The inspector and the police were Mussalmans. The accused and their lawyer were Mussalmans. Our lawyer was a Mussalman. (All the Hindu lawyers had fled to India). The magistrate was also a Mussalman. He dismissed my father’s complaint and ordered the accused to be released forthwith. They went out of the courtroom jumping for joy.

We begged for protection. The magistrate sent for the Mussalmans and said, ‘You’ve got what you wanted. Leave the miserable kafirs alone.’ The inspector took more money from us to escort us back to Hadali. Constables were posted outside our homes for our safety. They also took money from us.

How could we continue to live in Hadali with one of our own flesh and blood being ravished a few doors away? Our womenfolk said they felt unsafe; when they came back from the well, the Mussalmans would wait for them and expose themselves. We complained to the policemen but they did nothing. One evening when a dust-storm was blowing we packed our utensils and quilts, loaded them on our buffaloes and cleared out of Hadali.

We travelled all night and day with hot sand blowing in our faces. We came to Sargodha and found the encampment where thousands of Hindus and Sikhs were waiting to go to India. Our buffaloes were taken away. For many days we lived on stale bread and pickles. Then soldiers came and put us in their trucks. They drove us to Lahore. We passed long lines of people on foot and in bullock carts. Those going our way were Sikhs and Hindus. Those coming from the opposite direction were Mussalmans. We saw many Sikhs lying dead on the road with their long hair scattered about and their bearded faces covered with flies. We crossed the Indo-Pakistan border. There were many more corpses along the road. From the shape of their penises I could tell they were Mussalmans. There were lots of women and children among the dead.

We were sent to a camp in Kurukshetra where more than 70,000 refugees were living in tents. For many days we did nothing except stand in lines for rations and talk to everyone we met. My mother cried all the time calling my sister’s name. Then officers came and told us that we must go and look for work. ‘What kind of work?’ my father asked them. ‘We were money-lenders. We have no money to lend.’ However he sent a postcard to a Sikh whom he had known as a boy in Hadali. This Sikh was said to have made a lot of money as a building-contractor and had been living in Delhi for many years. Two days later we got his reply asking us to come over. We took the train to Delhi.