The Violence Continues
When I was younger, my grandfather used to tell me stories about Pakistan. He would tell me of the glorious days spent there, the riches, the land, the beauty and all that west Punjab was. The love that the neighbours shared, how easy trust came in those days and of course the ghost stories. No story of my grandfather’s could be complete without a mention of the supernatural. With my growing up, the nature of his stories changed. He began to finally tell me about the killings and the blood spilling that happened during the time of the Partition.
He told me how they had managed to get only seven seats on the train, that would eventually be the last train to carry live people from Pakistan. He left Rawalpindi with his parents, his brother, my grandmother and two younger chinldren (my aunt and uncle)- leaving two of his brothers and 2 of his sons to take the next train to Rajasthan. The next train came, and all he could do was search the piles of bodies for the corpses of his brothers and sons. For two whole months, not a single train came with living people. He sometimes cried while telling me this story. I never really understood why would people kill each other like that? Children? Men? Women? Whose only fault was that they were of a different religion. Retaliation from Hindus saw thousands of muslims burnt, stabbed and raped. Why?
Religion. These stories of my Grandfather’s life sometimes became gory and bitter when he described the smells and sights of the carnage. When he would tell me how his close muslim friends killed his family that had once celebrated all muslim festivals with them… and how they had been eventually killed by a bunch of hindus. For what? For believing in a different language, a different script, different scriptures? For having different names? But isn’t the colour of our skin the same? Didn’t we go to the same schools and ate the same food from the same farmer’s fields?
Religion.
My trysts with religion have been strange. I was in Gujarat when the riots broke out. I remember the fear. For property, for life, for dignity and honour. Men fearing for their women. Women fearing for their men. Children clueless, facing the first agitation of religion. I remember how my neice went without milk for days because my brother was too scared to go out and buy milk for her.
My niece. 8 months old.
Religion.
The corpses laden trains came and went. The communal riots killed and jailed. People lost their lives and loved ones. For what?Then the mind wanders to another argument. Doesn’t religion kill us all in some ways, everyday of our lives? Does one die only when he stops breathing? What about those who die inside and cease to live, even though their heart beats…? They might not be pronounced dead. But aren’t they? What about lovers who can’t be with each other for belonging to different religions? What about them? What is it…? That makes us so unaccepting of people who are not like us? Im tired of thinking about it and like the countless other people who can’t answer this question… I too am abashed.
The violence of religion continues. On the streets, between the countries and within ourselves. In our souls.
- Neha
Deepak says:
I’d prefer borrowing 30 rupees from some1 and bring an action movie DVD rather than keep sitting and thinking when such thoughts come in my mind!
January 18th, 2007 at 05:41 pm
Neha says:
and that is precisely why the violence of religion continues
January 19th, 2007 at 11:18 am