Holocaust of the East
Holocaust of the East
By
Farzana Moon
Cambridge Scholars Publishing
Holocaust of the East, by Farzana Moon
This book first published 2008 by
Cambridge Scholars Publishing
15 Angerton Gardens, Newcastle, NE5 2JA, UK
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Copyright © 2008 by Farzana Moon
All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN (10): 1-84718-498-7, ISBN (13): 9781847184986
To the memory of my parents
Profoundly loved
Who always dreamt of redeeming
The land they loved
From the pangs of separation
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgements .................................................................................... ix
Foreword ..................................................................................................... x
Chapter One................................................................................................. 1
Dawn Most Lovely
Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 15
Freedom Torch of Vengeance
Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 37
Gift of Independence
Chapter Four.............................................................................................. 58
Apostle of Nonviolence
Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 75
Flood of affliction
Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 92
Birthday Wheel
Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 108
Rape of Kashmir
Chapter Eight........................................................................................... 131
Glittering of swords
Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 148
Honor Thy Mother India
Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 163
Renewal of Peace
viii
Table of Contents
Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 176
Sacred Road to the Beloved
Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 196
Lover without Beloved
Bibliography............................................................................................ 208
Index........................................................................................................ 209
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My special thanks to Nathan Wolgast for his time and kindness to help me
format the manuscript.
FOREWORD
The subject of this book is to redefine the word holocaust in its essence of
tragedy which hurled millions into unmarked graves, their numbers far
exceeding the victims of Jewish Holocaust. Historically, the face of this
holocaust is forged inside the furnace of hatred and vengeance, emerging
forth—paradoxically, generation after generation to keep the torch of
tyranny and violence aflame everlastingly. This book is written with the
intention of making history an arena of introspection and contemplation.
Hoping, that in the near future the compilation of expressions from the
past peacemakers or hate-mongers might inspire the leaders of the mighty
nations to change the course of history? Whereby, the adage history
repeats itself in terms of wars and cruelties could transform itself to a
universal appeal, history entreats not to repeat the follies of the past.
Historically, this book reveals the game of Divide and Rule, the Crescent
Card of the Imperial Raj slicing borders and creating boundaries. Chaos
and anarchy follow; the meek and the lowly, and the strong and the
heedless turning to hoodlums and cutthroats overnight. Mass exodus,
mass murder and mass madness are the aftermath of partition of Hindustan
into India and Pakistan. Hearts, homes and families are torn asunder, and
death and devastation rips through the continent like wildfire. Love and
compassion of the few, including the Vicergal Couple offer a few crumbs
of hope and sanity. Gandhi, Nehru, Azad, Jinnah, Liaqat Ali Khan, Lady
Edwina, Lord Mountbatten and Winston Churchill have become the living,
throbbing emblems of shock and bewilderment. Why, who, what, where,
there are no answers but cosmic calamity? The answer to break the chain
of tragedies in the annals of history is simple, coming to one subtle halt
down the steps of global history, Love.
CHAPTER ONE
DAWN MOST LOVELY
Death stroked my hair
And whispered tenderly
Poor child, shall I redeem
Thee from thy pain
—Sarojini Naidu
It all started with a Big Bang! First, the euphoria and celebration..
Then horror and holocaust—holocaust by the fire of hatred and vengeance.
Paradoxically and irrevocably, turning the entire continent of Hindustan
into a furnace of death and devastation. Within days madness sprouted
and multiplied, just like the wheel of fate, spinning everlastingly.
Kindling fire and brimstone. Churning bullets of hatred, and plunging the
whole of Hind into the baptismal waters of rage and vengeance. The Great
Divide—euphemistically, freedom from the British Raj. Mother India
giving birth to twins, two orphanous babes called India and Pakistan. The
Eve of Partition donned the mantle of a strange grandmother, severing
lands, souls and hearts. Limbs torn asunder most brutally went swirling
into the clouds of dust, and the mutilated bodies on the brink of extinction
raising heartrending groans for mercy and compassion.
Time was splintered into shards of insanity, drumming the plague of
hatred, and swallowing millions into its corrupt bosom. The hands of time
bloodied, its lips grinning, vile and grotesque.
August 14, 1947
The day of freedom started in newborn Pakistan with all the fanfare of
awe and jubilations. Pakistan Zindabad, an ocean of voices splintered the
sunshine over the balcony of City Hall, where Lord Mountbatten and
Mohammad Ali Jinnah stood facing the merry crowds, all singing and
cheering.
2
Chapter One
Mountbatten ki jai. Pakistan Zindabad. Qaid-i-Azam, zindabad.
The entire population of Karachi appeared to have poured out into the
streets to sing the songs of Freedom. And to welcome the British Viceroy,
along with the Father of their newborn nation—Jinnah, styled as Qaid-iAzam. Waves upon waves of color were rippling under the sun,
embellishing the precincts of City Hall and the Government House in the
likeness of a wedding procession. Punjabi men waving their gray caps, or
the Pathans tossing their gold-flecked turbans, were a mingling of magic
and splendor amongst the sea of women, donned in every hue and shade of
the rainbows. Young boys and girls too in bright, festive garbs were drunk
with the soma of mirth and exhilaration. Suddenly, a thirty-one-gun
vicergal salute enveloped the crowds and the representatives (of forty-five
million people) standing in circling rows behind the balcony into complete
hush, the silence awesome and palpitating. Lord Mountbatten, brushing
the sleeve of his white naval uniform lifted his arm up before balancing it
into an impeccable salute.
