‘Good Morning. Can I help you with your bags?’
The London sky was crisp and bright for this early October morning. Having got up just a few minutes before I heard his doorbell ring, I was rushing to reach the airport and board the plane back to Bombay and be with my family.
I glanced down my shoulder to see the cab driver, probably in his sixties, offering to help me with my bags. With years of travel behind me, my instinctive hunch was that my cab driver was from the Indian subcontinent. My response was a respectful – ‘No thanks, from where I hail we do not bother our elders with such tasks’. I could not see his reaction as I was struggling with my golf set, my suitcase and my briefcase. Having set my suitcase in the boot, I kept my golf clubs on the backseat and strapped myself in the front passenger seat. Quickly gathering my breath, I gave him my current destination – ‘Heathrow Terminal 3, please’.
I have never had trouble striking conversation with anybody and especially never with cab drivers, be it any part of the world. The rear view mirror in his cab had a dangler and the script seemed Urdu to my semi trained eye. ‘Where do you hail from’ I asked. ’Jullunder’ he said with a twang of British Punjabi accent. My comfort level rose and off I began in my broken but functional blend of what I term Bombay Punjabi. The next thing that crossed my mind was – Muslim from Jullunder? I decided to probe further.
Ahmed, my cab driver was born in Jullunder in 1938, British governed India – pre-partitioned India. Ahmed’s father, he kept on referring to his father as Dad – a consequence of his British upbringing, rather than the Aboojaan or Papaji most Indians and Paki’s refer their fathers as, worked for British Petroleum in Bahrain when Ahmed was born. His dad moved his family from Jullunder to Bahrain circa 1942.
Ahmed remembers that he was studying in class 4, when suddenly on this trips back home his father decided to move family to Bahrain. The family packed their belongings and took a train to Bombay from where they boarded huge steam ship taking them to Bahrain.
Ahmed remembers his school master – Master Ramchander, double MA and a scholar in Urdu. Ahmed claimed he was a bright student and was among the favourites of Master Ramchander, the other favourite being Kishen Lal. For school functions it was always Ahmed who was chosen over Kishen to write the welcome message on the school black board .The message used to be usually a proverb or a thought for the day and was written by freshly wetted chalk while standing on Master Ramchander’s rickety wooden chair. One message still remains etched in Ahmed’s mind ¬– Ba adab …….. , Be adab……
Urdu was the lingua franca of Punjab in those days. History is witness that every invader of India left a bit of their culture embedded in the five rivers of Punjab. The fertile land of Punjab absorbed every bit and evolved its own culture. While Punjabi was the spoken language , it was written in two scripts – Urdu or Gurmukhi , probably the only language to have this distinction. Gurmukhi remained the script of the Sikhs while the Hindu’s and Muslim’s chose Urdu. It is ironical today that Urdu is labelled as the Muslims language in India , whereas it was never meant to be that way.
Kishen seemed very happy, as any child would, when he learnt that Ahmed was leaving the village. But when he saw Ahmed’s family packing their belongings and distributing some of their belongings among their friends and well wishers , Kishen started feeling a deep and unexplainable sense of loss. He started spending the entire day with Ahmed and made Ahmed promise him that he would come back to Jullunder every Basant, for the kite flying festival. Kishen missed school the day Ahmed’s family left the village. He had tears in his eyes and wished he could go up to the railway station to see off his friend till he saw him again.
Working with the British in Bahrain had its own advantages. All the oil drilling equipment was sourced from England. As a part of his work, Ahmed’s dad made a few trips from Bahrain to England before the machines were shipped to Bahrain. It was in these trips that he developed a liking for the English countryside, a far soothing sight compared to the lifeless and endless dunes of sand in Bahrain. While Bahrain offered him good money, his family and children never like it there. They longed for going back to the fertile plains of Punjab, while Ahmed’s dad had already sensed that trouble would erupt soon in India. He requested his bosses to allow him to shift his family to England while he still worked in Bahrain. His bosses were kind enough and the Ahmed family finally found their bearings in Harrow a north eastern suburb of London.
Meanwhile back home in India, Gandhi’s non violent means compelled the British to relinquish control over their most prized colony but with a terrible and traumatising price to be paid for the same – Partition of Subcontinent India. What followed after the independence of India and the creation of Pakistan remained oblivious to the Ahmed family till the children grew up.
Ahmed’s story was interrupted by the shrill ring of my mobile phone. It was Mukta, my hostess in London, on the line ringing to tell me that the Air India office called to say that my flight to Bombay was delayed by three hours. By this time Ahmed’s narrative had captivated me and I asked him if he could continue his story till present day. He agreed provided I paid for the short time parking charges at Heathrow airport.
