A Bridge With Three Spans: An Indian Muslim Boy Lives Through Major Events of the Twentieth Century

By Zia Uddin Ahmed

RECOMMENDED by The US Review of Books. “Retired international civil servant Zia Ahmed offers a thorough recollection of his life, spanning three main segments: his youth in village India during that country’s independence struggles, his professional life in the new state of Pakistan as a young man, and his post at the UN before leaving public life. ....
Blessed with a brilliant mind and a prodigious memory, Ahmed has interspersed his personal story with passages about the history and culture of the many places he has lived and traveled. His observations are well considered, worth reading even by those outside his immediate heritage. His written English is impeccable, an admirable feat for someone who grew up in foreign lands, and his account of his remarkable life is tempered with modesty. Autobiography infused with sociocultural observations of the world in transition from the 1930s to the present, A Bridge with Three Spans highlights one man’s noteworthy aspirations and accomplishments.”Reviewed by Barbara Bamberger Scott.
FIVE STAR REVIEW by The Pacific Book Review. Excerpt: While Ahmed’s writing certainly fulfills his intent to capture personal memories, his story is also a creative rendering of acute observations that reveal spans of time, place, and relevant history. The final result is a fluid memoir that depicts a life truly enriched by its connective experiences.” Reviewed by Carol Davala.
NOMINATED CATEGORY FINALIST 2017 by Eric Hoffer Book Review.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jun 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9789388930284

Zia Uddin Ahmed

ZIA UDDIN AHMED, born in India, received his education in India, Pakistan, and the United States. He worked as civil servant in Pakistan and for the United Nations.Currently retired after living in six countries, he and Rashida, his wife, live in Maryland in the eastern United States.

Book preview

Introduction

Upon hearing that I was writing a memoir Ehsan, an old friend, posed the following questions: In writing your life story you may be open, frank, and occasionally quite intimate, but can you claim to be absolutely truthful and unbiased? What about your own fantasies and desires that may impel you to self-justify? The validity of that criticism cannot be questioned, but to look for clinical professionalism in a memoir is asking for the impossible. What I have tried to do is present the picture with sympathy and understanding. Facts are important and we can be objective about the scientific facts, but in situations where moral, ethical, or personal likes and dislikes are involved we cannot eliminate the subjective element altogether.

Because there are so many facts to choose from the writer of a memoir has no alternative but to proceed selectively, opting for situations and events that made a lasting impression on him or in some way influenced his worldview. And if, as in my case, the writer has migrated to another country he might include a brief review of some of the factors that forced him to leave the country of his birth. After the event has been identified imagination comes into play, enabling the writer to present a vivid account of the story. The writer may also highlight the emotional stress or moral predicament that individuals or groups face in critical circumstances.

My life may be seen as a bridge that has three spans: the first span consists of the period from my birth up to age fourteen, when I was living with my parents in Bihar, India; life in Pakistan—mainly in Lahore, Dhaka, and Islamabad—forms the second span comprising my years in college and life as a civil servant; and the third span covers life abroad, including periods working for the International Center for Public Enterprises and the United Nations.

I grew up in a dual environment, living in a village setting and in small towns during the last decade of British Raj in India. How I behaved mentally and emotionally in my preteen years and as a teenager growing up in a middle-class family in Bihar is portrayed in the first span. The impact on the family of external happenings—famine in Bengal, World War II, and unprecedented communal frenzy accompanying the independence of India and Pakistan—is included in this span. The bittersweet spectacle of three brothers undertaking a long circuitous journey with the intent to migrate to another country is also portrayed in this part.

Tribulations that I faced as a college student and some of my experiences as civil servant in both East and West Pakistan are covered in the second span.

The diverse culture and history of far-flung countries to which I was exposed in the course of my service under the United Nations is highlighted in the third span. As a professional I enjoyed the work because there was always room for improvement and innovation, but the most exciting part was the sense of discovery I experienced in the tremendously contrasting geographical, cultural, and historical settings of the countries I visited.

Born in a village near Budh Gaya with my boyhood spent in what is historically known as Magadha—the seat of power as well as the fountainhead of two great religions in ancient India—I don’t have to be nudged to acknowledge the shining heritage bequeathed by Chandragupta Maurya, Ashoka the Great, Kanishka, the Gupta emperors, and the great religion of Buddhism. Similarly, the history of the Muslim era—starting with Muhammad bin Qasim the first Muslim invader who conquered Sind (in CE 710), and ending with Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal king—is too close to need repetition. What we tend to forget is the influence exercised by ancient Persians and Greeks on the people of the subcontinent, especially on people of its northwestern region. Chapter 19 of this book is based on a fascinating discussion that I had with a renowned archaeologist and historian on the unique role that both ancient Greece and Persia played in human history.

