*Journeys to Simla, Iftikhar Malik, Aman Ki Asha, November 02, 2011
*The kindness of strangers, Iftikhar Malik, Aman Ki Asha, November 11, 2011
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*Journeys to Simla, Iftikhar Malik, Aman Ki Asha, November 02, 2011
http://www.amankiasha.com/detail_news.asp?id=563
Iftikhar Malik recalls his
journey to boarding school in Simla as an
eight-year-old, the trauma of leaving in the turmoil of Partition, and the
return over half a century later
I spent the winter of 1946 with my grandmother and parents, brothers and sister
in the village, on the banks of the river Chenab on the Grand Trunk Road in
District Gujrat. It was cold and frost covered the
land in the mornings. The sun came up shortly before noon for a few hours
before people retired, and smoke from their homes wound up and settled at a
height.
As a boarder at school in Simla, I had learnt the
best way of spending holidays was to walk around the house, fag for my elder
cousins Nasim and Akhtar,
play football with the local schoolboys and read stories. The elders in the
family excelled in medicine, civil service, and engineering. They were a source
of inspiration for me and books around the house on the subjects were of some
interest. Grandfather's desire was that all his children excel in studies and
they did not let him down. Visits to the fields were interesting especially
where jaggery was prepared.
Off and on news from the city filtered down to the village about a rebellion,
civil disobedience, public meetings, hartals, tear
gas and those who were arrested in the city defying the authorities. Some
village folk who went to the city would return and tell us what happened. The
word 'Pakistan' featured prominently and the village bard hoped to be sitting
in the 'Coamatee' Hall!
The slogans 'Pakistan Zindabad' and 'Azadi' were engraved in my memory.
I did not have many questions but kept staring at bandaged men who narrated how
they got injured - quite different from a bruise on the knuckles whilst batting
or a hard blow on the shin playing hockey, or a bloody nose at the end of three
rounds in the gnat weight league boxing. First class stuff for a young Boy
Scouts Cub troop leader, and enough stories to tell my schoolmates when I got
back.
I noticed as the jathas increased their visits to the
city and the stories became more vivid and thrilling, that a green flag with a
crescent, not very neat, all of different shades of green and size being
carried by the village folk when they returned in the evenings. I was presented
one that I carried all day long around the house shouting the one slogan I
learnt "Pakistan Zindabad". I was then just
short of eight years.
One person, Sita Ram, my grandmother's munshi stayed away from these meetings and by nightfall
used to retreat to his home across the nullah. He had
a beautiful rifle that he carried all the time.
The holidays ended and I proceeded to Rawalpindi where my father was posted
after his transfer from Simla in 1946, waiting to
occupy his residence at Mackeson Road. Meantime my
parents were living close to the Army Chief's residence. In late February I was
booked to leave home for Simla. I had no idea of the
problems ahead and gladly jumped into the front seat of the bus that was to
take me to Lahore Railway Station. At the bus stand it was cold and wet but I
was well clad in my School blazer, grey flannels and the all-important School
cap.
I was busy seeing if my box had been loaded when my grandmother called out to
me from the car in which she and my mother, sister Kanta,
brothers Farooq and Sheri were sitting, to say
farewell to my mother. As I got off the bus and approached the car I saw that
she was crying. It was the first time I saw her as such and the memory saddens
me even today. She kissed me goodbye and off I went into the bus. She slipped
in a Nestle bar and a dinky in my coat pocket. My sister and brothers were
quiet and subdued.
The bus, run on coal gas, lumbered steadily to Lahore. It stopped en route to
drop off and pick passengers the largest number at Gujar
Khan. I reached Lahore in the afternoon and was glad to see staff from the
School waiting to take us on the night train to Kalka. I do not remember what
food we had but slept all throughout the night. From Kalka onwards the journey
was a few hours and I reached the School at dinnertime, ready to go to bed.
School life settled into the routine with which I was familiar. I had been
appointed a Prefect and sat at the top table for meals. Sports were very
competitive and camping in the 'khud' as a Scouting
Cub was thrilling. Letter writing to parents was compulsory once a week with
most of us copying what the teacher had written on the blackboard. The six annas per week pocket money was enough to get a bottle of
jam to last for a week and a tin of condensed milk consumed on the spot.
Meringues from the Mall were a big attraction and I remembered the site where
the Quaid-e-Azam addressed
the citizens of Simla in 1946, which my mother
attended and I went along.