Ahmed’s dad had a large family in Jullunder, brothers, sisters and relatives thereof. While he migrated to England, his brothers continued to stay on in India till one day the twin edged sword of partition swiftly cut through the fabric of peace, harmony and tranquil of undivided Punjab. Ahmed’s uncles and their family moved to Montgomery ( present day Faisalabad) and were one of the few fortunate families who crossed over without losing any member of their family. Today they have large farm lands and are very generous and hospitable hosts whenever Ahmed or his family visit them.
Ahmed has not seen or felt the fire and embers that burnt many of his faith during the partition.He is not party to Pakistan’s anti India propaganda nor is he for the Babri Masjid demolishers. Ahmed is a Muslim, born in India bred and brought up in England having first cousins in Pakistan, a difficult and incomprehensible jugular.
At heart Ahmed still longs and belongs to India, the India he was born in. He remembers the large peepal tree in the compound of his school, under whose shadow he and Kishen used to share lunch sent by their mothers. After quickly gobbling lunch, they would take turns at playing marbles under the peepal before the school gong beckoned them back to their classroom. In the winter months, his mother used to light a large bonfire in their courtyard and Ahmed, his brothers and sisters would sit around it. His mother would sit by the cooking fire and serve them Makki ki Roti with dollops of hand churned butter and cubes of jaggery. His elder sister would serve them Saag - Indian Greens, the taste of this meal as fresh in his memory as the food of his Punjab. When he has to get up early nowadays, like he did today, and fixes his own breakfast – Corn flakes, toast and milk, his mind wanders in to Punjab and he remembers the Gobi ka Paratha’s cooked by his mother.
The couple of hours we spent together, we developed a sense of belonging to each other. Was it Punjab, was it India I do not know. It ws time for my flight now and Ahmed pulled out of the car park and drove me to the departure gates.I got down and so did he and this time I did not resist his offer of helping me with my bags.As I now stood away from the car, wishing to say bye bye to my newly made friend I mustered some courage , took a deep breath and asked Ahmed where does he feel he belongs to – which country ? England – he said without even blinking.
What I asked next , just blurted out from my mouth, “Which cricket team does he cheer for – England, India or Pakistan”.
Ahmed's answer was lost in the din of the airport traffic and the departing jet engines. All I remember is his smile , through the half rolled window, his story and the warmth it left me with.
The London sky was crisp and bright for this early October morning. Having got up just a few minutes before I heard his doorbell ring, I was rushing to reach the airport and board the plane back to Bombay and be with my family.
I glanced down my shoulder to see the cab driver, probably in his sixties, offering to help me with my bags. With years of travel behind me, my instinctive hunch was that my cab driver was from the Indian subcontinent. My response was a respectful – ‘No thanks, from where I hail we do not bother our elders with such tasks’. I could not see his reaction as I was struggling with my golf set, my suitcase and my briefcase. Having set my suitcase in the boot, I kept my golf clubs on the backseat and strapped myself in the front passenger seat. Quickly gathering my breath, I gave him my current destination – ‘Heathrow Terminal 3, please’.
I have never had trouble striking conversation with anybody and especially never with cab drivers, be it any part of the world. The rear view mirror in his cab had a dangler and the script seemed Urdu to my semi trained eye. ‘Where do you hail from’ I asked. ’Jullunder’ he said with a twang of British Punjabi accent. My comfort level rose and off I began in my broken but functional blend of what I term Bombay Punjabi. The next thing that crossed my mind was – Muslim from Jullunder? I decided to probe further.
Ahmed, my cab driver was born in Jullunder in 1938, British governed India – pre-partitioned India. Ahmed’s father, he kept on referring to his father as Dad – a consequence of his British upbringing, rather than the Aboojaan or Papaji most Indians and Paki’s refer their fathers as, worked for British Petroleum in Bahrain when Ahmed was born. His dad moved his family from Jullunder to Bahrain circa 1942.
Ahmed remembers that he was studying in class 4, when suddenly on this trips back home his father decided to move family to Bahrain. The family packed their belongings and took a train to Bombay from where they boarded huge steam ship taking them to Bahrain.
Ahmed remembers his school master – Master Ramchander, double MA and a scholar in Urdu. Ahmed claimed he was a bright student and was among the favourites of Master Ramchander, the other favourite being Kishen Lal. For school functions it was always Ahmed who was chosen over Kishen to write the welcome message on the school black board .The message used to be usually a proverb or a thought for the day and was written by freshly wetted chalk while standing on Master Ramchander’s rickety wooden chair. One message still remains etched in Ahmed’s mind ¬– Ba adab …….. , Be adab……
Urdu was the lingua franca of Punjab in those days. History is witness that every invader of India left a bit of their culture embedded in the five rivers of Punjab. The fertile land of Punjab absorbed every bit and evolved its own culture. While Punjabi was the spoken language , it was written in two scripts – Urdu or Gurmukhi , probably the only language to have this distinction. Gurmukhi remained the script of the Sikhs while the Hindu’s and Muslim’s chose Urdu. It is ironical today that Urdu is labelled as the Muslims language in India , whereas it was never meant to be that way.