“The birth of Pakistan is an event in history.” Lord Mountbatten’s
voice was crisp, his smile ingratiating. “History seems sometimes to move
with the infinite slowness of a glacier, and sometimes to rush forward in a
torrent. Just now, in this part of the world, our united efforts have melted
the ice and moved some impediments from the stream and we are carried
in the full flood. There is no time to look back. There is only time to look
forward.” He stole a glance at Jinnah before returning his attention to the
eager audience. “The time has come to bid you farewell. May Pakistan
prosper, always! And may she continue in friendship with her neighbors
and with all the nations of the world.”
A great applause exploded forth, followed by a chorus of zindabad for
Jinnah, for Pakistan, for Mountbatten. The cries of jubilations, it seemed,
were claimed by the shafts of sunshine, flooding the heavens with earthly
joys, so vast and boundless. Jinnah’s hands were fumbling for the buttons
of his white sherwani before shooting up to claim attention. The ocean of
chanting was receding and diminishing, more so by the capricious clouds
veiling the face of the Sun, than by the imperious gesture of their leader,
Qaid-i-Azam. Jinnah’s arms were falling limp to his sides, his lips
trembling to mold thoughts into speech.
“Briton, and we the people of its former colonies are parting as friends.
And I sincerely hope that we shall remain friends.” Jinnah paused, as if
Dawn Most Lovely
3
allowing time for the sporadic chanting to subside. “A thirteen centuryold Islamic tradition of tolerance for the beliefs of others would be
followed and practiced by us. Pakistan would not be found wanting in
friendly spirit by our neighbors and all the nations of the world.”
Another round of thunderous applause boomed and spluttered. Jinnah
and Mountbatten vanished from the balcony, re-emerging a few minutes
later through the teak doors of the City Hall. They were quickly hauled
into the black open Rolls-Royce for their legendary ride around the
Government House as a symbol of freedom from the British Raj.
Mountbatten’s wife, Lady Edwina, could be seen sitting with them, as the
Rolls-Royce began to crawl through the slow parting of the crowds.
People were lined on both sides of the sidewalks, each inch of the space
undulating with color and enthusiasm. Jinnah sat stiff; livid with fright
with the knowledge of assassination plot on his life, but he was adamant
upon this decorum of an open ride to prove to his own self that he is the
Father of this Nation. Mountbatten too was watchful and apprehensive,
not liking the inevitable that Edwina had insisted on accompanying them.
There is no reason for both of us to be blown to smithereens,
Mountbatten had pleaded with his wife.
Now, as Mountbatten sat trying to focus his attention to the crowds, he
could see men clinging to the lamp-posts and telephone poles, even
dangling from the windows, while the others sat perched on the roof tops.
He was becoming aware of the Victoria Street coming to an end, the
crowds still waving and cheering. His own arm was bobbing up and
down, much like an automaton, and he had grown oblivious to the lapse of
time. The Rolls-Royce was creeping toward Elphinstone Street, crowds
diminishing amidst the commercial thoroughfare of shops owned by the
Hindus. Time had picked up speed along with the Rolls-Royce, the gates
of Government House coming into view once again, crowds chanting and
applauding with a renewed energy of joy and exhilaration.
“Thank God, I have brought you back alive.”
Mountbatten’s knee, relief shining in his eyes.
Jinnah tapped
“You brought me back alive?” Mountbatten retorted radiantly. “My
God, it’s I who brought you back alive.”
Chapter One
4
The freedom of Pakistan rolled down to another realm in the blink of
an eye, toward the streets of Delhi. To be precise, a few minutes away
from midnight:
August 15, 1947
The Assembly Hall at Delhi was teeming with men and women. They
were representing the freedom of two hundred and seventy-five million
Hindus and thirty-five million Muslims, including the lesser minorities of
six million Sikhs, twenty-four thousand Jews and one hundred thousand
Parsees. The Hall was brightly lit by lamps and a large chandelier. The
light itself seemed to be pouring warmth into the hearts of the leaders who
stood talking eagerly, their eyes spilling the libations of joy and hope.
Outside the Hall, the street lights were foggy against the lashing of the
rain, but the jubilant crowds were singing and dancing as if nothing in the
world could rob them of their joy in witnessing the Hour of Freedom.
“Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny.” Jawaharlal Nehru
commanded everyone’s attention inside the Hall. His face still ashen from
the ceremonial ashes of a Sannyasin. “And now the time comes when we
shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very
substantially. At the stroke of midnight hour, while the world sleeps, India
will awaken to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but
rarely in history, when we step out from old to the new. When an age
ends, and when the soul of a nation long suppressed finds utterance.” He
appeared to suck back his tears, his voice crackling. “At the dawn of
history, India started on her unending quest, and the trackless centuries are
filled with her striving and the grandeur of her successes and failures.
Through good and ill fortunes alike, she has never lost sight of that quest,
or forgotten the ideal which gave her strength. We end today a period of
ill fortune, and India discovers herself again.” His gaze floated toward the
large clock, and he continued hurriedly. “This is no time for petty and
destructive criticism, no time for ill-will or blaming others. We have to
build the noble mansion of free India where all her children may dwell.”
