I begin with a description;
allow me to defamiliarise a familiar landscape. The town I describe of is
Ulhasnagar, a small town with narrow lanes and busy bazaars. A town where a
common history and myriad anecdotes stride across the paths and lanes. A walk
down the streets and a friendly encounter with the townsfolk is all that is
needed to spark a curiosity about this land with bountiful stories waiting to
be narrated. All of us, at least those living in and around Mumbai, know about
the city and its history; and those who do not, might acquire the factual details
easily from the internet. Yet, what would fascinate one is history narrated
from the point of view of those that have lived different times. And when the
townsfolk become the raconteurs, what one hears is the same story told from
unseen perspectives.
Almost immediately, I felt the
warmth of hospitality with scrumptious kokis
prepared by different mothers and grandmothers under similar thatched roofs. Recounted
an old grandmother thus: I left a kilo of
onions and potatoes in my basket. I wonder if they are still there. Another
old lady, fondly known as Amma, remembered
the frantic drama at the time of the exodus. We had hidden some gold in different sections under a few clothes we
had packed. Some people knew this. We knew so many of them who were looted
before they could escape. Nobody complained. Of course, life was dearer than
gold. Eighty three year old Dada
still remembers the day he was most terrified. It still seems to me like yesterday. It’s so fresh in my mind, you
know, I doubt whether one could have such instances whose impact, ah, how do
you put it? The image; that ghastly, hopelessness one feels at a certain point
is sometimes so deeply etched into the mind, it still rolls over like a tape
playing a recorded cinema. My father asked me to leave that day with the whole
family to India. He stayed back and promised to call us once the situation got
better. It didn’t. we traveled a lot of places. Karachi, Agra, Hyderabad, and
finally Ulhasnagar. Back in 1981, I went to Pakistan for eight days. I saw our
old home and the years had left it untouched. The air was the same; similar laughter,
murmurs and other voices, unheard, unless you closed your eyes and breathed
that familiar, knowing air again.
 |
| A still of Ulhasnagar railway station. |
The Kalyan camp which is what is known as Ulhasnagar today was
the biggest camp. A sigh of relief was yet to be heaved, for the quest to earn
peace and rest had not been accomplished with their safe arrival at the camp. Those
who thought they had managed to evade the turbulent weather in Pakistan and
thought had dodged the dangers of imminent death during the journey were in for
a shock. Survival at the camp was as difficult or perhaps more difficult than
the hardships they had so far faced. We were
ready to do any kind of work. We didn’t have much choice with families to feed.
The government gave us ration supplies for about six months. Some of us started
out with small businesses like baking breads, making papad or designing
dresses.
Importantly,
we did not give up. I saw some students studying under the street lights. That was
a big inspiration to us. I still use that image to motivate someone when he or
she is down. You see, those students silently gave me a message: of a brighter,
educated tomorrow. I think that’s always something to look forward to, isn’t
it? Nalandji,
a simple man, and a staff of the Sindhi library fondly celebrated his memory of
encouragement of education. A lot of
teachers came together to establish schools in the newly formed town. New Era was
one of them, especially for girls so that they did not have to go far from the
city to study.
The newer generation today may
not have experienced the wrath of displacement and forced migration but it is
certainly a history that should not be forgotten. Those who still think Ulhasnagar
is just another small suburban city outside Mumbai without much importance,
might just subtly discover the treasure of anecdotes hidden away in the narrow
lanes and small houses. I end this with a smile; allow me to reverberate on the
stories I had heard from the raconteurs I hadn’t imagined to meet.
