HIJRAT WAS INEVITABLE

I am beginning to write this book with immense praise and gratefulness to Allah, the creator of the universe, and infinite salutations to His final messenger Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. You may think of this as a collection of memories, just like anyone else’s. I don’t feel it hard to admit that as a kid, I wasn’t too interested in studies and I used to play and wander a lot. In fact, I was a bit mischievous like any a typical child. I’m now known as a political and social activist as well as a public representative, but the truth is I have considered myself a common man all my life and never distanced myself from people even after becoming Karachi’s mayor. I never let any ‘protocol’ create a rift between us. Like any other individual, I am beginning the story of my life with the memories of my childhood.

My father, Abdul Shakoor Khan, was a clerk at the Railway Mail Service. He was soft-hearted but incredibly firm in his principles. He wanted his and children of other Muslims to be highly educated. He earned a salary of Rs100 but even then, he would dedicate himself fully to his job. He used to bring work home and be up till late. He would just smile when my mother objected to this routine. He always seemed worried and thoughtful about the political future of Muslims in India. Shafiullah Khan, Irtiza Ahmad, and Nabidaad Khan Awan were among his close friends. I had two elder sisters, Iqbal and Azizah and two younger brothers Aleem and Rauf. My father’s salary was disproportionate to our needs but my mother would run the house wisely and tactfully. I fail to understand how she was able to pay the rent and our school fees, provide for the guests, and take care of many other expenses with such a small money at hand. I was 9 when my father’s chronic illness Tuberculosis got worse. Upon his doctor’s advice, he moved to the shrine of Taga Syed in Ajmer to spend time in an open space. The shrine was located several kilometers from our home. I was tasked by my mother to deliver food to my father. There was a bit of a jungle in my way. I remember having to deal with hungry baboons, but I figured a way to tackle them after a few days.

Despite medical treatment, remedies, and precautionary measures, my father’s condition continued to deteriorate. He moved back home once doctors told him they were unable to cure the disease. Afterward, the way my mother and sisters attended to him can only be rewarded by Allah. One day, I was playing outside when one of our relatives came and scolded me for not being with my father while he was on his last breaths.

The next moment, I was standing near him with tears rolling down my cheeks. With pain visible on his face, he asked me to come near him, held my hand, and asked me in a measly voice to recite Surah Yasin which I did. He passed away shortly after. Our world suddenly went dark. Everyone in the room was crying and I was silently staring at him. My relatives began to console me. After a while, his body was taken outside to begin the burial and I was left alone. I found myself crying and thinking about everything that he ever did or said. I was deeply emotionally attached to him despite his strictness. Sitting there, I began to revive my memories of him: Working late, being worried about our education, and thinking of Indian Muslims. I felt losing a soothing shelter in an instance.

I was born in Ajmer on October 1, 1930, but a new beginning was waiting for me in my ancestral town Shahjahanpur. Both of my maternal and paternal relatives hailed from the same town. My paternal grandparents died before I was born. My maternal grandfather Raza Ali Khan had also settled there after retiring as an inspector. The real name of my maternal grandmother was known to a few. She was fondly called ‘bi amman’ and I did the same. My mother had two brothers, Fida Ali Khan and Yousuf Ali Khan, and as many sisters. Two of my father’s elder brothers lived with us in Ajmer. Hafiz Ahmad Noor Khan was a railway employee and Muhammad Noor Khan worked at Mayo College. My father also had an older step-brother, Iradatullah Khan. People used to call him ‘dada’ because of his authoritative personality. Besides a younger brother, Abdul Suboor, he had two sisters. Despite my lack of interest in education, my father had earlier gotten me enrolled in Islamia High School. We used to walk a mile to the campus. I started to walk alone once I understood how to reach there. In a class of 25, Muslim students were in the majority. Class teachers would teach the courses, taking to task anyone who failed to memorize the lessons.

I enjoyed buying snacks with the ‘ikanni’ given by my mother. Today’s youth might not know about ikanni. It meant one ‘aana’ and 16 aanas made a rupee. I had quite a small group of friends at the school but I was close to Askari Taqvi, the former provincial environment minister. A long time after the creation of Pakistan, I met him in Karachi at a civil service exam. We were both stunned to see each other. I approached him with an exam book in my hands bearing my name. He asked, “You are, Naimatullah?” My response was no different. “And you are Askari Taqvi?”

