CONTENTS AUTHOR'S NOTE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE ITALICS WORDS ‘THE EDHI NETWORKAUTHOR’S NOTE For the compilation of this work I transcribed over forty hours of taped recordings with Abdul Sattar Edhi, and am responsible for any substance that might have been lost during translation. My two year association with Edhi sahib will no doubt be indelibly etched on my personality. ‘To uphold the Edhi foundation's concept ofemphasis on work rather than personalities, the names of colleagues and volunteers, have in- tentionally not been mentioned. In the same spirit, names of those with whom Edhi sahib held various discourses have also been avoided, s0.a$ not to distract the reader from relevant matters. Volume I covers Abdul Sattar Edhis life upto the year 1995. Vol- ‘ume II will encompass his life after this period. ‘TEHMINA DURRANICHAPTER ONE It was a strange beginning. The day had rung in with the urgency of telephone bells, now chopper blades churned through the air and created a deafening roar. I felt a tension in my body and stiffened; snapped shut the seat buckle and waited for the helicopter to lift into the sky. Ninth of July the year 1992 — at three am, a Rawalpindi bound passenger train rammed into a goods train carrying phosphate to Jaranwallah at Ghotki Railway Station. Hundreds of people were re- ported dead or injured. The staff at Edhi headquarters had sprung from sleep into ac- tion... faster than the demands they needed to meet. Forging through catastrophes was my nature. No effort was needed to plunge into tragedies, they always consumed me, drove me as if one of the dead had come to life with fresh experience of human pain. At these times I was always lost to myselt, feeling neither heat nor cold, nor fear nor fatigue, disconnected with the self — with no sign of the man... Edhi. Yet, this morning it was not so. Something separated me from the furor of voices raised at full volume. Voices giving instructions, tak- ing information, wireless dispatches, logistics and confirmations .... a jumble of recordings, one over the other. The chaos, s0 usual in my life, disturbed meas fit were new. I was somewhere else. The change became pronounced as the morning overtook me; felt the difference, could not keep pace despite the fact that I was in an obvious rush. My feet felt heavy... no it was not my feet, it was something in my heart, but what? Everybody relevant to the work required fora calamity of this mam- moth proportion was on call or else already present at Mithadar. By the time I was ready to leave, nurses, doctors,:medical supplies, am- bulances, coffins and equipment had already been dispatched to Ghotki. Then why was today different? So different that as I rushed "0 ___—_. out of Mithadar for the airport, Bilquise inquired, “You seem as if you have no wish to go. Are you ill?” My feet halted at the door, my wife's question felt misplaced. I wondered what showed through to her, she knew me so well, nor had illness ever affected my passion to serve. ‘Then what was it? Perhaps today I was with myself. Why, how, when did this new- ness occur? Was I losing some compassion, shirking from a lifelong commitment? No, that could not be, but where then was 1? In this frame of mind, the two hour flight seemed interminable. Time stretched and accentuated the silence in the helicopter. We were flying over ‘Sukker, Looked down at the dryness of the land, at how barren and parched it was. When the pilot received a wireless message I was still far away, some place even I could not determine. He asked loudly, “Maulana , is your grandson in hospital? I jolted. Turning my head towards him, i asked, “why?” He said he had just died. Then I under- stood the lingering morning ‘Along with the air crew I lifted my hands in prayer and we said aloud, together; “Inna Lillahe we Inna Alaihe Rajaoon.” We were only ten minutes from our destination, the pilot suggested we turn back, “No, no” I shook my head, “It’s too late for that. We have work to do. Tell Bilquise to arrange for his burial. They should not wait for me.” No matter how old or close the association I never involved my staff in personal affairs. Nobody had known of my grandson's hospitalisation and in respect for that privacy the pilot remained silent. That the pain was deeper than I can express came as a surprise to ‘me, for Thad seen the sufferings of other people too many times. Never had I experienced such emptiness. I had been on twenty four hour call for the last forty five years, each hour had brought with it the fierce realities faced by the hopeless, deprived, downtrodden masses. Now I feltan exhaustion, as if Thad been awake forever. My work had taken over my life. There was always a purpose and yet no guaran teed destination. Bilal, my grandson, arrived ata time when there was ‘some semblance of order. Although Bilquise had tried to steal time from work, it was not sufficient to satiate her maternal instincts and our own children grew up in the care of their grandmother. When Kubra, our twenty-two- year-old daughter, separated from her husband, and returned home, expecting her second child, Bilal was born. It seemed ordained that he was for us. —_ He found me off guard. Perhaps a litte lost to myself, something that only the innocence of a child could detect or recognise. A vacant part in me went out to him, and I would often warn him, “I am only lending myself to you, I'l have to take myself back when I'm needed elsewhere.” I did not realise the impact ofthe association. My heart ached now as I recalled how we followed each other eve- rywhere, He would wake with me at dawn, eat his breakfast and share my stale bread, always asking the same question, “Why do you eat this Nana? are you poor?” and I would always explain, “I am reminding myself of poverty. It is my homework.” Now I brushed a hand over my wet eyes, looking away, concealing the agony that tore within me—for myself. The pain collided with my self-control and broke my heart over and over again. Recollections jostled in my mind. ‘The sighting of the new moon had heralded Ei! and sacrifice. It was an occasion we intentionally exaggerated in our welfare centres to bring cheer and happiness to the thousands of destitute, mentally ill, marginal people that comprised our life. Excitement mounted in the women’s quarters as girls applied henna on their palms, stitched {gold and silver tinsel on new clothes, arranged sweet meat, prepared traditional vermicelli and wrapped gifts. Temporarily, any sense of deprivation dissipated. Food arrived in large cauldrons from differ- ent comers of the city and everyone awaited a jubilant morning, small and momentary in the lives of the deprived, yet highly appreciated due to the absence of other joys, Bilal was spending the night with his mother at the Clifton Centre for girls. Before leaving us he showed off his new clothes to me, “I'l ‘wear this in the morning, then this and then this and then this.” Thad lifted him up into my arms, “Do you know that some children have ‘no clothes Bilal2” Rejecting my counseling he forcefully wriggled out from my hold to retum tohis wardrobe, exclaiming, “But have many.” Bilquise laughed, “Today he will not be influenced by you.” On the morning of Eid I was in the office when heard that Kubra had frantically called for an ambulance. Instead of going to the hospi- tal she arrived at Mithadar. There was no need to explain her inepti- tude in dealing with the crisis, Bilal’s condition was one that I had witnessed numerous times before. He was badly burnt. No expression can describe his agony, yet « experience it even to- day, as if fire burns into my very soul. He trembled like a fish out of water in his mother’s arms, clenching his teeth and hands, then— - shriveling up withthe torture that every movement induced. His face ‘contorted as his fragile body hopelessly fought the wrath of pain. There ‘was no relief, no cure and no hope By the time Bilquise arrived from her mother’s home, Kubra had left for the Civil Hospital. 1 did not accompany either of them and ‘excused myself to Bilquise, “This suffering is unbearable even for a ‘man who has never flinched in the face of pain.” ‘We were now flying over Ghotki flying closer down to examine thehavoc created by the collision of two machines. An unnatural sight, much worse and more brutal than any wrought by a natural disaster, 2 grotesque modern calamity. Black smoke had solidified, where it dissipated ..there was red. ‘We landed in the midst of what resenibled a bloody slaughter-house Realty hit me. Ambulances, sirens, stretchers, dead bodies, police, ad- ministration, government officials, and the curious crowds that always ‘swarm to stare. I was always expected to appear... a few moments with officials, an abrupt detachment from them and I plunged into practical work. Itwas.n established pattern. In situations suchas these Fis amportant for one person to take charge, too many people only compound the chaos. Overa lifetime I had learnt to orchestrate relief work to a swift conclusion. Pajamas rolled knee high { plodded through puddles of blood and into the realm of death, Surrounded now by hysterical people, im- ploring, “Edhi sahib, they haven't found my son... My father will die Ifyou don't remove him to hospital... Edhi sahib, thank God you're here, they say my child is dead but I know he’s not. Take my mother to hospital... Please find my babies, where are they, where are they?, Even a3 | dealt with