Academic standards were high but I managed to hold my own amongst the top.
Years later in 1999 when I visited the School and saw the honour
boards in Irwin Hall I was to see the names of Humayun
Khan, Pakistan's former Foreign Secretary, Jal Boga whose friendship has lasted well over six decades,
Pakistan army officers Col. Mohd Sharif and General Jahanzeb Khan, holding senior positions on both the
academic and sport boards.
I stood mesmerised in the great hall; there was a
lump in my throat and it was hard to keep from breaking down. Much that I would
have liked my name to be there too it was not to be. Tuition and extra classes
were unknown with all work and learning including French and Latin to be
completed in class. Turnout was always excellent. The newspaper 'The Statesman'
was read out to boys by Mr Murray standing around
him. Bradman and Hammond entered our minds.
In about July, 1947, whilst on the playing field almost past sunset I suddenly
heard the sound of people shouting above the School in the bazar
and the faint sound of 'Pakistan Zindabad' rising and
then dropping. I was amazed and tried to hear the sound again but in vain. I
felt that my memory chords had been touched, memories from a few months ago.
Instantly my hockey stick became my flag and I strutted a few smart steps
shouting 'Pakistan Zindabad', afraid that I might be
overheard, some instinct telling me not to be too enthusiastic lest Mr Murray heard me.
As the days went by I noticed the shouting and sloganeering increase. One night
after lights out, the teacher woke us and told us to wear our great coats over
our nightclothes, put on our shoes, and stuff our toiletries in our pockets. We
were marched out, all about 200 boys, lined up and led out in the darkness through
the khud to the Senior School. On the way our
teachers, some with guns and torches and lanterns remained close to us. A
solitary enquiry 'kaun hai?'
came from a house up on the hill. The way down the khud
was full of fun, bushes and nettle thorns, an uneven path, darkness except for
the stars... a Scouts' Cub dream of leading his pack through enemy territory in
complete silence.
At the Senior School, cots had been lined up in the corridors of the
dormitories on the first floor. Boys evacuated from the Prep School had a
pleasant stay in the Senior School. It is located at some distance from the Bazar and slogans could not be heard there. Special classes
were organised and there was plenty to do on the
sports field and the swimming pool. I noticed tinned sardines were provided on
the breakfast table.
The routine carried on peacefully but sometime in late August, I was summoned
by the Headmaster on Flat One, where I noticed an army jeep and a Sikh police
officer. The Headmaster Father Drake and another teacher were talking to the
officer. When he saw me the Headmaster said, 'Son, he will take you home'. I
dashed up to him and held onto his legs firmly and sobbed, "Father, I
don't want to go". I was quite happy at School and did not know why this was
happening. It took him a while to release my grip and he said, "Son, don't
worry, you will get home soon and write to me when you get there".
I noticed some senior boys watching from the first floor verandah. I waved out
to them and suddenly cheers erupted from them with clapping wishing me well.
Off was the Prefect from Cotton House. Amongst the Senior School heroes which I
thought had a good rapport were Agha Hashim, the School Captain, Chandulal,
Durrani, Hay Jahans, Jones,
Stringer, Mehra, Wamiq Rasheed, Sahibzada, Sarda to name a few who I felt were on the verandah waving
me farewell.
Rubbing my eyes and trying to dry them with my handkerchief I sat in the jeep
and left the School with the officer and his driver, not knowing where I was
headed, ending a happy childhood stay in the finest School that I knew. Gone
were my teachers, friends, my books, my stamp collection, my butterfly
collection and my School cap. I thought that perhaps I would be back one day
but such hopes faded quickly as I settled down to a place I did not know. I
turned round for a brief moment to look at the School to which I hoped I would
return.
About 60 years later I was told that the great wooden doors at the entrance to
Irwin Hall were closed in honour of the Muslim boys
who left the School in 1947. They were reopened in honour
of the contingent from Pakistan invited to the 150th year celebrations. We
presented a shield to the School. I was one of the lucky six who would
participate.
