A City in Their Hearts

Dharmendra was selected for a winter internship of a prestigious university on scoring the highest marks in his first-year exams. His task was to collect the stories of those who had migrated to India after the Partition of India in 1947. He jumped at the opportunity as the internship carried a handsome stipend of Rs 15000 a month. It was enough for his pocket money for the entire year! But the task proved to be more daunting than he had anticipated. The internship began with the intern identifying suitable subjects.

Delhi was a refugee city but where would one find an elder who was old enough to remember the Partition. Dharmendra’s friend came up with a brilliant idea.

“Go to a refugee colony. You will find elders sitting on a charpoy and playing cards.”

Dharmendra visited the oldest colony near the Kingsway camp. He lost his way in the narrow lane as everyone spoke Punjabi, a language he barely understood and hardly spoke. Dharmendra made several visits to different colonies dispersed across the capital but was rudely shooed away by their self-appointed gatekeepers. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

Exhausted and on the verge of giving up, the following morning Dharmendra rose early and wandered into the well-manicured Park behind his university campus to think of a solution. He walked past young joggers in Nike sneakers and jogging shorts doing rounds of the park. He noticed plump middle-aged aunties waddling in groups of three. He crossed middle-aged men stretching their arms and legs and older men and women sitting cross-legged in a yoga pose. Then his gaze shifted to a secluded corner and rested on a group of seniors chatting under a tree. They appeared to belong to the right age segment but their ruddy cheeks and an authoritative demeanour did not qualify them as refugees. Deeply conscious of his shabby clothes, he gingerly made his way towards them. Two of them were smartly dressed in jeans and T-shirts and wore sneakers. The third was modestly clad in a frugal aam aadmi style shirt and Bata sandals.

“Where are you from, Sir?”, he meekly posed the first question to the aam aadmi with the benign face.

“From Delhi, where else?” he replied.

“What do you want?”, intoned the snazzily dressed gentleman in a deep voice.

“I am a student. Just want to ask some questions for my winter project.”

“Don’t waste our time, young man, we have better things to do,” piped the tall Sikh who appeared to be a visiting NRI from his accent.

“Okay, but only a few minutes,” the well-dressed gentleman with the polished accent relented.

“I would like to know since when you have lived in Delhi.”

“Since 1947,” they chorused.

“How old were you when you arrived here.”

“14, maybe 14 going on 15.”

“Where did you come from?”

“From Lailpur. We are all Lailpurias,” they replied. Jaidev, An advertising head; Prem Prakash, a senior bureaucrat; and Santokh Singh, a NRI entrepreneur - all in their 80s now - accidentally met in the park and continued to bond over their love for their beloved city.

Dharmendra tried to recall his school geography but couldn’t place it anywhere on the map. He conceded defeat. “Where is Lailpur?

They collectively broke into a couplet,

Lailpur shair bada Gulzar

Aithe haige ath bazaar

Lailpur is a beautiful city

Which has eight bazaars

Dharmendra naively inquired if it had any connection to the Laila of Laila Majnun. If Delhi had a Majnun ka Tila where Tibetan refugees lived, why not a city named after his beloved, he reasoned.

“No, young man, it was named after Sir James Lyall, the Lt Governor of Punjab who played a major role in its establishment,” replied Jaidev in his immaculate British accent.

After the British conquest of Punjab, eponymously named after its five rivers, the British decided to dam the sixth river (the seventh having dried up over the centuries) they labelled as a rogue river that the locals worshipped as Shah Darya Sindh (Sindh, the King of rivers). In their paternalistic belief that the mighty river washed away hundreds of villages every year, they decided to rescue its hapless inhabitants and embarked on an ambitious riparian project named modernity. The modernization plan engulfed not only the mighty Indus but also the doabas or interfluves of the other its five feminine tributaries - the Moon River Chenab, the Measuring One Jhelum, Ravi, Sutlej and Vyas. The bar or enclosure region scrubland where pastoralists grazed their cattle was transformed through an act of geographical engineering into canal colonies with flourishing fields that were to serve as the bread basket of British India but also of the world. Branded by the British as primitive and uncouth janglis, the indigenous tribes were driven out of their pastoral lands and populated by loyal Sikh soldiers who enjoyed the reputation of being hardy farmers. A new district named Lyallpur was carved out in the Chenab Colony in the 1890s and a new city was created out of the blue in the 20th century to service the district.

