The exodus from Okara to Fazilka

AT the age of 11, I became a refugee. Before Partition, we lived in Chak 46/3R, known as Keba, about 150 km west of Lahore, in Okara tehsil (now a district) in Montgomery district (now Sahiwal). There was only one shop in our remotely located village. An Urdu newspaper, which was delivered after one or two days, was our only link to the outside world. There had been reports that India would get Independence soon. There were rumours of communal tension and killings in Bengal and other areas but no one was certain about what was happening. The news of Partition came as a shock. We couldn’t believe that our area would become part of Pakistan.

Advertisement

My family had 2 ‘murabbas’ (50 acres) in the village. Besides a large farmhouse, we had a separate adjunct for farm animals and machinery. Our interaction with Muslim neighbours was friendly and we took part in each other’s festivities.

In July-August 1947, when reports of violence increased, my family decided to leave the country temporarily. My father went to our neighbour, Anayat-Ullah, and handed him the keys of our house. He also gave him instructions regarding feeding the animals in our absence. At that time, none of us thought we were leaving our home forever.

We reached the village square where we found hundreds of families from our village as well as the surrounding ones. It was getting dark. We children had no clue about what was happening. The next day, we woke up to a cacophony of noises. A long queue had been formed. Our family included eight elders and 12 children (aged four to 15). Food and other essentials were loaded on two-wheeler carts, to be pulled by bullocks. The caravan started moving. Till daybreak, we kept walking. More and more people joined this exodus. We had barely covered a few miles when it started raining incessantly and the dirt road became muddy. It became difficult for the animals to pull the carts. We unloaded some items but that didn’t help. We had to abandon the carts. The caravan was so large that we couldn’t see the start or the end of it.

The next morning brought us realisation that the foodstocks would not be enough to sustain us for long. Also, it was difficult to cook the food on wet wood. We mostly ate raw vegetables growing in nearby fields and drank water from the puddles on the road. The caravan started its onward march again.

We’d crossed a few miles when we heard gunshots. To our horror, we saw hordes of people armed with lathis, spears and daggers marching towards us. There was panic all around and everyone started running for safety. Screams and cries filled the air. Thankfully, some retired army personnel, who had old two-barrel rifles, were in the caravan. No sooner did they fire a few shots than the attackers started retreating. Two children (aged four and six) from our family got lost in the mayhem. Despite our best efforts, they could not be found. We couldn’t stay there any longer. The attacks by hostile bands continued throughout our journey. There’s been no count of how many were killed or injured.

The rain added to our miseries. We were all wet, hungry and tired. Our clothes were torn and dirty. But these were the least of our worries. Our only concern was reaching the other side of the border safely. After a tiring journey of four to five days, we reached Fazilka. We were hungry and dishevelled. Here, we had our first decent meal in days — roasted gram nuts and clean water to drink. While the Railways had arranged trains for displaced persons, these were overcrowded. In this new land, we got many new names. We were now ‘Refugees’, ‘Displaced persons’, ‘Panah-guzeen’, or ‘Barias’ (western Punjab was also known as ‘Bars’). Our family belonged to Hoshiarpur district. We travelled to Garhshankar to start a new life.

— The writer is based in the UK