Unbordered Memories

by Rita Kothari

  Of course, I kept reminding them, time and again, that I had gone to Karachi from India during Partition. My life began and ended in Karachi, I had almost nothing to do with Sindh. This didn’t stop them from saying, ‘Yes, but you are from Karachi, and Karachi is the soul of Sindh. You would be considered a Sindhi, wouldn’t you? As far as we are concerned you are from our watan!’

  Abu-al-Hussain fell silent at this point. He racked his brains to recall something and then continued with the story.

  You must think that this is where it stopped. But such was their hospitality that they sold me whatever I wanted at half the price, and also gave me a small battery-operated pocket radio as a gift. Mind you, this was only my first meeting with them. They asked me where I had been staying while I was in Hong Kong. I told them the name of the hotel and my room number after which the young man, Shyam, dropped me off at the hotel in an impressive looking car. He also said that he would pick me up again at five. I was overwhelmed by the warmth and affection. For the first time in my life I wondered, why, despite staying in Karachi for twenty years, I did not know Sindh.

  I was still feeling bad about my ignorance. What if Shyam turned up again in the evening and took me to meet some other friends? And what if they inundated me with the same questions? My woeful lack of answers would renew my embarrassment. So I resolved to leave the hotel before five in the evening. With this in mind, I lay down.

  It was soon afternoon, and at three-thirty I began my preparations. At exactly four o’clock I locked my room and took the elevator. I reached the ground floor. I had barely handed over the keys at the desk and left the hotel, when I saw the same red car. I was aghast. I raised my head, and I found some cheerful faces watching me.

  One was that of Shyam, who promptly came up to me and guided me to the car. ‘You are probably setting out on some important work.’

  ‘No, no, I was very bored, so I thought I would go for a stroll.’

  The young man laughed. He made me sit in the car and introduced me to his friends. The car slid along wide roads and reached a row of elegant shops. We got off the car and entered a large, impressive store. As soon as I stepped in, I realized that three or four people were already waiting for me. I was introduced to each one of them. I shook hands with everyone and sat down on a couch. The room was very beautiful. I saw a table in a corner with a flower vase which looked very much like the vases I had seen in Karachi. The young store-owner saw me looking at the vase. He said, ‘This is a souvenir from my beloved Sindh. You will be surprised to know that the world’s richest men come to Hong Kong as tourists. On one such occasion, the son of the owner of Ford Motors, by some chance, visited the store. He halted when his eyes fell upon a bunch of things in this corner. “Where are these exotic things from? Which country?” I told him that the pieces of craft were from Sindh, now a province in Pakistan. Then he asked me, “Do you have something else from there?” I showed him a quilt and a mirror-studded cap that I had preserved for years. He was stunned by the quality of handwork on the quilt and cap. “How much do these cost?” I told him that they were not for sale. But he insisted on buying everything. He said, “I’ll pay any price you quote.” I declined in no uncertain terms. After a little while he left the shop. Barely had two hours gone by, when he returned with a cheque of thousand pounds, and offering that to me, he said, “Give me any one of these things.” I could not continue refusing him. I placed before him the quilt and also returned the cheque. He was overjoyed, and couldn’t stop thanking me. He immediately left the shop, but my face was streaming with tears.’

  The young store-owner became emotional while narrating this to me. I looked at the objects carefully, and could not help appreciating, for the first time, the subtlety of the embroidery.

  Abu-al-Hussain became quiet again. He leaned back on a chair and sunk into his memories. After a little while, he continued with his story.

  These young men asked me so many questions about Karachi that absolutely nothing remained to be asked. While this conversation was going on, an old man entered with a young man who held him by his hand. Everybody stood up respectfully. He looked around the store, peering through thick glasses. When I put out my hand to shake his, he held my hand tight. He didn’t let go even when we sat down on the couch. And suddenly, the same questions about Sindh.

  ‘Have you been to Shikarpur?’

  Hesitating, I said, ‘No … haven’t had reason to.’

  Hearing my response, he became quiet, and began to think deeply, with his head down.

  Finally, he asked again, ‘All right, are you likely to go there?’

