‘After my father died, my mother Sarladevi, my sister Urmil, who was only seven days old, and I went to live with Lalaji and his large family in Jarnawala.’
by Sandeep Virmani
They say if you look deep and long enough at the flowing waters of a river, they have stories to tell! These come from the mighty Indus or the ‘Sindhu’ in whose arms, from Ravi to Chenab, these events unfold. Narrated by Narendra Malik — Nandi as we call him in the family – these stories cover the formative 10 years of his life when he was 5 years old in Pakistan (then undivided India) until he crossed the border into India at the age of 15. Through his memories, we discover the life of his grandfather, fondly called Lalaji.
1. Piplan – Early Years
In the late 20th century, Piplan in Mianwali district was a village trying to be a town. That is to say it was small enough that every one knew one another, but perhaps not everyone. It had farms so it was a village but then it was also increasingly becoming a trade centre for fine cotton. It was growing just enough for the tongawalla (horse cart) to make a living ferrying people from the main bazaar to their homes. With a population of over 3,000 people, she was in those days, almost a town.
But on the banks of the Indus, Piplan was dwarfed and there wasn’t a place in the city where the river’s omnipotent presence was not felt. If you came from Kalabaug 80 km upstream the Indus was beginning to slow down here, but it was still fast enough to see white crests on ripples in the river, for the ferry to make an effort to cross. In the distance one could see the bare rugged mountains from where the river entered the plains. Piplan was one of the few cities in our district connected by rail. As one entered the station through the arched gateway, even before the platform, a large pipal tree greeted the travellers. It was a place where all good Hindus asked for blessings for a safe journey. Next to the tree was a well, where an old woman sat with large matkas (clay pots) covered in jute offering free water to the thirsty travellers who entered Piplan. Along with the Indus, this benevolent tree gave the city her name and identity.
In the year 1886, Uttam was a mere child when he stood on the banks, his heart filled with a craving desire – the desire to attend school and fulfil his dream of becoming a doctor. Every morning, when the two-horse buggy carrying Dr. Hemraj Rai Bahadur Malik, the local civil surgeon, crossed the Mianwali Main Street on its way to the civil hospital, he would stand gazing at it, transfixed and awed. But there were many impediments on his path. After all, he was only a farmer’s son and his father had scoffed at him and told him to stop thinking beyond his caste. In the British Raj, medical college was only open to convent-educated students. To be a doctor he had to, somehow, get admission into the missionary school that he could see across the river. He would sit on the banks of the river every evening, and watch the setting sun light up the two-storied school building at the foot of the majestic mountains.
One day he mustered the strength to approach his father in the fields as he was harnessing the bulls with the plough. He stood behind him and blurted, “Bapu, I want to go to St. Thomas school to study!” Without turning around his father said they couldn’t afford the ferry ride every day. Uttam returned to the river that evening, sullen and forlorn. Then on a sudden impulse and with full clarity of intent he did what all good Hindus believe in. Putting his faith to test in the river… he dived!
All rivers are personifications of goddesses but not the Sindhu, which is the personification of a ‘brave warrior’. No wonder then that it carried our ‘brave little warrior’ in his arms, taking him safely across the river. Drenched to the bone, shivering in his shorts and vest, Uttam appeared before the principal of the school, begging to be given admission. Moved by the child’s determination the principal agreed. And so every day Uttam would swim across the river, change into his uniform to attend classes and return in the evening leaving his clothes and books behind in school, only to swim across again the next morning!
And this was how the young Uttam finished school, went on to get a scholarship to go to medical college and eventually became Dr. Uttamchand Ahuja who joined the prestigious Provincial Civil Medical Services (PCMS).
2. Jarnawala – A Doctor
This story unfolds during his posting at Jarnawala, 300 km from Piplan across the river Chenab. In those times, doctors were rare, and most Indian doctors belonged to prestigious families and served under the British regime. Dr. Ahuja’s modest background helped him connect with the plebeians and their ailments, much better than most. It is hard to imagine today but barely a century ago, when people aged they often retired from active work despite being able in body and mind, only because they suffered from cataract of the eyes. His father’s close friend Dharamraj was barely 45 years old when his father brought him to Uttam, with the promise that his eyesight would be restored by his son.
