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Wednesday, November 2, 2011

A schoolboys story 1946-1947: Part 1

Journeys to Simla
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
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. Grandfathers 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 grandmothers 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 Chiefs 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.

Growing up with PTV in Poonch

By Saqib Mumtaz

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, Pakistans 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 dont 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, dont 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. (to be continued)

way from the revolution of direct to home and cable TV networks, the nineties were the time of one channel, when Doordarshan was synonymous with television for most Indians, especially in rural areas. There was not much on television for a kid growing up except the occasional cartoon clips and Shaktimaan. I was fond of Meena and her parrot Mithu. Movies were a strict nono and the news was other things adults were interested in. Every evening my grandfather would tune in to the Hindi news followed by another news broadcast in English. Even as a child I could sense the repetition but never the reason of watching the same news twice. In my memory of those days, its not Doordarshan that I associate myself with. Luckily for many of us near the border, there was PTV . We had the option of

A Kashmiri recalls growing up near the border, watching Pakistani drama serials and learning Urdu from Pakistan Television...

Cross-border transmission: Tina Sanis Mori Araj Suno (Coke Studio) brought back memories of Moorat (PTV 2005, still from Youtube); Afzal Khan was Jaan Rambo, Silver Stallone, Cockroach Killer series, which lack both lustre and spirit, would be futile. I dont remember any popular Indian series depicting the third gender with such optimism and faith. During Ramazan, PTV acted sacred. There were transmissions of recitations from the Quran, verse-byverse translation in Urdu. Azaans with the usual announcement, Karachi mein zuhar ki azaan ka waqt ho chukka hai. Baqi shehr apne maqmami waqt ke mutabiq namaz ada karien (Its time for prayers in Karachi. Other cities should pray according to their local timings), followed the dua. It is from here that I learnt the first dua along with its meaning in Urdu. Then there would be advertisements for instant noodles and for kapas (cotton crop) pesticides. TV was a part of the routine during Ramazan too, compared to the present day when a lot of people shun it for its alleged lack of decency, especially during the holy month. Eid was a special day as it is today, but PTV made it even more exciting. The entire day featured great perfor-

choosing between the two. There was variability in its reception depending upon the terrain. Once I moved to Poonch, a town near the border, there . If it hadnt been for the was no PTV cable network we would be stuck with Doordarshan. I was browsing through the songs of Tina Sani after listening to Mori Araj Suno in Coke Studio and I hit a jackpot. This one song brought back those memories of PTV from the TV series Moorat, aired about a decade ago. Babbar was a character I had never forgotten. It is the story of a boy who finds shelter in a group of transvestites and becomes a part of it. It is a beautifully written series that spoke of human nature in its raw form. Now that I am watching it again thanks to YouTube, a lot of things make much more sense. It provided me my first, and I have to say my only glimpse into the third gender. It was

much later in my life that I got a chance to interact with one. Uncle Sargam and Rambo (Guest House) are still floating in my head. Who can ever forget, My name ij Rambo Rambo, Jaan Rambo, Silver Stallone, Cockroach Killer. I loved enacting the line. Even as I write this, it is playing in my mind in a loop. Every evening, every season of the year, after dinner the entire family would gather in front of the TV for about an hour. We have watched at least a dozen quality drama series. I still remember the names of a few Moorat, Guest House, Tango Charlie, Ainak Wala Jinn. The serials had a definite ending, and perhaps in Pakistan they still do have the concept of an end, unlike their Indian counterparts, which some times run for decades. The stories were realistic and the relationships not difficult to understand. They did not shy from being critical of society. A comparison with popular Indian

mances. The video-tapes of those programmes are still prized possessions. PTV featured some really good entertainers. Eid was about humour, a break away from the banality of everyday life. Since Eid is a rare event, only twice a year, I dont remember the names of any of those popular stage dramas and serials. PTV also acted as a source of information when the conflict in Kashmir was at its peak. I learnt my first lessons on Kashmir from television. There were two sources reporting the same news, Doordarshan and PTV . At times the version differed. Militants would be equated to Mujahids. Even as a child I knew Azad Kashmir was the same as what Indians call Pakistan Occupied Kashmir and there was some place called Indian Occupied Kashmir (Bharti Maqboza Kashmir). Tango Charlie summarised life in the army for me. Then there was the stage of fierce propaganda from both sides with programmes like Pakistan Watch. I can easily say I had a greater understanding than most kids of my age on either side. But there were dichotomies and contradictions that I as a child was too young to question and now am too grown up to understand. For whatever Urdu I understand, and for the very little that I can . I never reread, I am thankful to PTV ceived formal training in Urdu. Hindi was the trend. Private schools, like the one I attended, didnt have Urdu as an option. I learnt the language . only by listening to and watching PTV I am not proud of my Urdu, but I can understand Iqbal and Mirza Ghalib. Urdu is the primary and official language of Jammu and Kashmir, but it does not have a stronghold as Hindi does in north India. Even before I could understand the idea of the National Anthem, before I learned Jana Gana Man in school, I knew Pak Sar Zamin Shaad Baad by heart. PTV relayed it at least twice a day, at the beginning and end of every transmission. It sounded nice and I learnt it without any conscious effort, just like the Mile Sur Mera Tumahara that came later. Nobody questioned you back then if you happened to know the national anthem of Pakistan. If technology and media shaped us to any extent back then, I would be a product of the Pakistan Television Corporation.