  His question confused me further. But I didn’t wish to hurt him, so I said, ‘At the moment, I don’t plan to, but perhaps some day.’

  The old man sat up and said, ‘Son, you must go. It’s a beautiful city. It’s our motherland. You would never forget the sweets and kulfi of that place, once you have tasted them. When you get off the station, the buggy man will bring you to the tower of Lakhidar. Then you will see how spectacular the city is.’

  The old man’s wizened face lit up and he grew restless. It seemed as if he had lost his heart somewhere there, which he was now groping for.

  He sighed, ‘You will have to go to Shikarpur, if not for yourself, at least for me. I beg you, please do me a favour …’

  The old man faced me, his trembling hands folded in a gesture of appeal. I held his hands and assured him that I would try my best to go there.

  He put his hand in his pocket and took out a couple of hundred rupee notes, and said, ‘These are travelling expenses. You must go, please.’

  ‘Yes, chacha, I will certainly go. You keep this, I don’t need it.’

  But he insisted on paying me, and the others sitting there also signalled to me to keep the money.

  Then he said, ‘When you go to Lakhidar, take the road that goes to Begari canal. At the turning, you will see an old house. Knock on the door. I don’t know who is staying there now. And yes, you will see a mango tree there. When I planted it, it was a mere plant, but it must now be a tree laden with mangoes. You must knock on the door. Meet all those who live in that house. And show them how mangoes are eaten in Sindh. Tell them that when there is water in Begari canal, you put the mangoes in an earthen pot and dunk the pot in the flowing waters of the Indus, which cools the mangoes. Meanwhile, you rest under the dense shade of the sarhan trees. After a while, jump into the waters to retrieve the mangoes. You have to eat those mangoes while you are still in the water, and only then will you know the real taste of mangoes.’

  He continued, ‘Putta, you must tell them this because they are new, and they would not know how to enjoy the fruits of Sindh. You must tell them these things.’

  The old man looked much calmer now. It seemed as if he had sat under the shade of the sarhan near Begari.

  Then suddenly, ‘Putta, will you do me a favour? When you go to this house, seek the family’s permission to pluck a leaf from the mango tree, and very carefully, mail it to me, please. I shall remain indebted to you.’

  The old man kept talking like this. Many things kept coming back to him, and he unburdened himself. It was getting really late. I had to take the plane at 10 that evening. When I sought permission to go, everyone hugged me and bade me farewell.

  Everyone said, ‘Our salaams to Sindhis, our salaams to our watan …’

  With the memory of this meeting with friends on my last day in Hong Kong, I left for the hotel, once again in Shyam’s car. Shyam stayed with me till the very last moment. He helped me pack and saw me off at the airport. When the boarding call was announced, I said goodbye to him. His eyes brimming with tears, he hugged me.

  I said to him, ‘Shyam, is there anything I can do for you? I’ll be happy to …’

  Wiping his eyes, he said, ‘No! Nothing else, pray that I get to see my homeland some day, because I spend sleepless nights longing for it.’

  We said our final goodbyes to each other. I turned back one last
time and he was still there, looking at me. I waved, and so did he. I took long strides and boarded the plane.

  With a touch of sadness, Abu-al-Hussain continued.

  I wondered for the first time how long were we going to consider ourselves Mohajir refugees. This kind of thinking and attitude is fallacious. It is both madness and dogma. No, absolutely not. We are not Mohajirs anymore. I am a Sindhi, Sindh is my country, Sindh is my country. I made a quiet resolution, without much ado. A sense of pride—of belonging to a country, of enjoying its citizenship—engulfed me, for the first time.

  The plane flew amidst clouds. I looked outside, and saw Shyam with tearful eyes, saying, ‘… pray that I get to see …’ The emotion was overpowering. If only this plane would go faster and I might see my country again, reach my land and meet my Sindhi brothers. I grew more and more anxious.

  When the plane landed, I walked out to find something I had nearly lost.

  Hunger, Love and Literature

  MOHAN KALPANA

  The bomb exploded in Shikarpur Colony and Prabhudas Bittani died. At four o’clock one morning, the guards surrounded our place. A few of them came upstairs and they had torches and pistols. Thrusting a torch into my face, one of them demanded to know, ‘Is this a Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) office?’