(See next installment below)
The writer served in a multinational as
the Head of Human Resources, and later as Vice Principal and Bursar of Aitchison College, Lahore. Email: iftikharahmadmalik@hotmail.com
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*The kindness of strangers: A Schoolboy's story 1946 -
1947: Part II, Iftikhar Malik, Aman Ki
Asha, November 11, 2011 http://www.amankiasha.com/detail_news.asp?id=566 &
http://www.thenews.com.pk/TodaysPrintDetail.aspx?ID=76967&Cat=14
The jeep groaned past the Bazar and onto the Convent
on the outskirts of Simla, where my cousins Farida and Asma were waiting
clutching handbags with a few nuns. The officer got out of the jeep, met the
nuns and escorted my cousins to the jeep. Somewhere past the Ridge we were
transferred to big black car. In the evening we found that the ferry at Ghaggar had closed and we had to find a place to stay
overnight. The officer rang a bell at a small house in an Army compound at some
distance from the ferry crossing and asked the lady who opened the door to keep
the children for the night. She was a kind Hindu lady and let us in and gave
food. Her husband an Army officer came in late but we were fast asleep by then.
I was given the sofa in the drawing room whilst my cousins presumably had
another place to sleep.
Early the following morning, I awoke to see a huge Alsatian dog sitting on his
haunches, head cocked and looking at me lying on the sofa. It was not
aggressive but had a loving look. I stretched out and got close to it and
hugged it. It stayed close to me during breakfast and went with me to the car
where the officer was waiting. With a big thank you to our hosts we restarted
our journey, crossed the Ghaggar. After a few hours
we reached the residence of the Deputy Commissioner, Ambala
and were lodged in the guest room. Years later I came to know that the Deputy Commissioner
was Mr Grewal Singh, an
Indian Civil Service officer, a friend and colleague of my Uncle Khalid, the
father of my cousins travelling with me.
Mr Grewal met us the
following morning and said that we would be living with him till evacuation was
possible. I had a vague notion then of what was in store for us but my cousins
were anxious, worried and always kept the curtains of the room drawn. They
never stepped out but I ventured out in the verandah and one day went around
the house. It was a big house with a long driveway and lawns around it. 'Dal roti' was our preferred meal
and I tried to keep the room spick and span. I was wearing the same set of
clothes with which I left School and did not have a change. My cousins used to
threaten me that they would report me to Mr Grewal if I upset them on any count. One day he did visit
us, I was left motionless when the bearer told us that the Sahib was coming. It
turned out to be a pleasant visit much to the disappointment of my cousins who
thought he would upbraid me for annoying them.
I cannot remember how long we stayed there but it was an awfully long period in
one room with little or nothing to do. I felt listless and only when some of
the DC's staff told us from time to time that a plane would be coming to take
us home would there be some excitement and noise in the room. Days passed and
we settled into a routine. We did not have any news what was happening which
added to our misery. One fine morning we were told that we would be taken to
the airport to take the plane. We got ready but it was a disappointment as
nothing happened. A few days later the exercise was repeated. An older person
would have his nerves all jangled with such developments but we were young and
quickly went back to normal life in the room with the drawn curtains.
Finally on a beautiful day Mr Grewal Singh rushed us to the airport in his car followed by a police escort. In a short while we reached the airport and in the distance on the horizon saw a plane coming in. It was the first time I saw a plane in real life. It landed and came close to us near the airport building and the doors were opened with the engines running. Out stepped my Uncle Khalid wearing a suit. He saw us, and called out to us to run to get in. He got off, met Mr Grewal, exchanged a few pleasantries and re-entered the plane. As the plane taxied on the runway, the doors were still open. We were seated in the front part and whilst it was readying to take off, lo and behold, we saw that it was surrounded by several hundred men, women and children of all ages who wanted to get on. These were Muslims staying close to the airport waiting to take the train to Pakistan. It was an amazing sight with people trying to enter, some did and some clung onto its wings and undercarriage. It could not move.
Mr Grewal Singh who was
watching, went up to the crowd and with kind, gentle words with the help of the
police brought some order. Yet people were clinging to it. Gradually with great
difficulty it started moving, the doors open as the staff could not close it
because of the people trying to enter. It started gathering speed and from the
window I saw people fall off from the wings. One had held onto the roll bar in
the doorway and was pleading and crying to let him in but that was not
possible; the staff pushed him out with force and closed the door. We were
jam-packed in the aircraft. My immediate reaction at that time was of sadness
for the persons left behind and how would they manage. We were among the few
that got across safely.