The hands of the clock on the mantel grazed the Roman numerals X11,
and all heads were bowed in silence, listening to the chimes of freedom, so
sweet and awesome. At the stroke of twelve, a loud bleat from the conch
shell heralded the birth of freedom. The Assembly Hall was shook to
awakening by the cries of Jai Hind, Mahatma Gandhi ki Jai, Mountbatten
ki Jai. Nehru, as soon as he emerged out into the midnight drizzle, was
Dawn Most Lovely
5
snatched into the arms of exultant crowds, embracing and swirling. The
rain which had changed to a drizzle, had vanished completely all of a
sudden. The night sky was lit by a rainbow, most exquisite and glorious.
The crowds went wild, dancing and pirouetting, as if chasing the rainbow
to wrest out the midnight hour and preserve it forever. But the wiser
heads, forged intuitive by experience, could listen to the hum of
impending doom, their hearts refusing to be lulled by the mantra of
freedom. Reflected in their minds was the heart of Mother India, cradling
her twins of British Raj, who were transformed from weak, defenseless
babes to mighty giants, both savage and ruthless. And yet, the hour of
celebration had its moment of glory for the skeptics and optimistics alike,
infused with the fire of mystery and exultation.
The streets of Delhi had come alive at this midnight hour, garlanded
with lights, all starry and flickering. Even the huts of the poor were lit
with candles, bright lamps hung on their door posts to welcome the Dawn
of Freedom. The Red Fort of the Moghul emperors was a splendor to
watch, polished to brilliance with strings of lights. A float of cars, Tongas,
bicycles, all decorated with colorful friezes were packed with revelers,
singing and cheering. Caparisoned horses and elephants, equipped with
velvety howdahs were a part of this jubilant procession, while people
swept through the bazaars of euphoria into the bosoms of bars, cafes and
restaurants. The Imperial Hotel with its imposing façade was rocked by
songs. Its great hall was turned into a den of delirium, since no one could
recall the national anthem in its entirety written by the famous poet,
Tagore, with the exception of one man, Tara Gena Mani.
Maiden Hotel in old Delhi was another sight of feverish celebrations,
hosting a group of dancers and musicians. People were caught in a fever
of laughing, hugging and embracing. Amidst this wild abandon of joy and
camaraderie, one young girl was seen leaping to her feet, pirouetting from
table to table, and pressing red tilak upon the foreheads of all with her
lipstick. All the while singing huzzas for gook luck.
The main street, Connaught Circus, was crowded the most, replete
with entertainments. It was a place where Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims
could be seen hugging each other, chanting and dancing. Amidst such a
whirlwind of rejoicing, down the steps of an English garden, was one Sikh
journalist by the name of Kartar Singh. He was seen dancing his way
toward one Muslim girl, Aisha Siddiqi—a medical student, and the
daughter of his parents close friends. He had fallen hopelessly in love
6
Chapter One
with this girl, but had kept this love inside him like some sacred thread
wound around his heart from the very hands of his guru with profoundest
of prayers. Now, against the joy and magic of this midnight hour, the very
same sacred thread was snapped loose, his heart somersaulting amidst
flames of agony and longing. Inflamed with passion most agonizing, he
had caught Aisha into one eager embrace, kissing her cheeks, their hearts
thundering in unison, both suspended into some eternal bliss of sweet
oblivion.
For these besotted lovers, the joyous crowd around them was hurled to
obscurity as they clung to each other in utter abandon, free from the
shackles of race, religion, and most of all, from any imperial invaders from
foreign lands. They were the children of the moment, ignorant of the
Great Tragedy lurking in the wake of their Great Love. Paradoxically,
this great tragedy was not far behind, which would not only sunder apart
their loving hearts, but the hearts of the millions while still intoxicated by
the elixir of joy and freedom.
The black heart of the night had already drained the joy of freedom, the
clouds of doom hovering low from east to west, from north to south.
Nehru was pacing in his bedroom, dreading the Dawn of Freedom. Dawn
was yet a couple of hours away, but he had been pacing since he got home.
His adored daughter, Indira, after her fruitless efforts in pleading with him
to go to bed, was now sprawled on the davenport, her heart restless and
her eyes stinging with sleeplessness.
How can I sleep, how can I sleep! Nehru had moaned tirelessly,
wringing his hands and parading a string of arguments with his own
lonesome self. Even before the midnight madness, glazed with the glitter
of hope and euphoria had commenced, Nehru had felt the blade of horror
poised at his very jugular vein. Late in the evening while dining in his
home, Nehru had received an anonymous call from Lahore. The caller had
sounded demented, rather mad with grief, and raving. And yet, his words
had poured lava of shock into Nehru’s head, leaving him stunned.
Lahore, yes Lahore, the water in the villages where Sikhs and Hindus
lived, had been cut off, the wells and the canals too were guarded by the
Muslims. The women and children, who ventured out of their homes,
begging for a pail of water, were being butchered in turn by the Muslim
mobs turned hoodlums. Half of the villages in Lahore were torched to
ashes; the cries of the victims smothered in raging fires, and the exultant
Dawn Most Lovely
7
crowds were torching more to roast Sikhs and Hindus alive into the
eternal flames of damnation.
Such coals of horror had been Nehru’s demons of torture throughout
the Eve of Independence. Hounding him wherever he went, and following
him back to his home with evil grins? More reports of violence had
reached him on his way home, and he could feel the noose of agony
tightening the very strings of his heart. By the time he had reached home,
his head was spinning like a globe of fire, accentuating the evil reports in
colors of blood and vengeance.