The newly constructed district and city emerged in the Sandal Bar located between the rivers Ravi and Chenab. It could not boast of a medieval urban history like neighboring Lahore but it dated back to the Harappan civilization and was steeped in hoary Punjabi legends. Sandal Bar was the setting of the two epic Punjabi romances, Heer Ranjha and Mirza Sahiban. It derived its name from the fiercely independent Sandal who had rebelled against the Mughal emperor Akbar in the 16th century and was associated with Ahmed Khan Kharal who gave a tough fight to the British. The ballad of Sandal’s grandson, a Punjabi Robinhood like chieftain Dulla Bhatti, was sung on every lohri. But engineers had the rare knack of submerging myths and legends under their instrumental blueprints and plans. Not only did their logical reasoning destroyed the romance of the river of lovers Chenab but also drowned the magic of the three love legends born on the river.

Unlike the canal colonies dominated by Sikh farmers, it was Hindu traders, professionals, entrepreneurs and manufacturers who flocked to the brand-new planned city to seize the opportunities offered by modern institutions like the Railways, the Hospital, the Agricultural College, the Court and schools. Among the 40000 people who migrated to the new town at the turn of the 20th century were the forefathers of the three gentlemen who Dharmendra ran into. The three gentlemen, then in their early teens, were mesmerized by the vision of the new city planned on the pattern of the Union Jack rather than folklore buried under its smooth concrete roads.

They were wandering in the Mohallas, lanes and roads of their remembered city and attempted to recreate its mystique for Dharmendra through their mental maps. They gazed above their heads at the towering Ghanta Ghar or clock tower built in the memory of Queen Victoria who had died 80 years earlier. Patterned after British towns, constructed by Hindus in 1905, the clock tower was the iconic monument of which they all were proud. The tower was the center from which the eight arterial roads branched out. The bazaars were arranged in such a way that the clock tower could be easily seen from the outer entrances of each market. The eight bazaars - Kutchery Bazaar, Karkhana Bazaar leading towards industrial area while Bhawana Bazaar, Jhang Bazaar, Aminpur Bazaar, Chiniot Bazaar and Montgomery Bazaar were named after the cities towards their direction. The eight bazaars covering a total area of 110 acres were connected through a circular road called Gol Bazaar. The entire neighbourhood, the oldest neighborhood in Lyallpur that came up in 1920, was called Douglas Pura whose residents were largely Hindus and Sikhs.

“Gole Bazaar was where our house stood”, reminisced Jaidev, the advertising company honcho who was the most articulate of them all. He entered the large mansion through the deodi (threshold), walked his listeners through the vehra (the courtyard),baithak (the sitting room) where his lawyer father received visitors to the bedrooms and the rooftop where his brother and he studied. He stepped down to stray into the kitchen and could smell his mother’s cooking and the gaushala (cowshed) where the cow was kept. He could feel the breeze as the bhisti (watersprayer) sprinkled water on the street outside and his father and friends settled in the street outside for gupshup (chit chat) on summer evenings. The Sikh girl whose son became a Bollywood superstar could be heard singing kirtan in her rich voice.

“Our house was the corner lot on the left as you entered from Jhang Bazar.” Even though Santokh, the NRI Sikh, had lived in Vakilan da Mohalla in Douglaspura, he knew every inch of Lyallpur.

Santosh jogged Jaidev’s memory through his NRI training in steering his way through maps. “Yes, your house was three houses away from the Central Cooperative Bank. “At the end was a one roomed Babu Sant Ram's Gurdwara. I used to walk there as I was allowed to man the 'Jora Ghar,' added Santokh.

Prem Prakash, the bureaucrat, who couldn’t boast of his modest house opposite the mandir in Douglas Pura, refrained from describing his house.

“Our house was in Arya Samaj Gali between Karkhana and Montgomery Bazar, close to Arya Samaj Building”.

The roads of the young adults living in Douglas Pura forked out to the gurdwara and the mandir.

“My father had a shop at the corner of Gole Bazar just next to Dr. Chaman Lal’s dispensary and next to Bhagat Ram Sawhney's office and home. Our shop was just in Cooperative Bank building next to the vegetable stall and also a Mochi used to sit”.

Jaidev remembered the Vegetable walla and the Mochi.

“In fact, my father used to get our shoes made from a Mochi who had a shop on the left hand the moment you entered Cutcherry Bazaar from the Court side”.

Prem Prakash spoke longingly of his father’s shop on Rail Bazaar.

“I would go to the shop after school and bring pindi chhole from the street hawker”.

Jaidev recalled the Pakora walla at the corner of Gole Bazaar and Ketchery bazar... just outside his house.

“His gobi ka pakoras were the specialty”.

Santokh’s tastes were more upmarket. He took a turn to the café at the end of Bazaar and sampled breads as well make us the most divine Cream at the Grand Hotel next to Ghanta Ghar. As part of the upper crust, Jaidev could also recall Grand Hotel. “What I used to like and watch was the cutting slices of freshly cooked bread with a very nice Bread cutter on the table.”