For more than 2,000 years a unique technique called couching was already prevalent in India, where the white sheath was pushed out of the way of the vision, however it was not known in this region. Uttam knew that French and English doctors had developed the ability to carefully remove the blurred sheath from under the cornea and restore the eyesight. He wanted to learn this surgery, but found no one to help him. Frustrated that he could not help his father’s friend, one day as he took a stroll on the banks of the Indus, the same clarity and determination kicked in. He was a stubborn man and if put down, an inner energy spurred him to counter the odds. He decided to train himself! He imported the books on the surgical procedure for cataract from England, and studied them. He bought the surgical tools and with the help of books he instructed his assistant on the procedure. And so it was that early one morning exactly one year after Dharamraj was first brought to him, Dr. Uttamchand performed his first and successful cataract surgery under a banyan tree near the Mianwali talaab!
Lalaji, as Dr. Uttamchand Ahuja was called fondly, was my Nanaji. I was barely 5, but the image is clear as crystal in my mind. Every afternoon in the winters, Lalaji would call out to Naniji that he was leaving, “! जा रया आe!” Outside, waiting beside his favourite and personally trained Sindhi brown horse, was his assistant, ready with the operation equipment. They would leave for some remote village along with a client, and return late at night after another successful surgery under a tree. He was a man of science, and little concerned with religion and commerce. He never asked his patients for money and they gave what they saw fit to Naniji as they left. Naniji put the money into a pillow cover until it was deposited in the bank.
He was a learned man, and had studied the Koran, the Bible and various Hindu scriptures particularly the Bhramo and Arya Samaj texts. But was convinced that religion divided people and science will bring them together. But science had not dimmed his emotions. He was a philosophic man and I used to relish his poetry recitals ((रो-शायरी) in the horse cart when the family travelled together. I can proudly say that my early years and beliefs were moulded by Lalaji.
3. Jarnawala – The Family
My father died of a spinal fever when I was just over two years old. He too was a doctor, but he lay bedridden for 2 or maybe 3 weeks unable to diagnose why he felt so weak. Lalaji warned him that he perhaps had been stricken by this rare disease, but by then it was already too late. After my father died, my mother Sarladevi, my sister Urmil, who was only seven days old, and I went to live with Lalaji and his large family in Jarnawala.
My mother was the eldest of 5 children – 4 daughters followed by Navin the only son. It was rumoured that there was another son, Puran, who had, at a young age been entangled in the ropes of the well behind our house and had fallen to his death into the waters below. His howl still resonated in the minds of the family and the painful memory was not openly discussed.
Lalaji was a progressive man even with regard to women. Far from protecting my widowed mother he wanted her to be independent. So he sat her down to discuss her future. My mother had only studied upto the 8th standard. She said she wanted to study further, but was too old now. But Lalaji bolstered his daughter’s determination and got her admission to complete her matriculation in Jarnawala. She went on to live in a hostel in Lahore, 120 km away from home, and completed what was then a course to become a teacher, called JAV (Junior Anglo-Vernacular) at the prestigious Lady Maclagan College. She later returned to Okara, where we had moved from Jarnawala, and taught there at the local government school until we migrated to India.
I had 3 maasis… no 4 actually. One of my maasis, Kamala, was born strange. Well, her eyes were deep and pensive, but were spaced a little more widely than usual. She had a frown or perhaps heavy eyebrows… one couldn’t be sure. But Lalaji knew immediately that little Kamala was mentally retarded. He did not share this with the rejoicing household, but for two nights he did not sleep. Kamala had two elder sisters, and Navin, his son was not born then. He felt an uneasy hollowness in his stomach wondering who would take care of her when he and his wife were dead and gone. One night he woke up in a cold sweat, feeling exhausted but with a clear realization of what needed to be done.
It was early, the household was still asleep as the sky was changing colour. His wife, Kesrabai, didn’t stir when he slipped out of bed. He picked up their sleeping baby and headed to the room that was used as a clinic if patients came home. As the latch chain dropped, the dog was startled and growled. On seeing it was only Lalaji, he went back to sleep. He placed Kamala on the examination table and lit a lamp, putting it on a ledge above. He turned away to prepare the injection but when he turned back to face Kamala, her eyes were open and looking straight at him. They were dark and deep and trusting. But Lalaji’s hands did not tremble as he pushed the plunger emptying the contents of the barrel into the child’s arm.
