Mitthewali’s destiny

Anil Gandhi

In the backdrop of the 1984 anti-Sikh riots, I had written a story ‘Kesh’, recollecting what my father had described about the unrest, tension and turbulence in undivided Punjab in 1947. The forced displacement from their village Mitthewali was a saga of horrific happenings. Since my father had passed away, I got the facts verified from my maternal uncle, Jiwan Lal Raizada, who retired as the principal of Haryana Government Degree College, Narnaul.

Recently, when August 14 was declared as the ‘Partition Horrors Remembrance Day’, I visited Narnaul to meet my cousin, Anand Singh, who at 90 is the oldest surviving member of the family to have witnessed the painful events of Partition. His vocal cords are defective but, luckily, mental faculty is still intact.

My grandfather, Lakshman Das Gandhi, was a landlord in Mitthewali village, Dera Ghazi Khan district. He jointly owned around 1,100 acres scattered around the village. Our house had a separate structure called ‘dharmsaal’ wherein Guru Granth Sahib was kept with full dignity. A granthi used to perform morning and evening services even though members of the family were familiar with the rituals. In the family, the elder sons were customarily dedicated to Sikhism and brought up as Sikhs.

The signs of commotion were visible in the second half of June 1947 after the Muslim League formally adopted the Partition Resolution. In July, the hitherto docile Muslim muzeras (agricultural labourers) started asking the masters meekly in Saraiki language, ‘Kya faisla kite ve?’ (What have you decided, whether to convert to Islam or leave?). It was a great departure from the feudal norms, as they would seldom make eye contact while talking. My grandfather ignored the signs of change and kept assuring the family, ‘Kashe ni thivna’ (Nothing is going to happen). His confidence was emanating from the reassurances given by a local police officer. He used to brag, ‘Daroga meda changa yaar he’ (The SHO is my good friend). However, in the beginning of August, street sloganeering started, asking non-Muslims to leave or convert.

Perhaps because of the Daroga factor, our street was spared but it did not last long. Since the size of the crowd was increasing by the day, the Muslims of other villages also joined in the intimidation campaign. On August 15, shops were plundered. As regards the safety of the houses, it was clear that the barricading by Hindus and Sikhs would not work. In fact, the actual Sikh population was scanty in that belt; the Sikhs mainly were in the Hindu families.

Families in groups started moving towards Taunsa Sharif, a tehsil of the district. My grandfather was not willing to accept the writing on the wall. He was perhaps, with the help of the Daroga, working on a land exchange deal with one Liaquat Ali, who had sizeable landholding in India. And then came the disastrous day.

The house got surrounded by a fanatic mob. The womenfolk had already been moved to a safe underground place (a kind of basement regularly used at the time of Pathan marauders’ attacks). All reached there except my father, grandfather and his cousin Atma Ram, who had become a sewadar spending most of his time at the ‘dharmsaal’. My grandfather forced my father to rush to safety, saying, ‘Jhuthe muthe da Islam kubool karensa… bharosa rakh mil vensa twankoo’ (I will convert for the time being. Believe me, I am going to catch the family soon).

The crowd succeeded in scaling the boundary wall. Since the entire clan had taken shelter in our house, the total number in the basement was 55, much more than its carrying capacity. Sensing that the invaders had left, young men came out. As expected, the house had been ransacked. At the ‘dharmsaal’, they were appalled to see the ghastly scene. Atma Ram’s blood-laden head was found in the lap of Guru Granth Sahib and my grandfather’s body on the floor in a pool of blood.

My father impressed upon the male members that the priority should be to leave silently and quickly. Since traditionally or customarily, our womenfolk cry bitterly on all deaths, it was decided not to reveal the killings.

In the wee hours started their journey. Some were empty-handed whereas a few had ‘potlis’ (things wrapped in a piece of cloth). My father, Tara Chand Gandhi, a well-built young man, was leading the group. His ‘potli’ had four gold bricks. They were heading towards Taunsa Sharif. Halfway, a small crowd of armed raiders stopped them, demanding only valuables. The elderly women, particularly my grandmother, intervened. A deal in the form of two gold bricks was struck. However, all the four bricks were looted.

On their way, our family kept joining other groups of migrants and with the increase in the numbers, the fear level was decreasing. Local people along the roadside were seen to be sympathetic. At a few places, water was offered. From Taunsa Sharif, they reached Dera Ghazi Khan. However, the force consisting of Baloch soldiers took the migrating people to an open ground. Since the Baloch were hostile towards non-Muslims, there was fear of an attack. However, nothing untoward happened, and they were shifted in military vehicles in batches. By mid-September, all reached the Muzaffargarh railway station. After waiting for a couple of days, the much-awaited train arrived. Luckily, all got entry but in separate compartments. Many sat on the roof. Since Gorkha jawans were escorting the train, all were expecting a safe journey.

All of a sudden, emergency brakes were applied. There were screams all over. It was an attack by armed radicals. The Gorkhas took up positions, but the invaders far outnumbered them. They ambushed and started slaughtering the passengers. No one knows why and when the train was allowed to move.

At last the train reached Attari. The survivors got terrified fearing another attack. However, they saw Sikh faces outside and heard volunteers requesting them to come out. Twenty-five survivors could not understand whether the tears in their eyes were for the safe landing or for 30 bodies of family members.

The survivors were taken to a Jalandhar refugee camp. They started doing petty jobs. My father, a matriculate, got admission for a diploma in animal husbandry at Hisar. He immediately got a job at a veterinary hospital in Chhainsa village in Faridabad. Other family members were allotted homes at Narnaul and agricultural land near Niwaznagar village, a few kilometers from there.

By 1958, my parents had three children. Till 1965, we kept moving to our father’s place of work at Manesar and Pataudi. However, my mother, though unlettered, was of the strong belief that education was the key to success and decided to stay permanently with the children at Narnaul. She retained the family tradition; my elder brother was made a Sikh.

My father had a good command over English, Hindi, Urdu and was well conversant with Persian. In 1980, from my first salary, I bought him a transistor. He was happy for an unusual reason: it was catching Radio Multan!

A few months before his death in 2004, I sought his comments on the creation of Pakistan. His reply was a line from Rahi Masoom Raza’s work: ‘Jis mulk ki buniyaad nafrat ho, vo mubaark mulk nahin ho sakta’ (If the foundation of a nation is hatred, it cannot prosper).

I and my siblings adhered to father’s principle that there is no short-cut in life except mashakkat (hard work). His words resonate:

‘Mashakkat ki zillat jinhone uthai,

Jahan mein mili unko aakhir badaaee,

Bagair iske hargiz kisi ne na paaee,

Na daulat, na izzat,na farma ruaaee,

Nihaal iss gulistan me jitney hue hain.

Sada vo niche uppar chadhe hain.’

(Those who bore the pain of industriousness were ultimately rewarded with recognition. Without such zeal, none has ever achieved fame, wealth and power. The ladder to success is only by the dint of hard work.)

— The writer retired from the Rajya Sabha Secretariat