PEOPLE I (sort of) KNOW. Bua Parvati

"PEOPLE  I (sort of) KNOW"


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BUA PARVATI: The sari clad heroine

    For those of us who don't know what a sari is, and I suspect there are very few, it is a six by one and a half yard unstitched garment which many mainly South Asian ladies wrap around themselves with extreme ease and elegance. Saris come in all sorts of fabrics, textures, colors, prints and designs. But the one Bua Parvati was wearing that humid and hot afternoon in my Grand Uncle's house in Lucknow, India was white and made of crisp starched cotton, with a thin blue border.

    It is a bit difficult to describe Bua Parvati; there were so many facets of her personality. Physically she was petite to say the least. Must be fiftyish, skin smooth and brown like sandalwood, a long braid of thick peppered hair on her back, and huge soft brown eyes, which could transform from comforting to threatening in a second. She would always wear white saris with borders of various colors. She would take off her slippers whenever she entered our house and would walk barefoot. It has always been a mystery to me how her dainty feet would never get dirty. She was a widow since thirty years but she would refer to her (now peacefully dead) husband as if he is still with her.

  She would come to Bare Ammo (my Grand Uncle)'s house supposedly to do odd jobs like helping in pickling, coloring the dupattas (foulards), starching clothes, potty training the seemingly endless trail of babies born in the household etc. etc. etc. But what she really came for and why we waited for her was that she would bring news from the outside world which was otherwise inaccessible to the occupants of a Muslim household's female quarters in that part of the last century.

  That particular afternoon Bua was excited and agitated at the same time and seemed to be bursting at the seams of her little body with news she wanted to pass on to Bari Taee (my grand Aunty) and the rest of us.

  "Pranam Begum Sahiba", she said clasping her hands in a greeting, then she sat on the floor while Bari Taee sat on the flat wooden bed which would double as a prayer place whenever the time for prayer came.
"Kaisee ho Parvati? How are you? Uff Allah, it is so hot today."
"I am fine by Bhagwan's grace, Begun Sahiba but our country is in great peril."
"Why what happened?"
"Arre Begum Sahiba, ask me what has not happened. These ferengis are bent upon breaking our country. What will we do? Everyone is fighting; everyone is suspicious of the other, brother fighting brother".
Then she turned her head slightly to one side and then the other, touching each earlobe alternately saying "Ram Ram", over and over again. All of us children loved it when she did this. We would often copy her behind her back while she did this.
 
  “Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, fighting, fighting, fighting. Ram Ram! Ram Ram! Begum Sahiba how can they divide our country? If they cut her body she will bleed to death, our mother land.”
“Come on Bua Parvati. Don’t be melodramatic. You don’t know what you are talking about. The partition of India will ensure the rights of all its citizens. If the British leave India without dividing it amongst Hindus and Muslims, the Hindu majority will never let the Muslim minority live their lives according to their religion. Muslims will not be able to read the Quran, pray namaz, observe Ramadan or go to Haj”.

  This situation analysis was presented by Iqbal Chacha, Bari Taee’s youngest son and my paternal Uncle.

  “Ram Ram! Ram Ram!”, Bua Parvati commenced punctuating each chant with an additional
“Hai!Hai!”
“Arre beta (son) Iqbal. What are you saying? It is not possible. No Hindu can ever do that. For generations we have been living together. We do our pooja in temples and you do your namaz and read the Quran. How can anyone think about stopping the other? It is a paap (sin) to stop the other from praying. A mahapaap (a very big sin). Hai Na (isn’t that so)? Begum Sahiba ”
“My dear dear Bua, not everyone thinks like you. Not everyone has an innocent soul like you.”
Iqbal Chacha replied before his mother did.
“India shall be divided, you’ll see. And our family will move to Pakistan?”

  This sweeping statement led to a commotion in our courtyard. Bari Taee scolding Iqbal Chacha and declaring that she would rather die than leave Lucknow, Iqbal Chacha replying that she will have to, otherwise she shall be killed and as a good Muslim she had to migrate, Bua Parvati declaring that she will never let begum sahiba or for that matter anyone from this household go and how beta Iqbal has changed since he has returned from the MAO College in Aligarh, while most of us children wanted to know what exactly was Pakistan?

  “Begum Sahiba. You will never leave. I will not let any of you leave. Is it that simple?. Leaving your elders’ lands, leaving your ancestors’ graves, leaving your friends. Never.  Iqbal beta, I shall never let you go. You were born in my own hands, I have fed you, clothed you with these very hands. I shall not let you go,” and tears rolled down her cheeks.
Iqbal Chacha hugged her tight, pretending to smile but everyone could hear the tremor in his voice.
“Bua, just forget about everything. You have not made halwa for me for such a long time. I really want some. Cook some for me right now.”
“Don’t you worry my son. I will bring halwa for you in the snap of my fingers. Just wait.”
Bua Parvati rushed to the kitchen wiping the tears in her eyes with the corner of her sari. 

