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  Edna’s father, George Samuel, had once lived in Hindustan. An official of the British administration, he had been honest, sociable and compassionate. He had been posted in Rajputana, where he had worked on building canals and wells. Shortage of water was the area’s main problem. Particularly for the backward classes, who had to walk for miles to collect water. George would be touring for days, which irked his wife, Jasmine, especially in the last months of her pregnancy. There was no shortage of Hindustani servants, but she had no faith in their primitive ways. She wanted a doctor or trained nurse around at all times. But George trusted the experienced local midwives. He would say, ‘Women here give birth every year. And these midwives help with one or two births every week without any modern equipment. They are expert hands.’ Jasmine insisted on travelling with him, though it was dangerous to do so in her condition. But her husband was the top official of the region, and all possible arrangements were made. It was on one of those nights, near Pochina in Miyan Jaladh, that Edna was born. His only daughter.

  In Hindustan, astrologers are wont to foretell one’s fortunes. One day, when George was not home, an astrologer visited and mapped Edna’s horoscope. ‘Her name should start with the sound “aa”. She will get married to a high-caste Brahmin.’ The astrologer didn’t know that she was Christian.

  Government jobs are like a game of kho-kho. One rises, another sits, one goes, another comes. Soon after, George was stationed in Dera Ismail Khan as collector. The area was very different from Rajputana. Because George Samuel was a competent officer, he was always posted to problematic areas. At Dera Ismail Khan, there were problems with the Pathans, who preferred to be called Pakhtoons. They had been sworn enemies of the Mughals whom they saw as invaders, like the British.

  Despite all his preoccupations, George had a habit: keeping a diary. This is what made a philosopher of him over time. He was greatly impressed with Hindustani culture and philosophy. He developed a fondness for collecting folk stories and had read Lieutenant-Colonel James Tod’s book on Rajputana.

  About sixty miles away from Jaisalmer, in Khuri Gaon, lived a tribe of Manganiyar singers. This was a Muslim kabila, but their lifestyle was no different from that of Hindus. Their rituals and traditions were also similar. Although he was a good Christian, George believed that religion was a matter of personal choice. He felt that the culture of Hindustan transcended religious divides. Even if one were to change one’s religion, the way of life would not.

  When he was transferred to Dacca, his faith in this belief became stronger. In 1905, the British government had tried to divide Bengal on the basis of religion, and failed.

  When he was posted in Dacca as culture deputy, a great change came over him. His attachment to Hindustan grew stronger. Along with the folk tales of Hindustan, he began to collect the baul songs of the area. He even started translating them into English.

  During this phase, when he was collecting Lalan Fakir’s baul songs, he met the renowned poet Qazi Nazrul Islam who wrote explosive poems and songs in defiance of British rule. He would even sing those songs.

  George was impressed with Qazi sahib, the latter’s hostility towards the British notwithstanding. Nazrul Islam wanted to translate the sacred book of Islam into Bangla verse. Many Muslims were upset with this attempt. That made him sad. He came to be known as the ‘sad poet’.

  George had started to speak some broken Bangla, and was very keen on the translation of the Quran Sharif. Some Musalmans suspected him of encouraging Qazi Nazrul to proceed with the translation. People hurled stones at his house, some even beat him up once or twice. The British government did not approve of George’s approach to the issue, and sent him back to Rajputana. This time, under the culture ministry, he was given the task of building an opinion against sati amongst the people. In Bengal, thanks to the efforts of Raja Ram Mohan Roy, such a movement had already gained momentum.

  As soon as he arrived in Rajputana, George began touring. He was on the lookout for someone who, like Lalan Fakir, was popular amongst the people and, like Raja Ram Mohan Roy, could stir a new movement. He found, instead, a fakir-like singer.

  Ramkumar Pushkarna belonged to Kuldhara and was an itinerant singer of kathas. He was a pundit, his forehead smeared with tilaks. He was a learned shastri with the gift of the gab. Ramkumar could speak a bit of English and had very liberal ideas. He understood the need to put an end to the practice of sati.