We got Pakistan by right. We would take Hindustan by might. Some
mullahs inside the old Delhi mosque were heard chanting this slogan,
which was to be paraded on the streets after the morning prayers. To
challenge the mullahs; Sikhs and Hindus in Delhi were forming their own
coalition to torch the Muslim neighborhoods—a great bonfire in honor of
Independence celebration.
Oblivious to his unruly thoughts, Nehru was still pacing, thinking
aloud, his voice hoarse and his look glazed. Before his mind’s sight, the
reports of intended violence in Delhi were obscured by flashes of
perpetrated carnage in Lahore. His mind was jolted to a quick awareness,
his heart shuddering.
“How can I have peace in my heart for India’s Independence, when I
know my beautiful Lahore—the city of gardens and colleges is burning,
burning…” Nehru’s feet came to an abrupt halt before his daughter, the
anguished look in his eyes stark and pleading.
“Pitaji, your head would be cleared if you snatch a few hours of
sleep?” Indira pleaded once again. “Maybe, that call from Lahore was a
hoax? Nothing happened there, all peaceful.”
“Nightmare has just begun! When it would be over?” Nehru flung
himself upon the davenport beside his daughter, cradling his arms under
his head. “What did I say in my speech? How do I know? I don’t know,
words pouring down from nowhere, my mind lit up by the brands of fire,
watching hoary flames, consuming beautiful Lahore. Must call Jinnah,
Liaqat Ali? Anyone? Must talk with Maulana Azad, Mountbatten,
Gandhiji? Gandhiji, haven’t heard from him since…”
8
Chapter One
“Didn’t you hear his message on All India Radio, Pitaji?” Indira
murmured to herself. “His message from Calcutta on the Day of
Independence, just four words. I have run dry. Please, Pitaji, try to sleep,
think about such things in the morning.”
“Sarojini Naidu, did she leave? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Asaf
staying?” Nehru murmured to himself. “Independence Day! August
fifteen. Didn’t Swamin Madamanand—the astrologer from Calcutta, warn
us about this inauspicious date? August fifteen would lie under the
Zodiacal sign of Makara, he said. Capricorn, a sign, one of whose
particularities is its unrelenting hostility to all centrifugal forces, hence to
partition. Far worse, that day would be passed under the influence of
Saturn, notably inauspicious planet, dominated by Rahu. Scornfully,
labeled by astrologers the star with no neck, a celestial body whose
manifestations are wholly malign. From midnight August fourteen
throughout August fifteen, Saturn, Jupiter and Venus would all lie in the
most accursed site of the heavens, the ninth house of Karamstah. These
are the predictions of Swamin Madamanand, not mine. He is the disciple
of Tantric studies in yoga—meditation from the very temple of Assam.
Didn’t he say, August fifteen would be a celestial catastrophe? Why is
this all coming back to me? His letter to Mountbatten, for the love of God,
do not give India her independence on August fifteen. If floods, drought,
famine and massacres follow, it would be because free India was born on
a day cursed by the stars.”
“Pitaji, you never believed in stars, and I have never known you to be
superstitious?” Indira protested feebly.
“Yes.” Nehru closed his eyes, Indira slipping a pillow under his head.
“God has forsaken us, and gods? Where are the goddesses? Do they have
the power to infuse love into the hearts of their sons turned thugs, goondas
and murderers all…” He was drifting into the gentle arms of sleep.
Yet Nehru’s sleep was rigged with memories harsh and belligerent.
Years of struggles and imprisonments were marching past in his dreams
with steam-engine haste. All events of the past partitioned into little
chunks of time, and vanishing like the mists in illusions. Gandhiji was
there, his god and savior since the past two and a half decades in this
struggle for freedom. Gentle and paternal, the leader of swaraj—self rule.
Gandhi, the architect of satygran—nonviolent, non-cooperation! He was
the Bapu—father of all, doing hartal—penance by fasting till death, to
Dawn Most Lovely
9
fight evil and violence. More faces were emerging in Nehru’s dreams, a
collage of representatives from both the parties, the Congress and the
Muslim League. Jinnah, Liaqat Ali Khan, Maulana Azad, Ali brothers,
Suhrawardy, Zahid Hussain, Menon, Baldev Singh, Rajendra Prasad,
Pyarelal, Patel…
A great pandemonium was effacing the faces of all in Nehru’s dreams.
Nameless mobs, fires, massacres and mutilations. His thoughts were
whispering that he was witnessing the future of Independence. Horror was
written all over the face of Mother India, and he was standing on a
precipice all alone, stunned and speechless. The sprigs of hope and peace
were blooming somewhere, but the heart of Hind was muddied and
bloodied. He himself was foundering deeper into the dreamless sleep of
bliss-oblivion.
Sleep was continents away from Kartar Singh—the journalist, his heart
holding Aisha in an everlasting embrace. Seated in his study, and
intoxicated by the fire of love, he was trying his best to finish writing his
article for the Hindustan Times. Being in ecstatic swoon since midnight,
Aisha had become his beautiful Muse, infusing passion and sweetness into
his writing. How and when he had reached home, he had no idea, utterly
blinded by the diamond-brilliance of his own love, seeing nothing, hearing
nothing. Had he seen the hooligans gathering in the shadows on his way
home, or heard their angry remarks, he would have shuddered to look into
the eyes of doom, but as it was he had no inkling of any doom or tragedy.
