It is an evening of 27th December, 2008.

The sun has been set like every

other evening, even all the birds have returned to their homes as usual. It
seems just like another evening, familiar to our eyes, though it only seems to
be. It is somewhat different from its fellow evenings and some fearful
memories create this distinction, an unforgettable distinction.

I am a sick old man, waiting for my angel of death while lying in the bed. My
name is Tauseef, I spent my whole life building roads and bridges as a
contractor, rather a famous contractor I should say, or famous at least in my
own eyes, because I didn’t remember I did anything good for anyone else,
apart for me. I feel fear revising the past sometimes, as I am too old, too sick
to change the past, to stand against it, or to even revise it, because there
were moments in that, when something bad happened, to me and to all of
us. And today, is the anniversary of one of such horrible memories. No, I
wasn’t a part of any political party. I didn’t even participate in many of the
elections as well and I don’t know any leader. I just know those people who
died on the eve of 27th December 2007. People like me, people like you.

Since the past couple of years, I was noticed many times, being drowned into
the thoughts of why people do anything to harm other people, bad to nation
and bad to the whole country. Although this was not my way of thinking prior
to the diagnosis that I am suffering from lungs cancer and will live a few
more years. I realized then that when a person is about to meet his God, his
heart starts to melt, and he is inclined towards goodness, but I was never the
same. I was a cheat, a selfish person who didn’t do anything for the sake of
other people, for the sake of this country. Now I feel ashamed for what I was
my whole life, but I am still not ready to accept it, and to flush that feelings
of being ashamed, I start to look something on my bed. I was lucky to find
that without much effort. It was a diary of my father, Mr. Rehaan Siddiqui. I
personally believe now, this diary was the most priceless gift I could ever
have from my father. I often read it in the wee hours of night, when I could
not sleep because of the heap of thoughts, running into my mind. After all,
what a sick old person can do except thinking about his life that he spent in
such a miserable and regrettable way.

He was a teacher by profession, but his diary taught me the greatest lesson
of all time. It changed my way of perception, my way of living, but the
greatest of all, my way of thinking. Missing him is the sweetest part of my
recent life, and this is what I am doing right now. Along with the fact that I
am missing my father, and to divert my mind from the feeling of guilt
because of the way I spent my life, there is another important reason as well,
why I decided to read this diary today. Those burning flames that my eyes
witnessed exactly a year ago are very much identical to the flames referred
by my father in this book. People died in front of my eyes and people died in
front of my father’s eyes as well. Nothing has been changed except the fact
that only the murderers now are within ourselves, and this is what I am most
ashamed of.

My father was born in 1915 in Raja Sansi. This town is located about eleven
kilometers north-west from the city of Amritsar on Ajnala road. He was tall,
broad with brown eyes. He migrated to Lahore after the partition and
married a girl named Razia, my mother, in 1949. I was born a year later and
life seems to him, to be as good as it could be, but, before coming to Lahore
he had a horrible experience, he saw something devastating, he was a victim
of 1947 riots.

There was complete calm in Raja Sansi while events were fast moving
towards partition. In March 1947, there was a fire in a shoe store and
clothing store at Farid Chowk in Amritsar. The property was Hindu owned but
businesses were run by Muslims. This was the start of riots in Amritsar, when
25 muslims died. On July 19, 1947, the first attack on Raja Sansi occurred
spearheaded by Sikh Makhan Singh with a group of other Sikhs. This outside
group came on horses armed with rifles, swords and Kirpans. Makhan Singh
did not live in Raja Sansi. Makhan Singh was a notorious rogue from a nearby
village. Maharaja of Patiala had armed Sikhs gangs.

In Raja Sansi, Muslims were in majority at around 60% while Hindus and
Sikhs constituted the remaining 40% of the population. They all used to live
peacefully and side by side and were performing the role of perfect humanity
above all differences. During the attack, they all helped each other for the
sake of humanity. The lords of the village Sardar Raghubir Singh and his son
Harinder Singh assured Muslims of Raja Sansi to stay and not to worry about
their safety. They were kind hearted and benevolent men, but as the tension
increased, Muslims started to migrate to seek refuge in Muslims’ majority
areas, because all were aware of the fact that the time for the great partition
was drawing near. My father, Mr. Rehaan Siddiqui along with his sister and
parents also accompanied the caravan of refugees. They took the necessary
food items and other supplements and started to travel to their land, the
result of the enormous and immense hard work of many great leaders and
amazing personalities, Pakistan.

