here is a well that runs deep in this narrow valley, shadowed by conifers caressing an endless sky. A lone cow, dun against the red soil, loiters in the vicinity, grazing on lush green offerings of nature’s bounty. The silver bell around her neck tinkles softly, a counterpoint against the cawing of ravens and the melody of myriad winged creatures. A stream runs here—red, like the soil it nurtures, nurtured by that same soil. The well does not feed on the red water of this stream; its bounty comes from within the earth, endless, like the sky above.
They say that this well never runs dry, that there is always an unending supply of sweet, fresh water, drawn from a deep reservoir cradled in the belly of the earth. Many times, the rain has failed this valley, forsaking the fragile ferns growing from the stone walls of some long-forgotten homestead – a temple, perhaps? A place of worship, a place of penitence, a place where water can cleanse the body, if not the soul?
They say there was a massacre at this place, near this well, near the stream which must have flowed even then, it’s water red with blood; red with false notions of atonement. There are no bones left here, no graves for those killed. Only the sound of that silver bell around the neck of the lone beast, only the many songs of birds flying above the soil of this tainted patch of bleeding earth.
There was another well, in the village where my father farmed, acres and acres of rich land fed by the canal separating the city of my birth from the borderland. That well, like many others, was filled with the bloated bodies of women and children killed by soldiers occupying the farm for a brief but bitter period in September, 1965. I was five years old, fresh off the boat from Cape Town, my mother’s place of birth. I saw the corpses; I smelt the stench of decay and despair. I felt the sadness in my father’s luminous, amber eyes as he surveyed the massive damage that had been done to his farm – crops burnt, machinery gutted, his simple house ransacked. Only one thing remained intact: a small, leather suitcase purchased during his time in London where he was posted as the Pakistan Army’s technical liason officer, and where my mother studied at the London School of Economics.
Inside this suitcase were four framed portraits of myself, my siblings and our mother. These had adorned the wall of the baithak of this haveli. My father had had our passport photos enlarged and framed and given place of honour in his home on the farm. Now, these photos lay packed neatly in this leather suitcase, a note scribbled hastily and placed on top of the case, a stone pinning it down. The note was written by the commanding officer of the forces that had occupied the farm for those brief but bloody days. It described the fact that in her photograph, my mother wore a sari, as she had from her adolescence onwards, carrying on the tradition of the women in her family. The commanding officer recognised my mother from her time in London, as the wife of a Pakistani military officer he had come to know and befriended. This officer had served with his High Commission at the same time as my father, and had chanced upon my parents at diplomatic dinners. He had taken the photographs down and placed them carefully in the suitcase, keeping them safe for my father to find after his farm had been all but destroyed.
This morning, I woke up to the boom of thunder. Last night, fighter jets raced across the sky in pursuit of ghosts who visit us in darkness. In the early morning light, half asleep, I could not discern whether this was the wrath of the heavens or of a war machine, bellicose in claims and counter-claims, arming itself with hatred and untruth. When I peered at the sky, I could see rain clouds, I could feel the cool breeze against my skin, reminding me that nature did not have borders, that war has no frontiers, that peace has no boundaries.
In the early morning light, half asleep, I could not discern whether this was the wrath of the heavens or a war machine, bellicose in claims and counter-claims, arming itself with hatred and untruth.
As I stepped into my garden, the birds were already singing, joyous, celebrating the coming rain. For a while I sat back and thought of the many wells that had filled with human bodies – women forced to commit suicide by fathers who would rather their daughters died before being assaulted and abducted by the enemy. I thought of the family in a small village in the Punjab who poisoned their daughter before locking her into their home on the eve of the violent rupturing of the subcontinent. That girl survived, and was looked after by the neighbours who saw her grow up into a fine, young woman. There were many other women, young women, whose fathers swung their swords against their necks so that they were saved from the threat of rape and murder. A dead daughter was, after all, in this strange scheme of things, better than a defiled one.
I hear now that some villages of Kasur, along the border, are being evacuated. I have been asked to shelter the daughters of several families. I do not ask why; fear runs in our blood. I ask about the livestock, where will they keep the animals, the cows and buffaloes and donkeys? Is anyone helping these people from the borderlands? There are no answers, only questions; only bitter resignation.
I think back to the time I saw death for the first time, sixty years ago. In order to protect the city of my birth, our forces had destroyed the bridges straddling the BRB canal. People were left with little recourse except to jump into the eddying waters, many drowning, children, the elderly, pregnant women. One farmer, entrusted with the livestock, stood at the edge of a narrow pipeline straddling the canal, his herd waiting patiently behind him. When he nudged an animal to cross the canal, stepping onto the foot-wide pipe, the animal refused, terrified of the swirling water beneath. Exasperated, the man brought the blind buffalo from the back of the herd and coaxed her to the edge of the canal. Feeling the pipe with her hooves, she stepped onto the pipe and slowly, surely, made it across, the herd following her. The blind animal could not see the treacherous flow of water beneath her hooves – she did what she could and walked to safety, leading the herd to the other side.
There are no wells in our villages today and no one wields a sword any longer.
Tomorrow the young daughters of several families I know will come to live with us here, in this neighbourhood where fighter jets have flown overhead, over the cloudy skies of this ancient city which once flourished with multiple communities living together, finding a way to accept our differences, celebrating that which makes us the same, our common humanity obliterated by notions feeding hearts poisoned with vitriol. Today, I will look for that note written by the commanding officer sixty years ago. It is a reminder that all is not lost, as long as humanity remains; as long as we recognise the human in one another.
In that valley, where the ancient well swirls with red water; in that valley, where a lone cow grazes without fear, the birds continue to sing in harmony. In other valleys, in cities devasted by other wars, mothers mourn the deaths of those who did not live to hear the melody of life, the song of hope, the rhythm of the earth, pulsing with possibility.
The author is a political economist, cultural heritage management specialist, filmmaker, teacher and writer.
