The Old Man and His God Read online

  The man looked unmoved. In a firm voice he replied, ‘You are an Indian and therefore a foreigner.’

  The words struck me deeply. I realized, in spite of the similarities in our dress, language, food and even love for Bollywood movies, Partition had divided us forever. It had made us strangers in each other’s lands and even in a place like that ancient university town, the Buddha’s words of love and tolerance were not enough to bring us together. The Rs 200 ticket brought me crashing back to reality!

  15

  The Line of Separation

  During my trip to Pakistan, I was part of a large group. Each person in the group was keen to visit one place or the other in that country. Some wanted to see Takshila, others Lahore, Islamabad or Karachi. One day, we were having a discussion about this and everyone was voicing his opinion loudly. I noticed only Mrs Roopa Kapoor was sitting quietly. She was a seventy-five-year-old lady from Chennai and did not speak much unless spoken to. So I asked if there was any place she wanted to visit.

  Without any hesitation, she said, ‘I have to visit Pindi.’

  ‘Where is Pindi? Is it some small town or village? I don’t think we will have the time to make a detour like that from our packed itinerary.’ Roopa smiled at my ignorance and said, ‘I meant Rawalpindi. It is called Pindi for short by those who stay there.’ I was intrigued. ‘How do you know? Have you ever stayed there?’

  ‘I was born and brought up there,’ she replied, and then slowly she told me the story of her life.

  She had stayed in Rawalpindi till the age of nineteen, when she got married and settled down in Chennai. Now Chennai was her home and she could speak Tamil and make excellent Tamil dishes like puliyogare and rasam, as well as any natural-born Tamilian. But she had always yearned to come back and see her childhood home if she ever got the chance.

  Soon we reached Islamabad and I was surprised to find it surrounded by mountains, as cool as a hill station. Roopa saw my surprise and said, ‘Islamabad is a new city. Rawalpindi is a sister city, but it is older. Islamabad was built after the Partition with wide roads, shopping centres and rose gardens. Pindi is only twenty odd kilometers away from Islamabad.’ By now the soft-spoken, introverted Mrs Kapoor had become quite garrulous. There was a spark in her eyes and she spoke non-stop. Many of us wanted to see Islamabad first, but she insisted on going on to Rawalpindi.

  She needed a companion for the trip and I volunteered to go with her. She was now quite excited, and told me, ‘I want to see the house I left fifty-seven years ago.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ I said. Then I remembered the lovely bouquet of flowers I had been presented on landing at Islamabad which I was still carrying. ‘I will present this to whoever is staying in your house now.’

  She was touched.

  As the car left Islamabad airport behind, Mrs Kapoor started pointing out the sights to me like a tour guide. She showed an old building on the left side of the road in a crowded area and said, ‘That used to be an electrical goods manufacturing factory. Its owner Kewal Ram Sahani was my father’s friend. My friends and I would come to this house for Lakshmi pooja during Diwali.’

  I told the driver to slow down a little so that she could cherish the journey. The car passed Sadar Bazar and looking at an old building with many shops, she said, ‘Here my father’s cousin Ratan Sethi owned a jewellery shop along with his partner Maqbool Khan. It was known as Khan and Sethi. My wedding jewellery was made here.’

  She continued pointing out various buildings, each holding some fond memory for her. But many a times the buildings she was looking for had changed to new skyscrapers and she got disoriented. Suddenly the car stopped. A tyre was punctured, and the driver said it would take him a while to fix it. Roopa Kapoor was restless. She did not want to wait even a minute more than required. So she said, ‘You change the tyre. In the meantime I will go and visit some of the old places. We will join you in the next main road. To go to the main road, you take a left turn and the first right turn. You wait for us there.’

  She behaved as if she knew every inch of that area and I followed her quietly. We walked into a small lane. She explained, ‘I have been here many times with my friends Fatima and Noor. This used to be known as Tailor’s Road. My neighbour Mehboob Khan’s wife Mehrunnisa Chachi was an expert in designing new embroidery patterns. We used to come and give the designs. Come we will take a short cut . . . that is where my uncle lived.’

  By now she was talking more to herself and making her way with ease through the narrow lanes. We went to the next road. There were old houses on the road and she went into the first huge bungalow. She said, ‘This was my uncle Motiram Rai’s house and the next house was that of Allah Baksh. They were great friends and loved each other. I still remember whenever Allah Baksh Chacha planted a tree in his house, my uncle would plant the same. This mango tree here was planted on a Basant Panchami day. There was so much of joy in both houses. My grandmother prepared kheer and sent me to Allah Baksh’s house with a jug full of it. While I was carrying that jug, I bumped into a young man and the hot kheer fell on his feet. I was so scared and embarrassed.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not then but later. I married him!’

  She then looked up at the tree and said, ‘This has become so old now.’

  We walked in through the gate. There was no one around and I was afraid we would be stopped by someone for trespassing. But Roopa was least bothered. It was as if she was in a world of her own. She walked to the back yard while I stood hesitating in the front. A couple walked in and were visibly surprised to see a stranger standing in their garden, that too in a sari. It was also just then that I noticed a board hanging in front of the door. It said ‘Dr Salim and Dr Salma: Dentist’.

  I started apologizing and explained about Roopa to them. Their faces lost the look of suspicion as soon as I finished my story. Roopa was meanwhile still looking at all the trees and remembering her childhood. The couple welcomed us in courteously. ‘Please sit down. Do join us for a cup of tea.’ They pulled up two chairs.

  By now I was feeling very awkward, disturbing them in the morning. But Dr Salim said, ‘Please sit. We are glad you came. Our grandparents too were from Surat in Gujarat. They emigrated to Pakistan and I was born and brought up here. My parents talk with great nostagia about Surati farsan, parsi dhansak and khakra.’

  Just to make conversation I said, ‘It must be difficult maintaining such a large bungalow now.’

  Dr Salim replied, ‘We moved to this house some years back. You see this house happens to resemble the one my parents lived in in Surat, and they made me promise that I would not break it and make apartments as long as I stayed here. Allah has been kind to us and we don’t need the money. Our neighbour Allah Baksh’s children sold their property long back and now there is a commercial complex.’

  By then Roopa had finished wandering in the garden and I formally introduced her to the couple. She asked if she could see the house from the inside. Dr Salim agreed happily. ‘After we purchased this house ten years ago we made very few modifications. It is perhaps in the same state as you last saw it,’ he said.

  I walked in with Roopa. She looked into the main room and said, ‘This was where my grandfather used to sit and control the house.’ Then she pointed out a coloured glass door and said Allah Baksh’s wife had painted it for them. ‘That was the window through which she would send dry fruits to my aunt’, ‘That was where we used to fly kites.’ Every brick, every wall held a memory for her. Finally I reminded her that it was time we left. We walked back to the garden and said our goodbyes to the couple. Dr Salim handed us a packet. ‘There is no time for you to eat, but I cannot send two elders away without offering anything. Please take this and if god is willing we will meet again.’

  We came out of the house and when we reached the main road the car was there, having followed Roopa’s directions. Now she wanted to see her own house.

  She told the driver, ‘Take a right turn from t