Mighty Thoughts: Unreal Real...

Mighty Thoughts:                                        Unreal Real...:                                         Unreal Reality The story of independence is a well known phenomenon of history that leads us to ...

                                       Unreal Reality

The story of independence is a well known phenomenon of history that leads us to the present. Accounts of miseries, struggles and sacrifices can be made available by the living people of that era or the countless books quoting the struggle for freedom and inception of nations.

Apart from political missions, conferences, leader’s decisions and platform arrangements; there were numerous other responsible for this act of freedom, which were not only badly affected physically but also psychologically for their later lives. The mass exodus, resulting due to partition, gave us real moving stories based on the people’s lives.

Intercommunal killings in Punjab and other provinces/states, the flight of refugees, the train massacres, the rape and abduction of women from all the communities are dreadful nightmares; still sending us shivers down the spine.

Here’s a recount based primarily on particular experiences selected from those recounted by over four hundred refugees from both sides (India and Pakistan) interviewed in the course of the research of the book being used by me for reference (mentioned in references section later).

                                            

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                                                                                                 The Punjab, October 1947

Boota Singh, a fifty-five-year-old Sikh veteran of Mountbatten’s Burma campaign, was working his fields one September afternoon when he heard a terrified scream behind him. He turned to see a young girl pursued by a fellow Sikh, rushing toward him. The girl threw herself at Boota Singh, begging “Save me! Save me!”

He stepped between the girl and her captor. He understood instantly what had happened. The girl was a Muslim whom the Sikh had seized from a passing refugee column. This wholly unexpected intrusion of the province’s miseries upon his plot of land offered Boota Singh a providential opportunity to resolve the problem most oppressing him, his own solitude. He was a shy man who had never married ­– first, because of his family’s inability to purchase him a wife; then, because of his natural timidity.

“How much?” he asked the girl’s captor.

“Fifteen hundred rupees”, was the answer.

Boots Singh did not even bargain. He went into his hut and returned with a soiled pile of rupee notes. The girl who those banknotes purchased was seventeen years old, thirty-eight years his junior. Her name was Zenib; she was the daughter of sharecroppers in Rajasthan. To the lonely old Sikh she became a kind adorable plaything, half daughter, half mistress, a wondrous presence who completely disrupted his life. The affection he had never been able to bestow burst over Zenib in a flood tide. Every other day Boota Singh was off to the nearest bazaar to buy her some bauble: a sari, a bar of soap, a pair of embroidered slippers.

To Zenib, who had been beaten and raped before her flight, the compassion and tenderness poured out to her by the lonely old Sikh who had purchased her for 1,500 rupees was as overwhelming as it was unexpected. Inevitably her response was a grateful affection to the man who had saved her, and she quickly became the pole around which Boota Singh’s life turned. She was with him in his fields during the day, milked his water buffalos at sunup and sundown, lay with him at night. Sixteen miles from their hut, the wretched tides of the refugees flowed up and down the Grand Trunk Highway.

One day that fall, well before the dawn, as Sikh tradition dictated, a strange melody of flutes advanced down the road to Boota Singh’s house. Surrounded by singers and neighbors carrying sputtering torches, astride a horse harnessed in velvet and bangles, Boota Singh rode up to the doorsteps of his own home to claim the little Moslem girl as his bride.

A guru bearing the Granath Sahib, the Sikh holy book, followed him into the house, where Zenab waited; trembling in the new sari he had bought her. Radiant with happiness, his head covered in a new scarlet turban, Boota Singh squatted beside Zenab on the floor of his house. The priest explained to them the obligations of married life. Then, with the gathering intoning his praises after him, he read from the sacred texts.

When he had finished, Boota Singh stood up and clutched one end of an embroidered sash; Zenab clutched the other. Four times, Zenab followed him in lawans, four mystic circumambulations of the holy book. At the instant the fourth circle was joined, they were married. Outside, the sun of another day rose over their fields.

