The Whispering Memories

By Shyam Kumar

The Whispering Memories is a brief reminiscence of struggleful life of me and my family.

This book also narrates an unforgettable memory of a horrific night of the chilly month of January when all five members of our family including one year old infant were made hostages and we three persons were stabbed in the stomach by the three masked robbers around 3 a.m. at our rented house. Our hands were tied while the blood was oozing out of our bodies lying faces down on the floor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Oct 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9789356677937

Shyam Kumar

Shyam Kumar, the youngest sibling of one brother and five sisters, was born on 5th December 1945 in Multan (now in Pakistan). After partition of India in 1947, his entire family migrated as refugees to Delhi as refugees where they had to spend a few nights on footpaths opposite the Old Delhi Railway Station till the hunt for a shelter was over. He had his schooling at government schools in Delhi and graduation from the University of Rajasthan, Jaipur. He joined New Delhi YMCA where he worked for 35 years. During this period, he authored a novel – The Last Dawn, published in 1999 and a story book in Hindi – Jheel Ke Us Paar, published in 2021.

Book preview

Preface

After bifurcation of India when we migrated from Multan to Delhi, I was around one and a half year old, who along with my family became refugee in my own country post partition in 1947. Multan and Karachi were parts of India pre-partition. If someone is forced to leave the city of the newly formed country where he has been living for years and settles down in other city which was a part of that country, how is he considered as a refugee? I do not understand this logic?

Our family belonged to the Kumhars caste, a caste of potters, lately known as Kumars. But I don't find in my last three generations right from my father, grandfather – Dwarka Das to great-grand father – Balbu Ram , involved in any pottery making activities. I don't know how did we get this identity of Kumars. My father, Nand Lal Kumar was a well settled and very popular person in his native place Multan having a good business in Karachi and Multan. But after migration, he lost his identity. He had to struggle to survive with a family of seven persons, including four ladies, having no work, no money and no house to live. Making a new nest was difficult. He tried to earn some money by selling hosiery items sitting on the roadside close to our one-room house before he got a job on a meager salary for working ten hours a day. He walked all the way from Sadar Bazar to the narrow lanes in Chandni Chowk and back covering about eight kilometers both sides.

After we all settled down in our new home, my third sister Phool Devi got married in a very simple ceremony to Uttam Chand ji, our brother's friend who had also migrated from Multan. I was too young to remember that happening. My other school going sisters – Darshan Di and Kama-la Di were of great support to me. I daily went with them to a government school for my primary classes covering about one and a half kilometer distance on foot each way passing through dingy colony of weavers and potters. After returning from school, my sisters would help mother in doing odd works like labeling the thread spools, removing shells of almonds or cashew-nuts etc. to make some extra money for running the house. When I grew little older, I also participated in those activities. I did not have any time to play with children in the neighborhood after school hours. Our only aim was to assist our father in running the house. Therefore, I did not have any friend and could not develop friendship with anyone. I have been a loner since my childhood.

After completing their school education, Darshan Di did diploma course in embroidery and tailoring. Later she joined the training centers in Rajasthan villages run by Uttam Chand Ji to promote his business of ‘Uttam' brand sewing machines among the women folks who were given tailoring lessons by Darshan Di. In the coming years, she married to Dr. Surendra Paul Juneja in Jaipur itself. Kamala Di joined Teachers' Training Course and she also became part of a government school at Bairath, a village in Rajasthan. But she left that school after a few years when her marriage was arranged in Delhi with Prem Prakash Mitra, an employee in Income Tax Department.

My fate also drove me to Rajasthan. On the advice of Uttam Chand Ji, I went to Jaipur to seek admission in an Engineering College where I was found eligible only for the training of a motor mechanic, which I was not interested in. I joined Agarwal College near the Central Jail of Jaipur for my graduation course, where I performed very well and was in good books of the professors and colleagues of my faculty. Here, I happened to meet Krishan Bhatia, a chatterbox in the college, who became my best pal and the only friend in my life whom I can boast of. We are in touch with each other even on this day.

