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The Divided Heart - an Indo-Pak Story (Part 2)
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Part 2:
I went along with baba to my distant cousin's marriage in Lahore. The only reason I went is that it was in Lahore. After the wedding, I strolled across the streets of Lahore. I adore Lahore so much, it always intrigues me to the best. The evening markets are my favorite relishing points, carrying a lot of life. People move in between the stall holders, trying to push the people in front of them harder, to unload their wares. Baba and I purchased a new turban for Gurman and a bottle of Arabic perfume to Habeeb chacha.
Something seemed to worry baba. He seemed perturbed ever since the wedding. When I asked him about that, he said he wasn't feeling well. On our return journey, I insisted baba to travel on the newly laid train from Lahore to Amritsar. He agreed. We bought a newspaper and made ourselves comfortable. Baba's mood hadn't changed; I wondered if baba was still unwell.
After sometime, baba slipped into a nap and I picked Nawa-i-waqt newspaper which we purchased earlier. Every column of it was filled with the articles about dividing India into two parts. One of the article went like this
"The entire nation is facing rampant communal riots, hundreds already dead in the consequence. The Radcliff line is the culprit, many lives depend on the impending decision of its location. Many villages were burnt, leaving no trace of life. Hindus and Sikhs killed Muslims in the Eastern Punjab, while Muslims killed Sikhs and Hindus in its western counterpart. The atrocities have no limits, men burnt alive, women raped and children murdered. And the British is enjoying the play, delaying the Radcliffe line announcement to weaken the unity. The British should act as fast as possible to avoid any more human loss.
A short, stern looking Caucasian man, who doesn't understand the Indian culture, is going to swoop out a decision based on a few statistics without considering the spirit of unity. How unfair is this? How can we allow the British to shape the most important decision which shapes the future of millions of people, the future of communities, the future of families?"
The newspaper was filled with many other articles mentioning the opinions of great leaders like Gandhi, Jinnah, Nehru, how the riots started, Lahore's position etc.. and my eyes became wet after seeing Bilal's name in the list of villages which got burnt the last day.
What happened to our Bilal? Is Gurman okay? Is this why baba is worried? My heart started to pound loudly, louder than the steam engine of the train.
Though I heard about gory stories from Habeeb chacha, the stories of brewing communal riots, I couldn't fathom the fact that Bilal, my Bilal would find a place in that shame.
I couldn't control my anguish and I started to cry loudly.
Baba woke up, intermitting my thoughts. He saw the newspaper in my hands and he hugged me tightly, with his tear-soaked face touching my shoulder.
The train reached Bilal just then. A deep fear invoked by heart, overlayed by grief. I caught hold of baba's hand tightly and got down the train. Somewhere in my heart, I felt like going into that train and never return again. Everyone will be okay; I told myself to soothe my heart.
Baba carefully drove me from the streets where there is Mohammedan majority to ensure my safety. On familiar streets, I closed my eyes, fearing to see any disturbing scenes.
The entire place is a devastation; a few corpses already started to rot, a few houses burned to the void, a few empty. The same Bilal, which once boasted the grandeur and regality became a grotesque piece of rubble, the place once puffed its chest for the unity of communities is no where to be seen; all I could see was the dogs hungry for power and control.
I felt ashamed to be part of that village. Hatred towards the people deepened when I saw the corpse of Rajji, our neighborhood friend lying in a pool of blood. Her body was lying in front of her house, completely battered with broken bangles and a torn dupatta. Her family members lay dead not far from her and their house shaped to ashes.
All I could was cry, cry till my eyes become dry, cry loud enough to carry my prayers to the skies. I could hear her screams, I could see her struggling to fight, I could hear her begging those monsters to leave her alone, I could see her taking her last breath.
I bent down on my knees and prayed Allah to grant peace to her poor soul, take her far away from these cold blooded people.
"How can they kill her? She's barely of my age and Gurman's," I asked baba who was sobbing.
The word Gurman hit me like a lightning. "Gurman, Gurman, is he okay?", my words came stammering. Tell me baba, is he okay?
"No, don't go there. It's not safe. Gurman will be okay", baba tried to console me, utterly failing. He tried to drag me away from there. I resisted, I pushed him away and I ran, I ran fast to the street where Gurman lived.