this massive loss of life, Bila’s death wrung my heart: Two months ago, I had seen the same pain in his eyes and the same fear in ours. He had seen me serve the people and his innocence had misconstrued compassion as a healing ability. His faith had in- vvoked in me a helplessness like a god who cannot answer. In Ghotki, saw it again, the same pain, clinging onto hope, onto sme. | saw the desperation in the eyes of mothers to save their chil- ‘ren, in children Isaw the fear of life itself, and in allthis anguish, | remembered how Bilal had clung to me just like them and had hoped just like them Now they must have bathed him. Now they must have buried him. Tlifted corpses with my team, removed trinkets, money and iden tity cards, and marked them for identification. I searched the de- (8 bris and put together pieces of bodies for burial. Moved the in- jured to nearby hospitals, made urgent arrangements to transport the seventy two seriously wounded in, our air ambulances to Karachi, and all the time I ached for Bilal and all the time people wept and implored, “My children are dead... my wife is dying. my mother is bleeding to death.” Segregated tents were erected in the compound of the nearby Sukkur fal, Lady doctors and nurses worked in the women's section, wounds, bandaging and dispatching the injured. They wrapped the dead and attached possessions on the bodies of women and children. Itwas the only time Bilquise was unavailable for service and the nurse in charge was disoriented with other people's losses. A distraught young lad wailed to her, “Ifound my father but which one is my mother?” She walked him around, crying with him as he la~ mented, “No one looks like her.” I guided the nurse, “You are the ad- ministration. If you become nervous work will be compromised. Con- trol yourself.” | missed Bilquise, she was the only one with whom I could share personal lose. But was she not as always coping without me because I ‘was with humanity? Her heart must break for Bilal as well as for me. She must know why my feet had dragged that morning. Now we both knew. My wife was as attached to our grandson as myself, but then we were always attached to the same things. I was amused to see her hide under a quilt, crouch beneath a table or behind a door while play- ing with Bilal. When she was caught she would run around the room with him chasing after her. She would feed him herself, as she would have liked to have done her own children. She would say their names with each morsel, “This is for Kubra.... this one is for Kutab, now eat this for Faisal, one more for Almas.” When I chided her for behaving, like a child she would snap back, “I'm behaving like an ordinary ‘mother, the kind you never let me be.” Sometimes she would sigh and complain, “You only gave me one child... Bilal.” Holding his little hand Bilquise would walk him through the nar- rowalley from her mother’s home to our Mithadar office. When Isaw them coming my heart would lighten and pressures would fleetingly disperse. Like my wife, Bilal was always finding reasons to smile, to be happy. In Ghotki limbs were scattered, bodies decapitated, fingers, hands ‘and litle pieces of flesh, unrecognisable, mutilated faces, some crushed,(6 some chopped, eyes hanging out of sockets and heads flattened were strewn all over. It was a sacrificial blood bath. In its midst hysterical children screamed, frantic mothers searched for their offspring and those trapped in compartments yelled for help. Loud speakers blared with appeals for blood donations. People bent on all fours, crawled in search of some part of their loved ones, weeping hysterically. Desperately examining nails, feet, and hands, even hair. a picture of lifelong associations, pieces for burial like tokens of remembrance. Gigantic cranes, the noise of lift ing iron, the release of crushed bodies from the track... the broken silence of a sleepy village. Blood had soaked into parched earth and dried. Despite the massive tragedy before me, my heart forcefully escaped tomy personal one. I was constantly recalling it, remembering it, tear- ing apart with it, trying to push it away. I was steeling myself against the velocity of a single flash flood of pain as opposed to its random manifestation here. But Bilal broke down every defense, over-ruled all rational thought and took away my mind if not my body from ‘everything else. Hospitals were packed to capacity, victims were be- ing dispatched to mosques, others were sent by train to hospitals in Multan as the dead and the injured competed for space. Seventy five Edhi ambulances were in operation. Even here, in this terrible situation there was evidence of a morally deficient society. A young man claimed a body, signed an application for financial compensation from the government and our ambulance took the two to.a nearby village. Relatives refused to accept the body, the young man disappeared, and the driver returned to Ghotki with the corpse. recalled the desperation Bilquise and Kubra had to confront two- ‘months ago at the Civil Hospital. A nurse had said, “The specialist doctors will not be here before the three Eid holidays.” The cupboard ‘was locked, the keys untraceable, scissors and bandages were in the cupboard, so there was no dressing. “Take him to Jinnah Hospital”, they suggested, and so Bilal was rushed and admitted into the emergency ward of Jinnah Hospital. Kubra was allowed to accom- pany him, but his screams, the agony of the contact of raw skin with medicines and bandages made her run out and she fainted in her mother’s arms. When the wafts of air from the ceiling fan touched his. skin he shrieked, when the fan was off, the heat in the air burnt him like a fire. His body expelled enough water to drench twelve sheets. g ‘They were told to take him toa private hospital. “No specialist will be available here until after the Eid holidays”, they said. When Bilquise protested they shrugged, “What can we do?” ‘They moved Bilal to a private hospital, where an intern again in- formed my desperate family that the doctors were not available. Bilquise had to deposit twenty thousand rupees before Bilal could be admitted into the intensive care unit. Here he was sedated and at last slept. ‘At Ghotki nine members of one family had died. I could visual- ise the bodies entering Kotli village, it was a scene I had witnessed often. My heart ached for those who would receive them, those who would mourn forever... then my thoughts went back to weep for Bilal Bodies were bathed where possible, otherwise cleaned with cotton wool, or merely wrapped in white sheets. Possessions and death cer- tificates were attached to their coffins. Bits and pieces were collected, wrapped and buried in a mass grave. Some bodies were claimed by relatives and driven to their homes in our ambulances, some were buried as Amanat tobe removed and re-buried incase of aclaim, many lay unclaimed in a make-shift morgue. Those who had travelled for ‘work from remote areas of the country, where hardly any news ever penetrated, would not be considered missing for many days, maybe ‘weeks, maybe months. Some were being consoled and sent away with money . Others continued towards their destinations on the next avail- able train. My mind returned to the time after the holidays when the special- {stat last arrived and confirmed seventy five degree burns. Daily dress- ings tore Bilal's raw skin, while Kubra tended and cared for him, thank- ful to God for giving him a new lease of life. She had rejected the question of losing her child ‘The mothers here, at Ghotki, those whose children died in the gro- tesque tragedy transported me to my daughter—confused, silent and withdrawn all her grown years. Now her pain was manifested all around. She cried and wailed, her hysteria tore through the air. She ‘was not alone, nor were these women alone, nor was I and yet each bore his own cross. As the grief of many is condensed in the grief of one; the loss of each life is equivalent to a multitude. The value of every life is based on the tragedy it leaves behind with some person. ‘These thoughts of how one equals many went through my mind all day.