  ‘This is a house.’

  ‘Are there women?’

  ‘They have gone to India. We will also leave in a few days.’

  ‘We need to carry out a search.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For arms.’

  ‘Arms? In here? I am a student. I wish to go to India and become an actor one day.’

  ‘Open the door. All of it.’ They entered the house.

  A petrified Chiranjeev informed me, ‘The building is under military surveillance.’

  I instructed him, ‘Tell them you are my servant if they ask you. You look untidy enough to be convincing.’

  I had hidden the cartridges among the tulsi plants in the balcony. Had they found those, we would have surely been arrested and hanged. They looked at our faces, conducted a perfunctory search and left. My mother (or Bhabhi as I called her) said it was not a good idea to continue to live there. She rented a place at Ratan Talao.

  Meanwhile, almost all branches of the RSS had closed down. My mama’s friend was a Muslim, who, in order to marry a Hindu girl, gave himself a Hindu name, Bhagwan. He got me a job as a tracer in the public works department at the Karachi Sadar Bazaar. I was to earn seventy rupees per month. It made me really happy. Those were very different times.

  On 6 January 1948, Mohajirs from Bihar filtered into Sindh and instigated riots, killing thousands. Some of them came to Ratan Talao to loot. A mob came to attack our house.

  A young man entered with a knife. Bhabhi said to him, ‘Does Islam teach you to attack women and children? What will you gain by doing this? Don’t touch my children, you can kill me if you want.’

  There would have been bloodshed if I had been present, but I was in my office. I have been told that Bhabhi spoke with such conviction that they just left. A mischievous fellow from the crowd took away my white trousers which were hanging on a peg. I could not get over the loss of those white trousers for a long time. Each time I wore them in the past, they reminded me of Nyazi. Even now when I wear white clothes, I miss her.

  It was by tram that I went to work and got back home. Occasionally, I would visit the mohalla where we used to live. Its charm had palled, it now wore a deserted look. There was no movement of any kind. Jammu dada, who during the days of Moharram whipped himself till he bled, would soulfully say, ‘So, yaar, you will also go away from Sindh?’ He was a boxer, and he could beat people to a pulp, but he avoided knives. These men were like the magistrates of our mohalla. A ruffian could enter this mohalla only at his peril. He was sure to get blows from Jammu dada. But one day someone named Jaffrey dada, who had come from Bihar, entered the mohalla and beat Jammu dada up. Sindhis always get roughed up.

  Jamnu Hotel used to be right below my house and sent forth to my ears, all day, Pankaj Mullick’s songs, and a duet from the film Jugnu sung by Mohammed Rafi and Noorjahan.

  Yahan badla wafa ka bewafai ke siva kya hai

  Mohabbat bhi dekhi, mohabbat mein bhi dokha hai

  What exists here but betrayal

  I experienced love, which is equally unfaithful

  I still have this record. I used to think that I would go to India and marry Noorjahan, never mind that she’s older than me. I loved her dearly. But when I came to India, she went to Pakistan. I had made Shaikh Ayaz and Rashid Bhatti listen to this in the Juhu beach bungalow.

  Mujhse pehli si mohabbat mere mehboob na maang

  Don’t ask me my love for that old passion

  When the non-Sindhis wreaked terror upon the Hindus of Sindh, the latter trembled in fear and lost all hope. A day arrived when we too packed our things and hired a camel-cart to go to the port of Karachi. I noticed many Sindhi books being sold for two annas each near the Karachi Idgah ground. I bought quite a few books that day. It was perhaps 16 January 1948 and I was completing the thirteenth year of my life. With every moment, the camel-cart was taking me further and further away from my Sindh, my nation, my mother Sindhu. I passed along Burnes Road, D.J. Sindh college, Kacheri Road, Gaadi Khaato, Lighthouse, Bunder Road, Municipality, Bolton Market … Jammu dada spotted me. He was on his bicycle and he moved along with one hand resting on the cart, ‘Bhau, are you going away for good?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I will come back.’

  His eyes misted at my response and he quietly went away.

