Memories of Partition
The HinduGrowing up in Delhi during Partition, I had a ringside view of momentous developments. That area must be on fire,” my mother said one morning in August 1947, as I was preparing to go to my Kathak class, a five-minute walk from our house. “Don’t open the door,” my terrified mother said to my father, but he could not let someone in distress wait outside our door, pleading hysterically, for help, crying “Bachao, bachao” and probably facing an irate mob out to take his life. “Poor fellow must have walked all the way from Lahore or Karachi…” Compassion mattered, not whether one was a Hindu or Muslim. Our office peon said, excitedly one afternoon, “The shops in Connaught Place are being looted, shall I grab some gadgets, table fans, immersion heaters and cameras?” My father forbade him, and he was cut up about it.
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