From Jalandhar to Jamke Cheema
Punjabi writer Sukirat reminisces about his visit to Sialkot in Pakistan to trace his ancestral roots — and how emotions flow through the tangled histories of the subcontinent
A 1934-1935 photo comprising three generations of the writer’s family, standing and sitting in a courtyard, behind them a colonnaded verandah with tall arches. Photo courtesy: Sukirat
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Who are you going to meet in Sialkot?” the visa officer asks. The friend who has sent me the invitation — Hassan Shah — is from Lahore, and his address is listed on my application. For the Sialkot column, I had casually filled in the name of a hotel. But really, who am I going to meet in Sialkot?
“My ancestors were born in Sialkot,” I reply. “I just want to visit their land. See the village they came from.” I stop short of saying something sentimental like, I wish to do a sajda to that sacred soil.
The officer, kind enough not to press further, includes Sialkot in the list of cities permitted in my visa. I have some idea where I’m going — and also, not quite.
There’s a passing mention in my maternal grandfather’s — who was a well-known Punjabi writer — autobiography: near Daska, in Sialkot district, there is a village called Jamke Cheema. Two girls from that village had been childhood friends. They were married around the same time, became pregnant around the same time, and made a pact: if one had a son and the other a daughter, they would marry their children to each other and turn their friendship into a permanent kinship. As fate would have it, in the month of Vaisakh, 1895, one gave birth to a daughter, the other to a son. That son and daughter — promised to each other even before birth — would become my maternal grandparents: Shivdei (later Jagjit Kaur) and Gurbakhsh Singh Preetlari.
And now, 127 years later, one of their great-grandsons was coming to see their village.
I also have a faded black-and-white photograph — a large family portrait, likely taken during a wedding or some other celebration.
In one corner, seated in the first row among the children, is my mother. She appears to be about six years old, so I estimate the picture dates to 1934 or 1935. There are about 34 or 35 people in the photo: three generations of a family standing and sitting in a courtyard, behind them a colonnaded verandah with tall arches.
I’ve also been told — by older relatives — that there was a large tree in the courtyard, and the house had its own well.
I know one of my great-grandmothers was named Malni. Her name appears in my grandfather’s writings, and is engraved on the gate of his home in Preet Nagar (near Amritsar). No one alive now remembers the name of my other great-grandmother. But my last remaining Mamu, Hirdaypal Singh, remembers the name of his Nanu, Sultan Singh Ahluwalia — who was a goldsmith by trade, and the long-serving sarpanch of Jamke Cheema before Partition.
Armed with these clues, I set out for Jamke Cheema in late November 2022, 75 years after Partition.
Hassan Shah has lent me a car and driver. With me is Ali Usman Bajwa, a young Punjabi writer from Lahore. His roots, too, trace back to a village near Sialkot.
We drive from Lahore to Sialkot along the newly built motorway. Within an hour and a half, we start seeing signs pointing toward Daska. Turning off the main highway, we make our way down narrower roads. I open Google Maps for good measure.
If I were to forget for a moment that I’m in Pakistan, this could easily be a village in Indian Punjab — the same irregular lanes, patchwork of small and large houses, the same carefree children darting through the streets.
“You have reached your destination,” announces a female voice. How would Google know what my destination really is? Do I even know it myself? We park the car in a wide but empty street. But where now?
Ali spots an elderly man frying pakoras in a stall nearby. “Babaji,” he asks, “which is the oldest part of the village?”
“Whose house are you looking for?” the man asks. “This guest is from India,” Ali explains. “His ancestors lived here. His great-grandfather was the sarpanch before Partition. He was a goldsmith by profession.”
Hearing this, the man insists we join him for pakoras, but we decline with grateful apologies.
“Go further down the main road,” he says. “Take a right — there’s an old bazaar. The oldest lanes of the village start from there. But how will you find the house? Try asking from Ralla, the goldsmith.” As we start walking away, he calls out, “Further down the main road is the high school, it’s from before Partition. Take a look there too.”
The old bazaar reminds me of Jalandhar’s narrow market lanes — crowded, chaotic, brimming with shops selling odds and ends. For a village, this is quite a large bazaar. Perhaps Jamke Cheema is no longer a village — it has grown into a small town.
We duck into several lanes, peering into homes. But I doubt that any of these narrow streets once housed the kind of courtyard home — with its arches, a private well and the big jamun tree — that I’m seeking.
Still, Ali enthusiastically takes pictures of every house that has flaking plaster revealing Nanakshahi bricks underneath, or windows designed in a particular style — small ventilators partially covered with cornices.
“Windows like these were typical of Sikh homes,” he says. “A few such houses still survive in my village.”
Ali seems more convinced than I am that my house must still be standing here somewhere. His innocent faith moves me. In Pakistan, I’ve met several young people like him — eager to welcome guests from India. Such warmth kindles hope in my heart for a better future between our nations, despite the toxic winds blowing back home.
Ali is keen to explore a few more lanes, but I feel this search is unlikely to yield anything concrete. For me, it’s enough to know that once upon a time, Malni and her friend — my other great-grandmother — would have walked these very streets. That they might have bought bangles from these shops, or had fabric measured for their children’s clothes...
“Come on, Ali, let’s go to the school,” I say. “It’s old enough — some ancestor of mine surely studied there.” I cling to this slender thread of hope. Bold white letters across the top read: Government High School, Jamke Cheema, Tehsil Daska.
The walls are high, and the iron gate is taller still, guarded by a watchman. Outsiders aren’t allowed in without reason. But Ali’s declaration — “He’s a guest from India” — works like khul ja sim sim. In Pakistan, especially small towns, this simple phrase unlocks all doors, no matter how rusted or firmly shut.