  Back? Me? To Sindh, of all places? In the wispy smoke of my cigarette I still see my Karachi, that camel-cart and the journey of the uprooted. The cat tried very hard to jump out of the tub, but its walls were higher than mountains. What can one do?

  Sighs have lost warmth, silences have become long and weary

  Excerpted from Mohan Kalpana’s autobiography Ishq, Bukha ain Adabu

  Muhammad, the Coach-driver

  RAM PANJWANI

  Partition had not yet taken place, but it had been planned. The Hindus of Sindh were downcast, the Muslims overjoyed. The moment the Partition resolution was passed, the Muslims of Sindh had become blatant in their ways, for they assumed they were going to be the lords now. Human beings take refuge in hope: the Sindhi Hindus had hoped that they would be able to continue to stay in Sindh, with diminished status, perhaps.

  Along with hopes, the Hindus also had apprehensions. The Muslim leaders offered reassurances but their declarations and talks betrayed their changing motivations. The atmosphere was tense and the Hindus feared an outbreak of riots. The fact that the British were still around gave them a sense of comfort. At least, things were not likely to get out of control. On the other hand, the British government had lost interest in the internal problems of India, and the Hindus wondered if it would intervene at the time of crisis.

  It was a cold winter evening in the month of December. My friend Nehchaldas was hosting a party at the Karachi Club annexe. He had left for the club and left a message asking me to join him. At 7 p.m. I was in the area of Gaadikhato. I thought I would hire a victoria and reach the club. I hesitated though. It felt frightening—to go alone. But it was necessary to go. While I stood there trying to reason with myself, a coachman airily asked, ‘Deewan, what are you thinking of? Where do you want to go?’

  I was startled. In a firm voice, bracing myself, I said, ‘I’m waiting for a car but I don’t know why it hasn’t arrived.’

  ‘Get into the coach, deewan, I’ll take you faster than the car.’ He spoke in Sindhi and his voice had a nice familiarity to it.

  I got into the coach. We reached the outskirts of the city. Flashing his whip, the coachman began to chat with the horses, ‘Fly, my bird. Take the deewan faster. God knows how the deewan has graced us with his presence, he might not do it another time.’

  Such words were not exactly reassuring on a dark evening, when we
were on the outskirts of the city. Why was he saying the deewan may not do it again, I wondered. Then I heard him, ‘Don’t fear, nobody will stop you. Lift your feet off the ground and fly in the sky. He has enjoyed many pleasures of the earth, now give him the taste of heaven.’ My heart beats raced—‘taste of heaven’. Did he bear me ill? The coach came to a halt, or was it my heart?

  The coachman got down and muttered to himself. I thought he was going to attack me, rob me of whatever I had and discard me. And I had thought I did not fear death, so much for that. Death only has to stare us in the face … I found my body and mind go numb. My blood froze and cold shudders ran through my body. The coachman said, ‘Deewan, I’ll take you quickly.’ I noticed that he held a spear-like rod. I shivered at the sight of it and said a silent prayer. In the meantime, a car went past us but I couldn’t bring myself to call for help. I felt gagged. How could I have yelled out? I was astonished to see the coachman go towards the horse and not towards me. A single moment felt longer than a year. But it helped restore my breath. When the coachman said, ‘The reins were broken but I’ve mended them for now. Did I take too long?’ a mere whisper of ‘No’ escaped my lips.

  The coach began to move. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The coachman was busy talking to the horse, but I was lost in my thoughts. I realized that I had reached the club. I put my hands in my pockets and asked, ‘How much?’

  The coachman looked at me, ‘Tears in your eyes, baba? Have I done something?’

  I felt embarrassed. Perhaps I had not wiped my tears properly. ‘No, no, miyan, everything’s fine.’

  He said in an affectionate voice, ‘These days we charge up to even five rupees, although the government rate is one and a half only. But I will not charge you a paisa.’

  Astonished, I asked why.

  Politely, he said, ‘Deewan, I am a Salaat. I was in the audience when you came to sing at the neighbourhood of Salaats. I especially liked the Badshah Zafar song. I had decided that day that if you ever stepped into my coach, I would not charge you. Allah has finally made that day possible for someone as humble as me. I will not accept money from you.’ I insisted, but he simply would not budge.