Beyond The Lines: An Autobiography

Nayar

• Publisher: Roli Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9788174368218
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Journalist Biographies

A veteran journalist and former member of Parliament, Kuldip Nayar is India's most well known and widely syndicated journalist. He was born in Sialkot in 1923 and educated at Lahore University before migrating to Delhi with his family at the time of Partition. He began his career in the Urdu newspaper Anjam and after a spell in the USA worked as information officer of Lal Bahadur Shastri and Govind Ballabh Pant. He eventually became Resident Editor of the Statesman and managing editor of the Indian news agency UNI. He corresponded for the Times for twenty-five years and later served as Indian high commissioner to the UK during the V.P. Singh government. His stand for press freedom during the Emergency, when he was detained; his commitment to better relations between India and Pakistan, and his role as a human rights activist have won him respect and affection in both countries. Author of more than a dozen books, his weekly columns are read across South Asia.

1

Childhood and Partition

Every new beginning in life is unique and my example is worth recalling because it was unplanned; I stumbled into journalism by accident. My chosen profession was law, in which I had a degree from Lahore, but history intervened and before I could enroll myself as a lawyer in my hometown, Sialkot, India was divided. Making my way to Delhi, I found a job in an Urdu daily, Anjam (meaning end). That is why I always say that I entered the profession of journalism from the end, not the beginning: Mere sahafat ka agaz Anjam se hua.

Were the Almighty to take me back to 15 August 1947, the day of India’s Partition, and ask me what I would like to be, a journalist or a lawyer, I would choose the former. That is not because I have done well in this profession but because it has given me an opportunity to write what I have considered to be correct, notwithstanding multiple pressures. Ironically, I failed to pass a journalism diploma course in Lahore, and also the optional paper in Urdu for the bachelor of arts degree.

After Partition, we were among the very few Hindu families who did not want to migrate to India. We mistakenly thought that as large numbers of Muslims would continue to live in India, the same would be true of Hindus in Pakistan. Our resolve was strengthened when a few days prior to Partition, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, founder of Pakistan, categorically pronounced that people were free to go to their mosques or temples and practise their faith because the state would never mix religion with politics. He reinterpreted his thesis of two nations, Muslims and Hindus, to mean Pakistanis and Indians.

Jinnah’s encouraging statement apart, there was his gesture to select a Hindu poet, Jagan Nath Azad, to compose the national anthem of Pakistan. The anthem was changed after Jinnah’s death for communal considerations: a Hindu writing the national anthem of a Muslim state appeared unthinkable.

Moreover, our family’s lifestyle was also so comfortable that we did not wish to uproot ourselves. We had substantial property and my father was a leading medical practitioner in Sialkot. How could he, then past sixty, begin his practice afresh in a new city? He had already spent most of his savings a few months prior to Independence building a new house, a new dispensary, and an array of shops.

I have fond memories of my home, at Trunk Bazaar, a two-storey house with a garden at the back where there was an old grave which my mother said was the kabar of some pir (saint). The grave was like a family shrine where we prayed in our own way and sought refuge from the outside world. It was here that we lit a lamp every Thursday and made an offering of sweets which we, the children, subsequently distributed amongst ourselves. A few years before Partition, some Muslims demanded a passage to the grave on the plea that they should have free access to their religious site. We had to yield to the demand but the passage, which cut through our property, was rarely used.

Ours was a joint family, with my grandmother as the effective head. My grandfather was alive but he took a back seat. Grandmother was a great one for astrology. She had horoscopes of every child prepared by a leading pandit, forecasting the future. I recall one occasion when the pandit dropped in at the house. A visit from him was always eagerly awaited because he would also read our palms. He said that I would read the malechh vidya (a language of foreigners), thereby meaning English. He also predicted that I would travel a lot by udhan khatola (plane). When my youngest brother Sindhu showed his hand, he was dismissed in a second with the remark that the lines on his hand had not properly developed. This was perhaps his way of saying that Sindhu would not live long.

When my grandmother died, I rode a horse alongside the cortege of family and friends who carried the coffin to the cremation ground. Women, some of them hired, rhythmically beat their breasts. Brahmins were fed one day and the poor of the locality on another. My grandmother apparently evoked a great measure of respect because scores of people were gathered at the cremation ground. I remember I went to Haridwar with the family to immerse her ashes in the Ganga. I do not recall crying because the whole ceremony of her death wore an aura of festivity. This was the custom among Hindus when a woman died at a ripe old age.

My immediate family comprised my father, mother, and four brothers – Rajinder, Hardip, Surinder, and a sister, Raj, who lived in Jamshedpur at the time of Partition. Sindhu had died of cholera a few months earlier. I can never forget his last moments: he passed away with his head resting on my lap. He called me bhapa (elder brother), and when his moment came, he asked me to hold him tight so as to prevent anyone from taking him away. I held him tight, but I could feel his body going limp. His last words were, ‘Bhapa leave me, I can see the light. I am going there,’ and then he was gone. His loss left me distraught for a long time.

