Unbordered Memories

by Rita Kothari

  When the train left the station, someone addressed Topu, ‘Topandas, there is no need to fear anymore. We are heading towards the border of free India.’ He had no acquaintances among his fellow travellers on the train, so he had said ‘Topandas’ when he was asked his name. He had always wanted to be addressed as Topandas. For the first time, he was being called by that name, but it brought him no joy. The difficulties he had experienced were fresh in his memory and the anticipation of many more had destroyed any feelings of joy. He would now be called refugee.

  The Uprooted

  VISHNU BHATIA

  The ship had left the shore. At the port, only officers milled around. And there were labourers pulling carts and gigantic cranes. The port grew distant from the ship, and the land slipped away. We filled our eyes with the sight of Karachi for one last time, carrying the sacred spectacle of the city only in our eyes.

  How long could anyone have lasted shrouded in fear? The fear of being stabbed at any moment, the fear of being robbed, the fear that, any moment, the women of the house might lose their honour. The odour of fresh blood had begun to assault our nostrils, and the deathly silence on the streets hurt our ears. Anyone could be shot to death at sight. People who had never thought of themselves as Hindus or Muslims now knew that Hindus were infidels, and Muslims, scoundrels. So much for brotherhood! Hindus have no right to live on this land. A political decision managed to do what pandits and moulvis could not. Hatred had spread like poison and an entire community was uprooted from its land and thrown into the waters of the Arabian Sea.

  There was no port in sight anymore. The lighthouse had also faded away. People inside the ship were huddled together—men, women, the old, the children—with the luggage. Not a single face held an expression of joy. People had been forcibly parted from their homes, lands, shops and property. The wailing of children, the lamentations of the mothers, the grave faces of the young and hushed voices of the old. A common question—now what? What would be the future like? Darkness everywhere. Would Hindustan accept us as its own? Or would we be pushed away, rejected like outsiders? A barrage of unanswered questions. The sea became choppy and noisy. Our hearts resonated with it. I felt as if a hundred lions were roaring. The fear within us made everything look terrifying.

  Those two were still trying to explain the situation to the old man, ‘Be sensible, Kaka Jeevandas, don’t be so childish and stubborn. How will you go back to Karachi now? At least, think. If you get murdered there, not a soul would give you even a drop of water. Your dead body would be untraceable. Dogs and vultures will tear your flesh apart.’

  Kaka Jeevandas, with his walking stick beside him, was clad in dhoti and kurta (with a gold button on it), and an embroidered round cap. Dripping with perspiration, his face showed lines of fear and age. ‘If my corpse remains unclaimed, it will still be my corpse, right? You want to make a clean break, don’t you? So you go, baba! I don’t need you at all. Abba, I have my friends Qadir and Muhammad in Karachi.’

  ‘Kaka, you can’t trust the dyata. They will show brotherhood one moment, but stab you in the back for being a kafir the next.’

  ‘Arre, fools! You think you are the only wise ones on this earth. I have spent my entire life with them. Ask even a child in Karachi and it will tell you how well known was the trio of three friends—Jeevandas, Qadir and Muhammad. We would not even eat without each other. We spent our childhood and youth together, and together we arrived at this stage of life. Why would we suck each other’s blood now?’

  Now I remember. At the time of embarkation, two old Muslim men waved their handkerchiefs to bid goodbye while Kaka Jeevandas struggled to break free of the two young men who were trying hard to restrain him. ‘Qadir, I will come back, yaar. Muhammad, I’ll return soon.’

  That’s right. Qadir and Muhammad stood misty-eyed, their lips quivering. I tried to hear the faint words forming on their lips, but I could not. They had no strength left to yell.

  ‘You are not my nephews. You are hankering after my money. Here, take all this. This is all I have. You can have everything, but tell the captain of this ship that I wish to go back. Abba, don’t torture me.’ With this, Kaka flung his money at the nephews.

  The young men returned the pouch to him, saying, ‘Kaka, calm down. Don’t be unreasonable. We are not your enemies. We have your welfare in mind and that’s why we have brought you with us.’

  Kaka Jeevandas was exhausted. He sat and sulked. With empty eyes, he looked at the ship’s ceiling. The dinner bell rang. The food looked nauseating. Dry bajri rotis and stale masur dal. In fact, some people actually threw up. The food was brought to Kaka. He refused to touch it.