The tension was still there in their minds, but no one was actually able to
anticipate what was coming towards them. The caravan of the refugees was
ambushed and raided by the Sikhs and the Hindus. The riots were actually
started all over the country, and the whole south-east Asia was burning into
fires and blazing flames. People were dying, people were burning, that truly
was a horrible moment to see, and no one would like to witness such an
event. It was way below the level of humanity. One could easily experience
the barbarian side of a human being, that was, cruel, brutal, atrocious and
bloodthirsty. That fight was obviously one sided. The caravan did not have
any weapons with them, but they did fight with all their hearts and fought
valiantly, but of course, with not much gain. When my father woke up, he
found himself blended along with hundreds of dead bodies. Luckily he fainted
and survived somehow. Some people were fled and run towards the camp
that was made on the outskirts of Amritsar, in search of aid and safety. He
decided to move on towards his destination, and to find his family as well, as
he was not able to find them after the attack. He moved forward with great
courage, without any help, food and safety; vulnerable to attacks, unarmed
and alone.

He knew he must reach the camp in order to find them as the whole village
was travelling towards it. With hope in his heart, and the proud feeling of
independence in his mind, he continued his journey. Watching those blazing
flames all around him must have been a difficult task for him, but he was
aware of the fact that he could not stop himself to keep going forward,
because death was all around him. After some horrendous and frightening
days, he finally managed to reach the camp. Without wasting much time, he
started to look around but what he saw was even horrifying from all which he
was been through. People were brutally injured, cruelly left in front of death.
Children were crying as they were not able to find their mothers, and
mothers were frozen numb, while sitting beside their sons' dead bodies. He
found no sign of his family. His parents and sister were still missing. The
tension and the horrifying feelings were increasing as the time was going by,
but suddenly he saw a man which was his neighbor in Raja Sansi. His name
was Ibrar Hussain, and he was breathless, staring at his son's dead body. The
raiders burnt him alive. Ibrar knew what my father was searching for.

Before I might read any further, I was informed that someone is on the
phone line for me. I put the book on my bed, and started to creep towards
the phone. In my heart, I knew who must have called me. I picked up the
phone, and I didn’t need any voice to recognize the person behind that, the
silence was enough to say it all. After all, it was the same silence that made
me fall in love once upon a time, how I could ever forget that. It was my wife,
Aisha.

Things really have changed a lot. I always dreamed of spending my whole

life with her, but nobody knows what future brings in for you. As there is a
famous saying:

“A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to

avoid it”

I never thought I would spend these last days of my life in her absence. But I
don’t understand why...

”Hello? Tauseef! Are you there? “

My wife helped me to overcome my depression once more.

Me:” Hello. Yes I’m here. How are you? ”

Aisha:” I am fine. What about you? ”

Tauseef:” Yeah. Me too”

And then the long familiar silence came over us. It has become quite a
custom in recent days.

And she understands it quite well that I am not strong enough to talk.

“Tauseef” She continues.

Me:”Yes? “

Aisha:”It has been done. “

Me:“What? “

Aisha: “I am coming from the bank. The account has been settled. Finally,
the entire amount has been withdrawn in 17 cheques and everyone has
been reimbursed.”

Me:” Oh! That’s a great news Aisha!”

I could sense the grievous feeling on the other side of the phone line. She
was choked, tensed and frightened. So, I decided to continue.

Me:” That really was very kind from your side Aisha. I am really thankful to
you.”

She was still quiet.

In a hesitating voice, I somehow continued talking.

Me:” I really miss you Aisha, I wish I could spend these days with you. You
have always been a wonderful support to me, and you made all those
decisions so simple for me to make.”

Before I could say any further, the line had been disconnected, and the Jail
Superintended told me:

”Time up sir. You can now go to your prison cell again.”

Ibrar Hussain was a carpenter; he had his only son with him who was burnt
alive by the raiders. Surely those flames hurt everyone beyond one’s
imagination. My father ran towards him in search of hope and asked if he
knew where his family was. Ibrar told that my grandfather was killed in
the attack. It was enough for him for being stunned in those crying
voices. Ibrar further told that his sister has been abducted by the raiders
and since then, she is missing. It was another thunderbolt for my father.
He lost his family, lost those, who loved him for all his life; lost those, who
were his life. Finding faces of your relatives in hundreds of dead bodies
surely is one of the most difficult tasks for any one. Though I might not
have a similar direct experience of it, but I can still perceive this feeling,
because I have been an indirect cause of the similar situation for many
people.

