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Authors: M.G. Vassanji
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Pakistan. He was bound to its soil, it was the trust of his family. And so he would put his political faith in the faith of Gandhi and the vision and promise of Nehru.
With great enthusiasm my father Tejpal went to college in Bombay. He stayed two years, studying science, and according to Ma he did remarkably well, winning a silver medal his first year. But after two years, and before finishing his degree, he was abruptly called back by Dada. He was married within weeks to Madhvi, the daughter of a family from Jamnagar.
In Haripir there had recently arrived men in thick black beards, white caps, and long white shirts, clutching copies of the Quran and preaching the tenets of Islam; other men in white homespun cotton and two-cornered pandit caps came, preaching a purer Hinduism. Purity—shuddhi—was the key word. Cease blasphemous cow and idol worship, said the Muslims; abandon carnality and return to the basics of the ancient Vedas, retorted the Hindus. Two fundamentalisms sought the heart of the sufi's followers. Swayed by these imprecations to become part of something bigger, someof them began to call themselves Muslims; they altered their names to sound more Arabic and prepared to go to Pakistan. Others called themselves Hindus, but not many needed to alter their names. In secret, however, when in dire need these purified souls still came to the gates of the Baag, bowed before the Saheb and beseeched Pir Bawa in his tomb to grant them a favour.
Independence came in August 1947; a mass cross-migration of people had already begun between our now two countries, India and Pakistan. For months and into the new year riots and massacres continued wherever the two communities had lived together; there were hate killings in Ahmedabad, Bombay, Baroda, Kalol, even our neighbour Goshala.
My father's younger brother Rajpal now called himself Iqbal after the great Muslim poet. He too had recently got married, and one day he announced his decision to go to Pakistan. Gandhi was on a hunger strike in Delhi to protest against the violence between the communities. Because he also spoke out against the violence against Muslims, there were calls of “Let him die!” and a bomb was thrown in his vicinity.
According to my mother, my uncle was not an overly excitable personality; but having recently declared his faith, he was much affected by the news of the hate killings. His wife Rehana was expecting a child. It was on the pavilion late one afternoon that Rajpal-Iqbal revealed his decision to Dada; there were people with my grandfather, standing or sitting, listening raptly to his every word, as was usual, therefore it was a deeply embarrassing moment. My Dada is said to have taken a long pause, during which no one spoke and there lay the utmost silence upon Pirbaag. Then Dada declared softly, “Very well.”
“But you will find arrogance and bigotry wherever you go,” my grandfather said to my uncle. “There will be one kind of Musalman against another kind. Our path is spiritual, we do not believe in outward appearance and names. Rajpal, Iqbal, or Birbal, what does it matter? Go and see for yourself, but remember your home is here with Pir Bawa.”
One morning a small procession of bullock carts gathered from Haripir and neighbouring villages and headed towards Goshala, from where they would proceed in hired buses to Bombay and thence to Karachi by boat. There were reports of stones thrown and scuffles, but nobody was seriously hurt. It was also said that just as the caravan of new Pakistanisfrom our village topped the rise on the road, it suddenly halted. A child— or woman—wailed. A little later one of the covered carts returned, bearing three people. A man and a woman first came out and returned to their home. The third person proceeded to the mausoleum of Pir Bawa. Having paid her final respects, she departed once more; but before she left she took a pinch of soil in her mouth and ingested it. This story from the Partition
With great enthusiasm my father Tejpal went to college in Bombay. He stayed two years, studying science, and according to Ma he did remarkably well, winning a silver medal his first year. But after two years, and before finishing his degree, he was abruptly called back by Dada. He was married within weeks to Madhvi, the daughter of a family from Jamnagar.
In Haripir there had recently arrived men in thick black beards, white caps, and long white shirts, clutching copies of the Quran and preaching the tenets of Islam; other men in white homespun cotton and two-cornered pandit caps came, preaching a purer Hinduism. Purity—shuddhi—was the key word. Cease blasphemous cow and idol worship, said the Muslims; abandon carnality and return to the basics of the ancient Vedas, retorted the Hindus. Two fundamentalisms sought the heart of the sufi's followers. Swayed by these imprecations to become part of something bigger, someof them began to call themselves Muslims; they altered their names to sound more Arabic and prepared to go to Pakistan. Others called themselves Hindus, but not many needed to alter their names. In secret, however, when in dire need these purified souls still came to the gates of the Baag, bowed before the Saheb and beseeched Pir Bawa in his tomb to grant them a favour.
Independence came in August 1947; a mass cross-migration of people had already begun between our now two countries, India and Pakistan. For months and into the new year riots and massacres continued wherever the two communities had lived together; there were hate killings in Ahmedabad, Bombay, Baroda, Kalol, even our neighbour Goshala.
My father's younger brother Rajpal now called himself Iqbal after the great Muslim poet. He too had recently got married, and one day he announced his decision to go to Pakistan. Gandhi was on a hunger strike in Delhi to protest against the violence between the communities. Because he also spoke out against the violence against Muslims, there were calls of “Let him die!” and a bomb was thrown in his vicinity.
According to my mother, my uncle was not an overly excitable personality; but having recently declared his faith, he was much affected by the news of the hate killings. His wife Rehana was expecting a child. It was on the pavilion late one afternoon that Rajpal-Iqbal revealed his decision to Dada; there were people with my grandfather, standing or sitting, listening raptly to his every word, as was usual, therefore it was a deeply embarrassing moment. My Dada is said to have taken a long pause, during which no one spoke and there lay the utmost silence upon Pirbaag. Then Dada declared softly, “Very well.”
“But you will find arrogance and bigotry wherever you go,” my grandfather said to my uncle. “There will be one kind of Musalman against another kind. Our path is spiritual, we do not believe in outward appearance and names. Rajpal, Iqbal, or Birbal, what does it matter? Go and see for yourself, but remember your home is here with Pir Bawa.”
One morning a small procession of bullock carts gathered from Haripir and neighbouring villages and headed towards Goshala, from where they would proceed in hired buses to Bombay and thence to Karachi by boat. There were reports of stones thrown and scuffles, but nobody was seriously hurt. It was also said that just as the caravan of new Pakistanisfrom our village topped the rise on the road, it suddenly halted. A child— or woman—wailed. A little later one of the covered carts returned, bearing three people. A man and a woman first came out and returned to their home. The third person proceeded to the mausoleum of Pir Bawa. Having paid her final respects, she departed once more; but before she left she took a pinch of soil in her mouth and ingested it. This story from the Partition
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