A few weeks later the season that had brought so much horror and hardship to his fellow Punjabis bestowed a last gift on Boota Singh. His wife announced that she was bearing the heir he had despaired of ever having. It was as though some special providence had singled out the elderly Sikh and the Moslem girl for its blessings. That was not the case. For that unlikely couple, a long and cruel ordeal, which would one day become for millions the symbols of the evils of partition, was soon to begin. 

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                                                                                                The Punjab, August 1948

Eleven months after their marriage, a daughter was born to Boota Singh and Zenib, the wife he had purchased for 1,500 rupees. Following Sikh custom, Boota Singh opened the Sikh holy book, the Granth Sahib, at random and gave his daughter a name beginning with the first letter of the word he found at the top of the page. The letter was a “T” and he chose Tanveer (“Miracle of the Sky”).

Several years later, a pair of Boota Singh’s nephew, furious at the thought of losing a chance to inherit his property, reported Zenib’s presence to the authorities trying to locate women abducted during the exodus.  Zenib was wrenched from Boota Sing and placed in a camp, while efforts were made to locate her family in Pakistan.

Desperate, Boota Singh rushed to New Delhi and accomplished at the Grand Mosque the most difficult act a Sikh could perform. He cut his hair and became a Moslem. Renamed Jamil Ahmed, Boota Singh presented himself at the office of Pakistan’s High Commissioner and demanded the return of his wife. It was a useless gesture.

The two nations had agreed that an inflexible set of rules would govern the exchange of abducted women: married or not, they would be returned to the families from which they had been forcibly separated.

For six months Boota Singh visited his wife daily in the detention camp. He would sit beside her in silence, weeping for their lost dream of happiness. Finally, he learned that her family had been located. The couple embraced in a tearful farewell, Zenib vowing never to forget him and to return to him and their daughter as soon as she could.

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                                                                                                       India, February 1949

The desperate Boota Singh applied for the right as a Moslem to immigrate to Pakistan. His application was refused. He applied for a visa. That, too, was refused. Finally, taking his daughter, renamed Sultana, with him, he crossed the frontier illegally. Leaving the girl in Lahore, he made his way to the village where Zenib’s family had settled. There he received a cruel shock. His wife had been remarried, to a cousin, within hours after the truck bringing her back from India had deposited her in the village. The poor man, weeping and begging the authorities to “give me back my wife”, was brutally beaten by Zenib’s brothers and cousins, then handed over to the police as an illegal border crosser.

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                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Pakistan, 1950- 1956

Brought to trial, Boota Singh pleaded that he was a Moslem and begged the judge to return his wife to him. If only, he said, he could be granted the right to see his wife, to ask her if she would return to India with him and their daughter, he would be satisfied.

Moved by his plea, the judge agreed. The confrontation took place a week later, in a courtroom overflowing with spectators alerted by newspaper reports of the case. A terrified Zenib, escorted by an angry and possessive horde of her relatives, was brought into the chamber. The judge indicated Boota Singh.

“Do you know this man?” he asked.

“Yes”, replied the trembling girl, “he’s Boota Singh, my first husband.” Then Zenib identified her daughter standing by the elderly Sikh.

“Do you wish to return with them to India?” the judge asked. Boota Singh turned his pleading eyes on the young girl who had brought so much happiness to his life. Behind Zenib, other eyes were fixed on her quivering figure, a battery of them glaring at her from the audience, the male members of her clan warning her against trying to renounce the call of her blood. An atrocious tension gripped the courtroom. His lined face alive with a desperate hope, Boota Singh watched Zenib’s lips, waiting for the favorable reply he was sure would come. For an unbearably long moment the room was silent.

Zenib shook her head. “No”, she whispered.

A gasp of anguish escaped Boota Singh. He staggered back against the railing behind him. When he had regained his poise, he took his daughter by the hand and crossed the room.

“I cannot deprive you of your daughter, Zenib,” he said.