= <9 wventy eight people were declared dead. Polaroid photographs wore pimped up atte location ofthe disaster, dispatched to police stations, nearby hospitals and sent to our Sukker Center. Tremembered how my heart had missed a beat when I saw Bilal. For a moment I had braced myself and turned away; not from my own suffering but from his disappointment at my impotence. I had the experience to know that not even the best hospital in the world could help. Deep burns singe and clot the blood, tetanus and septic are inevitable. Even if he survived, one would wish him dead. Time was not enough for him, nor for me. Much as I had detached myself when {realised his condition I questioned Bilquise, “How does ‘one accept death until it comes? How do you treat the living as ifthey were dead?” She rightly said, “You cannot. Not when they are present, no matter in which form or condition.” Even before its usual time to rot, the stench of human flesh was heavy in Ghotki. Although the dead are merely history, our people delay visual absence as long as possible. By allowing delay of obliga- tory prayers, Islam recommends burial with urgency. Although Inever shirked from the awesome task of explaining this to the stricken, I had never succeeded in convincing anyone-The injured were always riority, there I invoked great haste. They were stil living my onated money to government hospitals and distributed cash amongst the poor for medical expenses and their homeward journey. ‘Although my passion to serve remained in the forefront ofall my ac- tions, my heart was overcome with my own pain and remained with Bilal, He was there, everywhere and I thought, “Oh God, the pain of ‘whom [love exceeds that of whom I love for you.” Tears welled up in my eyes and my workers showed surprise. No one knew of Bilal’s death, nor could anyone conclude that I wept for the hundreds who lay around me. My emotions never inspired visible expression in any way other than practical work. I moved away from’ sight. Easing collective pain while concealing my own, isolated me. Then a bereft old man cried out, “Edhi sahib, Lost my only child, I'm torn apart. No one can help me, Ihave no one else, [am alone” Acrouched embryo, his head buried between his legs, his body shaking with his cries; little did he know that I grieved through him and cried with him. | lifted him up by his shoulders and said, “I know your pain, everybody knows your pain at sometime in theit lives. Since the be- inning of time.” Othe scorching sun oblivious of the doomsday spectacle had re- ® mained overhead all day. Even when it set, a blistering, motionless heat hung and sank deep into the earth at Ghotki. The day had passed, the bodies had gone, work was concluded; my feet were taut with dried blood, where the liquid stained my clothes they had stiffened. I walked in the aftermath, desolate as | always am at the end; I stopped and stood still, the noise had retreated into the past, a piece of history. It had become another time. | listened to the dull silence it had left behind. observed the killer trains lying like broken corpses. Pieces of lead strewn across the distances. Black fumes rose and spread just like hu- ‘man blood had flowed in so many directions. Some said it was sabo- tage, others blamed it on negligence. The driver had received a green signal, and entered the same trackas the goods train, when he tried to apply the vacuum brake to avert the tragedy, it was too late and a loud explosion shook the area. Elected representatives, the prime minister, the president and other government functionaries, expressed grief and sanctioned cash relief to the victims, the general manager of Pakistan Railways was sus- pended. The loss was irredeemable and solely to be borne by the in- nocent. I turned away abruptly and walked briskly towards the hel copter. We clasped our seat belts and settled down for take-off. I was flying home like all those I had handled that day, evaluating and yet, unable to comprehend or begin to live with the permanent ab- sence of a loved one. The long flight, the preserved silence, aroused old memories of my mother’s death, a loss I had neither resolved nor come to terms with. Yes I had accepted it, no, I had not over- come it. I had merely put it aside. It was thrust and concealed at the back of my memory, a secret recurring pain still vulnerable to its falling shadows. I had avoided the ghosts of my mothers death ruthlessly, now Bilal made me confront them with those that came his, and although, there were no tears, I felt them rise and fall inside me many times. By the end of two grueling months in hospital, Bilal had begun to improve, the skin on his chest and legs returned, but, his groin and. thighs remained raw. He controlled everyone's time. His orders for food were enthusiastic and showed no sign of a lost appetite, but the food was never eaten. He talked about me but never complained about my long absences. Determining my time table, he would imagine, ‘Now Nania must be looking after people; now he must be begging onthe road.” He had loved the latter part of my work. When somebody gave him money he would count it excitedly, I would give him a few rupees and tell him to spend them on the poor, “This is not our money. Tthas not been given for us, only to us, we areits trustees.” He would then rush off in search of somebody to help, ask his story, quickly hand him the money and return to beg again. “Did you believe his story?” I would inquire, “No, but he still needed the money.” Bilal reminded me more of myself thar any of my own children. Although his agony as well as his borrowed time had made me ‘want to escape from the ensuing loss, [had tried to see him as often as possible. When it would be time to say good-bye, his weak grip on my hand tightened and I would have to tear myself away. It was al- ways the same; dragging myself to his bedside then dragging myself away from it.. always in a dilemma. I needed to love him and give him courage, I was desperate to hold him and keep him in sight, then Iwould dither, withdraw and convince myself, “He's going, he won't be here long, Turn away from the pain, turn away, turn away.” He had told us the story that took his life, “Nurmaal burnt me, she kept burning me.” I pacified him, even Kubra had said, “God will forgive her because she is ill. You should do the same.” Nurmaal was a disturbed young woman, whom we had taken into our centre. Kubra had complained more than once to Bilquis that the girl was lazy, left unwashed laundry under the bed, re- fused to do work delegated to her and was always conspiring and intriguing. She also resented Kubra’s position of authority and was bitter at her constant attempts to enforce discipline On the morning of Eid Nurmaal offered to bathe Bilal, and poured scalding hot water down his shoulders. When he turned to escape, she poured it on his back and as he shrieked she poured more and ‘more. It was not before Kubra and others heard his screams and rushed into the room that she stopped. Nurmaal said she did not know that the water was boiling hot. As I was not in a position to judge her i tentions, I transferred her to the Buffer Zone Centre for psychot ‘We landed at Karachi, I disembarked, parted from my silent com- panions and drove the waiting ambulance straight from the airport to the graveyard, He was now where I could not reach him. I turned away from the little mound of earth, consoling myself that the ordeal was over, the pain overcome, he was free. I did not have the option to Brieve or complain. — ‘At home Bilquise and I turned away from each other. When the family withdrew we became alone and buried our faces to weep in Bila’ little clothes, touching and hugging his toys lovingly, we gazed and cried at his small shoes as if he might begin to walk in them again. asked Bilquise, “Do we not show too much attachment to our own? above others? If there is no difference in creed, faith, and class, is there not a lot in relationships?” Kybra came in, I rose to take her in my arms and her condition was as hopeless as my words. Bilquise had been home when she was informed of our grandson's critical condition. In the hospital she found his room cordoned off and the curtains drawn. Kubra had become hysterical when she saw the doctors pump her son's heart, although sedated, she remained alert and continued screaming for her child. The last two months had reas- sured her of his recovery, then a clot travelled to his heart and took his life, He died at the age of four. The specialist gave no discount on his fee, [commented to Bilquise, “You saw the treatment they gave the child of a man who lives his life for them? Can you assess from this example the treatment they give to those who have nothing to offer?.” ‘That night I reflected with Bilquise: “He played with us and has gone. Those moments were lent by him, to me, whereas I thought I had no time to give. Now back to work. There is no justification for us to mourn one over hundreds.” Bilquise could justify it and continued to weep. I advised her, “We must put his death aside, it can never bea ‘memory that we can share together. The only way I know with which to deal with this pain isto bury it with him, it cannot heal, we should not try.” Bilquise knew that we could not talk of Bilal again. But the heart does not allow the mind to overrule it, and although 1 did not talk of him, thoughts of him flooded my time for many days and weeks and months. Whenever there was a moment to spare I would sit on the bench outside my Mithadar office, at the crossroads ‘opposite the green mosque, and the incoherent drone of the bazaar drowned out any singular sound. I would watch people appear at the top of each street from all four directions and the flow of human traf- fic would break every now and then, when somebody stepped out to greet me, but memories of my grandson separated me from every- thing. Bilquise placed Bilal’s photograph under the glass top of my desk, while he lived on in my heart where he never died. [often saw him in my dreams, especially when I was disturbed or had a fever. His littlea ‘questions and his big ideas made me return to my own childhood; what will I be when [ grow up was what both our childhoods were about. They centered around castles built in the air, those that grew in all directions, disjointed but full of the passion of life and destiny. Like me he was so wide eyed and curious, but he was not given the chance that I was. A chance to live CHAPTER TWO My parents descended from a community of small farmers, involved in petty fights with different tribes living on the river banks. Three centuries ago, a religious leader in Thatta converted them from the Hindu faith to Islam and named them, Momiins, meaning true believ- ers. This was later distorted to Memons . In respect for the