ONE

A TRAIN TO KARACHI

He was in his seventies. Tall and lanky, his movement betrayed his rheumatic knees, and an aching back. He was on his way to the train that would take him from Khokhropar across the Pakistani border to Karachi. Clad in white kurta and pyjamas he had wrapped an off-white coarse cloth around his shoulders. A mirrored Rajasthani bag dangled from his left shoulder. It contained his passport, a book, a couple of ball pens, a notebook, a palmtop, and four newspapers one each in English, Sindhi, Hindi, and Urdu. Snow-white locks swayed on his forehead that bore irreversible imprints of the past. If you looked at his eyes through the steelrimmed spectacles he wore, he appeared completely lost in his abstract thoughts. He walked as if on clouds, and was murmuring his hymn that he had mumbled all his life, I am coming Ritu. I am coming Ritu. I am coming Ritu. He was momentarily distracted while going through Customs and Immigration formalities. A Customs Officer emptied his shoulder bag on the table. He smiled, and said. Is this all that you are carrying with you? Yes, this is what I am carrying with me in my bag. The old man gathered the scattered items, and put them back in the bag. Before leaving the Customs Counter he touched his head, and said, The most precious items of my life I am carrying here, in my head. The graceful old man moved on towards Immigration Counter. A young Immigration Officer examined his passport, made necessary entries in it, and casually asked, Is this your first visit to Pakistan, Mr. Ram Chandar?

2 I was born in Karachi. The old man looked at the young officer, and spoke in subdued voice. He said, By the way they call me Chandu. They who? The Immigration Officer smilingly asked. The ones I am on my way to see. The old man collected the passport, and headed for the train. No amount of hustle and bustle of the passengers could distract him. He kept murmuring, I am coming, Ritu. I am coming, Ritu. I am coming, Ritu. He boarded the train to Karachi, and occupied the seat close to the window. Resting his head against the protective steel shaft of the window, he closed his tired eyes, sighed, murmured, and receded into the stream of consciousness, Chandu is on his way back to you, Ritu. Long ago while bidding farewell to Ritu, his best friend, his eternal love, he had said, After I have settled my mother and father in India I will come back. I will come back to you. I am destined to return someday, Ritu. It had not occurred to Chandu then that someday would be that far, farfetched, and stretched over fifty-eight agonising years! After settling his parents in Baroda, that took him over a year, Chandu had travelled to Monabao on his way to Khokhropar and then to Karachi. Between Monabao and Khokhropar he was stopped at a godforsaken place they now call Zero Point, the border between Pakistan and India. The armed personnel asked him to show his passport. He said, I dont have one. They curtly said, You cant enter Pakistan without an Indian passport. I was born and brought up in Karachi. I was educated there. He said, You cant stop me from going to Karachi. Look young man, Karachi is in Pakistan. A senior officer had pushed him back, and said, You need to have an Indian passport for entering Pakistan. I was born a British Indian in 1930, at Karachi. Chandu, then young and athletic had aggressively pleaded, and said, India was partitioned in 1947; I was not. I cant be partitioned. I am one in my body and soul. He had been roughed up, beaten, and thrown back across the Indian border. It was humiliation and traumatic experience for Chandu that shattered his soul.

3 How can they enact laws that forbid a person from going back to his home! It was beyond his comprehension. Chandu returned to Baroda, a broken man. He was often heard saying, I have been betrayed by history. His perturbed parents kept perusing him to obtain an Indian Passport, but they failed to prevail upon him. His only reply was, I have not been partitioned. I dont need a passport for moving about in my own country. He could not mentally reconcile with the prevailing political situation in the subcontinent. He kept chanting, I have not been partitioned. I cant be cut into two parts! I remain integrated and undivided. I am a free man. But, in fact he no more was a freeman! He was chained to the memories of his childhood, and the youthful years he had spent in Karachi. His strong belief that the country was ones sacred mother turned him into perpetual rejecter of partition of India. His constant refusal to accept the harsh realities, and the changing world around him rendered him forlorn. Helplessness in tackling the idiosyncratic political phenomenon made him melancholic. Deep despair put him in the hands of the doctors. When admitted to psychiatric ward in Baroda Hospital he continually queried from the doctors and the nurses, How can they partition my mother? On an auspicious day he caught hold of Dr. Suresh Trevedi, Head of the Department of Behavioural Sciences by his hand, and asked, Ever heard of division of mothers? Surprised, Dr. Suresh said, Never ever. Thereafter, hospital staff took special care of Chandu. They were told, Chandar was not a patient. He was an unfortunate victim of his own consciousness. Once a newly recruited doctor visited him for the first time. Chandu greeted him with his unanswered query, Is it possible to partition a person? The young doctor smiled, and said, Yes Sir, it is possible to partition a person. Chandu sprang to his feet, and asked, How? On the dissection table. The young doctor smiled and said, After his death.

