Loquat on other side

I was 15 and found myself as the head of family. Seeing the rabble rousers, our plans included killing all females to save their honour; family heads were to carry out the inhuman task. I prayed to be saved, and to be spared of this dastardly responsibility. They say sincere prayers are inevitably answered, and they were that day

Manohar Singh

Partition came as a rude shock and caught my family completely by surprise. We were dispersed across greater Punjab and even beyond. At one extreme end was my father Nanak Singh, working as a Tehsildar in Bikaner state at Suratgarh. Families were large and we were four brothers and three sisters. My elder sister was married in PEPSU and lived at Ajraur in Patiala district. My eldest brother was working with the Defence Audit Department at Rawalpindi. At the other end was my brother-in-law, posted as personal assistant to the Deputy Commissioner of our district, Campbellpore. It has been renamed as Attock. My mother was at Pindi en route to Attock to be with my sister, who was pregnant.

In 1994, accompanied by my wife, I visited my village, Adhwal. We had gone as part of a jatha and with great difficulty managed to get the permissions. It was nostalgic to be back in my village but very disappointing to see hardly any progress. The place seemed to be in a time warp despite being part of the Islamabad capital territory

We lived in the only house made of bricks in Adhwal village in Chakwal tehsil. We had ample lands and I remember our loquat trees as the taste and fragrance of their fruit still lingers. There was belief that even if Partition takes place, we all will live peacefully. We trusted our neighbours. Our village was close to the Katas Raj shrine in Chakwal and had a significant Sikh and Hindu population. In any case, we loved our lands and despite my father colonising canal-irrigated areas by distribution, nobody wanted to relocate or leave our village in Potohar, known for its hardy soldiers.

On the day of reckoning, I was 15 years old and found myself as the head of family as my elder brother was in the neighbouring township of Sukhon for his matriculation examination. My responsibility included my ailing grandmother, younger brother and kid sister.

Like ominous clouds, we saw the arrival of rabble rousers and a gathering of villagers. It was more of a craving for land and our properties and was couched in religious frenzy. We were forced to huddle in a local gurdwara. It had a small pond and provided some notion of protection. People were given responsibilities of looking out, cooking and stocking. The gurdwara was under siege of sword-brandishing gangs threatening us and issuing periodic ultimatums.

The most important duty was carried out by a retired soldier from the Signals branch. He quietly sneaked out at night to the nearest post office to send an emergency telegram on the Morse Code machine.

Our plans in the event of an attack by the mob included killing all females to save their honour and the family heads were to carry out the beheading. I had grown up overnight and prayed relentlessly to be saved and more fervently, to be spared of this dastardly, inhuman responsibility.

They say sincere prayers are inevitably answered. Our youngsters’ team was on sentry duty and at dawn, we spotted a white hawk signifying divine blessings. As we raised jaikaras (slogans), we spotted military trucks on the horizon. We were relocated by Sikh troops to Wah camp in Rawalpindi. My grandmother, however, refused to leave the village. My eldest brother had to use his military links and go to the village with an escort to bring out my grandmother and also valuables buried in our house. These were called ‘dafni’. We were evacuated after a week to India in trains, again under escort.

The train journey had its own share of challenges but we managed to make it safely. We saw some ghastly scenes which are best forgotten. My brother-in-law decided to stay on and despite being the Deputy Commissioner’s PA, he had to hide in a tubewell to escape the marauding mobs. The DC finally forced him to move to Patiala.

My wife, whom I met only on the day of our wedding, had a similar story in Chakwal township. She lost her father, a respected trader and leader, to merciless mobs as a 10-year-old kid. Her widowed mother and family also made their way to Ludhiana through refugee camps. They struggled with no real base in India. Such horror stories resonated across our families.

Our family struggled initially, but all of us made a mark later. Education and hard work were the catalysts. In 1994, accompanied by my wife, I visited my village, Adhwal. We had gone as part of a jatha (congregation) and with great difficulty managed to get the permissions. The civil services in Pakistan have great privileges and they gave me protocol with a vehicle as courtesy. It was nostalgic to be back in my village but very disappointing to see hardly any progress as the place seemed to be in a time warp despite being part of the Islamabad capital territory.

The bricks from our house had been appropriated for a school. The village folk lamented our leaving the village and beseeched us to return. The village lambardar (head) summed it up in his laconic way, “Manohar, tu itthe bhi Kamishner ban sakda si (You could have become Commissioner here too).” They even gave the traditional shagun to my wife and chided me for sitting at a dhaba and not going to their house. They displayed the traditional lavish Punjabi hospitality, including my favourite loquat fruit.

Some of them even thought that I had come to retrieve some hidden ‘dafni’ from our ancestral house in the village. There was a catharsis of sorts but time and events can hardly be rolled back.

In a different country, but our loquats still have the same sweet taste and heady fragrance.

— The writer, a retired IAS officer, is based in Jaipur