  ‘Kaka, eat something.’

  No answer.

  ‘Kaka, eat something.’

  He was quiet, meditative.

  ‘Kaka, for our sake, please.’

  This time Kaka took the food and threw it away with vehemence. The dal ruined the mattress and the rotis were crushed under the bearers’ feet. One of the two young men remarked, ‘Not much difference, is there, between a child and an old man? Both are equally obstinate.’

  Exasperated, the other one said, ‘Starve to death then, Kaka.’

  Kaka became quiet again.

  ‘Kaka, this is just futile. We were destined to be in that land only for so long. We are going to Hindustan. That is also our country. Sindh was simply a part of it.’

  ‘You men are illiterate. I have nothing to do with Hindustan. Everything in Karachi is my own. I was born there and that’s where I shall die. In the last few years of my life, you think I’d be torn asunder from my motherland?’

  ‘Kaka, you are being unnecessarily sentimental. You refuse to acknowledge reality. Until recently, Sindh was peaceful and hence we lived there. Now it is dangerous to spend even a moment there. Hindus and Muslims are thirsting for each other’s blood now.’

  ‘I will not regret being murdered by my friends,’ Kaka said and became quiet again.

  The ocean raged underneath the ship. The sun’s shadow altered the complexion of the sea. The sea was fire red, and at times green and then dusky. Kaka Jeevandas’s eyes were shut. His eyelids hid God only knows how many memories.

  Tears streamed down his eyes.

  In the sky above, clouds flew like cotton, forming foot-columns that migrated from one nation to another. Many passengers were dozing off, while some played cards and a few blew smoke rings from cigarettes and beedis. A child began to wail and his mother promptly offered him her breast. A young woman was resting her head blissfully on her husband’s shoulder. People didn’t care anymore about caste or group identities—whether someone was Sahiti or Hyderabadi, Uttradhi or Shikarpuri. They were all Sindhis who were uprooted and had left everything behind.

  I came and stood near the deck. White seagulls hovered about. The ship pushed the waves forward and the sun let the clouds hide him. Dark shadows washed over the sea. The sea and the sky met at the horizon. At times, I felt that the ship was floating in the sky. Kaka came up to the deck with weary steps. He did not have his walking stick. Was he heading towards me? Why me?

  ‘Child, how far is Karachi from here?’

  ‘We must surely have travelled at least five or six miles,’ I made a guess.

  ‘Look, child, don’t tell anyone. I have come to the deck on the pretext of using the toilet. I’ll swim my way back to Karachi.’

  ‘Kaka, can you swim?’

  He looked at the sky and said, ‘God will guide me. He will carry me across the waters. My Qadir and Muhammed are waiting for me. The soil of Sindh beckons to me. I will most definitely go. What do you think? Will I be able to swim, abba?’

  The next moment Kaka folded his hands and mumbled something to himself. A prayer, perhaps.

  Perhaps, it happened the way it is supposed to have happened in a Lord Satyanarayana story. God made an appearance before Kaka and asked him, ‘What do you want, Kaka?’

  The old man said, ‘I wish to go to Karachi.’ ‘So be i
t,’ said Satyanarayana, and disappeared.

  Kaka Jeevandas opened his eyes and looked around. There was no one, except me. I did not actually expect Kaka to jump into the sea. In a fraction of a second, Kaka had jumped. A splash. I thought he would now go to Karachi. Kaka began to struggle in the water. He came up to the surface a couple of times and then disappeared. His arm came out, as if to say goodbye. The struggle lasted for a while. Eventually, it looked as if Kaka had merged with the water and turned into water himself.

  I yelled, ‘Kaka, Kaka! Help!’

  People rushed upstairs on hearing me yell, ‘What happened?’

  ‘What happened? Why are you in panic?’

  ‘Kaka Jeevandas …’ I couldn’t finish. I pointed to the sea. Lord Satyanarayana had let the old man drown. The nephews were in tears.

  The ship came to a halt and a search began for Kaka. Small boats were released into water. We couldn’t find even the dead body. Perhaps crocodiles had eaten it up. He never managed to go back to Karachi.