  One day, while George and he were returning from the burial of a friend, Ramkumar started to explain, ‘See, George … Hindustan will never become Englistan. Ever. You people are not going to stay here forever. You’ll have to go back. God forbid, if you die here, you will be buried in a grave … You will not be able to go back to your motherland. If your future generations sitting in Englistan remember you, you will appear foreign to them, and nobody will come to see you.’

  George was listening attentively. He asked, ‘So if one dies here, should one be cremated? The body burned?’

  ‘Yes! That’s exactly what I am saying. Not dust unto dust! Nature unto nature is the solution. Man emerged from nature, he has to return to it. Burn him and immerse the ashes in the river. He will reach the ocean. Collect the ashes and blow them into the fields. The earth will absorb them.’

  ‘And the matter of rebirth? What happens after?’

  ‘That is merely the greed to hold on to life! No one will rise from the tomb, or be born again.’

  This stayed with George. He talked about it to Jasmine and decided to write it in his will.

  But something else happened.

  George was in Bikaner at the time of a smallpox outbreak. There was no cure for it then. The afflicted would wait for the epidemic to pass, leaving behind its marks. Or it would take you along. On its way out, it took Jasmine. Edna had a narrow escape.

  George cremated his wife, instead of giving her a traditional Christian burial. He immersed her ashes in a canal so that she would be absorbed by the earth. It was an act that sparked outrage amongst the Christian community and led to heated debates in churches. After all, it was a matter of religion.

  Hindustan resonated with passionate cries for freedom, while England was deeply involved in a world war. The British authorities thought it best to retire him.

  George returned to England with Edna and settled in the suburban countryside of Coventry.

  There, he continued to do what he loved. He collected folk tales and resumed writing. He also set up a small poultry farm.

  The Second World War raged on. Nations burned in the furnace. By the time its fuel ran out, it had consumed people like Hitler. Statues of Stalin stood tall and Churchill’s great empire began to crumble. And all the while, George’s poultry farm grew. He had no son he could entrust its management to. Though Edna was older now, there was little she could have done. George had seen women work in Hindustan, where they toiled in farms, ploughed land, ran shops and also pulled carts. It was unthinkable and unheard of in their society in England that women should engage in such manual work. No matter that they had a queen.

  If he were business-minded, he would have hired a few extra hands. But of what use was that? All his needs were taken care of and he spent his time well, reading and writing. He would distribute the extra eggs in his neighbourhood.

  Around the time that Edna was admitted into a college, another chunk of the Great Empire fell. Hindustan was partitioned. Once again, George said, ‘Impossible! That country cannot be divided on the basis of religion. Their culture is ancient. Enduring.’

  ‘But it’s true, Papa. There is a Pakistan now.’

  ‘It will not hold. Punjab, Bengal, the Pathan culture – they are far too different from one another. No religion will bind them.’

  People flocked to England from both parts of the newly divided country. They came searching for work and shelter. Here, they could greet each other like long-lost brothers. They belonged neither to Hindustan nor Pakistan. They had a common name: refugees.

  An i
mpoverished young man was admitted to Edna’s college. He was a Hindu, but Pakistani, and a refugee.

  He was quite thin and had a pale face. His jaw kept moving as if he was biting his teeth. He was a shy boy, rather nervous. Edna quite liked him. One day, she approached him, asking his age.

  ‘Satarah … Seventeen.’

  He was two years younger than her.

  When Edna offered him a ride on her bicycle once, he refused.

  ‘Scared?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Well then, you ride it and I will sit at the back.’

  He agreed, and soon she learnt his name. Jaipal.

  Edna took him to her father’s farm and introduced him to George.

  George asked, ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Campbellpur.’

  ‘Attock, boy. That’s what Campbellpur’s real name is.’ George had seen the place. He continued, ‘And from where in Attock?’

  Jaipal tried to describe the location with an address and some landmarks, but George knew only the name of a school there. ‘I know of M.B. Middle School. Station Road.’

