How 1947 changed lives

Partition drove people out of their homes, destroying their way of life, and hurt them in ways difficult to describe. I was 10, but the events that unfolded are vivid in my memory. Humanity was not a celebration anymore, religion in its most adversarial form had raised its ugly head. It’s a pity that the lessons of history remain unlearned

Picture for representational purpose only.

Preet Malik

Born in Rawalpindi in the winter of 1937, I was 10 years old when Punjab was partitioned into two halves in August 1947. The Malik family of Rawalpindi was well known in the district. From the second half of 1943, I was a student of the Welham Preparatory School at Dehradun. My last visit home was in the winter of 1946-47 where my first encounter with the direction in which India was headed, because of the communal divide that had overtaken the narrative of Independence, was driven home to me.

My best friend, Yousef, from our days together at Pindi’s Station School, was the one that I spent time with during my school vacation, discussing books that we had read, bicycling to different spots in the Cantonment area where we lived, visiting each other’s home, where our mothers fussed over us and fed us delicacies that satisfied my hunger for good food after months of the mostly unpalatable food at Welham.

It was mid-December of 1946, my first day back home, and Yousef had come over to spend the day with me. Both of us were aware of the disturbed conditions that prevailed in the city, but the Cantonment was secure and peaceful. The next day, as had been the norm, I cycled over to Yousef’s home, expecting to be welcomed with my favourite gosht biryani, but this was not to be. Yousef’s mother met me at the door and with tears in her eyes, informed me that her husband had forbidden any contact with the ‘enemy’, as he had come to describe all the Sikhs. Yousef, I was told, could no longer be my friend. This was a cruel blow. Neither of us had felt different, and religion had never come in the way of our friendship. When I discussed the development with my father, he mentioned that Jinnah had raised the communal temper by destroying the harmony that the Unionist Government had brought about, with the Muslim League ‘poisoning the atmosphere’ by using the clergy to rouse the Muslims against the Hindus and Sikhs. Age-old friendships had been converted into enmities.

Whatever the circumstances, a friendship that was innocent of political intrigue or determination had been forced to end because religion had been used in its most adversarial context.

Meanwhile, back at Welham, as the communal situation deteriorated and refugees from West Punjab came to Dehradun, the Muslim villagers, living across the dry riverbed of the Rispana Nadi on the banks of which the school campus rested, occupied our playing fields, driven by fear that had forced them to part from their homes and age-old livelihoods. They had sought shelter in our school that was being guarded by a platoon from the Gurkha Regiment.

The shock to our young minds was deep and immediate; seeing small children and women in distress was something that left a permanent scar that there was something wrong with a society that permitted religion and violence to disrupt and destroy lives.

The next encounter took place closer home. Every summer, towards the end of April, the family, along with numerous relatives and friends, would move to the hill station of Murree. We had houses there and many from the family tended to spend time with us there. However, with the communal situation deteriorating, the end of April 1947 saw all of the extended family gathering at Charleville Hotel in Mussoorie. Towards the second half of July, my father left for Pindi to attend the wedding of his nephew, the eldest son of his eldest brother.

My tayaji was a well-known barrister practising in Lahore, and had very close relations with the leading Muslim personalities of Punjab, including Sir Sikandar Hayat Khan, Sir Fasli Hussain, and the Tiwanas. The wedding was well attended. After the ceremonies, during the first days of August, the violence of Partition was on the rise. My father was to catch a train out of Pindi to rejoin his family in Mussoorie. On the way to the railway station, he was stopped by a Muslim friend, who was now the newly appointed SP of Rawalpindi. This was not to be a pleasant meeting. My father was told that because they had been friends, he was being let off with a warning. He should leave immediately and forget about returning to Pindi again, as he would be shot at sight the next time he was seen there.

Humanity was not a celebration anymore, religion in its most adversarial form had raised its ugly head and friendships had been sacrificed to it.

My deeply saddened father continued his journey to the station. Here, fate delivered another twist. At the station, he was persuaded to change tickets by a close friend. It so happened that there were two trains, the Frontier Mail and the Sindh Express, that were set to depart within half an hour of each other. His friend was booked on the Frontier Mail and his family on the Sindh Express, and he wanted to travel with his family. The two friends exchanged tickets and my father was now set to travel on the Frontier Mail.

The Sindh Express was attacked at the Gujranwala station, with all the passengers being massacred. My father reached Dehradun totally unaware of the fate that had befallen his friend and his family.

Neither my father nor I ever got in touch with any of our old friends.

My tayaji shifted to Dehradun and lived there till both he and his wife passed away. However, they were once again subjected to a Pakistan-related tragedy. Their only surviving child, a son who had joined the Indian Army, was declared Missing in Action during the 1971 war and was supposed to be among the 50-odd Prisoners of War that have been a bone of contention between India and Pakistan.

My aunt lived out her life in the belief that he would come back.

Our family finally moved to Odisha to find a new life for ourselves far removed from our original moorings.

The partition of India drove people out of their homes, destroying their way of life, and hurt them in ways that are difficult to describe. It’s a pity that the lessons of history remain unlearned. Polarisation along communal lines is once again raising its ugly head in the India of today.

— The writer is an author and former diplomat