It must have been a few minutes, but Lalaji had lost all sense of time. He hung between life and death along with Kamala. Her eyes did not stop looking at him, but her skin began to rapidly turn colour. “It was bluish, I think, at any rate darker”, he admitted to my wife, Uma, many years later. He told her he couldn’t take this story to his grave, and had to share this with someone.
It was her eyes, those deep trusting eyes that sent him into a panic, he said. He quickly washed the syringe and filled it with an antidote. His hands were trembling now, and his eyes blurred, but he managed to apply the antidote. Her eyes closed. He was sweating and his chest pounded, and this time it was an eternity before Kamala’s tender skin regained its pinkness. He sighed with relief, pressing the flame of the lamp shut with his fingers. Even in the darkness he could see Kamala looking at him… with the same trusting eyes.
Kamala was sitting on the floor, a few yards away. She was fifty now, playing with a piece of string. She looked up and said “पपाजी वेखो!”, and Lalaji awkwardly rose and reached out to the string she offered, “हॉ, मेरे पुत्तर…”.
4. Okara – A Good Life
About 360 km from Mianwali a new city was being built. Okara was to be a catalyst to business and trade. With a population of 10,000, even bigger than Miawali, Okara was a planned city with a broad central business street, unlike the narrow twisting and turning lanes of traditional towns. A cinema and the railway station graced this main street. It was an ambitious project and the proponents were inviting the best people to settle there to ensure the city’s economy flourished and had good services. The Birlas – an upcoming business house – had set up a cotton mill called ‘Sutlej’, the Virmanis’ had set up a flour mill and Dr. Uttamchand Ahuja was invited to run a hospital for the city. Lalaji told them that he did not have the money to set up a hospital. But his friends resolved to collect the money and build it for him, only if he agreed! After some deliberation in the family, Lalaji agreed, but on condition that he would repay the cost of the hospital in instalments. He went on to set up a clinic in town and a hospital for cataract surgery in his 50 acre farm, four miles outside Okara. The hospital was well equipped, including beds for patients and residences for the staff.
In 1932 when I was 2 or 3 years old, our family shifted to Okara. Lalaji was an important and respected member of the elite of the city. He was the personal physician and family doctor of Chowdhury Kartar Singh, the MLA of Punjab. Lala Durgadas Bhatia, the President of the Municipality of Okara, was his close friend. Lala Durgadas later become the Mayor of Amritsar, and an MP of India, after Partition.
Lalaji was a fashionable man. He wore the Punjabi two-piece muslin turban tied around a soft conical kulla. Although he was modest with the size of the turra, or crest, he sported a reasonably long tail. He enjoyed wearing the best silk from China, called ‘Do Ghoda Bosky‘, a yellowish golden silk that did not crease. And when Lalaji alighted in the evenings from his Alvis silver crest convertible to attend social functions in the city, he made quite a striking impression. Our home was large with many rooms, perhaps 8 to 10, and food was cooked knowing that there will always be guests. Nani managed the house with great ease, while Bhabhi supervised the servants. We had a large store with all the rations, including maize and potatoes grown on our own farm. It had stocks more than required for the whole year. Every morning a boy brought fresh vegetables, fruits and milk on a cycle from our farm outside the city. We had the best animals – Saiwal cows and Nili Ravi buffaloes – on our farm.
I was considered Lalaji’s son. Navin, his actual son, was 10 years older than me, and spent little time at home. He was studying in the government college in Lahore and later went on to do his medicine in Amritsar. Whenever guests visited, I was sent with them for shopping. In some ways I was Lalaji’s ‘credit card’, since on seeing me with the guests no shopkeeper asked them to pay for purchases. In fact, often the whole thaan of cloth was sent home, with a darzi in tow, to stitch the salwar suits!
I was quite popular in town. I played hockey and invited friends to play badminton on our court at home. I always topped the class, but my teacher would complain to Lalaji, “Narendra is completely unpredictable, Lalaji, he will fail or come first! That is because he never does as he is told. He wants to use his own head for every thing!” Every year the notice board in school, displayed the toppers name of the matriculation results, and I was determined to make Lalaji proud, by having my name displayed too, when I passed the 10th standard.