On returning to Delhi post-graduation, after a long wait I got job in a shop dealing in car parts on a meager salary and later joined YMCA. My working assignments mostly kept me away from home at least for 12-13 hours in a day. Whenever I got some spare time, I was busy with reading books or writing something which later transformed into a novel and short stories. I had some romantic and emotional span of life with a girl, whom I met in YMCA and wanted to marry her. But my family was not in favour of it because she was a South Indian girl and not from our Punjabi community. On 20 September 1974 I tied the knot with Shakun, whom I had never met before and she became my life-partner and soul mate. My life changed after her arrival. My house started turning into a home. Within five years we became proud parents of two children – Rajat, born on January 1976 and Shaurya on September 1979. Shakun was three months pregnant with Shaurya when my mother passed away in March 1979. After demise of Ma, the entire responsibility of running the house fell on Shakun and she handled it very efficiently. On working days, due to my duties at Y and part-time job at Kashmere Gate, I could not be of any help to her. But on my off days and holidays, we went out for shopping or outings with kids.

During midyear of 1981, we left our house of Sadar Bazaar, which was a world for me and my family for more than thirty years and moved to a rented flat in Pushp Vihar near Saket. Soon I purchased a one-room flat on 3rd floor in Triveni, Sheikh Sarai-II, a newly developed colony just a kilometer away from Saket. Here, my father, who had stopped going to his work place because of the commuting problem going all the way to Chandni Chowk and back having a distance of about 15 kilometers each way by bus, was a great help for Shakun in handling the household chores like folding laundry clothes or cutting/peeling vegetables for lunch or dinner etc. Due to availability of limited public transport facility, it was difficult for me also to go to office. But it was a nice, well planned and peaceful place to live, particularly for the children who had large parks to play and enjoy. Shakun's parents' house was only 4 kilometers from our residence and was very convenient for both the families to visit each other frequently.

Shakun is a homemaker in real sense. Not only she had been taking good care of school going children, but is excellent in cooking and an expert in knitting also. We still are using these pullovers, socks, mufflers and gloves knitted by her in different pattern and colours.

When both of our children grew older and finished their studies, they became busy with their own lives. We two are left alone to look after each other. She is my life-support, guide and care-taker. I have no match with her. Like every married couple, we also have arguments, disagreements and fights over some issues. But we always share with each other every happening in our daily life.

To conclude, I will like to say that ‘The Whispering Memories' should not be taken as an autobiography. It is a simple story of my memories and experiences. Whatever I have written in this book is based on my personal feelings and I have no intention of hurting anyone. If someone feels so, I apologize for that.

_________:0:__________

1

MAKING A NEW NEST

It was a cold late evening of December. I don't know the year, as I was too young to remember the calendar. It might be 1955 and I must be around ten-year old at that time. I was fast asleep on the bare floor in our one-room apartment on the second storey of a very dilapidated building. One of the underneath wooden beams of the floor was broken and hence the portion where I was sleeping was tilting downwards. Electricity was a rare luxury during those days in Delhi. So my parents used to have kerosene lanterns for light during the night.

There was a dim light emanating from the lantern at far end of the room. Suddenly, I felt being dragged from the ground where I was in sound sleep. It was my sister Kamla, who was pulling me out of the room. She was shouting, ‘get up Shyam, get up.' Her voice was trembling. I opened my eyes and staggered on my feet and ran out with her. There was a severe earthquake. The entire building was shaking. Many had run down in the open. Those who could not, were standing in the corners of the building. We both joined them as there was no time to run two flights down the street below. The darkness around was adding to the woes of the people. My mother and sisters along with neighbors were chanting, ‘Jal tu jalal tu, Aayee bala ko taal tu(O God, you are the Supreme and Great, please remove the oncoming danger).' All were frightened. When earth stopped trembling, the women, children and the elderly ones who were present in the building, gathered. Many of them went down to the street fearing return of the quake after sometime. My father had not returned from his job as yet. After an hour, everything became normal, but every one was still tense.