But these friendships, playfulness, and leisure activities – a time free of worries – all came to a grinding halt after the demise of my father. My grandfather took us all to Shajahanpur, and we had the first floor of his house to live. The shops at the front portion of the house were a strong source of his income following his retirement, and he utilized them to fulfill our financial needs. My mother, who was only 30 at the time, got enrolled in a municipality school in Shahjahanpur and studied up to the middle level. She then joined the same school as a teacher for a monthly remuneration of Rs15. With that, not only our fees became payable, but other expenses eased too. I was in grade 9 when I met Charan Singh, and he inspired me greatly with his rebellious thoughts against the British rule of India. He left school to travel abroad so he could run a movement against the rule. This young man was later hanged for seeking freedom. I had no contact with him once he left school, so I couldn’t figure out what led the young Brahman man to such an ending.

Practical Participation in Pakistan Movement

Then came the general elections of 1946. Perception was rife that these would pave the way for an independent homeland for Muslims. As soon as the electoral schedule was announced, a robust campaign began. Karim Raza Khan was named for candidacy from the Shahjahanpur constituency. He used to live in our neighborhood called ‘Khalil Arabi’. Right after Maghrib prayers, the candidate and some other activists, some carrying a megaphone, would begin walking the streets while making announcements. It would take the shape of a rally as soon as a large number of participants converged at one point. I participated in these gatherings with great fervor, side by side with other youth. After every rally, people of the locality would welcome us with open arms and doors. These rallies kept us engaged most of the time, and I once spent four days outside of home. When I got back home, I found my mother really angry. She told me to set aside some of the rallies and pay attention to studies because the matriculation exams were just around the corner. Luckily, one of our neighbors, Sir Amjad, was a school teacher and tutored his students free of cost. His kind attention proved to be a lifesaver in the difficult situation. I managed to complete the course within two months somehow and sat in the exams. The results used to be published from Allahabad in a book-like gazette. I secured a third position. The election campaign had ended by then.

Meanwhile, uncle Hafiz Noor Ahmad came from Ajmer and told my mother about his intention of taking me with him so that I could learn typing and shorthand from a reputed institute and secure a job. She agreed. I started studying at an institute there and began learning shorthand. One day, while returning from the institute, I saw some boys in a nearby ground preparing to join a rally. I later found out that they belonged to the Muslim Students Federation (MSF). I ran home, put my books there, and rushed back to join them. When the program started, I approached MSF president Haroon-ur-Rashid and asked his permission to read a poem to the participants, which he happily granted. I took the dice and raised chants to the charged listener before I left.

The organizers invited me to another gathering scheduled to take place two days later. My enthusiasm had impressed Haroon-ur-Rashid quite a lot, and we gradually became so close that he left his three children with me when leaving for Hajj in 1950. On August 15, a night after the foundation of Pakistan, Hindus took out a procession to celebrate their nation’s independence. Their sole intent was to do something to stir unrest. They marched, beating drums and making noise, towards the temple which stood in front of the Ghanta Ghar mosque. Some of the participants announced that they would ring the bells in the temple. The Muslims were enraged after hearing this. I remember it getting quite tense by Maghrib prayers. The district administration soon got to know about the situation and sent police personnel to the scene in time. The Hindu leaders were promptly pushed back and told to keep silent. Seeing this, the Muslims who had gathered there dispersed.

For me and other youths, Pakistan was like a beautiful dream that became a reality after a massive struggle. We heard the news about intense clashes in various areas and began to prepare ourselves mentally and physically for hijrat. My mind was not very clear at the time, but I knew that migrating for a job, business, or education is simply called migration while leaving one’s neighborhood or country for the sake of Islam is hijrat. Those who do so never go back, meaning myself and others were going to be in Pakistan forever. Haroon had already left for Pakistan. I made up my mind to go alone. I thought about sharing my plans with my mother and siblings who were still in Shahjahanpur and would travel later, but I didn’t because I thought that they wouldn’t let me travel alone.

I contacted Haroon’s mother and found out that she was preparing to leave for Pakistan as well.

When I spoke to her about what I was thinking, she gladly told me to come along, bringing much relief. We reached the Ajmer station with minimal baggage. One of my father’s Hindu friends saw me and told his companion, “Look, he is Naimatullah, our Abdul Shakoor’s son.” Such a show of affection rendered me speechless and left me thinking, “humanity is still alive.” They helped facilitate Haroon’s mother, other women, and kids into the ladies’ compartment. As for me, I had no ticket or money for the journey. They used their contacts to get me seated in the red RMS compartment of the mail service. I felt like a parcel that knew no destination. Where will we reach in Pakistan and find shelter? What will we eat? I found myself completely unable to answer these questions!