His mind was soaring toward the heavens, followed by his heart on a
chariot of stars. Arrayed thus in starry splendor, his heart had entered the
bedroom of his beloved where she lay sleeping in the luxuriant comfort of
her own home. Through the window of his noble soul, he could already
see her as his wedded bride, the disparity of religions between them never
entering his giddy thoughts. Moreover, he beheld his religion as a
spiritual gateway to love, believing in the unity of all sects, creeds and
beliefs. He had acquired this knowledge from his unorthodox parents.
His father, unlike many of the Sikhs, was clean-shaven, and his mother
unencumbered by rituals, believing only in goodness.
Kartar Singh, like his father, was clean shaven too, hailed as a child of
the mountains due to the Kashmiri patrimony on his mother’s side. His
fair features were sharp like his mother’s, light-gold hair, and eyes the
color of sherry, always sparkling. At this hour of dawn, for the lack of
sleep, his eyes were red-rimmed and stinging. An overpowering sense of
10
Chapter One
fatigue hit him suddenly, and he abandoned his pen, rubbing his eyes
while making a mental note of what he had written.
Kartar Singh’s thoughts had been giddy and gallivanting, and he was
not sure what he had written, but astonishingly clear was one recollection
stark and distant. He had read about one Indian Muslim studying in
Cambridge. His name was Chaudry Rahmat Ali, and in the Year 1933, he
had started the idea of a separate nation, Pakistan—meaning, the land of
the pure in Persian. Jinnah was also a student at Cambridge, and was
present when this name was coined. He had derided Rahmat Ali, telling
him that Pakistan was an impossible dream, and that the idea of Pakistan
was impossible. At that time Jinnah was proud of the alliance with the
British, humming their mantra of politics. Those who are not with us are
against us. Now Jinnah was wearing the laurels of victory, and Rahmat
Ali was forgotten in some lone apartment of London. Another forgotten
figure in the Drama of Independence was Gandhi whose selfless efforts
had wrought this miracle of Independence, Kartar Singh had written in his
article. Also recounting the derisive comments of Winston Churchill in
the House of Commons about the Father of the Nation—Mahatma Gandhi.
It is alarming and also nauseating to see Mr. Gandhi, a seditious
Middle Temple lawyer, now posing as a fakir of the type well-known in the
East, striding half naked up the steps of Vicergal palace, while he is still
organizing and conducting a defiant campaign of civil disobedience, to
parley on equal terms with the representative of the King Emperor.
The sharp icicles in Kartar Singh’s thoughts were piercing Churchill’s
mind, and he could see his article in its entirety. Winston Churchill’s
speech at the Reform Acts of 1935 crystal clear and dripping arrogance.
We have a good right to be in India as anyone there except, perhaps,
the Depressed Classes, who are the original stock. Our government is not
an irresponsible government. It is a government responsible to the Crown
and to Parliament. It is incomparably the best government that India has
ever seen or ever will see. It is not true to say that the Indians, whatever
their creed, would not rather their affairs dealt with in many cases by
British courts and British officers than by their own people; especially,
their own people of the opposite religion.
Kartar Singh’s thoughts had been consumed by Churchill while writing
this article, and he could not help but add the pugnacious remarks of this
Dawn Most Lovely
11
lord of nemesis, which Churchill had uttered in the lobby of Westminster.
This remark was addressed to Durga Das, an Indian correspondent of
World War 11, who had the misfortune of being admitted into the
presence of Churchill. Since Durga Das was wearing a war uniform,
Churchill had declared deprecatingly.
Indian soldiers are fine fighters, but your politicians are men of
straw—not Gandhi and few others. You are going to be a burden to us.
You have to be your own shield, though as I see it you are a continent—
not one nation, but many nations. You have poverty and an increasing
population.
Kartar Singh stirred in his chair, jolted to awareness by the subtle
revelation that his article reeked of anti-British sentiments. Though he had
nothing against them, and at a personal level, liked most Britons
profoundly. It was his psyche, not his thoughts which had gleaned these
snippets out of ancient, historic moments. While ruminating thus, Kartar
Singh could feel the first stab of a premonition, which had eluded him
during the pre-dawn hours of fever and ecstasy. Aisha was still with him,
a presence sweet and irresistible, but his thoughts were bent upon
exploring the rags of his psyche. He had written.
Divide and Rule, Britain had played this Crescent Card before to serve
their quicksilver greed and ambition. The Middle East crisis—Belfour
Declaration, to win the support of US Jews in war—to facilitate the
achievement of a National Home for the Zionist Jews in Palestine. Lord
Arthur Belfour declaring in the Year 1917.
His Majesty’s Government views with favor the establishment of a
National Home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavor to
facilitate the achievement of this object. It being clearly understood that
nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rites of
existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or of the rights of the
political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.
Aisha, my All! Did your sweet lips infuse fire into my fingers to
rekindle the flames of truth on these pages? Kartar Singh pressed his
temples, reciting what he had written.
British invasion in the Year 1857, Delhi ransacked and plundered. A
great massacre, killing innocent people, indiscriminately. Bahadur Shah
12
Chapter One
Zafar—the Moghul emperor, captured from his sanctuary, where he had
concealed himself by the tomb of emperor Humayun. His sons
slaughtered in cold blood, their severed heads hurled at the feet of the
grieving emperor in prison. Imprisoned in Rangoon Maynar, Bahadur
Shah finally died of grief and deprivation. This poet-emperor in throes of
agony writing his own epitaph.
