India 3: An uncanny tale ... (Part 1 — The Rather Long Preamble)
Interesting factoid: ZDK edited and published, from Lucknow, a paper called Pakistan ... well before the name was coined for this country. Later, he also authored a biography of the Prophet, The Last Messenger with a Lasting Message - An Unconventional Study (recently re-published by his son, Tariq, and available at T2F). I'd strongly recommend it to those looking for a fresh approach, interesting references related to early Islamic history, and succinct biographical sketches of the Prophet's contemporaries ... but I must warn readers that certain sects have been upset about a couple of portrayals. The book is intriguingly dedicated "to those who seek the truth and are prepared to face it".Soon, my father leaves for his new posting, packing Ummi and me off to to my maternal aunt in Calcutta, where her husband works for the Sea Customs. Also in Calcutta (now Kolkota) lives my paternal grandfather (of whom everyone I know is scared to death) ... more about him in some other post ... so it is a treat for all of us that my uncle is soon posted to Budge-Budge (now Baj-Baj), an oil pier 2o miles up the Hooghly. The distance from central Calcutta, though short, is mercifully not entirely conducive to my grandpa dropping in too frequently. 1947 arrives with bloodshed and riots in Calcutta, turning the Hooghly occasionally pink. My only playmate - Sattar, a family servant's child brought up by my aunt and just a bit older than I - spot a body or two floating up-river with the tide. We even have a rather gruesome encounter with a severed head, once. My uncle, Asad Ali, and his close friend and neighbour, Shaukat Chacha, are employed in the Sea Customs because of their hockey prowess. They talk each day about how close "we" are to attaining Pakistan. My uncle and aunt are extremely fond of me. They have no child of their own and are like my second-set of parents. I even call them Ammi Jaan and Abbu Jaan, titles generally used to address one's own parents. In contrast to my parents, they are such fanatical Muslim Leaguers, they even alter my name. Not legally, of course, thank goodness. But in my books and notepads I am made to write Mohammad Zaheer Alam Kidvai Jinnahi! One of these books I still own: It is Vol. 2 of Hafeez Jallandhari's Shaahnaamaé Islam, which I used to once recite full throatedly to anyone who'd listen, thrilled at the descriptions of the bloody battles and the 'heroic' deeds of the early Muslims. Until I grew up ... It's August 1947, now. Pakistan is a reality. Where we are is relatively safe but from conversations and the BBC news over the radio we hear that things are bad everywhere. Our family has to move out and head to Bombay from where we are to travel to Karachi, since Abbu Jan has 'opted' for West Pakistan. I suspect that the decision to not move to East Pakistan - so much closer to Calcutta and an obviously easier/safer move - was taken partly because my grandpa was migrating to Dhaka ;-) (Did I forget to tell you that my daada was also Abbu Jan's elder brother? Not too confusing a relationship, actually. Just a case of an uncle and a nephew, only 6 years apart, marrying 2 sisters!) Abi is to meet us in Bombay and take us 'home', to Delhi, while the others sail away to Karachi. I can hardly wait to get 'home'. The long journey takes us through three train changes and a circuitous route which, for the life of me, I cannot recall. On the last leg of the journey we are told that, now, there are riots everywhere and trains are being stopped and attacked. People are being killed by one or the other party, depending upon your religion and theirs, casting aside the veneers of pretense about professed humaneness and love that followers on both sides boast incessantly about in less challenging times. I guess in order to not scare me and 2 other slightly older kids in the compartments the elders don't talk about any of this much. Or about anything. Their silence - specially that of Ummi and Ammi Jan, generally non-stop talkers :-) seems eveb scarier to Sattar and me. At one station we have a surprise in store: A uniformed, beaming-as-always Gupta Cha bounds into the carriage and travels with us all the way to Bombay. At one point - when the train is stopped by a Hindu mob - he leans out of the window and announces that he and his large family travelling with him are Hindus and the only occupants of that compartment. Uniforms didn't get questioned, even then!