example set by Prophet Muhammad's (PBUH) exemplary business partnership with Hazrat Bibi Khadijah, the old sage advised them to adopt trading and business as their vocation. He also instructed them to maintain a strong, sense of community. ‘The Memons moved from Hala in Sindh, through the Thar desert or via the Rann of Kutch and inigrated to Kathiawar in Gujarat (India). Wherever they settled became their future identity. The ViravelMemons, the Dorajee and Kotyana Memons, and us the Bantva Memons, We descended from the Edhi family. Once there wasa village named Edhi mohalla, but that disappeared over time. Although Edi in the Gujrati language, means lazy, the tribe was vigilant, comumitted to hard work, and born with a spirit for humanitarianism. They were middle class people who avoided involvement in intrigues and disputes. My grandfather Haji Rehmatullah did not believe in making sur- plus money. In fact it was said he disliked anything surplus with a ‘vengeance and rejected itin thought, food, comforts, and desires, keep- ing his lifestyle down to basics. He conducted duties similar to those of the chamber of commerce in Bombay. When a member of the com- munity went bankrupt, or when two parties were embroiled in some conflict he would intervene and mediate. His son, my father Abdul Shakoor Edhi, inherited the same tem- perament and continued with the same profession as a commission agent in Bombay. When the Habib Bank was established at the behest of Muhammad Ali Jinnah by two well-known Memons, Habib Rehmatullah and Haji Dawood Parek, my father was approached, and ‘out of friendship rather than political views, offered his support for 2Ban the openin of accounts. Large Memon business houses, like Dada Ltd, Araak Ltd.and Adam Lid. elevated members of our community to trusted managerial posts, accountants or commission agents. Lower grades were filled by locals. They trained young Memon boys in their organisations for two to three years so that they developed business acumen, often they advanced financial aid for them to pursue and establish private businesses. My father was twicewidowed before he married my mother who was called Ghurba. His first wife had borne him a son, the second a son anda daughter. In those times there was a grave shortage of eligible Memon Birls, as they were so sought after, muuch money and gold were required for their hand, and to avoid this, men began to bring back wives from Bengal, Karnatak and Malabar. At the time of my parent's marriage my father offered my mother fifty grams of gold as dowry. ‘My mother belonged to the Deevan family which was a respected business house. She had been divorced after a traumatic and violent marriage that gave her a son and a daughter. It was not considered a slur o a disadvantage to be divorced or widowed, in fact it was in adherence to the principles of Islam to marry a woman of that cat- ‘egory. When my mother married again, her sister raised her two chil- dren, while she had to raise those of my father. Bantva, a smail village near Junagarh, in Gujarat, was well planned with wide streets and open spaces. Out of the twenty five thousand inhabitants, seventy percent were Memons. As there was a strong sense of simplicity in Bantva, big bungalows belonging to prosperous busi nessmen were occupied by large families following the popular tradi tion ofa joint family system; even here an entire family was accommo- dated in a single room. The smaller dwellings were placed close to- gether on both sides of narrow alleys, while some were clustered on Fidges in tiers at different levels. Shopkeepers lived in the market place either above their shops, or behind them. There were two high schools, a library and five free dispensaries. We lived in an area called Dhobi Barrah, named after washermen who were its original inhabitants: My father owned the building we lived in, and my paternal grandmother died here. [can recall my fa~ ther gently lifting a lizard with his handkerchief from the white sheet that covered her; young as I was, I was taken aback by the absence of sisgust in his expression. Around the same time my thirteen year old alf sister contracted a fever and my father took her for specialised tceatment to Ahmedabad and Junagarh. They returned without hope, e and she died shortly after. By the time was seven years of age we sold the building and shifted from Dhobi Barrah. My father tied a thick rope around his heavy iron safe containing gold and cash and lowered it down the staircase from the third floor; it had slipped and hurt his hands. Other than that, we possessed only a cupboard, a wooden swing, some bedding and a few utensils. ‘We moved to another mohala, besides which were constructed eight little quarters. The room that housed my family had a small verandah covered with steel mesh, and we shared an open air bathroom with two other families. My step brothers had left for work in Bombay, so there was just my sister Zubaida and baby brother Aziz at home. We would sleep on thin cotton mattresses lined up on the floor, and in the ‘morning our mother would make me climb upon the cupboard to bring down her pots and pans. She would cook us a staple diet of tea and lentils to eat with bread, At night she would clean and polish the uten- sils and I would climb up again to replace them. Soon I discovered one that she never used and began saving money in it; because I was the only one available for this job, nobody ever detected my secret. | virtually grew up playing pranks and games in the streets and alleys of Bantva, with little interest in formal education. As I was never atten- tive in the small madrassah I attended, the school master, in an attempt to minimise my mischief, immediately appointed me the class monitor at the start of each term. The boys I played with were all under my influ- ence. I was the leader. I divided them into teams and delegated some form of mischief to each. Sometimes we would heap stones, move backa ‘good distance and charge at full speed, shouting and kicking with all our might to bring the pile down. Atother times we waited like predators for bullock carts carrying fruit to the market. When we spotted one, we ran from far behind, jumped high and swept water-melons, and other sea- sonal fruits to feast upon. Sometimes we climbed trees and made loud animal noises to scare people, we would race in the fields, or play hop- scotch on the dirt paths for the better part of the day. My mother was very gentle, sensitive and quiet. Although there were very few occasions where there was argument between my parents, she remained somewhat sad. Her condition was related to the two chil- dren she had left with her sister, the suppression of her maternal long- ing made her melancholic. My father would often shake his head and advise me, “Never marry another man’s wife, she carties too many burdens.”e ~- Memon men spent ten months of the year selling wares in Bombay, Rangoon, Hyderabad, Colombo and Calcutta because of which my fa- ther's job kept him‘away from home. He would dispatch a big sack containing samples of cashew nuts, pistachio and ginger every few months for us, but my mother was averse to keeping everything she eceived for herself. She divided the fruit equally into packets that she ‘nd T would make together and sent me off to distribute them amongst the more needy. “Ins wns s Pabit that she instilled in me very early in my life" Each ‘morning she gave me two paisas for school and advised me to give one to somebody poor and spend one on myself, “Always find out if the person is really in need. Iti polsonous to give charity to useless peo- ple, or to embarrass those who do not need it" ‘When Lretured home from school and as soon as [stepped through her door she would inquire, “What did you do with the money?” As there was a strong disapproval of lies in our home, she could always detect the answer from my expression and her taunts would begin, ‘You have a selfish heart, one that has nothing to give.” I would eat faster at such times, wash the plates faster and increase the speed of ‘my movernents to avoid the tirade. She would talk just as fast, “What Kind of a human being are you? Look at the greed in your eyes.” She ‘would not pause, I tried not to hear, “Already you have started rob- ting the poor. How much more will you rob from them in your lfe- time?” The disgust on her face and the sharpness of her tone always made me blush with shame. ‘Only when I performed some good deed as compensation, would the taunts stop. Her remarks and insults were tortuous and trained me todeprive myself rather than pay the heavy toll she extracted for what she termed, “seeds of greed that grow into an oak tree.” ‘Due to the sharing of money, searching for human interest stories became a pastime that sharpened my instincts and enabled me to dif- ferentiate between the needy and thelazy. Although Bantva was pros- perous many poor basti's surroundediit. [would inquire about the con- Gitions and problems of poor settlers, relate them to my mother, who would send me back with edibles and medicine. "As most husbands were away my mother also occupied herself with the affairs of other women. She would organise and help with child Bhs, ‘and encourage women to work from home so that they became self reli ant. Although we received fifty or sixty rupees every month from my father and never faced poverty, she would send me tothe shop to bring @ bback bundles of cotton to clean. I would carry a sack