How ill-starred is Zafar in birth
For his grave and kafan—burial shroud
Couldn’t even claim a patch of cloth or clod
From his beloved land of Hindustan
The pincers of presage were now holding Kartar Singh’s thoughts into
a tight noose, which had nothing to do with the British, and yet with the
British?
The treasures of the Hindu Rajas, Sikh Gurus and Moghul emperors,
plundered and carted away to fill the imperial coffers in London. Lahore
Fort plundered by Sir John Login in the Year 1849, great quantities of
gold, silver and jewels most precious pilfered. Ranjit’s golden Chair of
State, and Shah Shuja’s silver pavilion, all gone, all gone. Relics of the
Prophet, rare plume of the Last Guru, sword of the Persian hero—Rustam,
all fell into the hands of the British Invaders. The most precious of them
all, the great diamond Koh-i-Noor, which was presented to Queen
Victoria in the Year 1850 at Buckingham palace on behalf of East India
Company.
The sting of presage was now sharp and ominous in Kartar Singh’s
soul and psyche. He could hear the hum of sinister warnings, some sort of
babble, and the odor of cruelty and bloodshed. His thoughts were cutting
open the decade-past comments of Gandhiji. For clarity, he had quoted
these comments in his article under some spell of fever and exhilaration.
Gandhiji had written:
Dear friend, Lord Irwin. Before embarking on civil disobedience and
taking the risk I have dreaded to take all these years, I would fain
approach you and find a way out. I cannot intentionally hurt anything
that lives, much less human beings, even though they may do the greatest
wrong to me and mine. Whilst, therefore, I hold the British rule to be a
curse, I do not intend harm to a single Englishman or to any legitimate
interest he may have in India. And why do I regard the British rule as a
Dawn Most Lovely
13
curse? It has impoverished the dumb millions by a system of progressive
exploitation and by a ruinous expensive military and civil administration
which the country can never afford. It has reduced us politically to
serfdom. It has sapped the foundations of our culture…
Kartar Singh’s head was drooping over the desk, his opiate thoughts
hovering above, and looking down at the pagoda tree of the British Raj.
Lord Pentland telling Lord Mountbatten.
Prince, we have shaken the pagoda tree long enough, and we may well
leave. But the Muslims have to look after themselves and will suffer.
Drifting into dreams, Kartar Singh could see Gandhi’s face
everywhere. Angry and benevolent, kind and anguished! Snippets of
Gandhi’s comments were like the rustling of the leaves, circling the earth
and the heavens. Gandhi telling Mountbatten:
Leave India to God, to chaos, to anarchy if you wish, but leave.
Gandhi warned against deception by Smuts, Gandhi reciting this
Sanskrit proverb:
Forgiveness is the ornament of the brave.
Gandhi breaking his twenty-one day fast for the cause of unity
amongst Hindus and Muslims, and enjoying recitations from holy books.
Imam Sahib reciting from the Quran:
In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful
Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds
The Beneficent, the Merciful
Owner of the Day of Judgment
Thee alone we worship, thee alone we ask for help
Show us the straight path
The path of those whom Thou hast favored
Not the path of those who earn Thine anger
Nor of those who go astray
Christian missionary, Charles Freer Andrews singing:
When I survey the wondrous Cross
Chapter One
14
Love so amazing, so divine
Demands my soul
My life, my all
Mohandas, pouring out with all humility, the wisdom and poetry from
Bhagavad-Gita:
Lead me from untruth to truth
From darkness to light
From death to immortality
White mists of peace were lulling Kartar Singh to profoundest of
sleeps, yet a subtle laughter from deep within was swirling this refrain
from his college days:
Behold the mighty Englishman
He rules the Indian small
Because being a meat-eater
He is five cubits tall
CHAPTER TWO
FREEDOM TORCH OF VENGEANCE
Many a festival day comes to you in silence
Deity of the ruined temple
Many a night of worship goes away
With lamp unlit
Many new images are built
By masters of cunning art
And carried to the holy stream of oblivion
When their time is come
Only the deity of the ruined temple
Remains unworshiped
In deathless neglect
—Tagore
The scene of horror and ugliness on Connaught Circus in Delhi was
shifting and shuddering before Kartar Singh’s sight with the speed of a
hurricane. He had found shelter against the broken window of one shop,
witnessing a pandemonium of blood and carnage with grief so profound
that he had even forgotten his editorial assignment to take notes for
Hindustan Times. For two whole weeks since the morning after Big Bang,
he had been reporting about the Holocaust of the East under some spell of
shock and delirium, though physically and mentally drained to lend
expression to such madness. Right this moment, he was feeling numb,
merely a cipher. A stranger in the void, alienated from this flood of
humanity turned murderers most brutal and savage. The hot, searing sky
of Delhi was lowering its own shafts of brutality, while Hindus killed
Muslims, committing the rites of cruelties much in the manner of Muslims
killing Hindus across the border in Pakistan. The nightmare freedom had
exploded from pole to pole, drowning millions into the blood-bath of
hatred and vengeance. And this particular afternoon, fever of vengeance
was visiting Delhi with a fresh surge of violence and carnage.
Kartar Singh was turned into a statue of immobility; the only part of
his body tortured into action was his mind. Twisting and turning like a
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Chapter Two
globe, its cities gouged and bloodied by the exodus of millions, while
fleeing the fires of madness and massacres. The most noble and precious
of his loves, Aisha, was a torch of agony inside the globe of his head. His
sight blocking out this scene of horror. And his mind cutting open the
days of Independence with the knife of recollections so excruciating that
he shuddered inwardly, incapable of stirring or fleeing.