Allow me to digress, but this reminds me of a joke that became popular at the time of Ayub Khan's 1958 Martial Law. A man standing at the Indo-Pak border sees a horde of rabbits scurrying across to the Indian side from ours. He manages to stop and grab an old hobbling rabbit and asks him what they are running away from. Desperately trying to wiggle out of the man's grasp, the old rabbit says that the Pakistan Army has ordered the capture of all horses for its use. "But you're a rabbit", says the man. "Yeah. But ...", says the squirming rabbit, "have you ever tried to argue with a soldier?"The other family in the compartment, obviously Muslim (one of the women has been reading a small Qurãn which is hidden away each time the train stops) looks worried. Gupta Cha walks up to the old man among them and says something, then summons a railway guard and takes a brass T-shaped key from him and locks the door from inside. Silent glances are exchanged. One of the women starts to weep. Ummi walks over and sits with her for the rest of the overnight journey. We reach Bombay, safely. Or, at least half the train does. The second half has been de-linked in some ambush somewhere. I piece this together from hushed conversations. A lot of the luggage, too, is gone. Abbu Jan informs us that many compartments are chalk-marked 'MT'. I wonder for hours what 'MT' could mean, before realizing that he said 'empty'. My uncle and aunt lose nothing, though. All their stuff arrives safely, including their gramaphone and large record collection. Ummi has just a small trunk of clothes that's been in the carriage with us. I tow an empty army-issue bistarband ("because it's Abi's!") and a small but heavy trunk with a couple of toys, a plate that I cherish to this day (it's segmentation seemed almost satirical years later in the wake of the 3-way partition, so it got dubbed among us cousins, who often fought to eat in it, the Partition Plate), a few small books, and the latest Khilona magazine. There are also 3 records (wrapped safely in a towel): a children's song by someone about a Dahi ba∂ay vaali, Omkarnath Ji's Kedam kee chhaya, and Caruso's La donna è mobile (all of which I loved listening to, every opportunity I got, to the bemusement of my elders). Ummi and I are expecting to see all our stuff in Delhi, soon. I can't wait to get to our asli gramaphone, the one in our drawing room, with the huge golden horn ... and the strangely intriguing machine that Abi has inherited from his mother, one that plays music off amberol cylinders, of which we only have 4 (they are never touched, except when I plead really hard for listening to one of them). I am mesmerized as I hear and watch those cylinders that seem somehow more magical than the black records. We meet Abi and find out that the house in Qarol Bagh (now Karolbagh) has been looted and burnt. "My toys and the cylinders, too?", I ask, worried. But Ummi is now sobbing uncontrollably and no one is in the mood to answer my silly question. Soon, I cry, too, as Abi tells us more about the house. Although I am sure I did not really understand much, I do glean that our landlord, Rauf sahab, has been kidnapped and presumed killed. His wife - who was visiting someone else at that time - is missing.
Jump briefly to a scene ahead: 4 years later, we discover Mrs. Rauf in Karachi. Abi finds and recognizes her at a Police Station near Guru Mandir, where he is called "to sedate a mad woman". She had travelled across with other relations, we learn later from the people who come to 'claim' her back, and has gone raving mad over the years.)Abi tells us he has spoken with senior persons in the congress party, specially Dr. Syed Mahmud (Nuzhat's maternal grandfather), a close friend and associate of Pandit Nehru. Naana Jaan (as we called him) was much loved an admired by Abi, who had dedicated his book of essays and stories - Naee Paod - a few years earlier to him in remembrance of the student days at Aligarh when Nana Jan was a greatly admired activist. Everyone has advised that we head out to Pakistan and return 'once the dust has settled'. (Vazira Zamindar's excellent book, The Long Partition, indicates that not only did many feel this way but some, in fact, did return to their old homelands**). I am stumped today, as I think back, at the naivete of all the Congress and Muslim League leaders, none of whom seemed to have had any inkling of the level of tragedy that this act of separation - still debated within our own country (and criticized, without even an attempt at understanding the reasons, in India) - would assume. (To be continued ...) * If you want a link from where you can download a wonderful audio file of Naushad's recollections of Saigal (well worth hearing), email me. **POSTSCRIPT: Added 19th October 8:00 AM I just came across some comments by a Mr. Ali Dada (Ref: Oct 18, 6.04PM) on the ATP site where this post has been included by its editors. While I have responded to his other bits at that site, I do wish to clarify one thing here because - judging by his conclusion - I did not, obviously, come across clearly enough on this one point: My reference to 'going back' was not only about people who crossed this way going back to India but something that took place in both countries after partition. (Mr. Dada obviously did not notice that I had said "return to their old homelands".) In fact the process was also ‘officially supported’ for a while on both sides of the border. Newspaper ads and other evidence, including some stats, for this are offered in Ms Zamindar’s book. *** Another update (October 22nd) as a result of a comment by Gopi on ATP - and also pointed out in two emails. First, Gopi: ... Such an interesting piece. Incidenally, the Zaibunnissa Street in Karachi is named after Zaib-un-Nissa Hamidullah, the firebrand editor of the Mirror who gave such a hard time to Ayub Khan in the last years of his presidentship. She was an Anglo-Indian (Bengali father and British mother) but married into a Punjabi family. Check out [this]. My response on AT: @Gopi - Thanks for the Zaibunnisa 'correction'. I know that was what was proposed and has been recorded by many. However, when some people raised an objection to naming it after her and said that her friends and family had 'pulled strings' to have this done, the authorities responded by pulling Priness Zaibunnisa out of their hat :-) ... but I guess your version, since it is now supported by Wikipedia, stands.