4 OK. Partition me. He said, Send half of me to Karachi, and let my other half remain with my parents in Baroda. Dissecting a person is possible only after his death. The young doctor had said, You are alive, Sir. Am I? He had looked straight in the eyes of the doctor, and asked, Am I not dead? You are more than alive, Sir. The young doctor held his hand with respect, and said, They cant partition people like you. Events of 58 years of his life in India flashed passed him in intermittent succession. While under treatment of the psychiatrists Chandu had pursued studies at highest level, taught History at the University, and finally retired. He saw the pathetic passing away of his parents. All through his otherwise illustrious career it never occurred to him to get married, and settle down in life. He was wedded to his loneliness adorned with the memories of Ritu. His scattered thoughts left him alone as train pulled up at Karachi Cantonment Station. Chandu got down from the train. His faint heart quivered as he walked out of the station. From atop the steps, Chandu looked around, and murmured, I have come back, Ritu. It took Chandu a considerable time in descending a few steps of the Karachi Cantonment Railway Station. On each step he was pushed and elbowed by a mammoth crowed that had swarmed the Railway Station to welcome their relatives and friends from India. It was emotional scenario all over the place. With moistened eyes, and tears rolling down their cheeks they hugged each other. They sobbed. They smiled. And, they laughed. Chandu, the forlorn soul stepped out of the crowded Railway Station. A few feet away Chandu was hounded by the taxi and rickshaw drivers. Each one almost dragged him to take him away from the clutches of other driver. Exhausted, Chandu pleaded, Please, leave me alone. I will go by tram. Never heard of trams in this city! A frustrated driver asked, Have you come to Karachi for the first time?

5 Nostalgic smile appeared on Chandus parched lips. He proudly said, I am a native of this city. The drivers took him for a lunatic, and they abandoned him. Chandu laboured his way through the swarm of men, women, and children, cars, taxis, and rickshaws, and frantically looked for the tram. He spotted a Police Inspector sitting in a jeep. Chandu approached him, and asked, Sir, have they shifted the tram from here? The Police Inspector looked at him searchingly, and asked, Who are you? My name is Ram Chander. He said, They call me Chandu. Have you ever been to Karachi before? I was born here. When did you leave for India? In fact I had not left for India. Chandu hesitantly replied, I had accompanied my parents to see them settled in India. When was it? December 25, 1947. Have you come to see someone? With longing tinge in his voice, Chandu said, Yes, Ritu. Ritu Fatima. We have eliminated tram from Karachi. Chandu appeared confused to the tough Inspector. Feeling soft and sorry for the old man he alighted from his jeep, and tenderly shook hands with him, and asked, Sir, where would you like to go? Edulji Dinshaw Building on Barnes Street. I was born there in 1930. With a spark in his eyes, and a smile on his face, Chandu said, Then, Ritu and I would go to Patel Park, and sit there through timelessness. He paused, looked heavenwards, and said, We would talk without talking for ten thousand years. The Inspector realised the old Chandu was oscillating between sanity and insanity. He said, Sir, we dont have a Patel Park. We call it Nishtar Park But, Patel Park had nothing to do with Walabh Bhai Patel! Chandu felt bewildered. He exclaimed, Is history too dividable like a country!