full on my bac though he brary hong “Mate wy aka” We would keep the dry husks for burning thestoveand return the wool to the shop fora stipend. She wasa strong believer in the dignity of labour. Tn the holy month of Ramadan she collected other Memon ladies and made bundles of foodstuff, which she sent me to drop through the ‘windows of poor people or needy relatives. All the while her sot whis- pery voice echoed behind me, “Itis charity only when your left hand loss not know wha the ight has given. When the respect ofthe r= ceiver fremest. I would fash past bends in an atempt © make Again on Eid she would put money in brown envelopes and in- struct me fo fll the sme procedure, saying, “The burden of need and the shame of charity increases with knowledge of the hand that extends it then relief tansforms info embarrassment.” I would knock ‘on windows, drop the packet in and ran away before anyone cou! pas 3p the packet in and y before anyone could ‘A rich businessman had opened a dispensary near our home. se iving near ie main wear woul spot rey tine] passed by and shout, “Oooh Sataaaria.” I would then be running back and forth collecting medicines and delivering them all over the village. On the way, men would catch meon the street and throw my round body ‘up in the air, women would hold me tightly in their arms, not allowin; eto escape their gi. ; ‘would roam the streets looking for handicapped and destitute per- Bee rte ames ing short cuts, [charged at full speed without any break, dodging bul- Tock carts and food stalls shouting ut © people in my way, "Move away, move away, this isan emergency.” The first few times they hur- gency, they would playfully catch me in a clutch and hold me back until was able to wriggle out and run away again. My mother’s kind heart always mace her forget that | was missing. school, she was content with the use of my tint to provide comfort to the poor. The priority she gave to social work was tobe the foundation cof my future. Apart from the work she kept me involved with I liked playing with my litte friends. We made up our own circus, changin Ehildrn one of two pases each for our performance, the poor came free and there were never any girls. I was always conscious of giving them their money's worth and towards achieving that purpose, we> walked shakily on ropes tied across parallel trees, did somersaults, fought wrestling matches and enacted comic scenes picked up from the mndrassah, the mosque or the bazaar. also loved playing gull danda in the lanes and dirt fields around Bantva. Nothing however equaled my passion for racing. Before anybody realised, I would be far ahead of the others and tum to stand proudly at the finishing line. I ran with such speed that my friends lost interest in the sport saying, “The race ends before it even begins.” Every time suggested racing they vetoed me and we compromised on another game. I hated failure and knew that success was synonymous with effort, by which rule I believed I could win. ‘Sometimes we would sneak into the gardens of rich men and pick ‘com and fruit. When we were caught the owner threatened us, “Next time you come here you'll be hung upside down in the well”, but this punishment was never implemented and so we continued having fun. My willpower was very strong during times of trouble and I would not change my course easily it was infact this attitude that established meas leader of our group. “The only times I entered into a fight was when somebody teased a mentally handicapped person. One morning on my way to the ‘madrassah 1 noticed an unfamiliar man with unkempt hair, tattered dlothes and no shoes. He was surrounded by a group of senior boys from my school, I quickly concealed myself behind the water tank and watched as they poked him with a stick. His expression revealed fear of a poisonous snake, sensing his paranoia they furthered the game. ‘One boy came inches close to his victim's face, contorted his own and growled at him like a lion, the poor man leapt back and turned, only to confront another growl. Wherever he turned for safety he was attacked with the distorted contours and frightening sounds of predators, and he ran around in circles with the frenzy of a trapped animal. ‘was both angry and sad when I walked up to one of the torturers. Tilting my head back to look up at him from my little height, Iasked him nicely to stop at once. I repeated what my mother had taught me, “This is,not the reason you are normal. If you have no good to give him, give him nothing, but do not use God's favours to you against him who has received none.” They all turned their attention to me, and my small size became pronounced and similar to their earlier vic~ tim’s handicap. I fought back with all my strength and came out of the brawl badly beaten. ‘At home my mother washed my wounds and treated my bruises ‘with more care and affection than other times. She praised me, “You gave a voice to one who does not have one. You lent him what God gave you.” She seemed to know them wel, “These people are as inno- tent as babies, they know nothing of the world where they have toi ‘as adults. Theirs is the worst plight.” So I grew up feeling deeply for those whose mental condition obliterated their very existence. My father shaved off my hair every time he returned home and the community awarded me the nickname Roti. It was in keeping with the colour of wheat and the round shape of the bread eaten by people of the subcontinent. My father was against any form of tobacco intake, and often waned me against addiction to tea and betel nut. On one of his trips he became worried about my lack of interest in academics, as ‘well as my absence from home and contemplated admitting me in a boarding school at Rajkot. I was relieved when he abandoned the idea in consideration for my mother, who had cried consistently until he changed his mind. ‘Most of my team were namazis. As soon as we heard the call for prayer Allak ho Akbar, Allah ho Akbar we dropped anything we were ‘occupied with to hastily perform our ablutions. Then from wherever ‘we were we would charge to the mosque where we congregated to tease each other and play pranks until the next call. ‘Atthe mosque we read the Quran in Arabic without translation. My father would say about the maulanas, “They want to maintain a tight grip on authority, bind the people to their superior knowledge, keep them ill informed or misinformed, so that they never gain independ- ‘ence in their faith. They frighten and confuse them, commit them to Islam but shackle them to themselves.” By the time I was eleven years old, I was regular in both my prayers and my fast. ‘My early childhood was peaceful, and without trauma; nothing unto- ward or dramatic had occurred until my eleventh year, when the school bell chimed. I was tying my books together and felt a discomfort that made me look up, it worsened when I noticed the school master staring, with sweat beads sliding down his forehead. I looked away nervously, feigning concentration on my work, unable to understand the alien &x- piession that distorted his face from somewhere within. Ifelthis fiery red yes lingering upon me—atlast [scrambled offand ranall the way home. “The episode was too vague to relate to my mother and the next morning left for the madrassah worried and confused, but nothing occurred that day nor the next. When the strange look on the schoo! masters face did not reappear I became comfortable again.a {A few weeks later, huddled together in the classroom we read aloud from a Gujrati lesson. The different tones and volumes of voices rose high to make one loud noise; above the din and through the stifling heat Theard my name, “Abdul Sattar”, and for some reason the sound froze me. I hesitated, looked up, and the master gestured for me to come to- wards him. I was frightened to do so but he was the schoo! master. How does one confront authority, challenge the superiority of a teacher or break free from the intimidation of a student? I followed him out of the class wondering. When he looked back and smiled I recognised the expression of the other day and my heart began to pound. I sensed evil, despite it I followed for a few steps, then bolted in the opposite direction. J ran, tripping, falling, then charging without stopping until finally puffing and panting, gasping for breath I reached home and flopped down on the doorstep. I pulled off my shirt and wiped the sweat from my face; when I had caught my breath and com- posed myself knocked on the door to face my mother. That children are so vulnerable to man coifused me, that it must be ‘common did not occur to me then; but I became cautious and suspi- cious of human exploitation forall times to come. Although I related the incident to no one I left the madrassah in class four. ‘At the age of eleven I took a job ina cloth market at the shop of Haji Abdullah. He paid me a salary of five rupees, out of which I hid one rupee in the utensil above the cupboard and gave the rest to my mother. Four other boys worked at the shop, and as I was happier here than at school I worked hard. ‘The seth would sit at one side of the entrance door upon a cushion behind a low table, and keep a grim watch over us. We swept the shop and did the dusting, then sat facing the seth, in a straight line at the back end, our hands folded on our laps. There was no whispering, no reading newspapers, and no gimmicks. This was the tradition of the shopkeepers, and as much as I had broken rules