Killers and saviours in Barnala

For two weeks after his father was shot dead in front of him, Dada hid in a cane field. He was taken home by a Jat villager. Whenever anyone would come asking if he had seen a Muslim nearby, the man would deny. A month and a half later, Dada got to know that his mother and siblings were alive and safe at another Jat’s house

The neatly packed passport which Maghar Khan kept with him all his life.

Rukaia

M Y paternal grandfather died two weeks ago, but in the last 75 years, he could not look at them even once. They lived just two houses away but still came for our family in 1947. Our family was engaged in farming on a small piece of land at Tallewal village in Barnala. All had been well until Partition, but we, the Muslims, turned enemies overnight for the Hindus and Sikhs in the village. My Dada, Maghar Khan, was 14 then.

“Saun-Bhadon de din si,” Dada would often recall the summer months of rain. He would say that some government officials had been poisoning the minds of Muslims in what is now Pakistan against the minorities there and later in India, the government officials began poisoning Hindus and Sikhs against the Muslims in Punjab also. Many Muslim families locked their homes and left, hoping to return once things were better. But it was to only get worse. People were baying for each other’s blood. Dada would say men were killed without provocation and women raped. Entire families were wiped out.

He would say that by the time Bhadon, which as per the Hindu calendar begins mid-August, arrived, the members of his family, that included his parents, three sisters and five brothers, were living in great fear, but would still go about their chores. His extended family included three uncles and their families.

One day, Dada and his father had gone out into the village when they heard cries and shouts. They soon realised that Muslims were being attacked by the villagers. His father grabbed hold of Dada and made a dash towards a deserted house. He tried to hide themselves under a sandook (trunk) but had been spotted fleeing the street. The Jats followed them inside the house. Armed with swords, sticks and guns, they dragged Dada and his father out from under the sandook, firing several shots into the latter’s body. Blood splattered all over, and on to Dada’s clothes. He fell down beside his father. The murderers came to check if Dada was still alive. He held his breath, pretending to be dead too. A few minutes later, the men left.

My Dada would often tell us how in the very streets that he would play with friends, he was playing dead for the fear of losing his life at the hands of men who seemed to have lost all sense of right and wrong.

So, there he lay — motionless, mourning his father, worried about his siblings, missing his mother. He didn’t know what do to, where to go. He feared that if he left, they would come looking for him. And if he didn’t, he would die of hunger. He decided to hide in the sugarcane field nearby.

He remained there for around two weeks, surviving on mud from the field and leaves from the trees for 10 out of them. I would often ask him how it all tasted, and he would say he didn’t remember. For water, he would go to the nearby well in the dead of the night, drink some and return. The road to the well and the neher (canal) passing by the village were full of bodies. Dada would be scared. The scene of the men killing his father and images of his dead father and the family he had lost kept flashing before his eyes.

One morning, when Dada had gone to drink water from the well, an elderly Jat from the village spotted him. Dada panicked and ran back to his hiding place. The man followed, assuring him that he wasn’t going to kill him. The man was his father’s friend and wanted to help. He asked Dada to tell his story and was surprised to know how a young boy had survived without food for so many days. For the next few days, that good man would get him dinner every night.

He then took my Dada to his home and hid him there. Whenever anyone would come asking if he had seen a Muslim nearby, the man would deny. A month and a half later, Dada got to know that his mother and siblings were alive and safe at a Jat’s house. There was still some time before they would be reunited. His mother’s heart broke to hear of her husband’s murder and Dada’s ordeal. She died in 1987.

However, there was still no word on Dada’s uncles and their families. It was only a year later that we got a letter from them saying that they had reached Pakistan and were very well. They had somehow made it to an army truck and reached the other side of the border. They asked Dada and his family to prepare passports and come to Pakistan. In some years, the passports were made, but the Jats who had protected them requested them to stay, promising to protect them always. These villagers helped them rebuild lives. The entire family was unlettered. Dada began to work as a daily-wager, reaping sugarcane; we also had a qilla to grow vegetables on. He did several odd jobs in life — from labourer to vegetable vendor and potter.

Dada never left, but always kept his passport with him, neatly packed. His elder sister, who was 20 then, took care of them, shifting back to Tallewal with her husband even after her wedding. She died five months ago. We would often prod her to share her side of the story too but she would start crying. Unlike Dada, she didn’t want to talk about those times.

The man who had killed Dada’s father died several years ago. Dada never spoke to him, but harboured no ill-feeling. He would say, “The times were such.”

— The writer is based in Barnala