6 The Police Inspector gestured a taxi driver. He came running. The Inspector quietly gave him three hundred rupees, and said, He is my grandfather. Take him to Jamila Street, and drop him at the place he indicates. Unusual gesture from the Police Inspector surprised Chandu. Before he could say something the Inspector said, Its perfectly alright, Sir. He will drop you at the Jamila Street. Chandu looked at the Inspector, and said, I have to go Barnes Street! We now call it Jamila Street. The Inspector said, Sir, the taxi driver will take you to your destination. The Inspector picked up a pack of sandwiches from the jeep and gave it to Chandu, and said, These are vegetable sandwiches. He then shook hands with Chandu, and looked sideways to hide his moistened eyes. He said, Sir, my grandfather is of your age. He had refused to accompany his family to Pakistan. He lives alone in Mumbai. The Inspector opened the door of the taxi for Chandu. He got into the vehicle. As taxi moved away the Inspector and Chandu waved at each other. Chandu watched with awe from the fast moving taxi the transformed appearance of Karachi. The city where he had spent 17 youthful years of his life looked alien to him. In December, 1947 when he had left for India, the population of Karachi was less than half a million heterogeneous souls. His dream city then was exceptionally neat and clean, and a peaceful place. After 58 years Chandus Karachi was an ever sprawling chaotic city of over fourteen million people overwhelmingly belonging to same religion, Islam who fight and kill each other with utmost impunity. A freakish feeling overwhelmed Chandu. He thought, My Karachi has exposed the frailty of Two Nation Theory. After driving through unruly traffic and an unending mushroom growth of high-rise buildings the vehicle pulled up near a footpath on a road congested with all sorts of two wheelers and four wheelers. The driver said, Sir, this is Jamila Street.

7 Chandu looked around and felt confused and lost. He hesitantly alighted from the cab. Everything around him appeared strange to him. He wondered, was it the same vicinity where he had spent his seventeen youthful years! He talked to the taxi driver, and asked, Have you brought me to the right place? Exactly, Sir. The driver said, May I go now? Looking bewildered and confused, Chandu said, Yes, you may go. He looked around. Three unmolested buildings, Saeed Manzil, YWCA, and Mamma Parsi Girls School assured him that he was close to his destination. And, then began his ordeal. He couldnt locate Edulji Dinshaw Building where his and Ritus families had lived together as next-door neighbours for ages. He walked up and down the road between Saeed Manzil and YWCA for hours, murmuring I have returned, Ritu. I have returned, Ritu. Tired, Chandu paused, and leaned against the trunk of a huge Pepal tree in front of Saeed Manzil. Glancing casually he caught sight of a signboard that appeared familiar to him- Sindh Radiology Centre- Dr. P P Lalvani. He remembered it was close to their Edulji Dinshaw building. As a boy he had once broken his arm, and he was brought to Dr. Lalvani for X-Rays. Chandu hastened towards the Sindh Radiology Centre. He knocked at the closed door. A big gunman opened the door. He contemptuously looked at Chandu, and asked, What do you want? Chandu politely asked, Can I call on Dr. Lalvani? Who Lalvani? The gunman rudely said, Dr. Rafiq Mustafa Shah works here. Can I see him? Chandu asked. He has gone to Thatta. The gunman slammed the door. From Dr. Lalvanis Sindh Radiology Centre Chandu instinctively traced his steps in the right direction. He began recalling his memory. Third building adjacent to Dr. Lalvanis Radiology Centre on Barnes Street was theirs Edulji Dinshaw building. It did not take him long in locating the building. Crude additions and alterations had defaced once an elegant building. They had given it a new name,

8 Taj Building. The ground floor was converted into a chain of shops selling motor pats and accessories. He ascended the steps to the first floor, and knocked at the door of the apartment where Ritu Fatima lived with her parents. A young girl opened the door. I am Ram Chandar, they call me Chandu. He said, I have come to see Ritu. Who Ritu? She asked. Daughter of contractor Abdul Raheem. Chandu touched the door of the adjacent apartment, and said, I was living here with my parents when India was partitioned. The young girl looking vacantly at him said, We know no one by that name. Chandu asked, Who are the oldest tenants in this building? Dharejas. She said, They live on the third floor. Chandu placed his hand on her head, blessed her, and said, Thank you my child. She eagerly asked, Are you from India? Yes my child, Chandu said, I am from India. Her eyes glowed with excitement. She said, My greatest desire in life is to see Taj Mahal. Once it was in your country. Chandu affectionately said, Now you require a passport and a visa for paying a visit to Taj Mahal. Chandu left behind the astonished girl, and ascended the stairs leading him to the third floor. He knocked at the door bearing the nameplate, Dharejas. An awful looking bearded servant of the Dharejas opened the door. I am looking for someone, Dharejo Sahib might be familiar with. Chandu said, Can I see him? Five Dharejas live in this house. The servant said, Who would you like to see? Chandu touched his forehead, thought for a while, and said, The senior Dharejo Sahib.

