Living with piercing pangs of Partition
Every afternoon when Raunaq, my nine-year- old granddaughter from London, and I sit down for lunch at the dining table, she asks, “Nanaji, what do we discuss today?” Being Independence Day, she wanted to talk about the independence of India.
I told her about the Partition, the Radcliffe Line and the riots that followed between Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims. I explained to her that in August 1947, when after 300 years in India, the British finally left, the subcontinent was partitioned into two independent nations: the Hindu-majority India and the Muslim-majority Pakistan. Immediately, there began one of the greatest migrations in human history. Nearly 15 million people were displaced and over one million killed. I was reminded of a story my mother told me during my childhood about her time during Partition.
My mother was doing her MBBS from Lady Harding Medical College, New Delhi, in 1946. When she joined, there was a Muslim girl, Razia from Lahore who was her roommate. She came from a rich landlord family. When Razia moved in, there was a retinue of servants who had come to set up her hostel room. There was a special bed, study table, chairs and carpets. When she saw my mother, who was simple as my grandfather was just a mistri (technician) in a kirpan (sword) factory in Amritsar, Razia immediately sent all her belongings back to Lahore and decided to use the furnishings provided by the hostel authorities. My mother was eventually the topper and won the gold medal on passing out.
There were three girls who became close friends; my mother (Joginder), Razia and Manorma. Razia was engaged to a boy from a rich landlord family also in Lahore. Farzan was aristocratic, articulate, handsome and fair. He had studied law from Oxford University, UK, and would often come to meet her at the hostel. Being a women’s hostel, visitors were to wait near the gate and the students had to come down to meet them.
When Partition happened, large-scale riots broke out in New Delhi. The army started firing in Connaught Place, close to Lady Harding College, to disperse the crowd. My mother and her two friends went to the rooftop of the hostel to see how the gun shots were being fired. My mother called out to her friends, “Aao dekhiye golian kiddan chaldiyan ne (Come let’s see how bullets are fired)”. Obviously they could not see anything, just the sound of the gunshots.
After some time, the hostel guard came to them and said to Razia, “Madamji, aap ke mangetar Farzanji gate par ayein hein aapko milnay (Madam, your fiancée has come to meet you).” Razia rushed down to the gate to meet Farzan. What she saw was shocking. But she did not cry, instead she started laughing. She called out to my mother and said, “Joginder, tu dekhna chandi si na ki golian kiddan chaldian ne. Aa teinu mai dikhavan (You wanted to see how bullets are fired? Let me show you)”. As my mother reached the gate, Razia pointed to Farzan’s body. A crowd had gathered outside and killed him.
Razia returned to Lahore. A lot of lives were ruined during Partition for no fault of theirs.
Razia left for London to complete her MBBS and followed it up with MSC from the US. During the 1980s, Razia and Manorma came to meet my mother in Chandigarh. Both were practising physicians in Boston. Razia never married. When my mom asked her why, she said, “Kadi duja Farzan hi nahi mileya (I didn’t find another Farzan)”.
On hearing the story, Raunaq said, “Nanaji, God is so peaceful, but why does religion teach us to hate each other?”
MY GRANDDAUGHTER ASKED, “GOD IS SO PEACEFUL, BUT WHY DOES RELIGION TEACH US TO HATE EACH OTHER?”