“What was the name of your school?” Dharmendra posed his next question.

As children of devout Arya Samajis, Jayant and Prem Prakash were sent to the same school but their paths did not cross until they met accidently in the New Delhi park. Nor did their memories intersect with those of Santosh who was a pucca convent school product and wondered whether the Sacred Heart school he went to still existed.

“Our school was in Douglaspura where I studied up to Primary. We had to walk past Mai di jhuggi to reach our school,” Jaidev tried to recall the name.

“The school was Arya School, Congress Wali Gali. Our Head Master was Mohan Lal.? Near Mai Di Jhuggi”, Prem jogged his memory.

“You are right! My first teacher was Kaloo Ram, a very hardworking teacher who would beat bad students with Takhti (slate). My second-grade teacher Gurditta Mal, a tough teacher who would ask us to swing the hand pankha (fan) when hot”, Jaidev recalled .

“Then it was DAV High School near Mai Di Jhuggi”. Prem filled in the missing information.

They could all visualize their gentle Head Master Mohan Lal dressed in a suit, tie and Kulley Wali Pagri on his head.

Prem could also see in his mind’s eye the brick red building of the school, the havan kund where the fire was lit and they began their day by chanting mantras. “Om bhurva bhuva swaha”, he began to chant the gayatri mantra recalling proudly that he could repeat the entire Vedic morning prayers without glancing even once at his prayer book. Jaidev repeated an Urdu poem by Allana Iqbal that they would sing in the morning assembly.

Lab pe aati hai dua banke tamannah meri

Zindagi shamma ki surat ho khudaya meri

(My desire becomes a prayer on my lips

Life becomes a candle, and the grave becomes a garden)

Despite reading the Sanskrit verses in Devanagari, Jaidev and Prem like all male children were taught Urdu and picked up Devanagari haltingly after their arrival in Delhi.

“I never learnt Urdu in my convent school. But looking at these boards on daily basis, and with this master announcer, I picked up a smattering of Urdu and can still read at least 70 percent without knowing the basics of the Urdu alphabet - Alif Bay Thay,” Santosh boasted.

As children of devout Arya Samajis, Prem was strictly forbidden to use cuss words but recalled their PTE master barking swear words at laggards.

“Do you remember the teacher who made us March to “suar de bachhe kam nahin karde, left right left (the sons of pigs, they don’t do anything)?” As a budding sportsman, Prem scored a hit over the eloquent adman.

Prem was dreaming again. It was the same dream over and over again. He was running for his life in the hockey field and there he scored a goal. He could hear the applause. He had been made the hockey captain of the Douglaspura boys’ team and had vowed that they would win against the team on the other side of the Dusshera ground. He was rudely awakened by the sneaker fall of morning walkers.

Santosh, the self-proclaimed lout openly admitted to vices that the other two hesitated to acknowledge. The most memorable was going to the cinema halls that were considered the dens of sin in those days. Lyallpur in 1947 had Regal, Minerva, and Nishat just opposite Gobindpura. Santokh was walking them back to Ketchery Bazar and stood near the right entrance of Gole Bazar from where he could see one of the three cinema halls - Nishat.

Jaidev had no recall of the cinema halls even though he admitted that he would sometimes sneak out to one of the cinemas. Prem was reluctant to own up to enjoying his forbidden pleasures but accurately sketched the direction of the cinema hall beyond the canal.

“And there was a film with a dance by Cuckoo!” he inadvertently gave himself away.

“We had to sneak to go to cinema, and on return would become Kukar (cock) as a punishment even without asking,” Santosh agreed.

Jaidev was very excited about discovering Farida Khanum’s old L P while clearing his chest of drawers

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo yu hi pahlu me bete raho

Yu hi pahlu me bete raho aaj jaane ki zid na karo

(Tonight, don't insist on leaving

keep on sitting close to me like you are)

As the haunting melody of the ghazal transported them back to Lyallpur, the three gentlemen grew maudlin and began to hum softly.

Dharmendra did not want to disturb their reverie and tip toed his way out leaving them to revisit their lost home in a city that did not exist.

The following day Santosh was at the Indira Gandhi International airport to board his flight back to Malaysia and placed his passport on the counter. The pretty young millennial inspected his passport and turned to him in utter puzzlement.

“Sir, your passport states Lyallpur is your birthplace. I googled it and found it was once in Pakistan. Are you Pakistani?”

“I am a Lailpuria. Lyallpur was the most special place for those who lived there. Unfortunately, foolishly enough even the name of Lyallpur has disappeared,” Santosh replied with a sad smile on his lips.