‘The Partition’ in the northern region is
dreadfully referred to as ‘maar-kaat’—mayhem or bloodshed. The canal passing
through my village had corpses floating in it then. War cries of “Har har
Mahadev” and “Naar-e-Taqbeer Allah-o-Akbar” ranted the streets when
communally frenzied communities on both sides of the divide, particularly
during the unearthly dark hours.
My father had a narrow escape since for his
flaunting long hair, he was perceived to be a Muslim and the attackers’ spear
stopped just short of puncturing his chest, when a local guy accompanying him
announced it to the aggressors—“Hey! It is the Zaildar’s son-in-law! This
happened close to Delhi in a village from where my mother came. Father used to
tell us about the situation prevalent during the maar-kaat.
My grandfather had a very dear friend in
Chaudhary Fazal Hussain. He was a
Railway Contractor and his business extended from Delhi
Anta was surrounded by other Muslim dominated villages like Urlana, Nimnabad, Barod, Didwada etc. where my grandfather exercised enough influence over other powerful zamindars and clan-chiefs. Muslims en masse deposed their faith in him. My grandfather had a gun which was a rare possession amongst the locals in those days. He was also held in awe by the trouble-makers.
When the maar-kaat began, till a
considerably long time he did not allow Muslims to leave their place of home
and hearth. He became a strong-wall
between the communally frenzied people on both sides. One night grandfather got
information that the trouble makers had spread a word in the Muslim dominated
villages that he (my grandfather) had buckled under pressure from his fellow-flock
and that he had decided to stay calm in case they continued with their lynching
of the Muslims.
He mounted his horse and accompanied by a
couple of guards galloped to the Muslim villages, where people in large groups
had prepared to leave the place in caravans.
Grandfather’s imploration and assurance to the Muslims then did not have
much ice to cut with them on the issue of his single minded and single handed
support. The local Muslim leaders
beseeched of him to ‘just let them go then’.
Next to come as a shock for grandfather was Fazal
Hussain’s decision to migrate. His wife left all her jewellery in my
grandmother hands which was restored to them when the couple visited our
village seven years later. They narrated stories of the dreaded maar-kaat and
their making it to a safe haven in Pakistan. Their family settled happily there
in due course and we kept receiving letters from them which my father when read
them to us had a chocked throat and moist eyes.
The only one from Fazal Hussain’s family to
stay in our house was Abdullah who we all fondly called Dada Abdullah. He wore typically embroidered kurtas
and extra loose pyjamas. He
always smelt of fragrance of some kind of an ittar or other. He ate his meals in our household and there
were no separate utensils kept for him as was the practice in those days. Dada
Abdullah had a weird habbit of vanishing without leaving information. We heard
he too went to Pakistan later. Never to return. Letters from Fazal Hussain’s
sons kept reaching us. One day a missive that my shocked father read out to us
declared Fazal Hussain’s death—“Abbu bhi is jehan-e-fani se kooch farma gaye!”
Another letter informed about Abdullah’s
death—“Taya ji bhi faut ho gaye!” we never heard anything thereafter.
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