Tearful memories of a town that was

Despite the fact that Mirpur now rests in oblivion, it continues to live on in the memories of those who lived there before Partition. Sansar Chandra tells the tragic tale of this town.

THE dismal story of India’s freedom movement is soaked in tears. As we all know, the deliverance from the foreign yoke heaped untold miseries on its natives. The excitement, a spontaneous outcome of such like achievements, was conspicuous by its absence. Even Mahatama Gandhi had to admit in unequivocal terms:

"Freedom, no doubt is ones cherished goal but we had to undergo a hazardous operation to achieve it". If the Mahatama had the slightest inkling of the dire consequences that followed, he would have never conceded to the two-nation theory — the root cause of all the ills.

Everyone had to pay the price of freedom in one form or the other. Although, it was a nation-wide cataclysm, Jammu and Kashmir faced the worst ever fury. This area became a perpetual war-zone from 1947 onwards.

Besides facing three regular wars, the region remained under the shadow of proxy wars, which had become a routine affair. The latest misadventure of our unethical neighbour — the Kargil conflict — is still fresh in our minds. To cost us a whopping $ 1.6 billion and a large number of brave jawans sacrificed themselves to flush out the infiltrators from the higher reaches, they had managed to sneak into.

The tragedy which struck my ill-fated home-town, Mirpur, also deserves to be taken serious note of. It was a district headquarters of the same state which was invaded, shelled, blazed, dug out, plundered and had to meet its watery grave by merging into Mangala Dam, the premier embankment project of Pakistan. In short, my home-town is no more now. It is neither a part of our national map, nor does it have any link with the map of its aggressor.

Despite the fact that Mirpur rests in oblivion now, it is unforgettable for me and a few others, who have survived. However, I am afraid that there will be no one (including myself) to claim that he or she was an eye-witness to the grusesome human carnage. The need to record what I know about the end of this scenic town is but natural.

It needs to be recalled that with the termination of British hegemony, Pakistan’s anxiety to annex the state of J&K, grew stronger with each passing day. It was a matter of serious concern for the ruler. He was on the horns of a dilemma and preferred to reconcile with "a stand still" aggrement with both the contending powers — India and Pakistan. This move on the part of the Maharaja made Pakistan jittery and she was up in arms against the state. Since Mirpur was a stone’s throw away from Pakistan, it was vulnerable and, thus, became Pakistan’s first target.

Pakistan’s first ploy was to let religious leaders infiltrate into the town to get the city vacated of the Muslim population as a part of her strategy. Jinnah, was a strong votary of transfer of population, so Pakistan was committed to give a practical shape to the theory propounded by their leader. The only difference was that the Hindu population of Pakistan was being driven out unceremoniously while the Indian Muslims were invited to migrate in an organised manner.

The call given by the Pakistani clergy had an abiding effect. The Muslims left the town bag and baggage, soon after. In the beginning, the population declined a little but Hindus from the adjoining areas swarmed into it in large numbers. The population of the town swelled to about 25,000 from 12,000.

Although the citizens received the refugees warmly, civil life was on the verge of a collapse. There was acute shortage of food stuff and other day-to-day requirements. Sugar, salt and kerosene evaporated like mist in the air. Pakistan had sealed the border since her inception. The Jammu road-link did survive for some time but when a passanger bus was waylaid, looted and some of its occupants brutally killed, Mirpur was completely isolated. No doubt, traders extended all cooperation to the suffering humanity, but their stocks too were fast running out. So there was no option to save the city from severe famine-like conditions.

Another catastrophe which overtook Mirpur was that while its accession to India was finalised on October 26, and it remained a part and parcel of the same for about a month, it could not be saved from falling a prey to the hawkish designs of the enemy. Despite assurances that ample forces were being despatched to rescue it, Mirpur was allowed to perish.

Another bolt from the blue was that the town was under siege for two months . When the D.C. realised that the fall of the town was imminent, he sat down with some of his trusted officials to sort out an alternative route of escape on the basis of the revenue records. The road leading to Jhangar, where Indian forces had arrived, was no longer a safe zone. However, he failed in his duties miserably when he left the town alongwith the Army, without taking the citizens into confidence.

There was pandemonium all over. People ran helter-skelter. Those who had no inkling of this disaster and secured themselves indoors, were over-powered by the invaders. They were either done to death or taken prisoners. Those who could manage to reach the Army camp took to their heels through the newly discovered route.

After marching on foot for three to four days, they reached the Indian Army camp at Jhangar. Although no one was lucky enough to have escaped with all his family members, they were, in fact, still better off than the rest who fell to the enemy bullets, were captured and held captives at the Alibeg camp which was no less than an organised slaughter-house especially set up for wholesale human carnage. The survivors, however, who reached Jammu, according to a rough count could hardly cross 5,000.

A few words about my own exit. On the morning of the day of exodus when I was half -way through my shave , my residence was hit by a bomb which had blown off the roof of the adjoining room. A thick cloud of smoke descended and blurred our eyes. When I recovered a little, I found the Army picket employed on the top of my neighbourhood retreating and the squad that was manning it taking to its heels.

Time was running out, and it was a risk to lose even a minute. We left the house and did not even lock it. There was no other option than to follow the stream of people marching ahead of us. It is no use exhausting the readers with the details of the thorns which bruised my feet during the arduous journey through jungles and hillocks which took me a full week to reach Jammu — the winter capital of the state. I could only blurt out this much that before I could spot out a refugee camp to seek shelter, I happened to stand against a full-sized mirror hanging on a betel shop. I found a marked corrosion in my appearance. My face had withered in a week’s time and I had grown white hair close to my ears at the young age of 30. It gave me a rude shock and the doleful words of Byron, a poet read during my student days flashed in my memory:

My hair are gray
Not with years
It grew white
In a single night.

The Government’s apathy towards these victims of the doom was another cause which rubbed salt into their wounds. Each uprooted family was given a paltry sum of Rs. 3500 as an ad hoc grant which continues to be ad hoc until today. The mockery of the rehabilitation package formulated by the authorities reached its climax when all those families whose total income stood at Rs. 150/- p.m. or more were totally deprived of any such dole. Several attempts were made to get this policy revoked and revised but the response remained as indifferent as ever. The files are gathering dust in the Ministry of Home Affairs and a deathly silence prevails even after the lapse of more than 50 years.

The Pakistani Newspapers tell us that a new Mirpur has sprung up at Palah-Ka-Gala, a hillock in-between the original Mirpur and river Jhelum. The old Mirpur and its suburbs with their last clay and brick are lying drowned under the deep waters of the dam. The only remnant of Mirpur is one pinnacle of Lord Shiva’s temple which still stands erect over the vast expanse of water. The bubbles that arise and fade over the surface, remind the onlookers as if the dead Mirpur itself is commenting on its tragic end through the following couplet.

Mere doob marne ka bayas na poochho
Kinare se takra gaya the safeena.

(Don’t ask me the reason of my drowning, my boat (in fact) had collided with the shore itself.)