Book Excerpt from The Sialkot Saga

Bombay lay inundated with refugees in 1950. Over a million people displaced from Sindh and the Punjab were now sleeping on the city's streets. Shivaji Park, the nucleus of Marathi-speaking, middle-class Bombay, was densely packed. More than half a million souls had gathered to hear Jawaharlal Nehru speak.

Hours before his plane arrived at Santa Cruz airport, shops had downed their shutters and people had started lining the streets hoping to catch a glimpse of their living deity. The police had a difficult time keeping the throngs in control as Panditji's open maroon car drove by.

The government had set up five refugee camps in Bombay but they were hellish places. Each family had to live within thirty-six square feet of space. There was no electricity. Twelve water taps were allocated to serve 10,000 people.

A young Muslim couple, Ayub and Shabana Sheikh, with their son in tow, had begun their trek from the Dongri area of the city. It had taken them several hours to reach Shivaji Park. They had jostled their way into the venue to hear the man who was no less than a god to them. Ayub, a dockworker, had hoisted his son, Arbaaz, on his shoulders so that he would have a better view.

Panditji began speaking. 'Since I first unfurled the national flag on the red fort, three years have been added to India's long history, which began thousands of years ago. During these years, we have seen achievements and failures, we have experienced joy and sorrow. The good work we have done will remain even though we pass away. So will India, though generations come and go.' The tumultuous crowds were enthusiastic in their response.

'We must constantly remind ourselves that whatever our religion or creed, we are all one people,' said Panditji. To the young Muslim couple, Ayub and Shabana Sheikh, Panditji's words gave them hope for Indian Muslims.

Published by Westland

Ayub looked up at little Arbaaz who sat on his shoulders. He seemed entirely oblivious to the importance of Jawaharlal Nehru. The boy was busy surveying the crowds around him, almost imperiously.

It was probably a sign of things to come.

Kurukshetra
For most people, the name conjured up visions of the epic battle between the Kauravas and Pandavas. For the moment, though, the ill-fated plains of Kurukshetra had been converted into a huge refugee camp, the largest among the 200 that had been established to accommodate the flood of humanity from Pakistan.

The Bagadias were not refugees. Brijmohanlal Bagadia was from Calcutta, where he ran a small jute trading operation. The family had been attending a wedding in Delhi winter of 1950 and had heard that Mahashiva Baba was visiting the nearby Kurukshetra camp.

Mahashiva Baba was a sadhu from Varanasi whose devotees believed that he had been alive for over 300 years. Brijmohanlal's mother had received darshan of the holy man many years ago and she had always kept his photograph in her prayer corner.

'If only we could meet him once and seek his blessings for Arvind,' said Brijmohanlal to his wife, Shakuntala. The poor woman was valiantly trying to keep up with Brijmohanlal while firmly dragging Arvind by his hand.

While claims of the baba's immortality could be doubted, his ability to organize relief work could not. Mahashiva Baba had created an organization of thousands of devoted followers who came to be known as 'Jeevan Prakash'. Besides operating universities, schools and hospitals, Jeevan Prakash also took up relief work wherever it was needed. The camp at Kurukshetra consumed hundreds of tons of flour, lentils', rice and cooking oil. The refugees had to be fed, clothed, housed and provided medical facilities. People like the baba were saviours. The armed forces were working overtime at the camps but they needed all the help that they could get. Mahashiva Baba and his devotees had been welcomed with open arms.

The Bagadias wandered through the camp at Kurukshetra and were stunned by its size. Over 300,000 souls inhabited the camp, many of them having travelled in long caravans on foot or bullock cart from Pakistan. More than ten million people had fled their homes, a migration that reduced the exodus of the Jews from Egypt to a minority.

After an hour of wandering in the hot sun, the Bagadias finally reached the tent occupied by the Baba.  The Baba wore only a loin cloth and sported thick matted hair on his ash-smeared forehead. He sat on a square piece of cloth that was little bigger than his kerchief. No one knew his age but he looked like a man of forty. There was a glow on his face and the muscles of his chest and arms rippled as though he had worked out for every day of his life. His face was accentuated by a prominent jaw. Next to him was a smoking chillum made of clay and a copper pot filled with bhasma-holy ash. A musky-sweet smell permeated the air. The baba rarely ate. His energy came from meditation and weed.

His eyes picked out the Bagadia family instantly. He asked one of his followers to guide them to him. 'How is your mother? Does she still keep my photograph in her prayer corner?' he asked Brijmohanlal. Brijmohanlal stared at the baba with his mouth agape. The baba had never seen him before and yet seemed to know everything about him. Both husband and wife prostrated themselves before him.

'Place the boy in front of me,' instructed the baba softly as they got up. Shakuntala placed the eight-year-old in front of the sadhu. Arvind sat cross-legged before the baba, playing with a toy soldier. He was oblivious to the holy man.

The baba smiled at the boy. Arvind did not return the favour. The baba then took some ash from his copper pot and smeared it lightly on the boy's forehead as he chanted:

'Om tryambakam yajaamahe
sugandhim pushti-vardhanam,
Urvaarukam-iva bandhanaan
mrityormuksheeya maamrataat!'