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End of part 2
Read part 1 Part 3
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I went along with baba to my distant cousin's marriage in Lahore. The only reason I went is that it was in Lahore. After the wedding, I strolled across the streets of Lahore. I adore Lahore so much, it always intrigues me to the best. The evening markets are my favorite relishing points, carrying a lot of life. People move in between the stall holders, trying to push the people in front of them harder, to unload their wares. Baba and I purchased a new turban for Gurman and a bottle of Arabic perfume to Habeeb chacha.
Something seemed to worry baba. He seemed perturbed ever since the wedding. When I asked him about that, he said he wasn't feeling well. On our return journey, I insisted baba to travel on the newly laid train from Lahore to Amritsar. He agreed. We bought a newspaper and made ourselves comfortable. Baba's mood hadn't changed; I wondered if baba was still unwell.
After sometime, baba slipped into a nap and I picked Nawa-i-waqt newspaper which we purchased earlier. Every column of it was filled with the articles about dividing India into two parts. One of the article went like this
"The entire nation is facing rampant communal riots, hundreds already dead in the consequence. The Radcliff line is the culprit, many lives depend on the impending decision of its location. Many villages were burnt, leaving no trace of life. Hindus and Sikhs killed Muslims in the Eastern Punjab, while Muslims killed Sikhs and Hindus in its western counterpart. The atrocities have no limits, men burnt alive, women raped and children murdered. And the British is enjoying the play, delaying the Radcliffe line announcement to weaken the unity. The British should act as fast as possible to avoid any more human loss.
A short, stern looking Caucasian man, who doesn't understand the Indian culture, is going to swoop out a decision based on a few statistics without considering the spirit of unity. How unfair is this? How can we allow the British to shape the most important decision which shapes the future of millions of people, the future of communities, the future of families?"
The newspaper was filled with many other articles mentioning the opinions of great leaders like Gandhi, Jinnah, Nehru, how the riots started, Lahore's position etc.. and my eyes became wet after seeing Bilal's name in the list of villages which got burnt the last day.
What happened to our Bilal? Is Gurman okay? Is this why baba is worried? My heart started to pound loudly, louder than the steam engine of the train.
Though I heard about gory stories from Habeeb chacha, the stories of brewing communal riots, I couldn't fathom the fact that Bilal, my Bilal would find a place in that shame.
I couldn't control my anguish and I started to cry loudly.
Baba woke up, intermitting my thoughts. He saw the newspaper in my hands and he hugged me tightly, with his tear-soaked face touching my shoulder.
The train reached Bilal just then. A deep fear invoked by heart, overlayed by grief. I caught hold of baba's hand tightly and got down the train. Somewhere in my heart, I felt like going into that train and never return again. Everyone will be okay; I told myself to soothe my heart.
Baba carefully drove me from the streets where there is Mohammedan majority to ensure my safety. On familiar streets, I closed my eyes, fearing to see any disturbing scenes.
The entire place is a devastation; a few corpses already started to rot, a few houses burned to the void, a few empty. The same Bilal, which once boasted the grandeur and regality became a grotesque piece of rubble, the place once puffed its chest for the unity of communities is no where to be seen; all I could see was the dogs hungry for power and control.
I felt ashamed to be part of that village. Hatred towards the people deepened when I saw the corpse of Rajji, our neighborhood friend lying in a pool of blood. Her body was lying in front of her house, completely battered with broken bangles and a torn dupatta. Her family members lay dead not far from her and their house shaped to ashes.
All I could was cry, cry till my eyes become dry, cry loud enough to carry my prayers to the skies. I could hear her screams, I could see her struggling to fight, I could hear her begging those monsters to leave her alone, I could see her taking her last breath.
I bent down on my knees and prayed Allah to grant peace to her poor soul, take her far away from these cold blooded people.
"How can they kill her? She's barely of my age and Gurman's," I asked baba who was sobbing.
The word Gurman hit me like a lightning. "Gurman, Gurman, is he okay?", my words came stammering. Tell me baba, is he okay?
"No, don't go there. It's not safe. Gurman will be okay", baba tried to console me, utterly failing. He tried to drag me away from there. I resisted, I pushed him away and I ran, I ran fast to the street where Gurman lived.
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End of part 2
Read part 1 Part 3
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