Part I

Life with Parents in India

1

A VILLAGE FROM ANTIQUITY

Go, go, go said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality.

Time past and time future What might have been and

what has been Point to one end, which is always present.

—T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton, Four Quartets

I was born on the borderline between two ways of life. There was town life—my father was an official in the agriculture department in Bihar, India—which took the family from town to town, sometimes north of the Ganga (or Ganges, as it was known in the Greek as well as English terminology), and sometimes to towns deep in the arid southeastern part of the province. The other life, of Amma’s family—my siblings and I called our mother Amma or Ammi—was firmly tied to the land about sixty miles from Gaya, a town in the central part of the province of Bihar. Her family came from a village surrounded by an equal number of mango and palm trees, a village that owned a big pond, a large public well with no cover on top, and a dozen smaller wells located within the courtyards of various houses. This was a village that exuded a perpetual aroma of potato foliage in winter and of palm fruit and mangoes in summer.

As in most other years, in the summer of 1941 when I was eight years old we were once again proceeding to Nani’s house in a village called Arha (Nani in Urdu/Hindi means grandmother on mother’s side). Our family at that point in time consisted of Abba (my father, Muhammad Bashiruddin); Ammi (Asghari Khatoon); four brothers (Muhammad Moinuddin, Ziauddin Ahmed, Nooruddin, and Rafiuddin Ahmed); and one sister (Nadra Begum). The oldest of the siblings, Zainul Abedin, was not accompanying us as he was away in Bhagalpur studying in high school nd living with Barri Amma (the widow of our deceased uncle, Mazhar Hussain).

Our circuitous bus journey from Jamtara, a sub-divisional town in the district of Santhal Pargana in the province of Bihar, first took us to Nawada and from there we took another bus to Arha, the whole journey covering 150 miles to the northwest. As we approached Arha (a small village, population five hundred), the creaking bus stopped with a jolt on the left side of the road, blowing forward little clouds of dust that fell upon everyone and everything within a radius of thirty feet.

A Banyan Tree on the Roadside

During the ten minutes that it took our family to get off the bus and take charge of the luggage I was intensely absorbed in going around and looking up, trying to figure out the dimensions of a big tree that stood about a hundred feet away on the left side of the road. Overawed and wondering, I was actually walking under a majestic banyan tree! For a boy brought up in the town this was an unforgettable sight. The huge, dark tree was spreading its dense foliage all around. As Abba (my father) was also taking interest we stopped for fifteen minutes more to have a better look at the tree before proceeding to Nani’s house.

We had taken the journey to Arha almost every year in the past, but this time my senses were more open to new discoveries. According to my father, the all-weather banyan tree was about one hundred feet in diameter and seventy feet high and nearly eighty years old. It was hard to see the main trunk because the roots that grew far and wide under the ground also sprouted above the ground, climbing up the tree and hanging down from its branches at numerous places. The sight of dozens of braided roots coming down from above created a mysterious atmosphere. Darkness prevailed in the area around the trunk due to the tangle of hanging roots and branches. Scores of chamgadar (bats), their heads resembling puppies’, hung upside down from some of the thinner branches. The large leaves of the banyan tree—oval in shape, rubbery in texture, and green all year round—were well-liked by cows, goats, and buffalo, and the tree’s cool shade was enjoyed equally by all living beings, human and animal. The banyan tree’s huge, all-encompassing size and stability were symbolic of the country itself. Befittingly, some years after independence, it was declared the national tree of India.

Resourceful Nani

I was born in Nani’s house in Arha in 1933. Arha was in the Gaya district in the central region of Bihar in eastern India, about sixty-two miles south of Patna, the provincial capital. Gaya was better known as Budh Gaya. Over twenty-five hundred years ago Gautama Budha, founder of Buddhism, attained enlightenment in this area after forty days of fasting and meditation under a pipal tree (some say it was a banyan, a similar variety). The place is regarded as sacred by followers of Buddhism.

All but one or two houses in Arha were mud structures topped by roofs of old U-shaped tiles placed face down on top of U-shaped tiles that faced up. The tiles formed a continuous S from left to right. Many of the tiles needed repair or resetting. Nani’s house, dark and cavernous with just two windows in the five-room house, was also made of mud. Three rooms had attics where quilts, mattresses, and other household goods were stored. Neither electricity nor piped water had reached the confines of this village of five hundred people living in approximately one hundred houses.

