Partition: My Family's Experiences

Every family that lived through the days of partition in 1947 has a story to tell. Here’s the story of my family, as told to me over the years by my mother. Every time I've heard the story, some new nugget or the other has come out, and I've been quite spellbound and have been transported to another era. It all seems so unreal and distant, and yet it was in the living memory of my mother.

My mother, Oonita, was just 12 when partition took place. She lived in Bahawalpur with her father Ram Narain Kathpalia, mother Kaushalya Kathpalia, paternal grandmother, two elder brothers Jagat and Pearey (aged 23 and 21 respectively) and elder sister Indira (aged 16). My grandfather used to work as an engineer for the Nawab of Bahawalpur, and was close to him. The Nawab was a secular man, and it didn’t matter to him that my grandfather was a Hindu in a largely Muslim state.

Communal violence was initially not rampant in Bahawalpur, but gradually the atmosphere worsened. My grandmother’s father was killed in a violent attack, and that shook the family and made them realize that staying on in Pakistan was not really an option. My grandfather used to travel often on work, and during one such travel, he put a trusted Muslim friend in charge to take care of the family. Both my Uncles were studying in college back then – the elder one in Lahore, and the younger one in Amritsar - so it was only my great grandmother, my grandmother, my aunt and my mother who were at home. This avuncular Muslim gentleman guarded them closely, with his gun in hand. One day, he had to be away. He called my aunt, handed over his gun to her and said “If there is an attack on the household, you must protect the honour and dignity of all the women of the household. You must first shoot your grandmother, then your mother, then your sister, and then yourself.” Saying this, he taught her how to use the gun. While showing off her newly acquired talent to my mother, my aunt accidently fired the gun. The bullet almost scraped my mother’s forehead, but luckily she had a narrow escape by a hair’s breadth! Both sisters were very worried about what to say to my grandfather because the bullet lodged itself into the expensive wooden bookshelf in his study!

That dreaded confrontation with my grandfather never happened, because just days later, in November 1947, my grandfather returned from tour and announced that it was time to leave Pakistan and move to India. The family decided to relocate to Delhi. People leaving for India were being attacked by mobs, so the operation had to be done discretely. The Nawab was a life saver. In his personal train, he sent off the entire family, on the pretext of sending my grandfather for an important project. To avoid raising suspicion, all belongings were left in the house. Everyone took just one suitcase full of their bare essentials. The Nawab’s train took my grandparents, my great grandmother, my aunt and my mother to Abohar Mandi in Punjab, and from there, they made their way to Delhi.

In Delhi, the family led a nomadic existence for a few months. My younger uncle, Pearey, had come to Delhi from Amritsar earlier itself. As a medical student, he had come to Delhi to help riot victims. He heard that the family may be on a train carrying refugees from Bahawalpur, so he went to the railway station and was able to meet the rest of the family. Pearey was staying with a friend (his future wife Kanti’s elder brother, who was an army officer) at 8 Tolstoy Marg. This friend had got this house from a Muslim family, with whom he had done an exchange for a house in Lahore. The family stayed there for about 2 weeks. Since my grandfather was an employee of the Nawab of Bahawalpur, he was then allowed to move the family to Bahawalpur House on Bhagwandass Road, where they all stayed at the manager’s house for 2 months.

Yogi Bhai was a friend of my grandfather’s, and he too had managed to stay at Bahawalpur House in those early days after partition. His family had moved into an empty house vacated by a Muslim family on GB Road. My mother and aunt moved into that house with his family and lived there for the next few months. The family was kind to them, but the girls had to do all the household chores to help out. Yogi Bhai got my mother admission into Queen Mary’s School. It was an English medium school. My mother initially had her hands full, because she had been home educated, and that too, in Urdu. Back in Bahawalpur, there were no schools for girls in those days. English was tough for her given her entire education had been in Urdu (though my grandfather was highly anglicized and was referred to as a “Brown Englishman”). Hindi was even tougher. My mother was persistent though, and ironically, a few years later, her English had improved so much (through avid reading in the school’s library – she diligently completed 2 books every week) that she went on to do her BA and later her MA in English from Miranda House in Delhi University. She also became a member of the Shakespeare Society in Delhi University and acted in several Shakespeare plays! My aunt Indira meanwhile went to Indraprastha College in Delhi University for her graduation.

My elder uncle, Jagat, was away studying in Lahore and in the atmosphere that prevailed, there was no way to get in touch with him or even tell him that the whole family was in Delhi. Connaught Place was the meeting point for everyone those days. Every day, my mother and aunt would go to Connaught Place looking for my uncle, hoping that one day he would magically land up there. Months passed by, but there was no news of my uncle. Then about 3 months later, one day my mother and aunt were travelling in a rickshaw when my mother suddenly said “Stop stop stop. That looks like Jagat Bhai”. Sure enough, that was my uncle. He had guessed correctly that the family must have moved to Delhi, and he also found his way there. Like everyone else, he would also go to Connaught Place in a desperate attempt to try and find the family or at least a familiar face who would have news about the family. So finally, the entire family was reunited.

Sadly, the joy was short-lived, because my uncle Jagat died of TB a few months later at the young age of 24. When he was ailing, he moved to Dharamshala with my grandparents, while my mother and aunt were staying with Yogi Bhai’s family. Those days, the only cure for TB was to send patients away from a big city, where there was cleaner air and less pollution. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough and my uncle passed away on 15th August, 1948, the 1st anniversary of India’s independence.

My grandfather was soon back on his feet to support the family. He moved to Yamunanagar and later to Rajpura, and was involved in building refugee colonies in both towns. He was able to rebound from the ordeal of partition and from losing his first born child, and he was able to take care of the family and ensure that all his surviving children got well educated and did well for themselves.

The three siblings went on to make Delhi their permanent base. My younger uncle became an army doctor, my aunt married an IAS officer, and my mother married an IFS officer, so they all spent years away from Delhi in different places, but Delhi was always home for them, and it continues to be home for me and my sisters! After all, Delhi was the city that opened up its arms to my ancestors when they were homeless refugees!

A Family Photo from 1942: My Aunt (Indira Kathpalia),
My Elder Uncle (Jagat Kathpalia),
My Uncle (Pearey Kathpalia),
My Mother (Oonita Kathpalia),
My Grandfather (Ram Narain Kathpalia) and 
My Grandmother (Kaushalya Kathpalia)