“I leave her to you.” He took a clump of bills from his pocket and offered them to his wife along with their daughter. “My life is finished now,” he said simply.

The judge asked Zenib if she wished to accept his offer of the custody of their daughter. Again, an agonizing silence filled the courtroom. From their seats Zenib’s male relatives furiously shook their heads. They wanted no Sikh blood defiling their community.

Zenib looked at her daughter with eyes of despair. To accept her would be to condemn her to a life of misery. An awful sob shook her frame.

 “No”, she gasped.

Boota Singh, his eyes overflowing with tears, stood for a long moment looking at his weeping wife, trying perhaps to fix forever in his mind the blurred image of her face. Then he tenderly picked up his daughter and, without turning back, left the courtroom.

The despairing man spent the night weeping and praying in the mausoleum of the Moslem saint Data Ganj Baksh, while his daughter slept against a nearby pillar. With the dawn, he took the girl to a nearby bazaar. There, using the rupees he had offered to his wife the afternoon before, He bought her a new robe and a pair of sandals embroidered in gold brocade. Then, hand in hand, the old Sikh and his daughter walked to the nearby railroad station of Shahdarah. Waiting in the platform for the train to arrive, the weeping Boota Singh explained to his daughter that she would not see her mother again.

In the distance, a locomotive’s whistle shrieked. Boota Singh tenderly picked up his daughter and kissed her. He walked to the edge of the platform. As the locomotive burst into the station, the little girl felt her father’s arms tighten around her. Then suddenly, she was plunging forward. Boota Singh had leaped into the path of the onrushing locomotive. The girl heard again the roar of the whistle mingled this time with her own screams. Then she was in the blackness beneath the engine.

Boota Singh was killed instantly, but by a remarkable miracle his daughter survived unscathed. On the old Sikh’s mutilated corpse, the police found a blood-soaked farewell note to the young wife who had rejected him.

“My dear Zenib”, it said, “You listened to the voice of the multitude, but that voice is never sincere. Still my last wish is to be with you. Please bury me in your village and come from time to time to put a flower on my grave”.

Boota Singh’s suicide stirred a wave of emotion in Pakistan, and his funeral became an event of national importance. Even in death, however, the elderly Sikh remained a symbol of those terrible days when the Punjab was in flames and he had thought he was blessed among the suffering because he had bought happiness for 1,500 rupees. Zenib’s family and the inhabitants of their village refused to permit Boota Singh’s burial in the village cemetery. The village males, led by Zenib’s second husband, on February 22, 1957, barred its entrance to his coffin.

Rather than provoke a riot, the authorities ordered the coffin and the thousands of Pakistanis touched by Boota Singh’s drama who had followed it, to return to Lahore. There, under a mountain of flowers, Boota Singh’s remains were interred.

Zenib’s family, however, enraged by the honor extended to Boota Singh, sent a commando to Lahore to uproot and profane his tomb. Their savage action provoked a remarkable outburst from the citites population. Boota Singh was reinterred under another mountain of flowers. This time hundreds of Moslems volunteered to guard the graved of the Sikh convert, illustrating with their generous gesture the hope that time might eventually efface in the Punjab the bitter heritage of 1947. 

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Boota Singh's daughter, Sultana, was adopted and raised by foster parents in Lahore. Today (1975) the mother of three children, she lives in Libya with her engineer husband.

                             

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The tragedies of partition would not have been completed had they not been accompanied, as every conflict since the dawn of history, by an outpouring of sexual savagery. Nearly all of the atrocities cursing the unhappy province were embellished by their orgy of rape. Tens of thousands of girls and women were seized from refugee columns, from crowded trains, from isolated villages, in the most wide-scale kidnapping of modern times.

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REFERENCES:

Freedom At Midnight a book by Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins

Story is taken from a chapter THE GREATEST MIGRATION IN HISTORY and the EPILOGUE section as mentioned by the writers.

Author Yumna Razzaq takes the responsibility of dates and years as are self calculated along with the layout of story, title and certain details.