When important guests were sitting in the verandah with Lalaji, I would reply questions in English, to the surprise of everyone. I had learnt English by listening to the news on our radio. Not many homes possessed radios then, but we had a rosewood Westinghouse. I was barely 10 years old but I made it a point to sit with Lalaji every evening at 9 pm and listen to the BBC news for 15 minutes. Later I would ask Lalaji about the news and he would patiently reveal the ways of the world to me.
5. Okara – The Migration
It was one such evening on the 1st of September 1939, when we heard Prime Minister Neville Chamberlin warn Hitler to withdraw from Poland else Britain would be at war with Germany! Lalaji was worried as knew that this could drag India into the war and so wanted to know what Gandhi had to say. It was perhaps World War II that began to shape my understanding of politics and the notion of Independence.
The Indian National Congress agreed to support Britain on the condition that India would be granted freedom, but Britain refused. India had sent more than 2.5 million soldiers to support the Allies in Africa, South-East countries, Italy and Germany itself. With Britain dependent on India’s participation, INC under the leadership of Gandhi, decided to push for independence and declared the ‘Quit India Movement’ in 1942. As Gandhi’s unique methods of non-violent protest and non-cooperation began to galvanise an entire nation, the excitement mounted. The notion of independence was no longer in the realm of struggles by some freedom fighters, but entered the imagination of the common person. In Okara’s drawing rooms while sipping tea or at street corners while chewing paan – the city would meet to discuss the contours of this new idea. Lalaji’s verandah was no exception, and as hot chai and iced shikanjvi (lemon juice) flowed alternately from the kitchen, I would sit on the boundary wall soaking in the excitement.
Lalaji respected Mahatma Gandhi and was influenced by Nehru’s vision of a free India. But Jinnah’s two-nation proposal began to create worries in Punjab. Jinnah had proposed that Punjab remain with Pakistan. Gandhi was surprised that the division of India could be considered at all and Gaffar Khan, a rising Pashtu leader from North West Frontier, opposed the proposition. Chowdhury Kartar Singh was on his way back from a meeting in Amritsar, with the Sikh leader Master Tara Singh, and we in Okara were keen to know what the Sikhs felt about these developments. They were a significant force along side the Muslims, and their opinions would steer the future of Hindus as well. So as he entered the meeting everyone turned to see what news he had brought. He declared, “The Sikhs will never agree to be under Muslim rule!”
In 1944, worries deepened when INC proposed a plebiscite to decide if Punjab should remain with Pakistan or India. People in Okara were no longer sure if independence augured well for them. There was turmoil in the city.
It was in these circumstances when suddenly news came that Gandhi was visiting Okara. There was the excitement of seeing the great man, but also trepidation, as his decisions were going to influence the future of Okara’s people, and everybody was anxious to know what he was going to do. I took Lalaji’s permission to go with my friends. The ground was swarming with people with nationalistic songs blaring on loudspeakers. Intermittently slogans of ‘Inquilaab… zindabaad!’ would rent the air. My friends and I were sitting on the branches of an okan tree. Just before Bapu’s arrival, his favourite bhajan, ‘Vaishnav Jan To‘ began to play. I do not remember what he said, because I was transfixed by his diminutive size and humble presence. He hardly had the physical attributes of a hero, he did not even wear a turban on his head, and yet he commanded such reverence.
That night, Lalaji came home looking tired. He placed his pagdi slowly on the table and said to Nani, “Gandhi too is offering Jinnah a plebiscite to decide our fate.” Lalaji was an emotional man, but rarely expressive. His voice wavered as he said, “Today, for the first time in my life, I realize that I am a Hindu.”
