Col. Jafri witnessed this story. Tell our children that we didn’t get Pakistan cheap.
By COL. RIAZ JAFRI (RETD.)
Thursday, 14 August 2008.
RAWALPINDI, Pakistan — I don’t think I will ever forget what I witnessed as a young man of 17 on an early night of late August 1947 at Bahawal Nagar railway station in the then Bahawalpur state.
I do not remember the exact date but it certainly fell in the later part of the month – around 27th or so. The subcontinent received its independence from Britain and Pakistan and Bharat emerged as independent states, resulting in the largest exodus of refugees in the history of the mankind. Over fifteen million people were displaced on both sides of the border.
Thousands of families had been torn apart from their dear and near ones in the wake of the bloodiest communal riots that had not seen its parallel before. To the horror of all, religious frenzy turned the erstwhile good neighbors mad and hostile towards each other for no other apparent reason. Though there were a few instances of human compassion between the neighbors on both sides – some even at the risk of their lives – but these were far and few in between. Mostly, while the men folk were mowed down the women were taken alive. Many a wife, daughter, sister or a young mother had been left behind by the fleeing refugees who out of sheer desperation, honor and shame preferred them to be believed dead than alive and kidnapped.
East Punjab Muslims had been the worst hit victims of the communal carnage. They were not only mowed and mauled, cut to pieces by the kirpans and daggers, lances and axes, tokas and gandasas but the beast in the man had ebbed to such abysmal low that the innocent infants were tossed up in the air and their small falling bodies with fluttering arms and legs were plucked and pricked by the sharp shiny lances underneath. Many a young flowering toddler was fried in the boiling oil of the most heinous cauldron of madness in front of the eyes of their helpless mothers and parents. It was also not an uncommon practice to cut open the womb of the pregnant mother to put the unborn to the sword with a most pagan like ritual of shouting and dancing to have eliminated yet another Muslim in the making. Severing of the breasts of the women so that they would not nurse their lactating babies and shearing of the genitals, with at times Kirpans left inside them, rendering them unable to procreate further was considered a methodology of finishing a race. It is not that I recount such atrocities with a view to fanning and fuelling the hatred but to apprise the younger generation of today of the extreme sacrifices made by their elders and the creators of Pakistan.
Bahawal Nagar was the nearest sizeable town with a district headquarters after Mcleod Ganj Road – a small border town with India. Delhi – Bhatinda – Bahawal Nagar – Multan was the shortest route to Lahore and Karachi for the trains to carry the ill-fated refugees and the beleaguered staff escorting and entrusted with the official records of the newly born state from India (Delhi) to Pakistan (Karachi). Bahawal Nagar, as such, was the first place where they could find some solace and succor in their arduous journey to freedom.
I had just passed my matriculation examination from Bahawal Inter College, Bahawal Nagar and in the hindsight I can only pay a rich tribute to the otherwise oft-condemned British Raj, for not only holding the exams in time but also announcing the results on the dot when everything in the subcontinent was in the biggest turmoil that one could imagine. Quite a few of us students had formed impromptu social work groups, with make shift equipment and apparatuses to render whatever help we could to the refugees and immigrants and whenever a train was to arrive we used to gather at the railway station.
On the fateful evening, word went round that a train was arriving around 9 p.m. What we didn’t know was that it had been attacked near Fazilka (India) by the miscreants and most of the refugees on it were in a very bad shape. Blood was all over the compartments, many lay dead, most unconscious breathing heavily and a few were half conscious. We were frantically trying to save as many lives as possible. All we could do was to carry the unconscious and the semi conscious on our makeshift stretchers to the waiting 
tongas and a very few vehicles (no ambulances) to be transported to the district hospital.
It was here that when we were carrying an old man – badly battered bruised and injured and barely conscious, that he opened his half closed hazy eyes and asked me in a barely audible low voice but with an expectant look, “Putr, Pakistan — aa gia hai?” (Son, has Pakistan come?)
I replied enthusiastically, “Yes Baba, yes. You are in Pakistan and everything will be alright now.” Hearing it his head slid to the side and the Baba had gone. To me it appeared as if he was just waiting and trying to keep himself alive to reach Pakistan – reach Pakistan to take a breath or two of the free air of the free state of Pakistan. And having fulfilled his desire he contentedly left for his heavenly abode.
It was some 61 years ago, but Baba’s last words still haunt me. Yes Baba, Pakistan has come. Yes Baba, we lost half of it too in 1971. Yes Baba, we are hollowing the foundations of the remaining Pakistan too by looting and plundering it every day. We are doing all that what our Quaid asked us not to. We have thrown to the winds his Unity, Faith and Discipline. Yes Baba, Pakistan had come. Pray Baba, it doesn’t go!
Col. Riaz Jafri (Retd) is based in Rawalpindi. His commentary appears frequently in several national Pakistani dailies. He can be reached at jafri@rifiela.com
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