DISCLAIMER:

This story is for no hate purpose or offence, it's a mere message of realization of the sacrifices laid down by the people of that time. 

Indirectly, it is to reflect the psychological aspected and terrific conditions being brought by certain mass change and attitude of general people towards women.

(c) ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED 

Thank you

Islam and Science (part-I)

Almost three thousand and five hundred years ago  Firoun (RAMASEES II) made Bani Israel (tribe) his slaves.  When Hazrat Musa (AS) (Prophet Mosses) went from Egypt to free Bani Israel; Firoun in the peak of his arrogance, plotted and went after Bani Israel with all his mighty army, but when he reached near them, a fire from sky on ALLAHs command blocked his way. At that moment, Hazrat Musa (AS) threw His stick (Assa) in Bahre Qulzum (Arabic for Red Sea) and hundred thousands of Bani Israel people, traveling through this mighty way crossed it with ease. And when firoun and his army tried to cross it, Allah Subhanao Talla reunited the divided water and drowned all of them in there. (Waqiya available in Surah AL AIRAF- Qur'an)

The Red Sea

According to the beliefs of 'Jews' and 'Christians', firoun’s army was drowned in the sea but he himself was saved due to his stay by the shore and later he died a natural death.

Ramasees II mummified

 In 1898 a famous valley of Egypt “the king’s valley” was discovered in Cairo, Where many mummified bodies were discovered including that of Firoun and many other kings.  After 83 years from that, in 1981 when firouns mummy was about to rot away, the government of Egypt requested France, to not only save it from rotting away but also find the real story behind his death.

Kings Valley, Cairo Egypt

So, firoun’s mummy was brought at the air port and the president of France “Francois Mitterrand” along with all the ministers, army commanders and whole assemblage of soldiers; greeted and welcomed firoun’s body with extreme gratitude and warm spirits just as a king is saluted on his arrival. 

French Army Officials

French President: Francois Mitterrand

Afterwards, his body was handed over to a team of expert doctors which was headed by Dr Maurice Bucaille . The microscopic examinations of the mummified bones were made. They proved that there are some mineral salts from the sea in the bones, which was clear evidence towards Firoun’s death. Instead of dying a natural death, he died due to another reason which was: drowning in the sea! And later his dead body was mummified. When Dr. Maurice Bucaille was finalizing his last report, he was told that it’s mentioned in the Muslims sacred book that firoun was killed by drowning in the sea and many Muslims claim to know about it. Dr Maurice surprised at these news, travelled to Egypt to know the real story behind. There, a Muslim scientist read out these verses from the Holy Quran to Dr Maurice.

The Qur'an Karim

“We brought the tribe of Israel across the sea, and pharaoh and his troops pursued it out of tyranny and enmity. Then, when he was on the point of drowning then he (pharaoh) said: “I believe that there is no God but him in whom the tribe of Israel believes. I am one of the Muslims”.  [Qur’an 10:90]

“What now! When previously you rebelled and were one of the corrupters? Today we will preserve your body so you can be a sign for people who come after you. Surely many people are heedless of Our signs”.  [Qur’an 10:91-92]

Dr. Maurice Bocaille

In the height of his shock Dr. Maurice Bucaille said : “Quran was sent 2000 years after firoun’s death and from the time then to now nobody knew about his death, but the prediction Qur’an gave, is proved right by the microscopic examinations performed after 1400 yrs of the origin of Qur’an. So brothers, the things and messages (kallam) in Quran can’t be by a man but this is from ALLAH”. Saying this in the open gathering, Dr Maurice read out kalmia and declared himself Muslim.

This is the same Dr Maurice whose famous book “Quran bible and science” has created an atmosphere of tension worldwide.

The Bible The Quran And Science

References: 

~ The Qur'an Karim (Surah Al Airaf, Surah Younis)

~French History images

~Google inc images

~ Dr Maurice Bucaille wikipedia

How Uncertain...

