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For me, to go to Faridabad, crossing the Delhi-Haryana border, is excitement
enough; you can well imagine what an international border can do to me. The
Camelot you have been ever after might well be on the other side of the line - the
unfamiliar, the unattainable, the unimaginable.
But there are two ogres one has to always face before stepping into the paradisal
unknown: the Immigration Officer and the Customs Officer. Never have I seen
suspicion lurking so forcefully in anyone than these menaces. For them every
person is a dodger and a criminal, and they give you a mean eye even before you
have placed your documents in front of them. All my tactics over the years to get
the better of them failed, and I have just returned home having been bruised and
humiliated in many such encounters with them yet again.
This is the right time for me to tell the story of how I once, in broad daylight,
crossed an international border at an unmarked place giving both these
functionaries the slip. This happened just once, but it was a memorable and a
historic occasion which I have relived in my mind several times over. I thought I
would narrate it when I had become famous; when I would be suitably garlanded and
feted and speeches made in my honour for the valour I had displayed. But since
fame has eluded me, and since life is slipping by, I might as well go ahead and
indulge myself now.
I must confess I wasn't the only one who showed that courage. There were thousands
upon thousands of my countrymen who did that too-in that emergency. Ale emergency
was the Partition of India in 1947, and people over a vast stretch of a newly
created border were trying to get to safety.
Most of the refugee convoys and trains in the Punjab then passed from one side to
the other through established cheek points, like Wagha near Amritsar. But there
were many who couldn't get into those convoys, and they had to make it on their
own.
Our family at that time had moved from Sialkot (ah, the glorious town!) to Jammu
in the State of Kashmir, but then we found ourselves in a cul-de-sac. India and
Pakistan were warring over the State, and there was no future for us there. My
father rightly felt we should get to India proper. My eldest sister had been
assassinated near Wazirabad-another psychological reason for us to get away from
that neighbourhood as quickly as possible. But all exits were closed and we
didn't know how. (Our own journey was quite different from what I have described
in Azadi).
My father carefully studied the local geography and marked out a route for us,
which was later to he taken by hundreds of others similarly trapped.
He saw that there was a kutcha but motorable road linking Jammu with Kathua-a town
facing Pathankot in India. The legendary Ravi can between the two towns, but if we
could reach Kathua, we could cross the Ravi and reach Pathankot. We were told
there was no bridge over the Ravi. This didn't deter my father. Rivers had been
crossed without bridges in history throughout and he and his family would do the
same.
Since there was no regular bus service between Jammu and Kathua, we set out one
morning in a battered lorry, packed with other refugees, hoping to reach Kathua by
evening. There was incessant rain all the way and we were obliged to spend the
night in a barn en route, only a few miles away from Pakistan. Throughout the
night we heard drums and other sounds coming from that direction. Residents in
the area had been attacked and butchered; the hostile mobs from over there could
as well do the same to us. We had no police or army protection with us either; we
were totally on our own. None of us slept a wink, and it was only the following
afternoon that we made it to Kathua-where we were stalled for 15 long days because
of the rain Finally the moment arrived when we were to tackle the Ravi. Because
of the heavy rains, the river was in spate and there were no boats around. My
father contacted some camel drivers nearby, and it was agreed that we would cross
the river on a camel train. The camels were supposed to be good swimmers. At
least so we were told by the camel drivers.
In retrospect, it seems simple and easy, but imagine the scenario, dear reader. A
tattered, shivering body of people, with hardly any belongings, trying to wade
through a rapidly flowing river on a cold wet day. On this side there was
uncertainty, even death; on the other lay freedom. The heroism, the tenacity and
the will of simple people in actual life far exceeds anything one can find in
fiction!
I think we had five camels. They were roped to each other for security. Our
meagre luggage was loaded on their humps, and on top of that shaky perch sat
we-two on a camel. For a while the camels just floated through water, and then
they began to swim. I would perhaps have been nervous but what engaged me was the
calm of the river-it was so quiet over there. There was no noise, no interruption,
not even a whisper. The pain of Partition was somewhat dissolved in the peace of
the moment. It was somewhat further dissolved in the cleansing bath we took on
reaching the other end.
It took us 16 days to reach that border from Jammu-a distance that is now
travelled by the rail and the fast buses in a couple of hours. There stands an
imposing bridge on the Ravi at the point now. The bridgeless river had a grandeur
of its own, though!
Pictures of trains with homeless refugees sitting on the roof or pictures of foot
convoys during the Partition are known to every citizen of this country. But I
feel the true horror of the Partition deserves to be read more systematically-so
that there are no further partitions in the subcontinent. The Partition should be
included as a subject in our syllabuses and curriculums, and should be taught in
the classroom-in our schools and universities.
I liked the camel so much that while rest of our group just walked to Pathankot
from the river, I rode the 12 miles to that city on the camel. I now believe the
camel is a more imposing mount than a horse or an elephant. To scare the
Immigration and Customs officers abroad, I should perhaps take a camel with me in
the hold of the aeroplane next time. What do you say, dear reader?
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