sikhs who were trying to escape the vengeful wrath of the native Muslims in West Pakistan. The common people on both sides of the line were victimized by the vengeful marauders; they (the common people) paid heavy price for freedom. They were the people (on both sides) whose blood went into the foundations of the new country.

After partition, many Urdu short story writers and novelists wrote many pieces on the horrors of the partition. Manto’s Khol Dau particularly impacted me and later Ashfaq’s Guddriya had a similar lasting impression on my psyche. Krishan Chandar wrote “Hum (Subb) Janwar Hain” which I didn’t read because I thought the title had said it all. One of the novels that I remember is “Naya Ma’arka” which was written by Nasim Hijazi.

I have been living with these suppressed memories for a long time. I have now tried to take them out of my system by writing this piece. I haven’t told this story in any consistent manner to my children although a few things came out now and then. They are also not interested in hearing this narration. I want them to live their life in their own ways without any influence from my traumatic past.

My story is the story of many thousands of other people on both sides of the line. I regard myself lucky in one way that my family and I didn’t suffer any loss of limb and injury to other dear ones. Many others have much more grievous tales to tell. Or, probably many of them would not say anything because the trauma had muted them.