The next day the gathering on our verandah was the largest I had ever seen. Chowdhury Kartar Singh was furious with INC and Muslim League for not consulting the Sikhs. He said, “Let Punjab be divided, but the Sikhs will not be under Muslim rule! The Sikhs want their own state, their own homeland!” Though Okara was evenly balanced, the Hindu businessmen were quietly conscious, that the Muslims marginally exceeded the combined strength of Hindus and Sikhs in the district of Montgomery. No one articulated it, and no one wanted to believe that they might have to leave their homes and their neighbours, and venture into an uncertain future. Lalaji had no intentions of leaving. The Sikhs and Muslims wanted their separate homelands, but for Lalaji Okara was home, and all the communities of this city were his family. There was hardly anyone who did not know him, respect him, and as a doctor there was hardly a family in Okara who had not been treated by him.
It was the beginning of 1947, and no one in Okara could have predict the events or the speed with which things began to unfold. In March the Punjab Assembly voted for the bifurcation of Punjab. For the first time, Muslims and Sikhs who had together fought the British troops turned upon each other. In Rawalpindi a Muslim mob killed some Sikhs, including some Hindus. Master Tara Singh, declared ‘Death to Pakistan’. The British troops were deployed to maintain peace, but sporadic violence kept erupting. The British were depleted after the war and having resigned themselves to the fact that India was no longer going to be a British territory, they were impatient and wanted quick solutions to knotty problems like the bifurcation of Punjab. They saw this as India and Pakistan’s problem now. They disbanded the British Indian army, sending home more than a million Sikhs, Hindu and Muslim Punjabis. It was like the floor slipped out from under our feet! The precarious calm held in place by British presence, broke.
On 15th August when the rest of India rejoiced, I sat alone with Lalaji in the verandah in Okara. I have coined a word for what I felt that evening – anxitement. It was an ambivalent feeling that has never left me since. I was excited about our distant unknown future… if only we could get to it! Our ‘tryst with destiny’ looked bleak. We did not even know if Okara was going to be in India or Pakistan! That was the last time I listened to our Westinghouse radio, to Pandit Nehru declare freedom. Without looking at me, Lalaji, shut the radio and slowly rose to go to bed.
It was calm, completely still actually. Even the pointed needle-like leaves of the okan in our courtyard, that always danced making a rasping sound, were quiet that evening. I don’t know how long I sat in the chair listening to the darkness, but the knock on the door came like a shock, shattering the silence that had descended on everything.
A crowd led by Lala Durgadas Bhatia, the Mayor, entered the courtyard. They wanted sanctuary in our home. 7-8 members of Master Tara Singh’s family had been hacked when they were on their way from Faruka to Sillanwali railway station, trying to leave Pakistan. There was fear of backlash and the Muslims in Okara were gathering in the Masjid. They pleaded with Lalaji that ours was the safest place for the Hindus. Lalaji had the respect and love of both the communities, besides he was a doctor, known for being non-partisan and non-political. Nani stood at the door of the bedroom. Without turning around, he welcomed everyone to bring in their families.
Nani woke up Bhabhi and they went to the store to open the kitchen, and prepare khichadi for everyone.
Lala Durgadas sat Lalaji down held his hand and said, “They killed everyone! In Piplan hundreds of Hindus were waiting on the railway station for the train to India. It took them less than an hour to massacre them. There were so many bodies, and they dumped them into the well. The tree must’ve been a mute witness and wept all night, because in the morning the tree was gone!” Both men broke down in each other’s arms.
In the morning Lalaji was a different man. He called me into his room opened an old trunk and brought out three rifles, some cartridges and gave them to me. He said, “Get your friends together. You are responsible for the protection of our guests.” He called Chaudhury Kartar Singh and asked him to make arrangements for the safe passage of the Hindus to India. I gathered my friends. We were six of us. For the next three nights we sat on the terrace, taking turns to keep watch. Finally, two omni buses arrived one evening. For protection we had 6 policemen. While the guests and Nani supervised the closing of the house, Lalaji stood at the foot of the okan tree in our courtyard. Okara was earlier called Okan-wali when we shifted to the city. They say okan means ‘महरबान दोस्त’ or considerate friend.
In the quiet of the night as the omnis slowly rolled out onto the Main Street, the okan trees lining the road shed their flowers. They say the okans in Okara never bear fruit any more.
Sandeep Virmani is an environmentalist and architect. He lives in Kutch, Gujarat and has helped set up two institutions over the past 35 years. He looks to painting, storytelling, yoga and the fascinating world of insects to fuel his forays at work. Virmani is Narendra Malik’s nephew.
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