Kishen seemed very happy, as any child would, when he learnt that Ahmed was leaving the village. But when he saw Ahmed’s family packing their belongings and distributing some of their belongings among their friends and well wishers , Kishen started feeling a deep and unexplainable sense of loss. He started spending the entire day with Ahmed and made Ahmed promise him that he would come back to Jullunder every Basant, for the kite flying festival. Kishen missed school the day Ahmed’s family left the village. He had tears in his eyes and wished he could go up to the railway station to see off his friend till he saw him again.
Working with the British in Bahrain had its own advantages. All the oil drilling equipment was sourced from England. As a part of his work, Ahmed’s dad made a few trips from Bahrain to England before the machines were shipped to Bahrain. It was in these trips that he developed a liking for the English countryside, a far soothing sight compared to the lifeless and endless dunes of sand in Bahrain. While Bahrain offered him good money, his family and children never like it there. They longed for going back to the fertile plains of Punjab, while Ahmed’s dad had already sensed that trouble would erupt soon in India. He requested his bosses to allow him to shift his family to England while he still worked in Bahrain. His bosses were kind enough and the Ahmed family finally found their bearings in Harrow a north eastern suburb of London.
Meanwhile back home in India, Gandhi’s non violent means compelled the British to relinquish control over their most prized colony but with a terrible and traumatising price to be paid for the same – Partition of Subcontinent India. What followed after the independence of India and the creation of Pakistan remained oblivious to the Ahmed family till the children grew up.
Ahmed’s story was interrupted by the shrill ring of my mobile phone. It was Mukta, my hostess in London, on the line ringing to tell me that the Air India office called to say that my flight to Bombay was delayed by three hours. By this time Ahmed’s narrative had captivated me and I asked him if he could continue his story till present day. He agreed provided I paid for the short time parking charges at Heathrow airport.
Ahmed’s dad had a large family in Jullunder, brothers, sisters and relatives thereof. While he migrated to England, his brothers continued to stay on in India till one day the twin edged sword of partition swiftly cut through the fabric of peace, harmony and tranquil of undivided Punjab. Ahmed’s uncles and their family moved to Montgomery ( present day Faisalabad) and were one of the few fortunate families who crossed over without losing any member of their family. Today they have large farm lands and are very generous and hospitable hosts whenever Ahmed or his family visit them.
Ahmed has not seen or felt the fire and embers that burnt many of his faith during the partition.He is not party to Pakistan’s anti India propaganda nor is he for the Babri Masjid demolishers. Ahmed is a Muslim, born in India bred and brought up in England having first cousins in Pakistan, a difficult and incomprehensible jugular.
At heart Ahmed still longs and belongs to India, the India he was born in. He remembers the large peepal tree in the compound of his school, under whose shadow he and Kishen used to share lunch sent by their mothers. After quickly gobbling lunch, they would take turns at playing marbles under the peepal before the school gong beckoned them back to their classroom. In the winter months, his mother used to light a large bonfire in their courtyard and Ahmed, his brothers and sisters would sit around it. His mother would sit by the cooking fire and serve them Makki ki Roti with dollops of hand churned butter and cubes of jaggery. His elder sister would serve them Saag - Indian Greens, the taste of this meal as fresh in his memory as the food of his Punjab. When he has to get up early nowadays, like he did today, and fixes his own breakfast – Corn flakes, toast and milk, his mind wanders in to Punjab and he remembers the Gobi ka Paratha’s cooked by his mother.
The couple of hours we spent together, we developed a sense of belonging to each other. Was it Punjab, was it India I do not know. It ws time for my flight now and Ahmed pulled out of the car park and drove me to the departure gates.I got down and so did he and this time I did not resist his offer of helping me with my bags.As I now stood away from the car, wishing to say bye bye to my newly made friend I mustered some courage , took a deep breath and asked Ahmed where does he feel he belongs to – which country ? England – he said without even blinking.
What I asked next , just blurted out from my mouth, “Which cricket team does he cheer for – England, India or Pakistan”.
Ahmed's answer was lost in the din of the airport traffic and the departing jet engines. All I remember is his smile , through the half rolled window, his story and the warmth it left me with.
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