9 The servant went back inside the house. He opened the adjacent door, and said, Please come in. It was a sitting room. Chandu found a burly man with enormous moustache half sprawled on a clumsy sofa. He extended his hand to Chandu, and asked, What can I do for you? Saeen, I am Chandu. He said, Fifty-eight years ago we migrated to India from this building. Fifty eight years ago? Dharejo exclaimed, Wasnt it 1947? Yes Saeen. You are right Chandu said, Our next-door neighbour was Abdul Raheem. He was a contractor. I knew him. Dharejo said, When we moved in this building about forty years ago he was here in this building along with his family. Chandu closed his eyes, and turned his face heavenwards in gratitude. He heard Dharejo speak, After a few years he constructed a bungalow of his own in Soldier Bazaar, and moved away from this building. Chandu pulled out a ball-pen and a notebook from his Rajasthani shoulder bag, and asked, Would you kindly give me their address? Dharejo said, It is in the vicinity of Nishtar Park. You mean Patel Park. Asked Chandu. Nishtar Park. Dharejo insisted, and said, His bungalow is in the lane behind the offices of the English newspaper, The Nation. Chandu shook hands with Dharejo, thanked him, and hastened towards the door. Chandu. Dharejo said, I am afraid, you wont be able to see Abdul Raheem. Chandu looked at him in surprise. Dharejo said, He had passed away within one year of his occupy the new house. Chandu froze. He stood there for some time without speaking. He raised his head, and asked, And his family? Dharejo said, They live there.

10 Chandu descended the stairs. He hired a cab, and proceeded to Soldier Bazaar. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hardly took notice of the adverse condition of Bunder Road renamed M A Jinnah Road. It was not even a shadow of its past glory when it was washed and swept twice a day. He got off the cab near Patel Park now called Nishtar Park. It did not take him long to locate the offices of The Nation. As he walked towards the lane behind the offices of the daily, The Nation his heart pounded. He found himself short of breath. Numbness sapped out energy from hid legs. Chandu looked at the row of the bungalows as he dragged along the lane. It turned into perplexing problem for him in making out which bungalow belonged to late Abdul Raheem! Chandu stood stranded halfway in the lane. A young boy in his late teens approached him, and asked, Sir, are you locating a house. Chandu affectionately looked at him, and said, Yes, I am looking for late Abdul Raheem contractors residence. The young boy smiled, and said, You are standing right in front of my Nanas house. Your Nanas house? Chandu looked at the boy in surprise. The young boy said, Late Abdul Raheem was my maternal grandfather. Chandu almost shivered. As he tried to speak, he stammered. He took a few steps towards the house, but stumbled. The boy held him by his arm, and asked, Are you all right, Sir? Chandu hugged the boy affectionately, then slowly sank to the ground, and said, I am fine my son, I am fine No. You dont seem alright. The boy was strong and athletic. He raised Chandu to his feet. He insisted, You seem exhausted. Come with me. The boy supported Chandu, and brought him to his house. He threw opened the door of the drawing room. He seated Chandu on a comfortable sofa, turned on the Air conditioner. He then rushed towards the washroom and brought a wet towel, and sponged his head. Someone inquired from inside the house, Chandu, who have you brought this time?