  All at once, Jaipal felt that he was meeting someone from his motherland. Immediately, he touched George’s feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Edna exclaimed.

  George embraced him and replied, ‘This is Hindustani culture, Edna.’

  Jaipal had already shifted three houses in Southall. He would wake up early, sweep the house, wash the dishes and rush to college. He found a place to stay at the YMCA for two months. Lodgings were free but he had no income and had exhausted his savings. He struggled to pay the tuition fee. Whenever it comes, poverty peeps through one’s clothes. Edna noticed it and bought him a jacket. It may have covered his back, but could not fill his belly. Hunger showed on his face. He began to miss lectures. When his name was about to be struck off the rolls, Edna forced him onto the back of her bicycle and brought him to her father.

  George offered some immediate help. But as a good administrator, he also found a long-term solution to the problem. He gave Jaipal a place to stay on his poultry farm, and let him sell the extra eggs. This became a steady source of income for Jaipal. Familiar with the households of Southall, he would go door-to-door selling eggs. As his income grew, he used part of it on the upkeep of the farm.

  Jaipal’s education too diversified. In college he used to study history; here he took up books on bird breeding. George had never been obsessed with his poultry farm. He was surprised to see Jaipal’s passion for the hens. It also fanned Edna’s interest in the birds. Gradually, Samuel Poultry Farm became a household name.

  Unfortunately, Jaipal’s formal education suffered as the business flourished. Some people who had come from Pakistan had constructed small shacks and shops in the era. Samuel Poultry Farm supplied not only eggs but also chicken to these. Ironically enough, the question of ‘halal-haram’ was rendered immaterial. The refugees had found their refuge. Pal became Paul, the pronunciation just as anglicized.

  The sun was beginning to set on the British Empire. There was pressure on the island. Taxes were on the rise, and efforts were being made to reduce the number of foreigners. New passports became difficult to acquire. The situation changed for refugees from India and Pakistan. Everyone began to devise strategies to stay there. Some even married white women to acquire citizenship. Religion and names began to change. When discussing the matter at Samuel Poultry Farm, George asked Paul about his passport.

  When Paul did not answer, George repeated, ‘Passport! Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t have one, sir!’ Paul replied.

  ‘How did you come to England?’

  ‘On a cargo ship. I had a false passport, some Mohammad Anvar’s. I got a haircut of the same style and came. I ran away from the docks … and tore up the passport. Many people arrive like this – there are agents who arrange it.’

  George was shocked. Why had he not enquired earlier?

  ‘What about college?’

  ‘Bribe, sir … it’s a long story. I came here to study. But … Edna knows it all, sir. I told her everything. I wanted to tell you, but Edna stopped me, sir!’

  George fell silent. He sighed and got to his feet. Pouring himself a drink, he said, ‘Get married here and apply for a British passport. You are no longer a refugee – not after having worked here for so many years. You are a British citizen. I will give you a permit.’

  ‘Sir … I wish to marry Edi.’

  George’s eyes darted to Edna who was standing near the door.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at length. ‘I am ready to become a Hindu, Papa … I must go to Hindustan, see the place where I was born – Rajputana.’ She paused and then said, ‘If Mother had had a grave there, I would have visited it for her blessing.’

  It had crossed George’s mind that Edna and Paul were in a relationship. He said, ‘I want you to get married in church. Don’t embarrass me in front of my friends, Edna, the few who remain. Especially because the marriage is taking place here, in England. I’d have no objection if it were happening in Hindustan.’

  Edna asked, ‘Can we go to Hindustan for our honeymoon?’

  Paul replied, ‘But I am from Pakistan. I was a Pakistani refugee in India. I don’t know India beyond some refugee camps. But I can take you to Campbellpur—’

  George stopped him: ‘Attock, beta, Attock, not Campbellpur! You do not have to be a Hindu to belong to Hindustan. Or even Pakistan or Britain for that matter. But take her to Rajputana once – they call it Rajasthan now.’

  ‘But, sir, I love Campbellpur!’

  ‘Attock!’ Walking slowly, he came closer to both of them.