‘Thank God, nothing worse has happened.' Said Kamla to mother in a somber voice,' I was worried about Shyam. The place he was sleeping, anything could have happened.' We came back to our room.

My grandfather, who was an asthma patient, slowly walked towards his bed and lied down coughing. Ma – my mother gave him a glass of water. Soon, he went to sleep. Ma prepared Angeethi – a coal filled multiutility burner made of clay and iron frame which could be used for cooking and warming. We all – my grandmother, Ma, my two sisters and me sat around the angeethi to get some relief from the chill.

On December 5, 1945 I was born in a Multani family of Kumhars in Multan, a province in undivided India (now in Pakistan), as Komal Krishan, a name given by my grandfather who was excited to have me as the youngest addition in the family. But shortly, my brother Dina Nath gave me a new identity as Shyam Sunder. Now, we were two brothers – one Dina Nath, the eldest and other me, the youngest among five sisters. Earlier, my sisters had in between two more brothers, but they died during their infancy. Ma used to tell us that one of the baby-boys born was a saint. He was born with a tilak on his forehead and bead-shaped marks around his neck. He had a divine glow on his face. He passed away after a month or so. It seemed that a holy man had come on earth just to complete his birth-cycle.

During the riots following Partition, Nand Lal Kumar, my father whom we addressed as Pitaji or Lalaji, was lucky to get a flight for Delhi from Multan along with his father, Dwarka Das Kumar, mother Shabbo Bai (I presume it must be the mutilated form of Shobha Bai), wife Khilo Bai, son Dina Nath, daughter-in-law Rukmini Devi, four of his five daughters –Bhago, Phoolo, Darsho & Kamla and two-year-old son Shyam, i.e. me. The airplane, which carried us to our destination - Delhi had no seats. All the seats were removed to accommodate, sorry, to stuff the maximum number of refugees on the floor of the plane as it was going to be the largest exodus following the Partition of a country, the world would ever know. At the time of takeoff, when the staircase of the plane was being disengaged, it hit the eye brow of infant Shyam. It started bleeding profusely. A doctor who was among the refugee- flyers came to my help. He applied surma, graphite used applying on eyes as cosmetic. Oozing of blood stopped, but it left a deep cut mark on my left eyebrow which still reminds me of the incident, which I have no remembrance of.

Our plane landed at Delhi from where our family proceeded to Jullundur (now Jalandhar), but on the way condition of my sister-in-law Rukmini who was in advanced stage of her first pregnancy got worsened. So, my brother, whom my sisters addressed as Kakaji, asked our mother to get down at Ambala along with him to get the medical help for his wife. Since I was an infant, I had to be with my mother. Kakaji took his wife to a hospital where she delivered a baby-girl who was named Kanta. We stayed at Ambala till the mother and the new born were able to travel to Jullundur.

We stayed in Jullundur, where Bua - my aunt (father's younger sister) Sita Bai lived with her husband, Chela Ram Mitra, son Bhagwan Das, and daughter Mitro. My uncle Chelaram was a commission agent in the mandi – a wholesale market for fruit and vegetables. My eldest sister, Sheelo Devi was also living in Jullundur with her husband, Roop Narain Bhagat and his family in a locality called ‘Garha'. It was a remote village with scattered mud-houses. My sister's house was a huge one having a large sitting room with high mud walls. A large hand-pulled pankha - a cloth-fan was fixed with a rod on two walls in the middle of the room. This pankha fitted with long ropes was pulled by a servant to provide cool air to the members of the house. Bhagatji, whose father was a Daroga, a police Head Constable in a town near Jullundur, was running a grocery shop in his locality and he helped my father in starting the same business.