Nani was in her middle sixties when I was conscious enough to register lasting impressions. She was a diminutive lady with twinkling eyes and a face full of grace and compassion. She was fair, which in our parlance meant a shade between white and wheat color. Her usual dress was a white sari with a black border, but occasionally I saw her wearing a shelwar-chemiz with a white dupatta (a long scarf that covered the head). A silver bangle on both wrists, gold earrings in her ears, and a gold pin topped by a tiny diamond in her nose showed her credentials as a middle-class landowner in a relatively less developed province of India. A silver toothpick in the shape of a dagger about two inches long always hung around Nani’s neck. She was obviously fond of jewelry, but the toothpick caught my attention the moment my eyes fell on it. Her warm embrace accompanied by cheek-to-cheek contact, though embarrassing at first, was something I welcomed with all my heart.

After taking the burqa and bag that Ammi (our mother) was carrying, Nani embraced her and had a quick exchange of words with her. Her expression of joy in talking to Ammi was tinged with anxiety.

I thought you would be wearing a new sari and a new pair of shoes, Nani said. Also, you appear to have lost weight, which makes you look haggard.

Ammi quickly responded, I will be all right. It has been hard lately, but there is nothing to worry about. You know I have to run the house, however difficult the circumstances are. And with that she ended further discussion of the subject. (The section entitled Our Mother, below, describes Ammi in detail.)

Nani had a good look at all five of the siblings one by one, and she proceeded to pick up Nadra, who was around five years old at that time. Being the only girl child in the family, Nadra always got more than her share of attention. Afterward, Nani grabbed and tried to lift me, but she soon gave up.

You are already too heavy for me. Dense and solid as you are, I’m afraid you might turn into a fearsome bull by the time you are finally grown up, she said.

Our arrival once a year energized Nani into a bustling woman who had immense resources at her command. Indeed, she kept five or six kinds of confections and preserves ready in advance. We gorged upon the preserves, pasted thick on paratha or naan, several times a day, and we would go down to the pitch-dark pantry and grab a handful of cookies from glass or ceramic jars. Farm workers, mainly women, brought Nani different kinds of tropical produce—dates, coconuts, mangoes of different varieties, guavas, corncobs, groundnuts, sweet potatoes, and sugarcane—and we were free to consume as much as we could. A relatively small landowner, Nani was nevertheless able to lead a comfortable life.

A Well in the Courtyard

An open well about five feet in diameter dominated the courtyard of Nani’s house. Although the water came up to ten feet from ground level, the well itself was more than twenty feet deep. The concrete rim around the brick-lined well was about a foot high. For an eight-year-old boy coming from a town where open wells or even covered wells were hard to find, the first sight of an open well in the middle of the small courtyard was a bit scary. Any child or adult who accidentally fell into it might drown as there were no brackets or hooks in the circular wall that one could hold on to and climb up. In a few days, however, after the initial fright was over, and realizing how useful the well was, I was the one who peered down it once or twice every day to wonder at the changing landscape of the sky reflected in the water.

If an open well in the house was an unpleasant surprise, the sweet scent of a twining creeper called raat ki rani (queen of the night) running up the wall in a corner produced the exact opposite effect; its wafting fragrance slowly filled visitors with joy. A lattice made of bamboo sticks leaning against the wall near the drain (the outlet for used water from the well) provided support for the shrub. Tubular in shape, the creamy white flowers exuded a much stronger fragrance after sunset. On a moonlit night, with fireflies flitting in all directions, raat ki rani created an enchanting environment worthy of a fairy tale.

The Big Well and the Pond

A large open well lay just around the corner outside Nani’s house. Twenty-five feet in diameter and brick lined, the well was surrounded by a broad brick and mortar platform. Although the platform was inclined slightly downward, the rim of the well itself was only an inch or so high. Folks from the village having no wells of their own came there to fetch water, and some men and women washed clothes or bathed on the brick platform. During prolonged heavy rain water overflowed the well in all directions, inundating it completely so that it disappeared from view within twenty minutes. As the well had no roof or cover it was terrifying to imagine what might happen if, during a rainy day, someone from the surrounding area, not realizing that the big well was there, just fell into it. A few days after our arrival it rained for hours, which gave me the opportunity to watch the whole process of inundation with consternation from a window in Nani’s house. To everybody’s relief the contours became visible again half an hour after the rain had completely stopped, but it took several hours for the water level in the well to come down to its normal depth.

