The unending ordeal

Des Raj Tandon

I WAS 14 when I first saw a caravan go by. It was September 13, 1947, and I was standing outside my house in Nankana Sahib. We had seen some minor tensions but nothing this big. Post-Partition riots had started in many parts of India and the newly carved out nation of Pakistan. However, people living on both sides of the border believed that this violence and chaos were momentary. Most were convinced that leaving their homes was a temporary situation and everything would return to normal after the bloodshed subsided.

News of riots had started trickling in at Nankana Sahib where the Muslims were not in large numbers. However, in the surrounding villages, their number was high.

On this fateful day, there was an announcement by the local authorities to leave. People thought it was for a few days and everyone locked their houses, packed a few days of ration and clothing and left. My family, that included my blind mother, and my elder brother Tirathram and bhabhi, was undecided. Suddenly, someone riding a tonga called out to my brother to jump in. He was the son of the owner of the factory where my brother worked. On a whim, my brother locked the house and all of us sat on the tonga with hardly anything. Unknown to me, my long journey as a refugee had begun.

Our caravan had thousands of people, some on bullock carts, some on foot, clutching their meagre belongings. We were headed to Ferozepur. It was normally a three-day journey but it took us 13 eventful days.

On the way, our tonga owner invited someone else to drive. As a result, my mother and I had to get down. For 13 days, I led my blind mother on foot. Seeing my plight, she implored me to leave her behind and carry on.

There were far more miserable and difficult times ahead on the way. Our convoy was attacked by Muslims near Bhai Pheru (now Phool Nagar, Kasur district). The road to Ferozepur was deliberately dug up and the canal blocked, resulting in floods due to which cholera spread in our convoy. Wells and other water sources had been poisoned along the way, while handpumps had been dug out.

Eventually, we reached Balloki headworks near Ferozepur. The area on the Pakistan side of the Ravi river was under the Baloch military. On the other side, the Gorkhas were in charge of security. There had been a delay in the arrival of Gorkha soldiers and the Baloch soldiers had looted and burnt the convoy ahead of us that was coming from Lyallpur. So we waited there till the Gorkha soldiers could accompany us.

We stayed on the roadside there for three-four days. From there, we moved to Ludhiana and stayed at a refugee camp. Thereafter, life for the next few years was spent changing camps. My brother and I did many odd jobs — from working as labourers to selling halwa. Not able to sustain, we came to Nabha at another camp being run by the RSS. My brother found a job and the RSS arranged for my education in Amloh. As I started school, Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated. The ensuing tension ensured another shift to Ambala.

Making a living was impossible because of the refugee rush, so my brother went to Delhi in search of better prospects and I came to Batala, where my sister and her family had settled after being uprooted from Jaranwala near Nankana Sahib. I started working with my brother-in-law, who had a lock repair shop. After finishing matriculation, I joined my brother in Delhi.

My brother and many other families from Nankana Sahib were living in the Kakwan building. It had been bombed out in the riots but had some underground tunnels and bunkers where many refugees were living till the government allotted houses/land to them.

I started working in a soap factory at Rs60 a month. Getting orders was difficult because of my reticent nature, so I moved to Jalandhar and started working with Malhotra Book Depot (known as MBD later). They were my maternal relatives. After a few years, I shifted to Chandigarh and started a bookshop in Sector 22 in partnership — I pooled my experience and the other partner provided the funds. After gaining experience, they threw me out after three-four years. I was back to zero. But I didn’t lose heart and started procuring orders from bookshops at Chandigarh and supplying them with books from Jalandhar on a commission basis.

Things were improving slowly. I had started a publishing house, and had started printing essay/letter books and English model test papers. It was February 1967. Chandigarh was having its first-ever election. Srichand Goyal was contesting on a Bharatiya Jan Sangh ticket. The RSS told me to take charge as Goyal’s election coordinator with immediate effect. I could not refuse the Sangh’s order even though it meant all my investment in published essays and test papers came to a naught. I was back to square one once again. Goyal, however, won and became the first elected MP from Chandigarh.

I started anew as a manager with a Sector 26-based soap agency. I was also working as the general secretary of Jan Sangh. Life was just getting on track when Emergency was declared. The first warrant of Chandigarh under MISA was in my name. The Sangh ordered me to evade arrest and continue the agitation against this draconian measure. For two months, I was on the run. During that period, my wife and little kids were harassed and questioned about my whereabouts. CID personnel kept a constant watch at my house and my family’s movement. Sometimes, hundreds of cops would surround our house and take my wife or young sons to police station. These two months were no better than the Partition hardships. I was finally arrested on August 27, 1975, and remained in jail for 13 months. Post-Emergency, I started afresh once again and established my shop Desraj Tandon & Sons in Chandigarh in 1977. It had taken me 30 years to start a normal life at last.

— The writer is a Chandigarh-based shopkeeper

(As told to Renu Sud Sinha)

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