I have some unforgettable memories related to this house. One was that Bhagatji was very friendly with children. He would play with them and at the same time would make funny face to scare them away. He would ask them to count the grey hair on his head and remove them. He was very fond of getting grey hair plucked by the children. Whenever he got such opportunity, he never missed it. Once, I came with Ma from Delhi to spend a few days with my sister in this house at Garha. I must be 6-7 year old. One afternoon, Bhagatji came home from the shop and he showed me a hand-held weighing instrument fitted with a hook on the top. He explained me how it worked and asked if I liked it. I was too young to understand the utility of it. Moreover, it was not a toy to play with. I did not know what to say. Still, he insisted me to keep it. He advised me to keep it safe in my belongings. I had my clothes in a canister, as instructed I kept the weighing instrument under the clothes. He warned me not to tell my sister about it. After a couple of days, he came along with Sheelo Bahenji and asked me to bring the canister of my belongings. I brought the canister and kept it before him. He opened it and took out the weighing-instrument lying under the clothes. He turned to Sheelo Bahenji saying, See, Sheelo, what your brother has done. I am searching for it and he has hidden it here.

Why have you done it, Shyam? She asked me. I was speechless. When I gathered some courage, I said, He gave me to keep it. But by that time, she had left.

My elder Bua, Memo Bai was settled in Hapur in Uttar Pradesh. Her husband Talya Ram Grover was a cloth merchant. They had a son Dina Nath, elder daughter Devi and younger daughter Sarla.

Both of my Buas believed in Vaishnav sect and were staunch followers of Shri Nath Ji (embodiment of Lord Krishna). They had a strict schedule of performing puja that lasted for hours and religiously practiced untouchability. They maintained a considerable distance from a shudra, such as sweeper or excreta-collector. If any such person accidentally came into contact with them, they would take a bath immediately on reaching home to purify themselves. Even the harsh winter did not deter them from this act. Many times, I witnessed such activities of chhoti Kaki when she was living in a katra of Chawari Bazar near Jama Masjid in Delhi or whenever she visited our house in Sadar Bazar.

My uncle, Dasu Ram, elder brother of my father lived in Gurgaon, a city of the then undivided Punjab State. Later this city, very close to Delhi, became a part of Haryana when Punjab state was divided into two having Chandigarh as the capital city of both the states. He was running a general store dealing in plastic items and was very frequently visiting Delhi to purchase the material for his shop from the whole sale market of Sadar Bazar. He would buy the material and dump it at our house to take it to Gurgaon next morning. His eldest son Mohan Lal was helping him at his shop, the second son Om Prakash was in the army and the youngest son Ved was a student. Uncle had three daughters. The eldest one was Kaushlya, fondly called Shallo, second daughter Laajwanti, nicknamed Laajo and Amrit, the youngest.

From my mother's side were her three brothers. My eldest Mama (maternal uncle) Behari Lal lived in a trans-Yamuna locality called Geeta Colony. His son Kesho Das was a lawyer by profession. For many years, during monsoon, they were evacuated from their colony and shifted to the temporary camps especially erected on the ground outside Red Fort. Every year during monsoon, the Yamuna River crossed the danger mark threatening the lives of the residents in low-lying areas. Therefore, it became an annual exercise of shifting from their homes to the camps for a couple of months when the monsoon was on its peak. My parents frequently visited them to enquire about their well-being.

Mama number two – Gobind Ram was a Hakeem, practicing in Ayurvedic medicines in Basti Harphool Singh, very close to our house in Sadar Bazar. He was our doctor just next door. Whoever in our family fell sick would rush to his shop for the treatment. He had lost his wife long time back. He looked very respectable in high ultra-white turban and thick, twirled moustaches. His only daughter Savitri was a deformed girl and her maximum height did not go beyond three and a half feet. But she was an excellent harmonium player. She used to give tuitions in harmonium and even participated in musical events. Darshan Di also learnt music and took harmonium lessons from her for a couple of months. She remained a spinster throughout her life. Her brother Jai Kishan was assisting his father in his profession.

I don't know the name of my third Mama whom I never saw as he had passed away long ago.