The plane took off smoothly on this, my first plane journey. I could pull open
a little cylindrical window cut in the big window. put my arm and hand out and
feel the breeze. It was wonderful. After a short while I was taken to the
cockpit where the pilot told me how the plane went up and down. Amazing, I
thought. The journey to Lahore was over in about 30 minutes or less. At the
Airport my father along with my Aunt Saliha, mother
of my cousins and a few relatives received us safe and sound. It was a joyous
and happy reuninon.
The get together with other relatives and friends took place at Uncle's
residence. Lots of mubaraks and gratefulness to Allah
were expressed. Suddenly I realised my mother was
missing. She could not come from Rawalpindi. My Aunty noticed that I was
feeling that I was not part of the homecoming celebrations and stood silently
in a corner wearing the same shirt and shorts when I left School, now stained
and quite filthy. To cheer me up she asked if I would have a squash. I nodded and
followed her to the pantry for the drink. That gesture remains as a pleasant
memory of my days.
My father and I motored down to Rawalpindi via the village. Many villagers came
to see me and wish me well. In the nine odd months away from home the only language
I knew was English, Punjabi and Urdu were forgotten. So the young boy from the
plains of the Punjab had returned home but I was anxious to get to Mackeson Road and the tennis court there and my bicycle. It
was winter and cold and a few days of food of my choice and freedom changed me.
In January 1948, I was admitted to the Convent and upon my parent's transfer to
Lahore, to St. Anthony's and later Aitchison College.
Life at School in Simla had set me on a path to which
I have no regrets. Boarding life in particular taught me self-reliance, sharing
with dormitory mates, competitiveness, good manners and a host of other matters
which steadied life ahead.
As the years rolled on, gone is the journey to School, the end of the Persian
Water wheel in the village and the ride on the driver's seat going round and
round the well, the gas lamps, the spelling competition with cousins. Sita Ram is no more and forgotten are the deodar trees of
the greater Himalayas around Simla, the trek to Kufri where the flowers were taller than us young boys,
Wild Flower Hall, Barnes Court, the Ridge, Flat One in the School. Gone are
Cotton, Sinker, Barnes and Emerson Houses and the Prep School (now a Tibetan
Centre), and so are Kathala Railway Station and the
beautiful Kidar Nath Farm.
I got my tin box back and collected it from the Indian High Commission office
at that time located on the Mall next to the Canal in Lahore. It was empty and
I felt that it was of no use to remember the material part of life. I was glad
to be home with my parents and sister and brothers. Only now can I feel what
parents had to go through as there was little assurance that we would return;
life could have taken a different path.
And onto matriculation, O/A levels, graduation, service with a multinational
with a multicultural work force with gems from across the border, working with
different ideas and values but easy for me to understand, having been in
boarding with boys from all over India. I had known some of their thinking and
got along with them... Amongst my seniors, Zafar
Hassan from Amritsar and Lahore, Zia Shafi Khan from Shahjahanpur in the UP, and Nizam
Shah from Srinagar were outstanding. There are lifelong friendships forged with
Ejaz, Naveed, Anwar.
Service in Aitchison College followed and more
attention given in the twilight of my life to a loving family across the globe
in a different setting. I married Asma; our sons Jaffar and Usman studied for
their degrees in the US and are now in Calgary and Karachi respectively with
their families. Grandchildren Hassan, Haider and
Sonia are growing up to be good human beings.
The village prospers and the descendants of Malik Maula Baksh keep his name flying
high. He lies buried there with his sons Abdur Rahman, Abdul Mannan and Abdullah
Khalid with place in the graveyard for more to follow. Doctor Sahib, Chief
Sahib and Commissioner Sahib are remembered to this day. But there are no
slogans or eventful days and the dream that was 'Pakistan' sadly disappointed
many. Only a brief period in the 1965 skirmish, as Gujrat
borders the Jammu area, did the residents show the determination to succeed
from the soil that made them. On a clear day one can see the Pir Panjal range in the
Himalayas, beautiful and serene and standing tall and mighty unchanged as time
goes by.
I will always remain thankful to Mr Grewal Singh. In the 60s, his brother Mr
Kewal Singh was appointed as the High Commissioner of
India to Pakistan. Aunt Saliha's father, who was also
Asma's grandfather, and I called on him. Mr Singh was deeply touched by the gesture of a
distinguished person around 90 years old who had made the effort. But such men
and such values are few.
The writer served in a multinational as
the Head of Human Resources, and later as Vice Principal and Bursar of Aitchison College, Lahore. Email: iftikharahmadmalik@hotmail.com