Heartbreaking journey

IT was around April in 1947 when I first sensed that the times were changing. A little less than 15 years old, I was studying in Class X. One morning, as I was waiting to leave for my convent school in Pindi (Rawalpindi), my Muslim tongawala told my mother, “Aaj Manjit behenji ko school nahin bhejna” (Don’t send Majit to school today). He said things were not right in the city and there was communal tension. My mother was not able to fathom the magnitude of the problem. Brushing aside his warning, she sent me off to school, oblivious of what lay ahead.

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Our classes had barely started when we heard incessant slogans of ‘Allah Hu Akbar’ being raised outside the school. The nuns immediately got the school gates closed. We remained stuck for many hours. There was panic among the girls and everyone was crying. The news reached my father, Uttam Singh Dugal, who was a legislator in pre-Partition Punjab. He made arrangements for me to be brought back from the school immediately. At home, I found him discussing the ground situation with my elder sister’s husband, Jagjit Singh Aurora, who was a Major in the British Indian Army then. Later, as Lt Gen, he was to witness history when the Pakistani eastern army commander, Lt Gen AAK Niazi, signed under him the Instrument of Surrender during the 1971 war.

While rumours of Partition had been floating since March, that day’s situation had everyone wondering how long it would be before things became better. The next day, however, all doubts were cleared when one of the nawabs, who knew my father very well, came to our house with some men. He said to my father, “Sardar sahib, you know how things are in the city. Since you are a leader in Pindi, we have come here to request you to lay down your arms.” Anger and surprise engulfed my father at the audacity of the nawab, who along with many rich Muslim leaders had attended dinner at our house two days before. Giving a stern warning to the nawab, my father said, “Since you are forgetting that we were friends once, I’d like to tell you that my house is under the army’s surveillance due to my son-in-law. If you attack, we will give you a befitting reply. There is no question of giving up. If I want, I can have you all arrested but I’ll let you walk safely out of my house”. Without much ado, the nawab and his men left our house but not before warning my father that they were prepared for a long fight. It was then that the gravity of the situation started sinking in. My father and other male members of the family started preparing themselves for any eventuality. They got together all the arms they had.

Incidents of riots started in the city and everyone was trying to find a safe place. Ours was the biggest house in the area, and perhaps the safest due to its huge walls and tall gates.

My father took it upon himself to safeguard as many Hindus and Sikhs as he could. He sent trucks from his construction company to fetch people to safety. Within 48 hours of the beginning of the riots, we had hundreds of people moving into our house. My brother-in-law managed to get three to four soldiers posted at strategic places to guard and watch the house. Huge karahis and tawas were brought from the local gurdwara. Bags and bags of atta and dal were arranged. Everyone brought with them whatever rations they had at home. While the men prepared themselves for attacks by miscreants, the women made langar that comprised simple dal and roti. No vegetables were made.

Over the next two to three weeks that everyone stayed there, the house was attacked many times by miscreants. Those within the house retaliated with whatever they could use. Many got injured. I was given the task of tearing my mother’s bedsheets and turning these into bandages. Seeing so many wounded people in our house wasn’t a pleasant sight.

The riots and killings kept increasing with each day. We had already received the sad news of the attack on Thoa Khalsa village in Rawapindi, in which 93 women, including many of our relatives, had committed mass suicide by jumping into the well to save their honour.

Around May, my father asked my uncle, who was handling his construction business in Delhi, to take with him me and my elder sister, who was studying in college. They sent some jewellery with us. My elder married sister stayed with my mother. We flew from Pindi to Delhi. Here, I saw an equally savage face of humanity with Muslims being killed by Sikhs and Hindus. The bloodshed I witnessed on both sides of the border kept giving me nightmares and sleepless nights for years.

While we were safe, we worried for our family. My three brothers were in boarding — one in Lahore, two in Nainital. Another married sister was in Calcutta. Meanwhile, my family moved from the Dugalpura area to Pindi cantonment area with my brother-in-law. By then, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this would be a permanent thing.

Once the partition of the country became official, the entire family left for our house in Baramulla in August. My brother-in-law went to Pakistan yet again to retrieve whatever belongings he could from our house. The family moved to Delhi after Pakistan attacked Kashmir later that year. My father gave the keys of his house to a Muslim friend. In Delhi, we stayed with my brother-in-law in his official accommodation for about eight months.

We were lucky that we had the means, and my father the standing, to restart life once again. My father, who later became Member of Parliament, helped in the resettlement of refugees. Many took jobs as daily-wagers in his construction company.

God was kind to us. I got married to a Naval officer in 1953 and had three daughters and two sons. But all through, I always had this desire to revisit my ancestral house. About 15 years back, at 75, I got an opportunity to go to Pakistan with the help of an NGO. I remembered the location of my old house and told the driver to stop the car near my house.The area was no longer the posh and sophisticated one it once was. About 10 to 12 families were living in the house.

A woman recognised me from a picture of my family in her house. Her father-in-law was our dhobi and my father had donated land to him. Soon the word got around that I had come to the see the place. Many people gathered to see me and offered me tea and snacks. It was overwhelming but I was very upset when I came out of the house. It was heartbreaking to see the grand old house in such a dilapidated condition. In hindsight, I feel I shouldn’t have gone there because it only brought back painful memories. I no longer wish to go there again.

— The writer is based in Gurugram

(As told to Seema Sachdeva)