Jai Hind, Jai Hind, these cries of Independence throbbing in Kartar
Singh’s memory were like deep wounds, bruised by anarchy and bloated
by the blood of countless millions. The sherry pools in his eyes were
polished by pain and bewilderment, reflecting the horror of this day like a
whirlwind, all phantasmagoric. Amongst the teeming mobs, the blue
turbans of the Sikhs with white handkerchiefs tied over their foreheads
were most vivid and awesome, their kirpans glinting in tidal waves of
slaughter and devastation. Jai Hind, Jai Hind, Kartar Singh’s mind was
repeating this litany to hold on to the reed of sanity, his thoughts flying
back to Chandra Bose, who had coined this slogan of freedom. But
Chandra Bose was not present to witness this strange birth of freedom,
since he had died in a plane crash two years hence, his ashes resting in
peace in the Renkoji Temple in Tokyo.
Another reed of sanity in Kartar Singh’s head parading the banner of
peace, was the Indian flag designed by a Muslim by the name of Bad-udDin Tayabji. In swirling colors of white, green and saffron, with the
wheel of Ashoka in the middle, this flag was unfurling in his mind’s vision
amidst the blaring of horns and the cheers of Jai Hind.
This memory scarred by hatred and migration was unfurling its own
banner, the color of blood. This dawn of freedom was splashed red with
the blood of the victims, the scenes so gruesome that no painter could ever
dare to arrest on canvas the colors of death and mutilation.
Hurricanes of scenes were spinning in Kartar Singh’s head with a
dizzying speed, creating a collage of horrors in days within days since the
inception of Independence Day. Independence Day was more like a
Judgment Day, joyous chants pierced by the sounds of agony and
mourning. Jinnah had gone to Pakistan, leaving behind a vague statement
for his fellow Muslims. Stating, that the country was divided, and that
Muslims should be loyal citizens of any part of the divided whole they
choose to adopt as their homeland. The next day, the boundary lines of
India and Pakistan were released, penciled by the British lawyer, Sir Cyril
Freedom Torch of Vengeance
17
Radcliffe, unleashing an avalanche of violence and migration. Radcliffe
had nothing to do with Hindustan or its people, a mere stranger in a
foreign land employed by the British to write the destiny of a continent he
had not the luxury of visiting. A few weeks before Independence, he had
landed in Delhi as a lone arbiter. After immuring himself in a hotel room,
he had literally sliced the land of Hindustan into wafer-thin margins, with
razor-edge point of his pencil. The result being, that countless families
were left in a limbo on the wrong sides of the borders, confused and
frightened. A Pandora-box of contentions was unsealed, wafting the odor
of enmity and bitterness amongst the Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims,
regardless of the fact that they had for years on end nurtured their
communities as the models of sisterhood and brotherhood.
Radcliffe, in utter ignorance, had committed many holy blunders with
the ink of his sacred pen, but the holiest of his blunders was the butchering
of Punjab along the boundary line of the Ravi River. This mutilation of
the land over paper had transformed in a flash the millions of decent
populace into raving, maddening cut-throats. Gurdaspur, the gateway to
Jammu and Kashmir, was granted to India. Lahore—Nehru’s Paris of the
Orient, with its wealth of colleges and gardens, went to Pakistan. Bengal,
it was obvious, became the victim of a crude scalpel than the pencil-stab
of Radcliffe, slicing the boundaries of East and West over an ocean so
stormy that nothing could calm these waters of contentions toward the
shore of peace and harmony. Kashmir, with its blossom of beauty, was
left dangling down the snowy peaks, much like an impetuous child of the
mountains, proud and rebellious. And yet, Kashmir was the white thorn,
reared by the Imperial will, implanted inside the very heart of the
continent to live and grow. It was a gift of Independence, entrusted into
the hands of Radcliffe to be delivered to India and Pakistan—a token of
remembrance everlasting. This token, which would rend and pierce the
hearts of freedom-bound twins in eternal torment, again and again, forever
and ever-after.
The day of torment or the Judgment Day had commenced with all its
ugliness of rape, pillage and slaughter as soon as the knife of division by
Radcliffe cut through the waves of radio, engendering a mass exodus. Ten
million Sikhs and Hindus were on the move toward South into India, and
seven million Muslims leaving north of India to Pakistan. All had
abandoned their homes, friends and properties, and all were caught in the
nightmarish reality of despair, deprivation and homelessness. The most
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Chapter Two
horrendous of all nightmares was the volcano of violence, swallowing
millions into its lava of hatred, insanity, malevolence.
Mountbatten had gone to Simla, leaving India to God or anarchy, as
tragically prophesied by Gandhi. TheWagah border separating India from
Pakistan had become a narrow bridge, dividing hell from hell on each side
of the freedom-twins. God or gods had left this continent into the bloodthirsty hands of hate-mongering mobs to chisel their own territories with
the blades of rape, murder and carnage. The whole world was on fire, as
far as Hindustan was concerned, not only the cities and villages were
torched, but the hearts and minds of the Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims were
kindled to a conflagration of hatred and vengeance. Tides upon tides of
men were killing each other indiscriminately and without provocation.
They were under some spell of frenzy and madness so unfathomable that
even if they could turn the whole earth into rivers of blood, their lust for
rape and slaughter could not be mitigated. Friends and foes were
murdered alike, most brutally and mercilessly. The All Merciful God of
the Muslims was nowhere to be seen over the land of Pakistan, where
slaughtering of the Sikhs and Hindus was commenced as some holy
sacrifice to celebrate the Eid of Freedom.