Seeing their twinkling eyes, I couldn't help myself crying, but suppressed and clogged the tears deep in my throat. Just found out that that angel like, two siblings were facing worse. Though it was incomprehensible for an 8 year old son to know what sufferings his mother is enduring but still surviving and neither can a 6 year old understand the hardships up to a certain level? But this all made me realize how uncertain the life is, and sometimes we are brought to a point in our lives that tell us “see how unpredictable I was to you?”

She is my aunt basically, my mother’s sister cousin who spent her childhood playing on the swings and her adulthood looking after us and then marriage brought her happiness of eternity; that she travelled the high peaks of Malam Jabba to other Northern places  and left no corner of Pakistan untraveled.

She is strong, she is really strong! MashaAllah...

Looking after two children, who have grown to the best of their ages; who now exhibit confidence as a boy and decency as a girl. She (their mother) however, is suffering from Multiple sclerosis (MS). It is a demyelinating disease (medical terminology) in which the insulating covers of nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord are damaged. This damage disrupts the ability of parts of the nervous system to communicate, resulting in a range of signs and symptoms, including physical, mental, and sometimes psychiatric problems. The cases of this disease are below 5% in Pakistan and at present there is no known cure for it, only the medicines can prolong the living time or reduce the risk of attacks while the patient can expect to live for 5 to 10 years.

I don’t know what caused it or what was the reason behind, but she is fighting well or I would say its her husband who is providing her strength to the maximum. It’s been years that she is visiting the doctors in various parts in Lahore and to the unfortunate fate; none of them diagnosed this thing for her and she was fed with all sorts of wrong medication. Even in a very well reputed hospital (I won’t take the name) the attitude of doctors was heartbreaking and her husband was left with no choice rather to visit the private ones (better conditioned but really expensive). At last my uncles friend showed him a way to a hospital at Wahga border, where a doctor has been claimed to treat many big personalities (he might be a good one). And yes! He was the first one, indeed was a professor and diagnosed her with MS.

 "the medication would cost 12 lakh an year, you can afford?" my uncle agreed for the medicines were to come from US. "Ok will you afford it another year too and another? And afterwards I guarantee NOT that the Pakistani medication will do any better on her health, rest is up to you" OK! So the hint was clear, survival was meant to be on the medications till the last stage.

But you know, being a Muslim, you have assurity from ALLAH, nothing can be done till He wills. Yes, that gave them both strength and she, with her husband and two flowery kids went for performing Umrah wondering it would be her last one maybe? And to the wonders, first few days she was stick to the wheel chair and after wards? Yes she could walk! She did all by herself and to your great surprise let me tell you; it was all without medications!

So Allah Azwajal showed her that He is the best healer and the recovery is in His hands.

“And if Allah should touch you with adversity, there is no remover of it except Him. And if He touches you with good – then He is over all things competent.” [Quran, 6: 17]

                        “And when I am ill, it is He who cures me.” [Quran, 26: 80]

We all were happy to see her today, as she and her family came to pay us a visit after Umrah and present us the Ab e zam zam (sacred water from Makkah) dates, praying mat and many other gifts from SudiArabia.

I am not at all saying that she recovered to the fullest, but Allah provided her strength to live for her children, strength to fight for what she is put into, strength to create an example for those who may lose hearts over incurable diseases.

And I am also not at all saying that you travel to quacks or untrustworthy Peers but trust Allah! Yea obviously, but take proper medication assigned. As my aunt herself isn’t free from her visits to the doctors and still she have had to take steroids during attacks.

Her children, though carefree were enjoying themselves but I could see how mature they’ll grow than the children of their age.  That’s how Allah tests His people sometimes.

The 8 year old boy, literally brought a solemn smile on my face today. "O! aapi tm to itni see the, itni barri ho gye ho" (sister you were so small and now you have grown too much) and I was like "aap bi to bary ho gye ho na" (you too are growing dear) . And his sister, dressed in a beautiful white dressed was looking no less than a fairy with diamond like shining shoes and bracelets but her eyes were shining even brighter. 