The headmaster is away, but we’re respectfully invited to wait in his office. Soon, Assistant Headmaster Muhammad Arshad Aulakh joins us, along with a staff member named Muhammad Jameel. Both were born in Jamke, and are at least a decade younger than me. “If you’d come 10 or 15 years earlier, we could’ve found everything. My father was still alive then, and remembered the old times well,” Jameel remarks.
I show them the family photo on my phone. They study it closely; and offer a guess. But even as I hold out hope, I know in my heart that the chances of finding that exact house intact are next to none.
Suddenly, one of them suggests, “Call Rai Abdul Hamid Chopra!” The other dials a number: “Rai Sahib, please come quickly — there’s a guest from Jalandhar here.”
My attention fixes on the name: Cheema-Bajwa family names amongst Jatts are common in Pakistan, but this is the first time I’ve heard of a Muslim with the common Punjabi Khatri gote — Chopra.
While waiting for Chopra Sahib, Jameel shares the school’s history: “This is one of the oldest in our area. It began as a Persian madrassa in 1856, became a middle school in 1901, and was upgraded in 1931.”
The school is actually a cluster of multi-storey buildings with open courtyards between them for students to move and play. All buildings are flanked by arched verandahs identical to those in my photograph. ‘Could this be the very haveli?’ My longing heart wallows in illusion, but reason swiftly dashes the hope: ‘This school likely predates even that mansion.’ Still, my yearning won’t release its grip on imagination’s swing: ‘What if my Nanaji, or one of my great-grandfathers studied here, ran across these very grounds…?’
A few minutes later, Rai Abdul Hamid Chopra arrives. Unlike the younger, clean-shaven faces of Jameel and Arshad, he sports a traditionally groomed white beard — though the upper part of his moustache is shaved.
“You’ve come from India?” he asks. But before I can reply, he pulls me into a warm embrace — not once, but three times. “From Jalandhar? Where do you live there? You were born in Jalandhar, yes?” he bombards me with questions, still holding my hand in his. I begin to wonder — did his ancestors come from Jalandhar or a nearby village? On earlier visits to Pakistan, I’ve often met people who, upon hearing I’m from the city their elders fled during Partition, instantly invite me home. It’s enough that someone from the place their forefathers once left behind has returned — however briefly.
But no — like the others, Rai Sahib was also born here. His family has lived in Jamke Cheema for generations. Among all those present, he is the eldest.
We show him the photograph. I mention my great-grandfather’s name: Sultan Singh Ahluwalia. It doesn’t ring a bell — Rai Sahib was born a few years after Partition.
Still, he recognises the house. “This house,” he tells those around us, “used to belong to so-and-so. Then it was sold. Later it was demolished, and so-and-so built their homes there.” And then, without my prompting, he adds, “There used to be a well in the courtyard. And a large jamun tree. Now, there are many small houses in its place.”
I don’t know why, but his words stir conflicting emotions within me. That I have seen the house. And that I don’t want to see what stands in its place. Perhaps I want to preserve in my mind the image of the home with an open courtyard — the one from the photograph.
Still holding my hand in his, Chopra Sahib begins to tell me his own story.
His family, he says, were originally Hindu Chopras — landowners in the village. When Partition came, the family split. Most of them migrated to India, but his father stayed behind — to guard the ancestral land and home. When the winds of Partition turned into wildfires, his father had no choice. The Hindu son of the Chopras became Rai Abdul Latif — but he never dropped the Chopra from his name.
And so, even today, amidst a town full of Hassans and Husseins, one Chopra remains.
Holding my hand tightly, he says to me, “My Taya Abu settled in Jalandhar. Dr Harbans Lal Chopra. He lived near Phagwara Gate, in Pakka Bagh. A well-known doctor — you must have heard of him?”
I had, indeed. I remember the name from when Jalandhar was still a small town. I tell him so. He squeezes my hand even tighter.
“Have you ever been to India?” I ask.
“Until 1981,” he replies. “I used to go. But then, one by one, all the elders passed away. And all my brothers now hold government jobs in India…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I understand.
Citizens of nations that eye each other as adversaries are burdened by strange, invisible restrictions — caught in webs of paranoia, victims of politics’ chokehold. Even friendly meetings take place under the shadow of politics, history, and barbed-wire borders.
I find myself now gently stroking his hand in return. Rai Sahib wants to take us to his home. But time is short — we must get to our next stop. Before we part, I’m swept into tight, lingering farewells — gestures that carry more yearning than words ever could. The kind of parting that dares to hope there may one day be a reunion.
Through the glass, we wave our final goodbyes. Just then, the front door swings open. Rai Sahib gets in. “One last thing,” he says. “This is important.” He opens his wallet, pulls out a 500-rupee note and hands it to the driver, Rajeel. Then he draws out a 1,000-rupee note and extends it to Ali.
Rajeel looks at me. Ali seems frozen — unsure what to say, what to do.
“No, you must not refuse,” Rai Sahib says to them both. “You brought my brother to me today. This is my offering of gratitude. You must accept it.” Both look toward me, reluctant to accept. “Take it. Don’t refuse…” is all I manage to say, trying not to choke.
I mull over a day that took such an unexpected turn. A Sikh in search of his roots, accompanied by a young Muslim friend and driven by a Christian chauffeur, ended up meeting a Muslim with Hindu ancestry.
The tangled histories of our subcontinent rise to the surface in such moments, reminding me how deeply intertwined our identities remain, despite everything that has tried to pull us apart.
— Sukirat Singh Anand publishes under the name Sukirat
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