  Our lament merged with the cacophony of a fuming and frothing sea. One of the nephews said, ‘How much we tried to explain! It was foolish of him. He killed himself.’

  The ship began to sail again, carrying the burden of the living. The roaring waves had grown more terrifying, and a funereal silence prevailed.

  Who was Responsible?

  LACHHMAN KUKREJA

  This incident belongs to the year 1947, when India was partitioned. One portion became India and the other, Pakistan. People from both sides of the border had begun to migrate. Muslim refugees from India came into Sindh and instigated riots, especially in the cities of Hyderabad and Karachi. The Hindus of Sindh would never be able to put behind the memory of the riots in Karachi on Tuesday, 6 January 1948. Chatur Singh, a very brave Sikh who hailed from our village, Gadiyasun, lost his life in those riots. The news sent waves of terror through Gadiyasun. Suddenly, colonies with mixed communities were emptied of Hindus and reduced to Muslim colonies. Meanwhile, Hindus were either crossing the border and going over to divided India or, at times, moving house to colonies with a Hindu majority. When the news of the 6 January riots and the consequent murder of Chatur Singh spread like wildfire in Gadiyasun, the Hindus quaked with fear. Leading members of the Hindu community called meetings to discuss their safety. They were particularly concerned that the Khalsas who could have supported the Hindus had already left because their community had suffered terribly in the violence in Punjab. Naturally, the Khalsas were the first to leave even from Sindh, and a mass exodus of Khalsas followed from our village. Now, the Muslims wielded power exclusively. In pre-Pakistan days, power lay divided equally between the Pathans and the Khalsas. But after the formation of Pakistan, power became one-sided. The police belonged to the Muslims, and the military belonged to them as well. After all, the entire nation belonged to the Muslims. This was inevitable. Once Muslim refugees from Punjab, United Provinces and Bihar began to arrive in Sindh, the native Muslims of Sindh became all the more buoyant. Terror struck at the hearts of Hindus and therefore meetings were called. At last, it was decided that important citizens would talk to the Pathan leader in person and ascertain his opinion.

  Following this, one afternoon, leading citizens gathered together at Panchati Square. Well-known leaders and representatives from both Hindu and Muslim communities participated in this meeting. Khanumkhan Badraldin Durrani Pathan stated in no uncertain terms that he would do nothing to support the Hindus, regardless of whether they wanted to stay or go. Should something happen, he said, he would first defend the Muslims and then the Hindus. This meant that even if the Muslims continued to bully the Hindus, they would be the first ones to be defended. After listening to Badraldin, it was clear to everyone that there was no point in living in Gadiyasun. From time immemorial, the universal truth has been that Hindus have been at the receiving end of Muslim aggression. Violence or militant behaviour simply does not come naturally to Hindus. In fact, Hindus have always been accommodating to other religions. Badraldin had not only ignored this fact, but had also ignored the presence of Hindus in the packed audience. He had taken an expedient decision, as a result of which the next day onwards, the Hindus began to pack their belongings. Migration continued.

  Fresh messages and news flowed in and out every day: ‘After spending a few days in Shikarpur, Pahlumal finally took a train to Karachi.’ ‘Such-and-such after spending a few days in the Sukkur dharmashala left for Karachi.’ ‘Today Baba Haridas along with his followers left for Karachi and boarded a ship to go to India.’ ‘Some left by train from Khokhrapar to go to India.’ In short, Gadiyasun was becoming empty of Hindus.

  Perturbed by such messages, our relatives were also resigned to the fact of migration. Younger women of my extended community were the first ones to go. There were letters coming from the Akbar camp or at times from the Visarpur or Kalyani camps, with heart-rending descriptions of the conditions in the camps, but these were followed by sighs of relief. The older women in the family had begun to cry for their daughters. Compelled by wailing women, the elders of our community decided to leave soon.

  Rolling pins, rolling boards, pillows, utensils, bowls, bedsheets, plates, calendars—we spread everything out on mats and began to sell them, the way we had seen other Hindus do. Migration required money, at least the fare, and this was made possible only by selling household wares. Pots and pans and everything that could fetch money was laid out for sale. Nobody was ready to buy property, because it was immovable. Muslims knew all this. Helpless, we were compelled to sell trivial objects for an anna or two, and began to put together two or three rupees each day.

