The journey beyond.

The British troops were ready to sail back from Bombay, Mountbatten was set to transfer the power to both the dominions, say the last goodbyes, perform the last rites and draw the curtains of the great show.

While they were celebrating the end of the empire with the high teas at the Taj Mahal Hotel on the Bay,

The responsibility of the great division fell upon the shoulders of one lonely man who sat far away in his office in London, Sir Cyril Radcliffe.

He unfolded the map of India, without having any idea of what job he had taken up, his eyes followed his fingers through the Himalayas and the rivers.

He knew virtually nothing about India. He did not know about Punjab and Bengal was, beyond the wheat fields and the rice paddies. Radcliffe discovered for the first time the outlines of the great provinces he had agreed to divide.

A division of 17500 square miles of the great rivers, mighty temples and mosques, railways, factories, bank accounts, libraries ,pastures ,fields, cattle, villages , schools. A division of religions and more than that 88 million people and their souls.

All of it was brought down to a piece of paper somewhere in London. So ironic.

The Sadhus in Benaras wanted the Indus to flow through India because the Vedas were written here, Muslims wanted the Taj Mahal to be shifted because it was built by a Mughal.

Each had its own set of claims from this great divorce.

There was a sudden collapse in the society, as the news of the partition had spread.

The Muslims in the then Western Province butchered hundred thousands of rich, affluent Sikhs and Hindus like goats. In august 1947, only a few hindus who survived in Pakistan were the Pariahs.

Sikhs raped the beautiful Muslim Girls in front of the most sacred shrine, the Golden Temple which stood so peacefully in a small city of Punjab, Amritsar.

One act provoked another, one horror fed the other, each slaughter begot its successor, each rumour was heard with its counterpart.

A train of dead bodies arrived at the Amritsar station, which said , ‘our gift to you : From Pakistan.

Sikhs and Hindus killed the Muslim refugees in the next two trains, and sent a return gift right back to Pakistan.

Dead bodies had no religion, laid silently beside each other. No witnesses to the winnings or losings , thus the ashes laugh as the ghost of the past still haunts us 67 years later.

Nevertheless, in the middle of all this chaos, there still are Sikhs who marry Muslims, hating less and keeping the spirit of the pre partition alive. There still are royal families in Old Delhi, who have nothing left but memories of the good times. There still are calligraphers who get no business in the new age but wish to keep the art alive. There still are eunuchs of turkman gate who don’t beg on the streets of Delhi and walk with their heads held high. There still are rababis ( muslim ragis )who are allowed to do kirtan in a gurdwara. These are just a few stories of the thousands, so many go unheard and are buried deep within.

We still have time to sit with our grandparents, hear tales of their beautiful childhoods and take pride in being descendents of such great fighters and warriors who have won their own set of battles and more than that take them back for a visit to the land they once called their own!