They both are innocent MashAllah! They have to go through too much they know not. How uncertain the life is, yet they know not.

 Maybe it was my last visit to my Khala jaan (Khudanakhasta) or maybe I will see her again (InshaALLAH) the hope is there but the uncertainity is still lingering.

May ALLAH pak bless her with the best of health and spirits and may she be able to see all the happiness of her children and cherish her life to the fullest. (AAMEEN SUMAMEEN)

A Smile

And it was the fifth day in a row, I was seeing that man casting a smile; literally a huge smile.
SMILE? what would it bring to people? why smile at strangers? Eh? Smile: nothing just broadening your lips and throwing at others so they would throw that back on you.

I, as usual finished my last track walk and was about to leave when I saw a lady shreiking in a horible voice. She was rudely addressing a man selling balloons; "Didnt I ask you to give this ballon carefully to my son, DIDN'T I? Man you wasted away my ten Rs, GOD, DAMN YOU."
This scenario felt awkward to me, she could have just smiled and brought her son another balloon, what cost it? well nothing,

On my way to home, my friend called me, "Yumna, I couldnt make it to US visa again this time". She felt really sad at the same time angry, "OH! thats sad, don't worry maybe next time". "Yes, but a couple before me, they got it so easily...thoug it was a travelling visa and mine was more crucial one, a student visa". Really they got that easily, I asked furthur "And why is that?". "They were smiling and talking softly maybe, I didn't even greeted the officer".

Oh okay! Did smile makes that much difference, alright maybe. I held the phone and stopped my car to have a drink by a sugar cane cart. I was really thirsty but this place, it was loaded by some billion people, all pulling there way to drink. And disappointedly there was a Grid-Lock ahead.
"ONE JUICE" I snapped at that man, He handed over a glass to another. I shouted at him again "Man just one glass". He again overlooked me and handed over to someone else.

Why was he being so irritating, I was so much annoyed by this attitude. Why handing over to others? Meanwhile another lady arrived, I was there by last 10 minutes and wasn't even bothered a single second. That lady greeted "Excuse me Sir! one glass juice please", "Here you go ma'am, have a Good day". She took it smiled and went away.

OH...now I understood, but saying even a single word would go against my EGO. I drove my way back to home.
Next day was as usual, I was on the same walking track when that unknown man again casted a smile and moved on.
Today I decided to know the reason behind his smiling OUT everyday.
"Man, what is your problem? smiling you think will win my heart?'' His eyes blinked and he shone and passed such a wide smile that his white teeth and confidence were visible. "I don't know ma'am" He addressed me so politely, "I am not sure weather it wins heart but I am sure it's a nice enough expression to conquer the souls". I was still gazing him deep. He then took out a pocket mirror, asked me to see my own reflection, I did. "See ma'am the wrinkles on your forehead? You are getting uglier each day and this walk and exercise will not bring you the glow that smile will bring. Do you think these creases look nice?"
I saw myself and noticed. Man, Oh yes really I was looking ugly! eww...
But WOW! that sense was amazing, that man was amazing, his smilw was amazing.
I smiled then and silently went my way.
So that lady, I saw earlier day would have easily won a balloon free of cost by a smile, and that felt awkward to me only cause' her way of adressing was rude.

That man, I nearly met him everyday while jog. And he would always pass me a smile each time he caught my eye.
He had a pretty grand social cirlce and easy winner of so many lotteries and luck games.

I smile now, I smile each day to exercise 200 muscles of my face, I smile cause its my best lipstick, I smile cause' I still have teeth, I smile cause' it makes me win and conquer, I smile cause I glow then and spread this radiance over others.

Does smiling brings alot of difference? YES YES it does...
This man changed me, maybe this article change you...try and think but above all smile :) cause its your best medecine and for ladies a good choice of lipstick!