His parting words often make me wonder whether there is indeed a higher power controlling the universe. The light, to which Sindhu referred, represents a power which eventually leads us in our journey from life to death. Why, how, and when, I cannot say, but notwithstanding my leftist leanings I have come to believe that there is power beyond: be it god or any other name you may choose to give it. I have oscillated between faith and doubt for many years but have come to accept that there is a force which I feel within but which I cannot explain. I am neither an atheist nor an agnostic; I am a believer, but notwithstanding this I have failed to curb my doubts and misgivings, and prayer has not helped either.

I envy those who have an implicit faith in god. They do not have to seek explanations because they don’t need any. I am convinced that there is something called destiny which makes you choose a particular path from the many before you. In my own life, I have preferred one option over another without really knowing why, and that has made all the difference. I studied law but settled on journalism. I tried to join the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) but failed to make it. Had I been successful I would have retired 25 years ago, but this is destiny. Perhaps my faith springs from something I read years ago inscribed on a tablet on a restaurant wall near Jama Masjid in Delhi: Waqt se pehley nahin, Mukaddar se ziada nahin [Not before your time, nor more than your destiny].

My wife, Bharti, is quite the opposite. She has implicit faith in god and is a practising Hindu who goes to the temple every day and fasts on the days enjoined by her religion. She organizes havans for her children and grandchildren on their birthdays and has dragged me along to many pilgrimages, from Amarnath in the north to Rameshwaram in the south.

I have, however, always believed in the pir buried in the back garden of our house in Sialkot. I respect him as a family elder or patron, protecting us all from any unpleasant events. Even when I left Murray College at Sialkot to join Forman Christian College in Lahore (Government College refused me admission), I carried with me the blessings of the pir, my unseen guardian. I feel he represents something spiritual; something akin to bhakti or sufism. Did this dependence make me a coward? Anyone could bully me. I accepted beatings in the brawls in which I was unwillingly involved. A physically strong person always impressed me. Aptly, my mother had nicknamed me Bhola (innocent).

Over the years, I developed a taste for classical music, both Indian and Western. My wife helped me appreciate the nuances of Indian classical music, particularly the ragas. I have, however, been unable to assimilate or appreciate even the rudiments of the other fields of art. I have no skill whatsoever in assessing a drawing or a painting.

I once had a humbling experience when I tried to buy some paintings. Many years ago, near Charminar in Hyderabad there were some shops offering a variety of small paintings. Pretending to be an expert, I went to a shop and selected twelve from which I thought I would shortlist three. The shopkeeper, a venerable old man, watched me intently and after some time he stopped my selection. He curtly told me that I did not understand the paintings and those I had selected had little merit.

Hurt but dumbfounded I looked at him. He took back all the paintings I had put aside and reached for a small one on the shelf I had scanned. ‘Take this,’ he said, handing over the painting. ‘This is a present from me on the promise that you will never buy a painting on your own.’ I have kept that promise and the painting I was gifted has been praised by many, and adorns one of the walls of my sitting room.

Much later in life once M.F. Hussain came to my house in New Delhi. He was transporting canvases on a bicycle while walking alongside it. He requested me to buy at least one painting and the price he sought, if I recall correctly, was Rs 100 or so. I refused because I could not afford it then, and in any event I remembered the advice of the Hyderabad shopkeeper that I should not buy any painting on my own.

My mother, Puran Devi, was very particular about customs. She really believed that antiquity gave them credibility. She burnt her spinning wheel when my first son Sudhir, her grandson, was born. The custom had it that a grandmother would be so occupied by her grandson that she would not have time to sit at the spinning wheel.

A practising Sikh, my mother regularly attended the gurdwara regularly. Marriages between Hindus and Sikhs were common in those days. She would read us the Guru Granth Sahib every Sankrant (the first month of the Indian calendar) and give us halwa prepared at home. My father had ‘Singh’ affixed after Gurbaksh, his first name. However, unlike the Sikhs, neither he nor my grandfather had long hair. It would be fair to say that we blended the traditions of Sikhism and Hinduism.

The first name of my brothers, like mine, was chosen by a granthi (preacher) from the Granth Sahib, the holy book of Sikhs. There was no such custom for girls. My sister got her name from my grandmother. My name at birth was Kuldip Singh but I dropped the ‘Singh’ after Partition, not wishing people to think I was a Sikh when I wasn’t one. I also saw no validity in claiming to be a Sehajdhari (a term used for people who have cut hair or shaven beard but believe in the Sikh Gurus and Guru Granth Sahib).

In keeping with the intermingling of the two faiths in our daily lives, we celebrated both Hindu and Sikh festivals. Diwali was the biggest celebration in our house, and then my parents would insist that we wore new clothes. There was always a Lakshmi puja which my mother performed and subsequently the tradition was followed by my wife. Once, a Muslim couple, family friends of ours, dropped in while we were performing the ritual Lakshmi puja. My mother abruptly stopped the puja, and requested them to join in. They did, in the sense that they sat quietly on the floor and watched the proceedings.

