Basant was in the air as we left the luxury of Lahore-Islamabad Motorway at the Kot Momin bypass and got onto a usual bumpy country road. It was well after sunset and the Moon was up to its glowing best. But we weren’t here for sightseeing, though that was a welcome bonus. Me and my fellow travelling companions were here for a ride back into nostalgia.
Accompanying me on my journey back in time was my wife and Mr Mohan and his wife Savitri. Both had come here from Canada and both hoped to see their childhood homes.
At that moment, we were approaching village Haveli Bahadar Khan, a village that comes before Kusik, Mohan’s birthplace. There was an eerie silence on the final few furlongs to the village. The kino orchard was fruitless and the fields of tall bamboo trees were pitch dark. Village folk had already had their supper, counted the cattle head in the barns and called it a day; just as it would have been 56 or even a hundred years ago. This was after all a typical village in Punjab.
To Mohan, a Canadian economist, the village and its objects took him into a past not so long ago. He recalls the old loonkee, a small wooden contraption with compartments to hold spices. As also noticed the phooknee near the chuhlas as he did the churkha (spinning wheel), the earthen pitchers and the peeries of various heights. I informed Mohan that the caste system still exists here and the ordinary folk aren’t allowed to sit at the level of the Chaudhries.
The village maulvi was also sitting on the floor. Mohan inquired if he knew Persian or Arabic. He did have some sense of Arabic but confessed to not knowing Persian. The older generation, which knew Persian, has passed away. Even the old classical Punjabi is fading away. But Mohan’s wife, Savitri still speaks the old Sargodha Punjabi that the village folk speak. In the meantime dinner had already been prepared for us; saag a simple daal, spiced with village made umb da achaar, mango pickle.
Haveli Bahadar Khan is self-sufficient in almost every aspect. It makes its own cloth, bedding, furniture and shoes. Of course, it has its own meat and dairy products. The one thing, however, that the village does not have is salt.
After the dinner we called Siddique the cobbler to guide us to Kusik, Mohan’s village. He is a paharia (mountain man), a title given to those locals who come from the hilly Potohar. Siddique gave us reasonably accurate instructions to reach there. He also talked about the Kataas Raj, the centuries old Hindu temple located deep in the Potohar Hill ranges and recalls that annual festival that used to be held there before partition.
The next day, we set off for Mohan’s village. We get off the motorway at the scenic Kalar Kahar which is famous for its water springs, peacocks and the inevitable local saint. The peacocks still live in Kalar Kahar forest because, as the folktale goes, there is a curse by the local saint on anyone who harms them. So no one dares hurt the peacocks.
As we headed towards Choa Saidon Shah the imposing structure of Kataas Raj became visible. The multi-storied temple has a lake at its base. Al Beruni had studied Sanskrit at the university here for two years and described the place in his book Kitab-ul-Hind. A plaque put up by some Jhelum Deputy Commissioner gives an idea of the history of the place.
En route to Kusik village the mountain roads kept getting smaller and the turns kept getting tighter. Mohan recalled that Kusik is on a hilltop and should be visible from miles. It’s amazing he remembers this since he left the place when he was only a year old. Sure enough, as we made the final mountain turn, there was Kusik on the hilltop, visible from miles around.
Next to a 50 to 60-house village, the temple is well fortified with an outer wall with see-through holes for defence on its three sides. On its back, the cliff it sits on, falls steeply. It is a unique quiet solitary place in the wilderness of the hills. The climb to the top is very steep and only a jeep could go up. During the pre-partition days, Kusik hosted the biggest market of the area. Guiar Khan and Choa Saidon Shah were then only small insignificant villages. Local shepherds talk of the days when Khatrees, living in Kusik, were rich and controlled the entire business of the area. Mohan’s father was in the British Army and the old village folk knew of Mohan’s family. Alas the original houses are no more there.
Compared to tracing Mohan’s childhood, it is much easier finding Savitri’s birthplace in Sargodha. The Kutchery Bazaar hasn’t changed much in the last 56 years. Still, finding Sita Ram Haveli in Block 5, through Sargodha’s winding lanes took sometime. The rickshaw driver told us that first turn left in the Kutchery Bazaar will take us to Block 5. We were soon there and searching for the Haveli. The famous Sargodha Sahnis also had a house near Savitri’s house, as she recalled. Though we found the Sahnis’ house, we still couldn’t locate Savitri’s.
We returned back to the street and began asking for the Sita Ram Haveli or the house of Kohli Wakil (lawyer), Savitri’s father, of the pre-partition days. Suddenly a man came running and said that he knows the Kohli Sahib and he is the third owner of his house. And the house behind us is that very house.
Savitri turned back and looked at the house in a speechless shock. Kohli Sahib must have built the house with great love. It was intact to the last brick. Even the wooden doors and almirahs (cupboards) were in an immaculate condition. No changes had been made to the house. Even the electric fittings were the same. Savitri immediately called her mother in Delhi and told her that she is speaking from her house. There seemed to be an overflow of emotions from both sides.
The present owner of the house took us on a tour and then invited us for lunch. We politely declined.
From Kusik, Mohan’s family had moved to Laylpur (now Faisalabad). The house is located next to the Agriculture University. Ironically, I was born in a house a few hundred feet from Mohan’s house!
Basant was in the air as we left the luxury of Lahore-Islamabad Motorway at the Kot Momin bypass and got onto a usual bumpy country road. It was well after sunset and the Moon was up to its glowing best. But we weren’t here for sightseeing, though that was a welcome bonus. Me and my fellow travelling companions were here for a ride back into nostalgia.
