THE PLIGHT OF REFUGEES

Rajendra Aneja narrates ordeals of Hari Chand and Prakash on their first night in India

The night was black. A few scattered kerosene lanterns and street lights cast flickering shadows of the huddled people and the tree branches, on the streets. The only sounds were the sobs of the refugees, trying to catch some information about their loved ones. Who had made it across the border? Who were yet left behind? Who was slaughtered trying to come to new India? It was a macabre, rotten night.

Hari Chand lay on his back, staring at the sky. His wife, Prakash, a young girl of 20, lay beside him. He could hear her muffled weeping, tears rolling down her cheeks. How many times, had he comforted her, to no avail. Just a few days ago, they lay in their comfortable beds, in their family home in Tandlianwala. They were safe and secure. Now, they were lying on a street in Amritsar in India, on the bare ground, with two bricks as pillows. He was also worried about the safety of his siblings, who had made it across the border. They too, were struggling to snatch some sleep, in the street. 

A person grieves when you lose something very cherished. You cry. You sob. You howl. How do you grieve, when you lose everything in your life? Then, you are simply numbed. Hari Chand’s parents were stranded in Pakistan. He wondered if they would make it across the border. He was 26 years old. It would be horrible to be without their wise counsel, at a young age. Prakash knew that her father and brothers had crossed the border, but was not sure where they were. They must be among the refugees scattered in the street.

             The silence of the night, was punctuated by the wailing of the refugees. A dog howled in the distance. Even the stray dog, sensed the angst of the homeless. At times, a thirsty refuge worked the handpump, to draw some cold water to quench his thirst.

Hari Chand and his wife had arrived late evening in Amritsar. Dusk shrouded the border town. The Indian army truck that had brought them, had to return to ferry more refugees. So, Hari Chand was dropped in a sugarcane field and guided how to go to the town.

On the way to Amritsar, their Army convoy was attacked by gunmen firing bullets at the buses. The Indian soldiers returned the fire, so the convoy passed through. However, the firing claimed the life of an Army officer. One more widow, in this conflagration.

It was a new world. Hari Chand and his wife had never been to Amritsar. They did not know anyone. So, they spent that first night in a street. They were very hungry, but had no money or food.  In any case when the heart is heavy and the head is fatigued, the hunger for food atrophies.

The sudden move to the new India had dazed Hari Chand and his wife. A few days later, he learnt that his parents had been slayed. He pondered, how much he and his wife had lost. His parents were gone. That was a horrendous trauma. A mountain of grief. To lose your parents, is always dreadful. To lose them in mindless violence, is agonising.  

Hari Chand would gradually realise that their secure life was over. He would never see his parents again. He and his wife had to flee at short notice. They left, literally, with the clothes they were wearing. So, he did not even have a photograph of his parents. Their family homes, lands, fields, warehouses, offices were gone forever. It would never be possible to set foot inside the newly formed Pakistan, ever, without a passport and a visa. His parents, childhood, youth had vanished, in a short journey of about four hours from Tandlianwala, Pakistan to India, as a refugee. He would never visit his home, fields, school or college ever again.

Much later, Hai Chand would lament why had they not read the signs of the times earlier and moved his elderly parents to safety? Why had they not moved some money or even readied a house in Amritsar for an emergency? There would be many laments. However, no one had imagined that a British lawyer named Radcliffe, would visit India to splinter it. He was charged with drawing a line to create India, West Pakistan and East Pakistan, in 36 days. The 3,323 kms. line he drew, cut through rooms, homes, villages and cities. It tore apart the inhabitants. Overnight, neighbours became enemies. Sadly, the acrimony continues, 76 years on.

On that fateful first night in India, Hari Chand had no money in his pocket. He could not even beg. Much later, he told his sons, “Beggars know how to beg. We did not know how to beg. So, we ate some “rotis” (bread) and “dal” (lentils) in the refugee camp.”

             Hari Chand would gradually begin life from a scratch, again. However, on that hurricane of a night, he was anesthetised by trauma. He was trying to comfort his heart-broken wife. And, struggling to make sense of the bizarre happenings around them.

Hari Chand did not weep. He could not afford to. He did not want to agitate his wife any further. In any case, for how many ill-fated blows can you weep at the same time? And, for how long? Sometimes, life does not give you the time to grieve and cry. At times, life can be cruel.

Thus, commenced the journey of my parents in free India, in August 1947.

Around 5.7 million Ukrainian refugees are suffering similar staggering losses of family members, children, livelihoods and homes. Again, 20,000 Ukrainian children are languishing in Russia, without their parents. There are 184 million displaced persons and 35.2 million refugees, in the world. Surely, world leaders can find solutions to end the agony of refugees and innocent children, across the globe.

  Aneja was the Managing Director of Unilever Tanzania. He is an alumnus of Harvard Business School and the author of books entitled, “Rural Marketing across Countries and “Business Express”. He is a Management Consultant