All gods and goddesses in India were silent too, if not absent. Only
goddess, Kali, roaming the streets of woe and bloodshed, it was obvious.
Garlanded with raw, bloodied limbs of the Muslims, and commanding
demented mobs to continue their holy ritual of rape and murder? India too
could be seen celebrating the festival of freedom, their Holi of holies,
smearing Mother Earth with the blood of friends, deemed foes with the
sudden awakening of lands divided and severed. The wound of madness
could not be bandaged, growing forever, throbbing and expanding. The
children were torn from their mothers, wives raped before their husbands,
and then such suffering, groveling lumps of victims were hacked to pieces
while they begged for mercy, their agonized cries ripping the heavens
asunder. The cities and villages were wafting the odor of burnt human
flesh while still burning under the clouds of smoke and fireworks. Loaded
on buses, or packed in trains, the migrants were massacred on both sides
of the border, grafting terror in the hearts of the living and fleeing.
Millions were traveling the road to death, never reaching their adopted
homelands. No one knew their destination, only the ghost trains with their
cargo of blood and mutilation.
Freedom Torch of Vengeance
19
Kartar Singh shuddered once again, each stab of memory goading him
to return to the pandemonium of awareness where violence raged before
his sight like an ocean of hatred. But he closed his eyes, watching only the
horrors of the past two weeks, which shone brighter than this whaling
clash of the gangs and gangsters. One name was sprouting in his head,
more so to claim the reed of sanity, than to remember Faiz Ahmed Faiz—
the poet of India. Faiz had gone to Pakistan, claiming it as his homeland,
but he had written a beautiful poem right after the partition. The singer,
Iqbal Bano, who had given voice to this poem, was another name
emerging in Kartar Singh’s head. She too had claimed Pakistan as her
homeland, but her voice lending life to the words of Faiz, was reaching
him, as if to comfort and console.
The Morning of Freedom
This strange light, this bitter dawn
This is not the dawn we yearned for
This is not the dawn we set out hoping that in the sky’s wilderness
We would reach the final destination of the stars
Surely, the night’s turgid sea will breathe its last on the inevitable
shore
The enigma of youthful blood—the reductive hands
So many forsaken loves—plaintive looks
But irresistible was the radiant face of dawn
Though love and beauty were within our reach
The subtle sorcery of desire, the aching tenderness
They say that darkness has been severed from Light
They say that the goal has been achieved
The predicament of the grief-stricken has radically changed
Ecstasy of union is allowed and the torment of separation forbidden
Torn nerves, glazed eyes, hearts on fire
There is no cure for the disease of separation
From where did the morning breeze come, and where did it go
The earthen lamp shrugs its head in despair
The night is as oppressive as ever
The time for the liberation of heart and mind has not come as yet
Continue your arduous journey, this is not your destination
Destination is Kartar Singh’s head had jammed its breaks in front of
the present, his eyes shot open. The Piccadilly Circus of India—
Connaught Circus, was coming alive before his sight with all its tumult of
anger and violence. Amidst the raging mob was emerging forth a familiar
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Chapter Two
face, flushed against white Congress cap, eyes flashing. The face was that
of Jawaharlal Nehru, the Prime Minister of India. Behind him were a
coterie of policemen, trying their best to appease the mobs, but he himself
was swirling his lathi, beating the rioters to submission.
“You damned scoundrels! Why are you killing your own brothers?”
Nehru’s voice was scalding the bloodshot eyes of the murderers, along
with the burning coals in his own eyes. “For shame, go. Drown your
stinking rage into the holy waters of Ganges. Why are you carving rivers
of blood into the holy bosom of Mother India? Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims,
we are all one and the same. Does freedom demand the ransom of hate
and bloodshed from the ones we have lived in peace with for many
centuries, like brothers and sisters?”
The angry crowds were dispersing, humbled for the time being, forlorn
and shamefaced. Now the groans of the victims were loud and shrill, since
the mobs partly subdued by police, and mostly by Nehru’s passion, were
leaving. The blood-soaked bodies of the dead and the dying were being
hauled away by a compassionate few, heeding the appeals of Nehru.
Kartar Singh was inching his way toward the Prime Minister under some
spell of daze and bewilderment. He was becoming aware of an elderly
woman, her ochre sari clinging, and her hair disheveled. Her face was
etched with grief, fever, and dementia shining in her eyes. Wild fires
chasing her, it seemed, as she approached Nehru.
“Partitions take place in all families!” The old lady sang painfully.
“Property changes hands, but it is all arranged peacefully. Why this loot,
butchery, abductions? Could you not do it the sensible way? Families
divided?”
Nehru turned away, unable to utter any words of consolation, tears
shining in his eyes. Kartar Singh plodded after him, then beside him, both
silent, both grief-stricken. Nehru was sucking back his tears, his gaze
unseeing, yet his feet carrying him toward his car. Kartar Singh was
lagging behind now, lonesome and distraught. The driver had opened the
door for Nehru, and he was quick to crash into the back seat.
“Come, Kartar Singh, join me.” Nehru beckoned histrionically. “Your
services to India don’t go unnoticed. Write a template of peace where love
and camaraderie could greet the Hindustan Times, not this violence and
madness. Our people have surely gone mad.” He cupped his head into his