Looking up at the parents, he said 'Take care of this boy. He is destined for many big things in life.' The parents stepped forward and touched the baba's feet, grateful for his blessing.

As the Bagadias walked out of the baba's tent, they noticed a pervasive air of gloom. 'Whats the matter?'  , asked Brijmohanlal of one of the baba's disciples. The man had tears in his eyes.

'Sardar has passed away,' he said softly. The iron man of India, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, had died following a heart attack.  Patel had gifted 565 princely states to the Indian union.

Earlier that year Babasaheb Ambedkar had gifted 395 Articles to make up the Constitution of India. Probably the longest in the world.

Key moments in Indian history were being created. The moment passed was history, the unborn moment a mystery.

Dusk had descended on the congested streets of Dongri. On the pavements, steaming hot kebabs freshly grilled or pulled out of bubbling oil were the main attraction for those who were breaking their fast for Ramadan.

The house that Ayub and Shabana occupied with little Arbaaz was certainly not a house. It was more of a room on the second floor of a decrepit building that overlooked Hazrat Abbas Dargah on Palla Gully.

From dozens of matchbox windows, families peered out to catch the spectacle of the mohalla below. One of the faces peering out was that of the ravenous nine-year-old Arbaaz.

It was his very first Ramadan fast.

On the street below, the situation was chaotic. The country's first general elections had been announced for October 1951 and Chief Election Commissioner Sukumar Sen had the envieable task of getting 175 million adult Indians to cast their votes in the biggest experiment in democracy. Politicians of all hues were busy holding iftar parties to woo the Muslim electorate of the area that sweltering June.

Inside the ten-by-ten room, Shabana tried her best to make their home look presentable. Ayub would be home soon.

She felt terrible for him - having to labour in the docks while fasting.

She placed the earthen water pot on the corner stool and carefully arranged a few dates that would be needed for iftar. She had not cooked. Ayub would be taking them out to the streets to sample the delectable fare on offer. 

She looked inside the matka and checked the copper wristlet at the bottom. Little Arbaaz would often ask her what it was there for. She would simply tell him that copper was good for the health.

'Come on, Arbaaz, wipe your hands and face,' she said, handing a small damp towel to him. 'You got into so much trouble at school for being dirty.'

Arbaaz obediently started scrubbing away the sweat and soot from his face, neck, arms and hands. It had been an exceptionally hot and muggy day. Arbaaz looked at the grimy towel as he handed it back to his mother. 'It's not worth the effort,' he said to her.

'What's not worth the effort?' asked Shabana?

'Cleaning up,' replied Arbaaz.

'Why?' asked Shabana, indulging him.

'Now I'm clean but the towel's dirty. There's simply no way to get something cleaned without getting something else dirty.'

Calcutta wasn't a city. It was a story.  In 1960, Job Charnock, an agent of the East India Company, had carefully chosen the place for a British trade settlement. It was a good choice. It was protected by the Hooghly River on the west, a creek to the north, and by salt lakes about two-and-half miles to the east. On 24 August, 1690, Charnock had made a generous offering at an old Kali temple and had then pitched his tent on the site of the charred ruins of an old factory. At that time there had been three substantial villages along the east bank of the River Ganges-Sutanuti, Gobindapur and Kalikata. These three villages were bought by the British from the local landlords. Then the Mughal emperor granted East India Company freedom of trade in return for a yearly pavement of 3000, rupees. Calcutta was born.

Brijmohanlal, Shakuntala and the now nine-year-old Arvind were seated at a table in the Waldorf restaurant n Calcutta's Park Street. It was a Sunday ritual for the Bagadia family. The parents would take their son to the Waldorf for a Chinese meal followed by cassata ice cream. Being vegetarians, the lunch order remained fixed: sweet corn soup, vegetable spring rolls, fried rice and chop suey.

Brijmohanlal was short, plump and dark. His black hair was pasted together in place with a generous topping of Brylcreem. Shakuntala was petite and fair. Her long hair was neatly braided and she was always dressed elegantly in Banarasi sarees. On her slim hands were bangles that were perfectly colour-coordinated with her saree. Arvind seemed to have taken after his mother more than his father.

In this little haven called Waldorf, there was no sign that the American Congress was debating a food request from India; nor do any sign that the Soviet Union was in the process of sending 50,000 tons of wheat to meet the country's food shortage. There was no shortage at the Waldorf in 1951.

Father, mother and son sat at their usual table surrounded by the rich red interiors of the restaurant. Their favoured waiter, Liang, was on holiday that day. He had been a permanent fixture with the restaurant from the time it had moved from Tangra, Calcutta's Chinatown to Park Street.

The new waiter took their order without the usual flair or familiarity of Liang, and disappeared. Thirty minutes later, their food had still not arrived.

'Where's that bumbling waiter?' fretted Brijmohanlal tapping his fingers impatiently on the linen-covered table.

'Papa, I don't understand something,' perked up Arvind suddenly.

'What is that, beta?' asked Brijmohanlal

'Why are these people called waiters, when we are the ones who wait?'

(See interview: A fast-paced game of Monopoly )