at school, I observed them at work. Soon I was in charge of collecting the seth’ son from school and keeping his accounts for tea. For this I received tips and saved more money. Early in my life I recognised my passion for saving and was loath to spend, Memon ladies observed strict purdah , shrouding themselves from head to foot in shuttlecock buirkas that tightly capped their heads, and allowed them to peep through two meshed holes that fell across their eyes. As only children were permitted in their presence, child employ- ment and mobile markets became lucrative business. a Fruits, vegetables, fabric, utensils and any new wares in the market ‘were sold by this method. The seth would dispatch us with seven to eight lengths of fabric tied into a bundle across each of our backs and we knocked from door to door. When somebody ushered us in, we were relieved to put down the heavy burden, and sat on the floor dis- playing Japanese poplin, Moroccan georgette and Chinese silk to en- thralled ladies, who haggled until finally an agreement was reached. We measured and cut the required meters, counted the money returned the change, tied up our wares and heaved them up upon our backs again. Then we went off to knock at another door. ‘The seth made me Amin at these times, a trustee in the presence of God. Once, some boys stole money and I promptly reported them, but ‘one of the boys accused me of being an accomplice. The seth was very angry at the accusation and firmly told the boy that he was lying, “No ‘son of Haji Shakoors can be a thief”, he said, and delegated more du- ties to me. My mother had inherited a small share in.a business concern. I would accompany her to collect the profits and she would immediately buy gold. When I read an advertisement for the sale of shares ina Bombay Mill, Irushed back home, waited for an opportunity, climbed up and brought down my savings from above my mother’s cupboard. I pur- chased three ten rupee company shares and returned to hide them in the same spot. (One afternoon my friend and I were going to a football match. Pass- ing the main bazaar we saw a man lying on a platform outside a shut- tered shop. My training told me he was not a professional beggar. He was wounded and shivered with a high fever, I told my companion, You go ahead, I'lljoin you later” returned home to my mother who gave me a mattress, a blanket, medicine, clothes and some food. Then Twent back, cleaned and bandaged his deep wound, wondered how he got injured but did not probe. Next morning I returned with his breakfast and was astonished to find that he had recovered. I took him to the mosque. He was a strange man amongst us, always staring up as if into the sky. My friend related the incident to others adding mystery to the story, “He said something to Roti that he will not tell me.” When the boys inquired I denied the report outright. He taught me how to read the Quran and explained to me the meaning of charity. He made me aware of the presence of God in humanitarianism. Unlike the people of Bantva he was broad-minded and condemned the high expenses on2 marriage, “Jahez isa self imposed burden. Itisa sign of arrogance, and ‘ostentation. No religion recommends it. In Islam the concept of jez is symbolic, what she brings is what she represents. The Prophet (PBUH) symbolised work and prayer in his daughters dowry.” He went on to say, “Muslims are short-sighted when they adopt customs like the dowry system. It will become'the future destruction of their society.” He never talked with anyone except me. His goodness was evident on his serene face. would take him bread, which he kept for many days. He would eatitat dawn and sunset with water, always forbidding me from bringing more, always fasting. So magnetic was his presence that I forgot my friends and spent most of my time at the mosque. [also forgot my mother. ‘On the twenty first day, Larrived as usual at dawn, but he was no- where to be seen. I searched the other rooms, looked outside and all around, [ knocked onall the neighbours doors to inquire after him, but nobody had a clue. I sat at the entrance of the mosque all afternoon, stopping every man who came to pray and every passer by, “Maybe you saw him somewhere else, did you perhaps, see him leave?” No- body knew. I went around the well, behind the water tank and in and ‘out of the bazaar, I searched all the fields and gardens in Bantva, right up to the main road where I stood in the center and looked as far as it ‘was visible. I talked to transporters, travellers and traders but no one knew of him, When the sun set I returned home. He was a travelling soul on a journey, [ knew [ would never see him again, his disappear ance made me melancholic for months. I lost.my first teacher. My sister Zubaida’s marriage was arranged to our maternal aunt's son when they were both in their early teens. Because my parents had an aversion toa show of wealth, my mother had said toa Memon lady who commented on my sister's meager dowry, “This does not mean swe love her less, only that we love simplicity equally. Both our loves have united in her dowry.” A simple ceremony was conducted at the ‘mosque, then registered in the community record, Around fifteen fam- ily members were accommodated in front of our house under a tent, and the bride left with her new family for Bangalore where her hus- band worked ina shop. As we quietly accepted things that had to be, nobody but my mother was sad at her leaving. eft the job when it failed to keep my interest and returned to school in the first English class. The school master had been replaced. I was still not interested in studies but was promoted with first position into second class, passing which, at the age of thirteen I finally ended my 3 formal education. Looking for some new excitement we made a programme to see a ‘cinema, it was my firs film and was called Pukaar. [bathed carefully and wore my new red shirt over white pajamas, oiled my bald head and with great anticipation accompanied my friends to Ahmadabad by bus. As none of us had been outside Bantva before, we gazed wide eyed at the unfamiliar surroundings and became subdued and intimidated. Each of us purchased a ticket, and our gang entered the dark hall where our eyes became fixed to the big screen. Without shifting our focus we settled into our seats and stared, while every few minutes rotating ceiling fans blew the smell of perspiration across the hall and into our nostrils. We were sucked out of the world. Soon I was fidget- ing in the dark, fighting for an exit from the screen. I could neither concentrate on the story nor on the actors. My friends, I noticed, re- mained lost. Atlast it was over. Outside, daylight and real life dazzled us fora whileand we remained silent as if unhinged, when the excite- ‘ment subsided my friends could not speak enough about the event. I tried to remember the film, make my own comments, relate an inci dent but was totally blank. In Bantva all my friends began to behave like the hero. A greased curl of hair appeared on their foreheads, and they buried their hands deep inside their pockets to stand in the street with theit feet wide apart, repeating dialogues they had memorised. On the other hand, the whole story jumbled up and disintegrated into incomprehensible pieces that floated uselessly in my mind, until I forgot the matter. “What will [be” was my foremost concern. It kept me from concen- trating seriously on anything else. I would escape to the bathroom to bbe by myself and day dream of the future in peace. I discovered that time spent here was more private than any other, it was in fact the only time of solitude. Although I lived very much in the present reality I had often visited a time beyond, where I roamed in similar alleys of the whole world. When I mentioned an idea that struck me at such a time, my friends laughed, “Why do you suppose they come to you there, Roti? They should come in the mosque if they are true. Perhaps Satan is misguiding you.” I would become defensive, “It is not in my control to choose where and when ideas come.” Although my plans were small they seemed too big for my size, “I'll sell pencils and matchboxes on the streets and invest the money learn in company shares.” The scheme intrigued and impressed me, “I will use half my money for the poor.” How and what would I do for themGP were questions whase answers kept changing and growing in my mind. ‘will build hospitals, make a factory to train and employ the poor, and build a village for the handicapped.” Start small, always reminded myself. It was in keeping with the respect for labour that my parents had instilled in me. My father had often said, “No labour is an insult, the lowest form is dignified and worthy of respect. Start from the lowest rung.” Think big I reminded myself. My father also used to say, “It is important to think without limitations. Confining ideas stunt potential.” Memons believed in being part of a cycle. Local farmers grew rice and wheat, Memon businessmen bought bulk from wholesale mar- kets and sold it to companies and shop: The men from Bantva soon began to face a serious problem with community jobs, if for some rea- son they were dismissed or left a company, new employers would not hire them without letter of approval. This caused delays, unemploy- ment and resentment and disgruntled men moved to new areas of work in Delhi, Calcutta and Kanpur. When they became successful and re~ turnéd to Bantva they held meetings