Saqib Mumtaz is a student in New Delhi. Email: saqib.mumtaz.h@gmail.com. First published in Kafila.org, reproduced with permission

the familys out, I feel Ive had a hard day and deserve a consolation prize, and the menu needs cater only to my taste, my fancy turns to sookhe alu and parathas. And a scrambled egg or, if the fridge is yielding, cold shammi kebabs. But these are frills the mainstay of solid satisfaction Vasandhura Chauhan is the sookhe alu-paratha combinaYou say eether and I say eyether, tion. With maybe a green chilli or You say neether and I say nyther; three on the side. Every home, I think, makes some version of sauted Eether, eyether, neether, nyther, potatoes, desi style. Usually potatoes Lets call the whole thing off! You like potato and I like potahto, are boiled, peeled, chopped and then You like tomato and I like tomahto; tempered with whole zeera (cumin). Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto! Lets call the whole thing off! o twist what George Gershwin and Ira Gershwin wrote, there can be differences, but a potatos a potato, even when its a potahto. My father loves to quote an old colleague, who said, of another, recently transferred, Oh, that chap! Hes very good, he fits in anywhere. Just like a potato he fits into any curry. And dont we know it theres gobhi alu, alu methi, alu matar, alu beans, zeera alu, poori-alu, alu tikki, zeera alu. And alu gosht, alu-qeema cutlet, alu paratha, alu bonda, alu pakora, alu masala dosa and alu samosa. Sometimes the alu is a stretcher, making a mutton curry go further, but who can say that the taste of potatoes simmered in meat gravy until theyve absorbed all the flavour of the masala is merely edible; theyre a pleasure in themselves. Okay, so potatoes cooked in mutton gravy are delicious because theyve taken on the spices and the essence of meat stock. And so are potatoes cut into long, thick fingers and simmered in machher jhol, the delicate fish curry of Bengal. But arent just plain potatoes, cooked without benefit of meat/vegetables /fish an end in themselves? For me, the ultimate self-indulgence, when

deal until I asked her to ask her mother, and the source of the fresh flavour was revealed: saunf, fennel. Considering how much we use potatoes, its hard to imagine where wed be without them. They came to the old world when they were introduced to Europe by Spain in the middle of the sixteenth century. Jiminez de Quesadas forces had entered a village in what is now Colombia. In the Oxford Companion to Food, Alan Davidson writes that the inhabitants had fled and the Spaniards found maize, beans and what they thought

Potato, potahto
BASIC ALU PLUS
Traditional Baniya recipe from Delhi Serves 2
I I I I I I

1 tbsp vegetable oil 1/2 tsp whole zeera (cumin) 6 large potatoes, boiled and peeled 2 tsps coriander seeds 1/2 tsp saunf (aniseed) Salt

Heat oil and fry cumin till crisp. Cut the potatoes into small pieces and saut with zeera till beginning to change colour. Stir in salt. Coarsely pound coriander and aniseed and add to potatoes. Cook, covered, till the flavours of the spices are absorbed into the potatoes. Stir occasionally to prevent scorching. Chillies and garam masala are optional and haldi (turmeric) rarely used. But there was a young woman in my office whose mother packed lunch for her and I would wait for those days when it included sookhe alu. The fragrance was different, something I didnt get in my potatoes and her response, every time I complimented her, was Oh these? Theyre just baniyon ke alu. No big were truffles. Later accounts describe them as of good flavour, a delicacy to the Indians and a dainty dish even for Spaniards. These truffles were potatoes. Then for many years potatoes were not welcomed in Europe, the reasons being the small size, wateri-

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

ness and bitter taste. Also, the climate of the northern latitudes was unsuitable. But the most interesting reason was the reaction of Protestants in Scotland and the north of Ireland, who refused to plant the potato because it was not mentioned in the Bible. The Catholic Irish dealt with this qualm by sanctifying the potato: they sprinkled seed potatoes with holy water and planted them on Good Friday. Potatoes became such an integral part of Irish life that now they say Only two things in this world are too serious to be jested on, potatoes and matrimony. Potatoes came to India much later, and by about 1830 potatoes were grown on the terraced slopes near Dehradun, where the climate was considered most hospitable. Over the years potato cultivation has spread to several non-traditional states. According to some sources the annual diet of an average person across the world includes about 33 kg of potato. Obviously theyre being eaten everywhere. And yet, despite my lifelong relationship with potatoes, the other day I met one that I failed to recognise. At a fair for folk arts and crafts from the North East the Assam stall had a basket with oblong red pebbles. Each was about two inches long, with smooth, shiny skin the colour of red grapes, a rusty magenta. In fact they could have been mistaken for oversized grapes, the imported kind that are available year-round, on and off season. So I bought about a kilo and made them very simply not peeled, just halved lengthwise and sauted with whole cumin seed and salt. They tasted like regular potatoes, but the texture was more dense and tight and the naswari colour, repeated in veins running through some of them spectacular.

Vasundhara Chauhan is a food writer based in New Delhi. Email: vasundharachauhan9@gmail.com A peace initiative whose time has come...

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