  ‘You have my blessings! Mubarak ho! Cheers,’ he said, raising a toast to them.

  The years rolled by. But the refugees were far from settled. They were trying to. The handful of passengers who had left Campbellpur with Fauji were still searching for their soil. They were still rootless.

  Paul may have forgotten Hindustan, but George could not. In 1962, when India and China were at war, he explained, ‘See, this is Pakistan’s war. They want Kashmir. They are preparing for that with China.’ He went on, ‘They want to assess Hindustan’s military power and leave it vulnerable.’

  He was now sixty-four and had a two-year-old grandson, Peter Paul. One day, when George took Peter out in a pram, someone came to Samuel Poultry Farm. He was the owner of Fazal Food Centre and hailed from Attock. George was intrigued and brought him home to meet Paul.

  When Paul spoke to him in Punjabi, the man embraced him. His name was Saleem Siddique and he owned a small Pakistani-style eatery for kababs, Fazal Food Centre.

  ‘Ekdum dhaba style! Now I want to start a canned-food business.’ He added in a low voice, ‘To tell you the truth, I am looking for a partner. I have heard a lot about your poultry farm and assumed it was run by an angrez. Thought I should see for myself. And look! I have found an Indian brother!’

  ‘I’m Pakistani. And as Dad must have told you, I am from your town, Campbellpur!’

  ‘Now they call it Attock.’

  Soon after the introductions, Paul opened his heart to him.

  ‘I want to take my wife to Pakistan.’

  ‘Whenever you say. It’s summer now. Let’s go in the winter, when we can eat to our heart’s content.’

  ‘Is Gurudwara Road still there?’

  ‘Ji, of course it is! And it’s still called Gurudwara Road.’

  ‘And Ghantaghar Chowk?’

  ‘That too. The old clock was vandalized. The replacement has been working fine though.’

  Paul’s eyes grew misty. He asked, ‘You have a family there?’

  ‘There’s my wife and two-three children.’ He laughed. ‘I mean two. The third is on its way.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘I have a brother in Dubai. He has a good business there.’

  ‘Is Fazal Food Centre named after him? You are Saleem Ahmed.’

  ‘No, no, Fazal is my fa
ther, Master Fazaldeen Siddique.’

  ‘I see. What does he do?’

  ‘He is no more. He used to teach … was the headmaster of a school. I’ll show you his school too. There’s a new building there. At one time, it was just a middle school. Now, it has grown into a college. Pakistan has progressed a lot.’

  That winter, Paul went to his beloved Campbellpur. Edna did not accompany him. She wanted to go to Rajputana.

  Paul looked up at the Ghantaghar. In the winter fog, it looked like a work of art. The old British-style spire on top captivated him. The same style had never appealed to him in Britain.

  Saleem took him home. They were business partners now, heading Eastern Canned Food. His house was in a new area within the city; a new, two-storeyed building. This was in the name of both the brothers, Siddique House. Inside, in the hall, hung a large portrait of Fazaldeen Siddique.

  Saleem said, ‘This enlargement was made in England. Photography had yet to catch on here. When the middle school was demolished for reconstruction, a clerk found the photo in a register and brought it to me. He also gave me the photograph of a Sardar, my father’s friend. I forget his name. We were very young then. He visited us often. I remember something very interesting about him. Sardar-ji had tied his buffalo to our door just before he left for India. On its back, written with chalk, were the words: “I’m leaving Pakistan in your custody.”’

  Both laughed. ‘He was a schoolmaster, after all. Was used to writing on a blackboard!’ Saleem said. ‘Where was your house?’

  ‘In Civil Lines.’

  ‘Oh ho … Now there are government offices there.’

  ‘I went around looking for it yesterday. Could not even recognize the road,’ Paul confessed.

  The next day, Paul took Saleem along and finally found the place. The kothi’s front and back had flipped over. At its rear, a big broad road had been built … this was the main road now. Where there had been the front lawn, a wall had been raised and a six-storeyed government building had come up. The house sat dwarfed between two buildings.