to condemn the big businessmen for establishing a monopoly. They spoke of the way poor girls were exploited and treated con- temptuously for taking jobs to support families, whereas a rich man’s daughter was appreciated for dancing in a club and the behaviour re- ferred to as etiquette. It was my first major encounter with social injus- tice. So far whatever inequality I had witnessed was accepted with relative ease, and as the will of God. These men raised issues that pointed towards other reasons.... human reasons. Something stirred ‘within me and 1 began to read the Gujrati newspapers where various articles caught my attention. [At the age of thirteen, the Muslim Gujarat Gazette, Bombay ‘Samachar and a magazine called Sandes introduced me to the ideas of Marx and Lenin. I became aware of the anger against colonialism and Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s mission to establish a Muslim homeland. I discovered Abuzar Ghaffari, Prophet Muhammad's (PBUH) progres- sive companion, who condemned the changing trends of Muslim rul- ers towards war booty, and rebelled against the amassing of wealth. I ‘was fascinated by his visionary demand for social reforms. T searched the library for literature on world leaders and read the tragedy of Karbala, the history of Prophet Muhammad's (PBUH) com- panions, as well as Lenin's implementation of Marxist philosophy. I detected strong similarities inthe rebellions of all reformers, they were 3 addressing the same iasues: I sent for my Bret book on Kar! Matx from ‘Ahmedabad, and when it arrived [read it excitedly. l was very touched by Gorky’s book, Mother. As] could only read Gujrati, my exposure was limited. Even in my ‘own language I had to read a paragraph three or four times before I could comprehend it; but I needed only a little information. Once I ‘understood the reason for reactions I reflected on the various methods by which the ideal could be achieved. Although the theory was cor- rect, I repeatedly questioned, “What are the pitfalls? The vision is true, self-reliance necessary, national and public spirit essential, inequality and poverty unjust and oppression unacceptable, but where is the grey area? What will they overlook, when will they realize a fault, oris there no fault?” These thoughts took long hours of lying on the bench out- side my hothe, gazing at the sky or else locked in the toilet, performing ablutions, bathing... delaying. T became passionate about revolution and was anxious to learn its lessons. Gandhi's decision to remain in Calcutta until the Hindu- Mus- lim riots ceased, impressed me. Ghaffar Khan’s Khudai Khidmatgar Party touched me by its very name. The Khaksaar Party moved me by its mission to solve people's problems by travelling from village to village and door to door. Although some of these parties were not main players, I was not interested in success. I recognised a word o act of truth and that be- came ingrained in my mind. It occurred to me then that my thinking ‘was developing by examples of the smallest actions... they captured my attention. I avoided delving deeply into any subject, and under- stood that I was looking only for symbolic reference, for which Icon- centrated on basic information about the lives, personalities and thoughts of extraordinary men. I had no interest of indepth studies and details. The nature of peoples lives, their circumstances and ad- versities accentuated their intentions; that Marx had no medicine or coffin to bury his son, revealed important dimensions of his minds development to me. My understanding of Marx led me to believe that Yazid, the villain of Karballa, was a class enemy. I began to dislike the big sarmayadars, and in an attempt to clear contradictions I searched for more stories about wars and revolutionary personalities, these fur- ther stirred rebellion in my spirit The tragedy of Karballa was an injustice underplayed by Muslim rulers for nearly seven hundred years. My father said, “The children of the Shia sect are made to pursue knowledge from the early age of sixoS or seven. They are encouraged not to remain silent at the misdeeds of the executive, and fear nothing except God so that they can stand up at all costs against injustice.” He also told me, “Although we do not deny the tragedy of Karballa, some groups avoid reality and do not want to recall it; Much of the present Muslim trends of laziness, passivity against injustice, lack of passion and honour are due to this escapism.” His words became implanted in a fertile mind, “Althoug, . the Memon were from the Sunni sect and I knew no fol- lowers of the Shia sect, I staunchly upheld the memory of the martyrs ‘on the tenth day of Muharram. I would sit at the mosque listening to ‘Imaris relating the heart wrenching story and cry bitterly. Surprisingly at other similar occasions I would fall asleep, or else, just as happened at the cinema, register and recall nothing. As my interest in informa- tion was high I wondered why this was so and concluded that I had my grandfather's tendency to reject superfluous and surplus matter ‘My father was a liberal progressive and had a philosophical mind, he was not passionate about religion, nor did he pay, any attention to rituals. Although he had performed Hujj he preferred to concentrate ‘on purity of thought and an exemplary code of conduct. Between asr and maghrib prayers around fifty men would collect in a clearing to Tisten to the tales of those who had returned from travel; they discussed political problems of the subcontinent, stories of the world and new business propositions. When they talked of religion my father would want to change the subject, “Why do you confuse people with what you cannot understand yourself?” On our way back home he would fell me not to listen to too many words, “The strength of words lies in implementation, otherwise they are meaningless.” He himself was a man of very few words, but whatever he said was enough to make an impact on me. He explained why, “Too many dialogues scatter and ‘waste, say alittle so that your words are remembered.” My mother was also not religious in the ritualistic sense. She had re- ceived no formal education, and did not know how to say the namzz, enacting the entire exercise simply by reciting Bismillah Hir Rehman, Hir Rahim. At other times she would recite Allak Hu on her prayer beads, then affectionately blow her breath on me, whispering in my ear, “Do ‘you know that I always pray the most for you?” She would tell me not to doubtGod’s understanding of His people, “Empty words and long praises do not impress Him. Show Him your faith by deeds, otherwise why should He believe you?” To my parents a clean and peaceful environ- ‘ment was the basis of Islam, neither of them was interested in its detail Although we were not poor, people thought we were. My mother asked her sisters to send their children’s old clothes for us, saying, “As they grow out of them, they need them onty temporarily.” With years of labour and effort many people had become prosper- ous and living standards had by and large improved, but big houses and expensive furniture failed to influence or attract my parents to- wards adopting the trend. In fact, we were neither aware of discomfort nor dishonour in simple living and had very few possessions. My fa- ther insisted, “Simplicity is the only beneficial way of life.” As it was by choice, there was no conflict. Memon women were meticulous and especially particular about clean floors. My mother would sweep and polish ours daily, so that it was always shining, but then we lived on the floor, slept, sat and ate on it. My own interest in clothes was relatively more than theirs, l loved wearing a coloured shirt over my straight pyjamas and my mother would stitch me a green or blue or red one, knowing them to be my favorite colours. I cared for them possessively. ‘As my friends preferred the fashionable haircuts that had become popular through colonial influence, they wondered why I shaved my head. My father, while lathering it had told me: “This is the most effec- tive way to curb vanity and conceit. It compels you to concentrate on substance, Appearance is a distraction, surrendering it develops hu- mility and truth in abundance.” My friends would laugh at me for this as well as for my big plans. They began to call me, Shaikh Chilli, leg endary character with big dreams and no action. They joked, “When all the matterin your head dries up it will shrivel lke stale bread. Think alittle, about a little. It is better for your future.” I was never discour- aged and smiled back at them, “I can begin small, but why should 1 think small.” Untoward incidents were rare in Bantva. When a big Memon busi- rnessman was attacked by professional dacoits, he defended his family with a butcher's knife until they eventually fled. The story impressed me, I respected his will power against heavy odds. The background of the dacoits also fascinated me. They were allegedly followers of the revered sufi saint Pir Dastagir and spent a portion from their loot to- wards a feast for the poor, in the name of God and their saint. My father pointed out the flaw in this form of worship, “Watch the way men delude themselves about God. To feel at peace with their sins, they make Him a shareholder in their misdeeds.” Increasingly I real- ised the lack of religious understanding and a misrepresentation ofoe Allah’s message. ‘Atthe age of fourteen I felt an unusual tug in my heart for a girl. 1 was