11 Chandu almost sprang to his feet. The voice sounded distantly familiar to him. It travelled through his soul. Just sit down, Sir. Relax. The young boy said, She is my mother. Startled, he asked, Why does she call you Chandu? My name is Chand (moon) Jumani. The boy said, She calls me Chandu for that matter everyone calls me Chandu. Chandu, I am asking you. Boys mother yelled from inside the house, and asked, Is he hungry or thirsty? He looks exhausted, and drained. The boy said, Let us give him a glass of glucose water. The boy dropped the soaked towel in the washroom, and spoke to his mother loudly, You know Ama (Mom), he knows Nana. After a few minutes a graceful old woman emerged from the connecting door. She held a tray with a jug and a glass placed on it. She was Chandus Ritu. Chandu rose to his feet, and looked at Ritu intently. She almost spilled the tray. Junior The boy leaped towards her, and took the tray from her shaking hands. He placed the tray on the central table, and hugged his mother tenderly, and seated her on the sofa. What happened? He asked. Nothing. She was constantly looking at Chandu. Sir, be seated. The young boy looked at Chandu, and said, She is fine. She is OK. Chandu slowly sat down on the sofa. The boy talked to his mother, and said, He knows Nana. We were family friends and neighbours in Edulji Dinshaw building. She said, We had grown together. Horn honked from out side. Baba (dad) has come. The boy sprang to his feet and dashed to open the gate. You look weak and withered, Chandu. She inhaled a deep breath to avoid tears trickle down from her eyes. Overwhelmed with grief she asked, How are you?

12 Chandu was longingly looking at Ritu. He said, Havent I taken too long a time in coming back to you! She put her hand to the mouth, and remained silent for a few moments. She managed to talk, and asked, How many children do you have? Without a trace of regret in his voice, he said, I have not married. I knew it, Chandu. She held back tears, and said, I knew it. The boy brought in an elegantly dressed old man, almost of Chandus age. He is my father, Mr. Nisar Jumani, an architect par excellence. The young boy introduced his father to Chandu. Thereafter he suddenly said, I am sorry, Sir, I havent gathered your good name! Ritu spoke to her husband, and said, He is Ram Chandar. Ram Chandar! Jumani touched his forehead, and yelled, Chandu! He opened his arms, and hugged Chandu, and said, Rehmat Fatima, I mean Ritu Fatima and her parents have talked so intensely about you and your family that you are a household name with us. Jumani was bestowed with noble soul, and immense sense of humour. He sat by the side of Chandu, and took his hand in his two hands, and said, At times I have felt jealous of you. Jumani looked at his wife, smiled, and said, When she gave our son Chand Jumani a nick name Chandu, I thought you were my rival in absentia. Chandu looked at him, and smiled. Dont mind it. Jumani gave out a hearty laughter, and said, I was just joking. You are lucky Ritu. Chandu looked at Jumani with a melancholic smile on his parched lips, and spoke to Ritu, and said, Your husband is a wonderful man. Forget it. Jumani hugged him, and said, How long are you going to stay with us? I have to depart now. Chandu surprised everyone. He collected his shoulder bag, got up slowly, and said, I have to catch the train.

13 Chandu appeared so firm, and sounded so resolute that no one insisted on his staying back with them for some time. He put his two hands together, and bowed towards Ritu. He then affectionately hugged Chand Jumani called Chandu after his name. Lastly Chandu stepped in front of Nisar Jumani, and took him in his arms, and whispered in his ear, Take care of Ritu. May I take you to the station? Jumani asked. No. Thank you. Chandu walked towards the gate, and said, I have to collect my past from Edulji Dinshaw building. Chandu did not hire a cab. He commenced walking in the direction of Edulji Dinshaw building. It was a long and tiring walk. On his way he did not pause anywhere. He finally reached the intersection of Bunder Road and Barnes Street. In the proximity of the intersection was Edulji Dinshaw Building. Chandu was extremely tired. He almost collapsed on the footpath. His eyes wide-open he constantly looked at the Edulji Dinshaw Building. Hours turned into days and nights. Days and nights turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into a month. One day exhausted old Chandu sank on the pavement. He rested his head on his folded arm, closed his eyes, and kept reciting I have returned, Ritu. Chandu was seen lying motionless on the footpath for two days. Thereafter, in dead of night he vanished. It was rumoured in the neighbourhood he was an Indian spy, and was taken away. ********************************************************