  Those were turbulent times to say the least. The British Raj was breathing its last in the Indian Sub-continent. The masses were demanding a quick exit but things were not so simple. On one side were the demands for the British to leave, on the other hand the Muslims were demanding a partition of India into a Muslim majority Pakistan and a Hindu majority Bharat. Their argument was that once the rulers leave, the minority will be at the mercy of the majority, and the former feared that they will be persecuted for ruling the Hindu majority for a good thousand years before the British started their own Raj of the sub-continent. The Congress was the party for all Indians, mostly Hindus and Sikhs but also many Muslims led by Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. All India Muslim League was the party of the Muslims lead by Mohammad Ali Jinnah. And then there was Mohandas Gandhi, respected by most. Who was right, who was wrong, as always with history, nobody knew then, nobody knows now. But humanity suffered a great deal on all sides. As the world knows, just as Iqbal Chacha had said, on the night of August 14th, 1947, India was partitioned, and so were born two independent states of Pakistan and India.   

  And this is what triggered the biggest migration in human history. Millions of Muslims left their homes, their businesses, their lands, their history, and also part of their families to go to a new land, Pakistan in hope of a secure life. In the other direction moved millions of Hindus from Muslim majority areas which were now in Pakistan, towards India. Both groups sacrificed so much for the sake of what they believed was right. While the politicians bickered, people all over suffered. There were innumerable  victims of murder, rape, looting, pillaging and desecration of religious symbols on all sides. You label them whatever you want. Give them names whichever you want. Salma was raped and so was Sita. Syed Ahmed was murdered and so was Durga Prasad. Temples were burned and so were mosques.

  It was a sea of blood sweat and tears through which humanity struggled to get to the other side. To their version of the Promised Land!


  Four years had passed since that hot and humid afternoon. And the world now was upside down. News of burning and looting reached us every day. Twelve members of our extended family were burned to death two blocks away from our house. Now every child in our house knew what Pakistan was. It was our new home. Where we would all live happily and safely. Servants were packing our belongings and so were we. We had to leave as soon as we could but we could not. Baree Taee had declared she would never go. She would rather die in Lucknow than live anywhere else.
“Mumtaz, you are putting all our lives in danger. Be sensible.”
Barre Ammo was trying to covince his wife to go. But she would sit quietly on her prayer bed and said nothing.
“So let her be. Let her burn to death along with this house. I am going.”
Barre Ammo was never a patient man. But how could you blame him. News reached that the looters were just a few blocks away. We could hear faint howls and screams from a distance. Smoke filled the air.
“Ammi Jaan please, I beg you.”
Iqbal Chacha sat at his mother’s feet. She would not budge.
And then she came in. None other than Bua Parvati. But today she seemed different. She was quiet. As quiet as was Bari Taee. She came towards Bari Taee. Everyone fell silent. Iqbal Chacha got up from his mother’s feet and Bua Parvati took her place. Both Bari Taee and her eyes met. And then we all heard which we never thought we would hear.
“Begum Sahiba. You must leave!”
Bua Parvati finally spoke. Bari Taee looked at her, still silent and seated.
“You must go. You must leave. I beg you. All of you must go. I have come to say good bye.”
“You too Parvati! You also want me to go. YOU??”
Bari Taee could not believe it.
“HAAN HAAN HAAN!YES YES YES! YOU MUST GO! ALL OF YOU MUST GO! I CANNOT SEE YOU DIE”
Bua Parvati wailed as she held Baree Taee’s feet.
“For your children’s lives. For Ram’s sake. For God’s sake.”
Bari Taee sat still.
“For my sake Begum Sahiba. For my sake.”
Bari Taee got up.

  Fifteen minutes later, all ten of our family members walked towards the three horse tongas parked outside our house. Bua Parvati sat with us and the tongas proceeded towards the railway station.
Two blocks passed uneventfully. Suddenly the eerie quietness was broken by screams.
“Sahib. There are looters on the way to the station. I cannot go that side”, said the tonga driver.
“But you have to try. Otherwise we will get killed,” Bare Ammo said nervously.
“I am sorry Sahib. I cannot go.”
Before Barre Ammo could reply we witnessed a strange scene. Bua Parvati jumped to the front seat of the tonga and snatched the horse whip from the tonga driver’s hands.
“Jai Kali Calcatay Wali!”, yelled that diminutive woman invoking the power of the goddess Kali. Before long the tongas were nearly flying on the road towards the station led by Bua Parvati waving the whip in the air. Our Armada reached the station in time. The train to Lahore, Pakistan was yet to leave.
“Go go! Leave your belongings. Bhagwan will give you more. Just save your lives. Go!” Bua pushed all of us in the carriage, hugging one, then the other. There was no time for long good byes. The station master blew his whistle.
“Train to Lahore is about to leave,” he shouted.
Bua Parvati got off the train as the engine started moving and the carriage along with it. That was the last I saw of Lucknow for the next forty years.

  And we never saw our Bua Parvati again. When I returned for a visit to Lucknow after four decades and asked for her nobody knew anything. The angel whom Allah had sent to save so many lives was gone.
I still remember her standing on the side while our train pulled away. Tears in her eyes and mumbling something.

  My guess is "Ram Ram!"



                                                  THE END