The idol of Lakshmi (goddess of wealth) was placed on a pedestal and everyone bowed before it. My mother asked them to do the same. They just smiled and kept a distance. She did not realize even later that for a Muslim to bow before Lakshmi was tantamount to idol worship, which is prohibited in Islam. Our Muslim friends were, however, well aware that my mother didn’t mean to hurt their feelings. She was just ignorant of their religious practices. This was true of most Hindu and Sikh families who lived in the midst of a Muslim majority in Sialkot. All that they knew was that Muslims ate halal meat, unlike Sikhs who relished jhatka, but we respected communal sensitivities.

My mother was a liberal and bore no prejudice against Muslims. She would say that they were just like us. She however practiced discrimination without even realizing that she was doing so when it came to the untouchables. She would not allow the girl who swept the floor at home to enter her kitchen. Once when she did by mistake, I heard my mother shouting at her endlessly while washing the kitchen floor with buckets of water, which ironically were brought by the same girl from a nearby well.

I would watch the girl intently. Wearing a thin white dhoti, she showed her shapely legs and a swash of thick hair between. I was twelve or thirteen then, and felt an indescribable surge of desire whenever I saw her nakedness. I did not go near her, not because she was a dalit, the preferred term today, but because of fear of what the family might think. I was just scared.

The untouchable girl, however, made me conscious of the caste system in Hinduism. Even in my school, some boys sat on the bare floor while we had the benefit of jute mats. Once I startled my teacher when I asked him why everyone couldn’t have a jute mat. He gave me the stock reply that they did not pay the full fee. However, when he saw that I was not convinced, he said it was because they were untouchables. I found it revolting but did not raise my voice. Upper castes remained upper and lower castes lower. This had been accepted for centuries and even those who felt repulsed did not challenge the practice. I did however wonder how long this order would survive.

My mother gave me an explanation of sorts: The untouchables were those who had committed ‘sins’ in their previous life and were paying for them in this birth. I did not accept the rationale then and I continue to be confused about the philosophy of inflicting punishment now for deeds committed in another life. The philosophy of karma, as preached by the Gita, is what the Hindu philosophy is about. It made me somewhat smug but not accepting of injustice or inequity.

Despite the somewhat tense atmosphere in Sialkot, we led a normal life until the announcement of Partition on 12 August 1947 which changed everything. I was twenty-four year old. It was like a spark thrown at the haystack of distrust. The subcontinent burst into communal flames. The north was the worst affected and to some extent Bengal. Pent-up feelings among both Hindus and Muslims, stirred by the communal propaganda disseminated over several years, gave vent to widespread anger. This was aggravated by the fact that the administrators were divided along religious lines.

Trouble began almost simultaneously on both sides of the new border on 13 August. Lahore and Amritsar got engulfed after the killing of Sikhs at Rawalpindi and of Muslims in the Sikh-ruled states in East Punjab. Soon it became a bloodbath, with furious mobs roaming the bazars with weapons. People went on a rampage of killing, looting, and kidnapping, especially of women and children, and setting homes ablaze. Even the sky of the relatively quiet Sialkot was radiant. We helplessly watched the fires in the distance. My mother tiptoed to me and whispered in my ear: these are only lights; today is your birthday (14 August).

Initially, we had taken shelter with the jailor, Arjun Das, who later supervised the hanging of Mahatma Gandhi’s assassin, Nathu Ram Godse, at Ambala Cantonment.

I did not witness India becoming an independent state on the night of 14–15 August because I was with my family in Sialkot. Radio Pakistan played nationalist songs which were Islamic in tone. I switched over to All India Radio and heard the replayed version of Nehru’s speech. His words still resound in my ears: ‘Long years ago, we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially….’

Our family decided to visit India for some time till the communal frenzy subsided. Even for one-bag travel I had to return to the house to bring my clothes. My brothers and parents too needed some things. My mother and I hired a tonga at Sialkot cantonment, a comparatively safe place where we had taken shelter, after moving from Arjun Das’s residence, at a bungalow owned by Ghulam Qadir, a multi-store owner and a friend of my father.

My mother and I did not know the tongawalla, who was a Muslim. It was a distance of some 10 km from the cantonment but not even once did it occur to anyone that someone could attack us on the way at a time when people were baying for each other’s blood.

When we had hurriedly left home on 14 August, my mother had carried with her a precious shahtoosh shawl. She carefully folded it and put it back in her trunk, taking with her an ordinary Kulu shawl. She said she did not want to spoil her good shawl by taking it to India. I had taken with me the hardback edition of Jean Christopher by Romaine Rolland. I put it back on the shelf and picked up a paperback which I thought I could afford to throw away in India before returning home. My mother packed three suitcases, one for me, the other for my two brothers, and the third for my father and herself.

My mother and I sat for some time at the dining table. We were sad, probably struggling to avoid the thought that we might never return, not to mention the feeling that we would have to start our lives afresh in India. Neither of us realized that it would be our last visit to our home.

I wish I had words to describe the poignancy of those moments. How can I express the thought of leaving everything behind? It was akin to being crushed in the embers of memor...