  One day, I was at my shop and had laid out fresh calendars of the year 1948 that advertised Madrasi Beedi, Pyaari Beedi. One of the Pathan boys named Gaffur (an old classmate of mine) came and stood by my shop. He took one calendar from the stack and began to look at it intently. He then folded it up and took to his heels with the calendar clutched under his arm. My head reeled with anger, and without a moment’s delay, I chased him. Fuming and frothing, with not a thought about the shop, I chased the Pathan boy. I ran after him, as he ran through lanes and alleys, crossed the Veero Waaro Irani well, jumped over the Sidhwani haveli, scrambled through several neighbourhoods and finally reached his own Pathan neighbourhood. Close at his heels, I quickly caught him by the scruff of his neck. I was about to slap him when I noticed a crowd of Pathan boys and fearsome-looking men gather around us. Momentarily, I felt scared but I was young and also under the influence of stories of Hindu valour featuring Shivaji and Rana Pratap. My fingers went around Gaffur’s neck. Gaffur gasped in pain.

  From among the crowd of Pathans, a fairly senior Pathan came up and slapped Gaffur hard. My stomach lurched. My hold on Gaffur loosened and I let him go. ‘Lakha laanat athai chhora, shame on you,’ said the Pathan to Gaffur and slapped him once again. ‘Boy, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Can’t you go jump in a well? You are harassing these poor people. These vaanyas are having a hard time. They are leaving their homes and everything else. Here you are, stealing from them? Shameless fellow, return whatever it is you took from him.’

  Gaffur gave me back the crumpled calendar. On seeing this, the older Pathan hugged me, and very affectionately gave me a paisa, ‘Child, this is for the calendar. Gaffur has ruined it and you may not be able to sell it anymore. Go, child, nobody dare touch you. Go home.’

  I heard him say behind my back, ‘Poor banias, what do they know of fighting? We are harassing them, looting them and creating problems instead of helping them. They are leaving everything behind them. We should be ashamed of ourselves, we are not helping them, rather we are multiplying their miseries.’ Then to me, he said, ‘Go, child, go.’

  Thinking about it now, I realize that ordinary Muslims are not to be blamed for driving us out of Sindh. They wanted to us to live there, they did not want us to leave our homes and properties. It was the respectable leaders whom we looked up to and trusted, whom we expected to protect
us, who let us down. They are the ones responsible. And one of them was Khanumkhan Badraldin.

  In the Name of Allah

  IBRAHIM JOYO

  After the merciless grind of a rough day, how soothing it is to feel the balmy breeze in Karachi’s Burns Gardens, especially on a fresh spring evening! How refreshing it is! Enough to want to live, once again, yet another day! In the daytime, beautiful little birds flap energetically, winging their way to faraway places for a few grains. But as night falls, they return to the trees and congregate among the branches. There’s place enough for everyone at night: some little corner, a branch, a leaf. After a dreadful day, the sad earth comes to the closing hours with such quiet resolution, it’s like coming to the end of a mystery novel!

  Starting from the northern entrance of Burns Garden, is a forty-step-long footpath going west. About four or five gypsy families of the Gedri community had stayed there long enough to make it their home. This footpath stretched up to a corner in the west, and at the turning it continued for another forty steps past the gate of Muslim Law College, ending at the newly built mosque. Facing the mosque was a street with three rows of five-storey buildings that stared sternly at each other, and finally merged into Mcleod Road. Really speaking, the occupants of these buildings were some others, but once Pakistan was formed, ‘they’ went away to Hindustan and similar ‘others’, Allah’s loved ones, willy-nilly came to occupy the building. In fact, the mosque facing the Law College was an outcome of the religious sentiment of these Faithful Ones; it had formerly been a nursery that housed plants and shrubs from the Burns Garden.

  Over the years, the last days of Ramzan had fortunately coincided with gentle and auspicious weather. On one such pleasant evening, as I came out of Burns Garden after a walk, I saw on the footpath walking beside me, a Gedri child, somewhere between eight and ten years. His feet were bare, hair unkempt, and his body was covered with dust and a shalwar worn to shreds. He dragged along with him a handicapped sibling in a wooden cart who wailed, ‘I am hungry … I am helpless … babul … In the name of Allah …’ The heart-rending voice haunts me to this day.