Forgotten Tales

Stories. Yes, stories. All of us have stories which we either hold within themselves, or want to share. A lot of us are driven by these stories. But for many, stories are like warmth in a cold night, or cool breeze in a hot summer day.

In the context of the subcontinent, there are partition stories, belonging to people, who witnessed the horror, and suffered. There were also those who saw how things quickly changed, and as did people. The generation, which saw the event unfold, and was affected directly or indirectly, is coming to its end. Like every other generation before them, it must bid farewell. The people, who constitute this generation, will also be taking away stories with them; many of those will never be heard.

There is an old man, who lives in Hyderabad (Sindh). He is the caretaker of an old temple. He lives in a small quarter within the temple. I remember how he started telling me stories of a completely different time altogether.

I couldn’t go to India. I was a child then. My family had wanted to leave the town. The reason was the increasing violence throughout Hyderabad after Partition. The people we had known had left too, and it seemed senseless then to stay. Arrangements were made, but then something terrible happened. There was a death in the family, and we couldn’t. That, we found out later was our last chance to cross the border. We couldn’t leave and then made peace with the situation and stayed here. But things never remained the same. I have witnessed times change. This temple, my family used to visit it too. It was part of a bigger complex then but not anymore. Now I take care of the temple or whatever’s left of it. Those were different times, yes. I remember the evenings, there used to be these lamps there, the street lamps, yes, and they were lit up. There weren’t as many buildings here then.

All the stories he knows, a lot of them would neither be told, nor be heard.

During my visit to Muzaffarpur (Bihar) I came across a wonderful couple. A Sikh couple. They ran a small canteen/ shop in a market. The husband had seen Partition. He was from Sialkot, and on realizing that we were from Pakistan, he started telling his story.

I am from Sialkot. We had to leave it around Partition. I miss it. You have this strange relationship with the place you were in as a child. It stays with you. That is ours, so is this. I haven’t been able to visit Pakistan yet, I wish to visit Nankana Sahib too. One day, hopefully. It’s sad how much hatred there has been, and there still is.

During my visit to Ajmer, I came across a person who ran this small store, in the market near the Dargah of Khwaja Gharib Nawaz. On finding out that I was from Pakistan, he shared:

Pakistan yes, I have a connection with Pakistan. My relatives are there, but I haven’t been in touch with them for a long time now. They are in Karachi. So many years have passed…

My maternal grandmother, who had been in Delhi during Partition, still tells a lot of stories. The following tragic tale is one of those:

There was madness all of a sudden. We were told to go indoors, and lock the doors. We could hear people shouting. They were running to safety. Once the mayhem ceased, we discovered that one of our relatives, a woman, was missing. She was looked for, but in vain. She never came back.

There is someone who lives in a Pre-Partition building in Hyderabad. He was a just a child when the carnage of Partition changed things forever.

My father, who had been a civil surgeon, came back from Bombay. He had been there for his own treatment. When he had gone, India was still undivided. When he came back, the Partition had already taken place. On reaching Hyderabad, and contacting the authorities, he was told to leave Pakistan as the country was not his anymore. He was shocked, and so was my mother. He told them that he served here in the hospital but they refused to listen to him. There were legal proceedings; my father had wanted to fight the authorities and demand justice. But that never happened. He died afterwards in a land that he called his own, and had been taken away from him.

These are just four little stories. There is an infinite number of those out there. Some will never be heard, or told. Some will find a different form, and be told. Some will become part of the universe, in a different manifestation. But the stories, in whole or parts, will always stay there. Reminding us of Partition, a different time and a lot of things which should not be forgotten and somethings to be learnt from.