Another prominent landmark was the big pond outside the village, about half a mile from Nani’s house. This all-weather oval pond, measuring about two hundred yards on the longer side, was quite deep, but some spots along the margin were used for fishing, bathing, or washing clothes. Young men of the village practiced their swimming skills in the pond, with a few of them becoming so adept that they had no problem swimming in the Ganges when visiting Bhagalpur or any other town on the banks of the great river. The pond was surrounded by tall palm trees with the exception of one segment on the south side where a few mango trees stood in a thick cluster. The palm trees could be seen from a mile away.

The southeastern part of the pond was closest to Nani’s house. Five large and dense mango trees formed a U around the curve and cast a deep shadow on the water, moderating the intensity of heat in that quarter of the pond. The bank in that part was like a curving platform slightly tilting forward and was, therefore, ideal for visitors wishing to recline on the grass and enjoy the view. Resplendent with hundreds of floating flower plants known in Urdu as kanwal (kamal in Hindi, or water lily or lotus in English), this was the most beautiful part of the pond. Rising above circular or elliptical leaves eight to ten inches in diameter, most of the flowers were rosy pink with a bit of white near the stem. A few white and violet lilies added to the beauty of the scene. The number of petals on most of the flowers varied from fifteen to twenty, but some had a much larger number, making the top so heavy that the stem would tilt to one side. As if responding to the call of Sun-God the kanwal flowers would rise six to ten inches above the water at sunrise, spreading their colorful petals around dainty stems. The full blossoms would be on display all day long. At dusk the circular leaves would remain afloat, but the flowers would close and sink below the water. An element of wonder thus surrounded this loveliest and most graceful of Indian flowers.

Palm Trees

Among the many kinds of palm trees in and around Arha the most common were date palms, coconut palms, and palm trees that had leaves best suited for making hand fans, ropes, mats, and baskets. Amazingly, the taller variety of palm trees soared to a height of eighty or ninety feet. On windy days they swayed with confidence and simulated frenzy. Palm fruit, when ripe, was round and dark gray, six inches in diameter, with a hard outer skin. Yellow pulp similar to that of mango, but more fibrous and much stronger in smell, filled the space between the skin and the hard kernel.

A fluid known as tarri was collected in earthen pots hung around the top end of the palm tree just below the crown. The juice would start dripping when scales were removed and dents made in the trunk. When left to ferment overnight the tarri was transformed into an alcoholic drink liked by laborers and farm workers. No visitor could miss the fascinating sight of two or three earthen pots hanging from each of dozens of palm trees around the village. Viewing the scene for the first time I was transfixed by the nimbleness of a climber who reached the top of the tallest tree in just sixty seconds with no mechanical help but a fifteen-inch rope ring around his ankles; it acted as a step up when resting against the scale of the bark. The climber had a crescent-shaped knife with its short handle tucked under a tight scarf around his head, and a loincloth wrapped around his torso.

The goldsmith’s shop located next to Nani’s house was the focus of my boyish curiosity. The shop owner was an amiable Brahmin with a drooping moustache and, hanging from the back of his head, a lock of hair that was braided at the lower end. He opened the shop three days a week and always welcomed me as I walked by. He would ask me about my studies and throw in a few remarks about his own family, which had been living in the town of Muzaffarpur in north Bihar for the last four years. With riveted attention, I would watch the whole process of melting broken pieces of gold or silver jewelry: igniting the charcoal, bringing it to a red-hot level using the bamboo blowpipe as a tool, and placing the crucible on the fire. It was a fascinating sight!

An unsolved conundrum bothered my uneducated mind whenever I roamed the lanes of the village. How was it that one met very few people in the lanes or on street corners? Where were the young people as well as the grown-ups? Our Chotay Mamoo (mother’s youngest brother, Zarif Ahmed, five years older than me) emphatically stated that there was no mystery about it—the young boys beyond the age of ten wanting to continue their education, older boys and teenagers similarly aspiring to get higher education, and men seeking jobs for better livelihoods -- had all gone away to the towns and cities because facilities and opportunities were there and not in this insignificant, godforsaken village. I was depressed to hear Zarif Mamoo’s comments.

We spent a month at our Nani’s house almost every year. Like me several of my siblings were born in her house. Since my father was transferred every two or three years the village of Arha seemed like a nodal point in the geography of our lives.

Our Mother

My mother, Asghari Khatoon, was born in Nani’s house in Arha in 1904. On her maternal side, she came from a Malik clan of Pashtun (Pathan) families whose ancestors had settled in Bihar