My father started to look for my grandfather’s dead body. My grandmother

was still missing. While searching one face, he found a dozen of other
familiar faces. Faces which were grown up with my father. Friends,
neighbors, relatives and many more. Even after hours of searching, he
was unlucky to find his father’s dead body. He was losing his hope, his
courage as he heard a familiar voice, calling his name. It was his
mother’s voice. She was injured, left without food and water, with no
health assistance but she was amongst those few refugees who were
able to flee from the raiders’ attack. The way she was crying, my father
realized that she is also aware of the disastrous fact that what happened
to her family. And the way she hugged him, proved that she knew what
happened. But what she did not knew that my father found one more
face, when he was searching the blended dead bodies in search of his
 father’s. It was a girl, who was killed in the attack. A face my father was
familiar with. A face my father was in love with. Her name was Khadija,
and he was engaged to my father a year ago. They both grew up in the
same neighborhood, played in the same turf and both knew each other
since their childhood. They were about to marry by the end of that year.
My father never talked about her to anyone, not even to my mother and
this fact is written in this diary and I could easily understand by reading
the following line that he wrote himself in his diary that why he did not
tell anyone about her. He wrote a simple, straightforward but a
meaningful line:

“No one will ever understand what she really meant to me.”

14th August, 1947, the great day of independence had arrived. For which, all
of these sacrifices were made. So many homeless person, injured and
dying, but with hope and passion, were travelling towards their
homeland, PAKISTAN. My father was one of them. The South-East Asia
was still burning, people were still being killed. Trains were still coming
with thousands of dead bodies from India to Pakistan. It was a
challenging task to refuge all these migrants who came without any food
or money, but the Pakistani administration showed great potential and
tried their level best to maintain the dignity of their homeland and they
succeeded. Majority of the camps were made in Lahore by the Pakistani
administration, as almost all the migrants were coming to Lahore. My
father along with his mother came there and after managing an
accommodation, he settled there. He later shifted to Karachi in 1949 and
got married.

The exact number of casualties during the great partition will always remain
a matter of debate. Estimates range from around 200,000 to one and a
half million (1,500,000). A British contemporary estimate claimed that
180,000 people died. Another contemporary estimate from India put the
death toll at around 500,000. The estimate given by Dr. Robert
Corruccini and Kaul is about 400,000 deaths with a wide margin of error
that is plus or minus 100,000. It also generates the fact that at least 13
million refugees, out of which 10 million from Punjab alone, comprising
four and half million non-Muslims and five and half million Muslims.
Along with these facts, approximately 75,000 women were raped and/or
abducted across the two sides of the new border.

My father was one of those victims; my ancestors may be one digit number
adding into those statistics. But there were literally millions of people who
 suffered because of the independence of their homeland, because of the
fact that one day our nation may live in open atmosphere and can feel
and breath independence and the coming generations may be thankful to
the ancestors that made such huge sacrifices of their properties, their
loved ones and even of their own lives. But unfortunately their hope,
their wish was nothing more than a waste. They wished for the
betterment of such a nation, who never wanted to be independent, who
can never actually feel independence. We are the sufferers and we are
the cause of it too. Evidences are all around us. What happened to 27th
December 2007 and after it is a proof of how uncivilized and unthankful
are us. We don’t know what independence really means, how it was
achieved. We burnt our property, our people, killed our fellows for no
reason. There was not any need of it. This was not the way to protest.
That is why I said, the murderers are within ourselves now. If people
would have been selfish as we are now, we would never have tasted
independence. They would have never sacrificed anything for it, anything
for us. We should realize it as soon as possible, and respect this feeling of
being independent and should be proud and protect the integrity, the
honesty, and the love for this country.

I still feel ashamed I did not realize it unless I started to race to my death,
unless I read my father’s diary. But inside myself, I still feel proud of
being a son of such an honorable father who did contribute, by one way
or another, in the independence of this country. And as soon as I realized
that what I have done my whole life, it changed my way of thinking. The
only thing I regret is that I found this diary in the last years of my life. To
bring justice to those people who suffered because of me, I held a press
conference and told everyone what the real truth was, behind that
accident. This, I feel, is the least stage of humanity that at least we
accept the crime that we do. I made hundreds of corruptions in my
businesses. One of them decided my fate. I built a bridge with low
quality, used lesser quality steel and bearings, and it fell down. It killed
17 people. I gave bribes to the responsible investigative authorities, they
molded the truth, and I was free of all charges. But then I realized it
should not be the way. I committed a crime, so I have to admit it too. Now
I am in a prison cell, but my wife has informed me that on my order she
sold another house of mind that was located in the countryside and now
the families of those 17 people that died in the accident have been
reimbursed by the sale proceeds. This was the least I could do for them,
that suffered only because of me. I did what seemed right to me, I also
disclosed those officers who took bribe from me, as it was my duty as a
son of this nation. While doing that, I always remembered a quote that
my father told me when I was young.

“The prisoner is not the one who has committed a crime, but the
one who clings to his crime and lives it over and over.”
“Henry Miller”