Labels: Books, Events, Music, Pakistan, People, Personal, Poetry, Urdu
12 Comments:
You have outdone yourself. Can't wait for the rest. And no one, no one else I can think of, would have made this royal connection between the two cities. I know you dislike it but all I can say is LOL!
12 October, 2008 21:05
Zak, thank you so much for these wonderful memories. They are such an evocative snapshot of your family's history. Please continue to capture more of your memories whether here or in the form of a book-length memoir. Our culture is relatively impoverished in the genre of personal history and there is no substitute for future generations of this kind of thoughtful writing and thinking. I despair about most of humanity's ability to learn from the past but continue to harbor some hope that future generations will tap into these kinds of personal narratives to understand themselves and their world better. Thanks again.
Can I please get the link to Naushad Sahib's recollections of Saigal?
12 October, 2008 23:44
I can think of some similarities with my family's history, since my maternal grandfather was a doctor who served in the Royal Army in the Second World War. He quit towards the end to join the Punjab Civil Medical Service in India.
Earlier he practised medicine for a while at Rawalpindi, where he had a small private clinic. He had rented a small shop in the city for that purpose and used a bicycle to commute there from a nearby village, where he lived with his wife, children, parents and siblings.
Although his father i.e. my maternal great-grandfather had his ancestral village in Ludhiana district, he had been granted a piece of agricultural land in Rawalpindi district as a reward for an act of bravery during the First World War, while serving in the Middle East as a Junior Commissioned Officer.
At the time of partition, like you've written, my family members also believed that they would soon be able to return 'home'. So, they crossed the borders with a few belongings, after having handed over the keys of their house to a trusted servant.
The relevant papers that could've proved my great-grandfather's ownership of land in what had become Pakistan were lost in transit. Subsequently, he suffered from depression and died soon thereafter. My grandfather lived a long and eventful life, but passed away in 1993 without getting a chance to visit his former home in Rawalpindi.
My mother was very keen on going there, when we visited West Punjab in April 2006, but there really is no one around now who has any clue about the location, after my grandparents deaths.
BTW, thanks for posting the lovely photographs, along with a very absorbing account of the times gone by!
:)
12 October, 2008 23:56
P.S.: Please do forgive me for boring you with the same old story, if I've posted a similar comment on any of your earlier blog-posts as well.
:P
13 October, 2008 00:07
This is a very vivid account Zak, witty and yet scary at times. It reminds me of some of the accounts of partition that my mother related, and the 'Gupta Chacha'-like friends and neighbours who kept my naani, my maamoos and my mother safe during that turbulent time. You are bringing to life that period and the experiences faced by many interspersing it with anecdotes and sidebars that make it all the more interesting.
Hope you will eventually compile these posts into the form of a book.
13 October, 2008 08:48
This comment has been removed by the author.
13 October, 2008 19:48
Great post. Incidentally, if you would like to hear the songs of that period and get a glimpse of movie posters, etc, please visit this site set up by a Prof in San Diego.
The site also has an excellent collection of Khurshid Anwar's recordings gifted by his son, Irfan.
14 October, 2008 04:53
It is so important that stories and anecdotes like these are shared with everyone.. I am always eager to listen to such stories from people and hope they somehow get preserved. To the young they are like fairytales!
Thanks for sharing and Im quite eagerly looking forward to the next episode!
15 October, 2008 11:53
ZAK,
Please take your time in going through the tiring process of "farahami-e-mawaad" from your memory records, but do continue...It's great stuff to read too, but I would also like you to read it out at T2F. I am sure that will give a more "mehmaized" flavor. Great Great work! I don't know why, but it kept on reminding me of "aab-e-gum" by Mushtaq Ahmed Yusufi. Take it as a compliment :-)
21 October, 2008 15:27
@everyone: thank you all so-o-o much for all these compliments. but they do make the follow up post a much greater challenge.
@irfan: shükriyah, laykin yusufi sahab ka aur mayra tazkirah ayk saañs mayñ karna bhi jürm hae. jürmaanah aap t2f par adaa jeejiyay ga.
21 October, 2008 15:38
awesome... the other day in Lahore we were thinkin about the Gupta chacha story!!!
22 October, 2008 17:36
A great post and i hope is read by People from either side of devide.
23 October, 2008 19:05
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