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Wednesday, November 7, 2007

A Pakistani-American in India


The call came a few months earlier. Cousin “N” was going to be married in late November and the wedding was going to be in Aligarh. The year was 2004 and as one who had not visited the region for over 15 years, and had been contemplating taking the plunge back into memory lane, this seemed like a great opportunity.
The stars that make up life, career and family appeared to be somewhat aligned. Along with that, several troublesome identity questions had also begun to appear, like those faced by many an immigrant who comes close to the age of 50. International events certainly added to this quest. And last but not least my mother was very happy about the prospect of my going with her. So the forms were downloaded from the Indian Embassy website, and it was time to test the waters.

Now is a good time to elaborate since the introductory paragraph above this trip will illicit nothing more than a shrug from any Indian reader. So what? What I have failed to mention was that I had lived in the United States for over 30 years then, and as a person from Pakistan, who had not visited India in over 40 years, the visit would be an attempt to revisit many childhood memories. This was my late midlife “Roots Tour” as one friend so accurately put it. It had been so long since I had been in India that the prospect of going there now even seemed scary. Cousin “N” was not even born when I visited our ancestral town there last. Many immediate relatives of my parent’s generation were no longer with us, and my mother was my last connection to the remainder. And since my father had passed away long ago, the thought of visiting one of his most cherished places on earth made my decision a little easier. All my life with him in Pakistan and what is now Bangladesh, I had interacted with people who were often called “Partner.” And their sense of identity was tied to one unique place in India called Aligarh Muslim University (AMU).

But as is often the case there is always more. The Partition of India in 1947 was not only a political event. It was a division of culture, family and memories as well. And a question can be asked: Can memories really ever be divided? Or are they really only be passed on? In either case the answers may appear to be simple, but they are not as I was about to find out.

The plane landed in Delhi from Taipei in the darkness as it was around 4:00AM. And by 5:30 in the morning I was in Okhla, a Delhi outgrowth which includes my uncle “S” amongst its founders. And as I walked out of house of my hosts (after contemplating long on how to use an Indian toilet) the sheer shock of being in another world hit my senses. It was both strangely alien and familiar. The narrow streets, the closely built houses and most of all the architecture and window designs were something that I had seen before. For someone who had grown up near the “Delhi Colony” or the area around “Riaz Masjid” in Karachi, Okhla was a certainly a reminder of where some of my neighbors had come from. The connection was there even for Karachi’s Nazimabad area. Strange as it may seem, as I carefully looked around for an Internet Café to email my wife in California, Okhla appeared to be a reminder of where I grew up. And there was more.

From the very beginning of my various encounters with numerous relatives, I got the distinct impression of how much they cared, and that made me almost feel guilty. In Delhi it seemed that my mother had immediately found a caring comfort zone within all of these people who were complete strangers for me. But the love and respect they showed towards her (their Apa/Phuppo/Chachi) moved me greatly. We all live in relative comfort here in America, but the affection, charm and cultural richness that I found amidst these new surroundings was something truly wonderful to experience. And the fact that people there try and feed you ten meals a day can become trying (and here let me leave the subject of the Indian toilet because sooner or later you are bound to use one).

I got a chance to rest for a while and let “Dilli” take over my senses. This was no longer my country (Pakistanis are a separate line item for the Government here and if you have ever been one you cannot own property in India even though you are an American now) but if this was not home, the sights, the sounds and even the aromas were very familiar.

Our caravan took off for Aligarh for the wedding festivities and I was with several people who were still strangers who called me either by my old nickname (almost everyone there had one here) or “Bhai”(Brother). They must have been puzzled by my blank reaction to all of this and things got even more surprising for them as the journey got under way. We passed through NOIDA which is certainly a picture of the new and future India, leaving me quite impressed. But what I loved more was the journey beyond. On the way to Aligarh the countryside was both colorful and beautiful. And my only request along the way (because I already carried Chota Bisleri bottled water) was for “Amrud” (Guavas), sold on carts on the roadside. The other high point of the trip was a two Rupee Roti I had with my Chai at a small eatery in Bulandshehar. Now my relatives were either really appreciative or amazed, I do not know which, yet some of them certainly must have been thinking that I was a bit touched in the head. But that was one of the best tasting Rotis and tea that I had had in a long time. It almost made up for my fear of the traffic on the road and the thought that I would not make it to our destination alive.

It was dark by the time we arrived in Aligarh as I tried to absorb the fact that we had just passed the walls and one of the gates of the AMU campus. And within a few more minutes, in Doodhpur when I viewed for the first time the distantly familiar faces of my cousins, whom I had never seen before that day; it was indeed a moving sight. Cousin N was getting ready for her wedding as everyone present at the festive house looked at me with equal wonderment. That was the day that I discovered that memories cannot be divided. It also brought me back to AMU.

It was the early 1940’s. A group of young men had just made history by being amongst the first few Engineers to graduate from Aligarh Muslim University, a real feather in the cap of not only their families but the institution that a visionary named Sir Syed Ahmad Khan founded. This feat gave them an opportunity to acquire much needed technical skills. One from this group was near and dear to me. He was my late father. And now, over 60 years later, in November and December 2004, my mother and I visited his cherished AMU ourselves for the first time in search of his long faded footsteps. It also brought back many memories.

Sir Syed stressed the need for a “Modern English Education” because people could not survive on grand memories and the Urdu language alone. Urdu poetry is beautiful and its verses will continue to reflect the spirit of our people and express the sentiments of a unique culture. But even poets need to earn a living and have to acquire other marketable skills. Our family feels to this day feels that it was Aligarh that made the difference for us and that whatever we can do to appreciate the impact of AMU and Sir Syed’s vision in our lives (through my father) is not enough.

We tapped on the resources of many memories to try and locate where my father lived while he was in Aligarh. Memories become weak over the years but the final verdict was that it was at Mumtaz House at AMU. And it was to Mumtaz House towards which we walked. I just regret that we did not know which room he lived in there or else we would have knocked on that door too. My father loved this place. It was a part of him and he carried AMU with him wherever he went. The liberal modernist streak in religion in my father was of Aligarh origin. And for that one educator who founded this campus was responsible.

My mother and I walked slowly through the AMU campus. We started off at Strachey Hall and went on to the main university Mosque. In its main compound we were directed to the area where Sir Syed Ahmad Khan and his grandson Sir Ross Masood are buried along with other dignitaries. Under the grass topped grave before us were the remains of a great man. He was neither a politician nor a military figure. He conquered minds instead of land and reached into the heart and soul of a dejected community to offer it hope. He offered his people the wealth of education and for that millions today are grateful. And as we stood in front of his grave, the idea was not far from my mind as to where we would be today without his immense contribution to our lives?

I finally visited my ancestral town in UP and father’s house (thankfully still standing) a week later and slept in the same spot that Jawaharlal Nehru once sat (my grand uncle was a leading Congress Party leader). Cousin T now lives in a part of that house with her family. Her hospitality was truly amazing. Another plus was the visit to my Grandfather’s mango orchards (too bad that I was there in winter).

Due to length constraints (I could go on and on) let me conclude here by mentioning that when this middle aged Pakistani-American walked down a road in India named after his Great Grandfather, several thoughts came to mind. Today as the 60th anniversary of the independence of India and Pakistan approaches, I wish that many more Indians and Pakistanis will get the opportunity to go to each other’s countries and revisit their fading ancestral memories and connections. And most of all, our collective wish should be for a lasting peace between the two homelands, so that they do not spend the next 60 years foolishly.

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