too shy to think of it as love, but knew that my feelings were not brotherly. She lived in the room above ours and at dawn she would slide down witha pitcher clutched upon her small waist. While | would be performing ablutions for morning prayers, she would fill water from the tap. ‘Once when she caught my eye fall on her, she looked up and smiled. Blushing, I shied away to hide behind a bush from where I watched her turn around and walk away, her long braid swinging sideways down her back. Sometimes I took the chance to wait, in case she made ‘an extra trip, but that never happened and I had to make do with the ‘early morning sighting. This activity abruptly ended when I heard she ‘was engaged to be married. It was normal for boys to marry early, I 'was however in no position to propose, the heart break was short-lived. Lying on a ledge, looking at the sky, wondering at the world and why I was in it, I would think, “Why have I been sent here? To do what?” My mother would come to the doorway and scold me for be- ing awake so late, “What do you think about all night?” I had nothing to tell her. Disjointed matters shuffled and reshuffled in my head. Like my father she was also progressive and liberal, she believed in ‘encouraging children towards achieving their natural potential. As 1 never indulged in behaviour offensive to her principles and beliefs, she did not worry about my direction. Her trust in my intentions was based on the powerful influence she continued to hold over my inter- ests, and her only concern wais my lack of sleep. ‘Sometimes my friends had discussions that could never conclude, ‘but broke with daylight. They talked of revolution and Islamic history, and although I identified with these topics, | was neither drawn into participating in the debate, nor did I contribute or listen much. Again a protective blanket seemed to keep surplus matter at bay. (Other than read about revolutionary personalities | was fascinated by travelogues and scanned Gujrati papers for tourist information and observations on foreign lands. Much exasperation was expressed when 1 spoke of my desire to travel the world on foot and see the way other people lived. I continued wanting to make money for hospitals and industries. When my friends mocked my day dreams, saying, “Can't you change your plans, are you not tired of them, have you not learnt something new? Something bigger?” I would reply irritably, “Why should I forsake the previous ones when they have not been achieved?” ® Bantva was often flooded by heavy rains. Although the town stood on high ground and evaded damage by virtue of that blessing, the ‘dwellers of mud huts constructed in low ravines and embankments suffered heavy losses and faced severe hardship. | always felt their suffering deeply. When an entire marriage party died ina bus accident had my first experience with corpses and subsequently their funer- als. | satat the site of the accident fora long time, looking at the smashed up bus, feeling a deep regret at the futile loss of life. After this incident whenever I saw a funeral procession, I would be overcome with sad- ness, How did he die? Why did he die? What will happen to him in the grave? Were questions that would come and go in rushes with no ad- equate answers. ‘The British were pulling out and the subcontinent was being di- vided, a Muslim homeland was being created. Muhammad Ali Jinnah had addressed a large rally in Bantva, at which we raised loud and passionate slogans in his favour, collected a party fund of thirty five thousand rupees, and most of us became four anna members of the Muslim League. Jinnah said in his speech that our decision to stay would be benefi- cial for India and disastrous for Pakistan, which would lose the Memon ‘commercial expertise. Yusaf Haroon, a Katchi Memon had also ad- dressed large rallies in different towns of Kathiawar to convince the Memons to opt for Pakistan. Much as we agreed with Jinnah’s vision, had it not been for the fear of Hindu vendetta the twenty five to thirty thousand Memons of Bantva might not have considered migration. Soon after, Bantva was attacked by Hindus at the initiation ofa Hindu politician called Vallabhai Patel. By scaring us out of India, he aimed at ‘ending the trading monopoly of our prosperous business community. ‘A few other violent incidents followed, and the strategy had its de- sired affect in disturbing the peace loving Memons. After witnessing the first Hindu-Muslim disturbances, my father initiated the migration process. He would keep repeating, "We must move to Pakistan. In India we shall not be free men after its forma tion.” He would tell whoever he met thereafter, "We will have an op- portunity to live peaceful lives, and will be ruled by the justice of Is- lamic laws.” People easily became convinced of a better future. Despite the general aversion to British rule, and the fact that they had created institutions for their personal benefits, my father believed: “They gave the subcontinent an effective and efficient administrative system." Although they exploited our economy to its maximum, useda <> our own disunity, ethnicity, and religious rigidity to control our des- tiny, | never blamed them either. In fact, I could not concede to blam- ing them over ourselves. argued with my friends, “Muslim rulers never looked towards grass root reforms. Mostly, they concentrated on building grand tombs and mausoleums for dead kings, so that their descendants would build theirs. They built large mosques and paid exorbitant sums of money to historians to write their eulogies, which became useless and distorted versions of history, with no benefit to the nation or its people.” They would not agree and I would say, “God bestows crowns on the heads of men so that they can use their maximum ability for their nations, and return the favour. Did they pay any price for theirs?” I conceded, “Apart from Sher Shah Suri, who built the Grand Trunk Road and spoke of social welfare, others did nothing substantial towards uplift.” To me imperialism existed from the advent of man. I would ask my friends, “Were they not all imperialists?” ‘As we perceived Islam as.a humanitarian religion, my parents and I were extremely disturbed by the stories we heard at the time of Parti- tion. Although they were mostly confined to the Punjab. at the Lahore and Rajesthan borders, or at Amritsar, and not many incidents of vio- lence were reported in Sindh, the massacres and killings of people who had long lived together upset us deeply. (On the aixth day of September in the year 1947 we waited for the train to take us to the camp at Occha Port. My sisters husband was delayed in Bangalore and so she accompanied us. The Indian govern- ‘ment having realised the impending loss of our business acumen, del- gated the Assistant Commissioner to persuade us to stay, and at the Railway Station he tried to dissuade us from leaving India. But my father was adamant and advised everybody to remain committed to Pakistan. Four thousand Memons embarked on the train to Ocha, where we camped for five days, eating only lentils and bread before boarding the boat to Kerachi. It took two days at sea, and we suffered no incon- venience; when the boat anchored at Karachi’s port a heavy smell of fish hit us. My mother clutched Aziz by the arm while I gripped my sister’s hand tightly, fearful of the uncertainty but anticipating excite- ment. The only loss I felt was for my wasted company shares lying Uselessly in the ut -nsil we had abandoned on the shelf in Bantva. ‘CHAPTER THREE: Pakistan had a fresh ambiance. Centuries old landscapes and de- crepit buildings, seemed to rejuvenate. There was hope in the new and separate identity of the nation state. Hope that accompanies all beginnings, but illusions and dreams dissipated when the bus we were on halted with a jolt The dilapidated building we occupied in Malir on the outskirts of Karachi, was allocated to Memon immigrants by an agreement be- tween community elders and the Pakistan Government. It was adja- cent toa newly constructed Hindu temple, standing desolate and for- Jorn in the midst of congestion. The comparison between this and Bantva was such, that even I, who never looked for beautiful surround- ings was disturbed. Memories of open spaces ard fresh air made me homesick. The building soon had every ingredient of a refugee camp. Tin trunks of different sizes, decorated with fading hand painted motifs; big bundles containing clothes, utensils and other belongings tied in wide sheets, held together by tight knots. Tiffin carriers, holdalls, squealing and wailing children, confused and uprooted women and anxious men crowded the corridors. My own parents quietly settled (0 the small room we were provided, where my mother, in accord- ance with her belief that lighting a kitchen fire was life generating, immediately organised the cooking area. ‘Simultaneously an urgent race for free property commenced. Hin- das had fled to India abandoning their properties and immigrants greedily clamoured and trampled over one another to take posses- sion of the evacuee property. My father disapproved this manner of illegal possession. He would not concede to his friend’s suggestions, that he acquire anything by this mettiod and said firmly, “We should labour and struggle towards building a spirit of nationalism or have we come here as dacoits?” He was already feeling disappointed, and the selfish attitude of people made him say, “What a mess.” a