What if, Pakistan was not Created

It is the 1950’s. The air of Hindustan is filled with sadness in this particular part of the country. The dream of Pakistan remains merely a dream. The war that had started has failed.  Muslims from all over Hindustan were thrown in this part of the country with Hindu leaders ruling over them. Mosques were only a small piece of land where people secretly met to pray. The call to prayer was a dream many wished to fulfil. Instead, the sun marked the time to pray. The wind blew with sadness and misery as the Muslims of Hindustan busied themselves for another day.
The ten-year-old boy forced his steps towards the main water tap carrying three pots at the same time. Saying his Salam to his age fellows in the queue, he stood in line waiting for his turn. The noon heat was scalding his naked back. His bare feet rubbed against the pebbles on the ground, ripping his skin apart. His ear length straight black hair was dripping with sweat.  Clenching on the baked mud pots in his hands he silently prayed for the queue to fall short. His stomach rumbled with hunger and he looked up at the sky begging God to fix things. 

He carefully calculated his steps trying hard not to drop the pot on his head. Yesterday, he had broken a pot. His mother was furious. Buying new pots required money and money was scarce. He felt the pressure run down his spine as he inched closer to home. His hands sore from the weight of the pots, his neck muscles stretched to hold the pot on his head for longer; his eyes filled with tears. He was more serious compared to children his age. He would stay up at night gazing at the stars and talking to God about his situation. His father was a passionate man who had tried to fight for Pakistan but had failed. He would often lie next to his father on the terrace and listen to him recite Iqbal’s poetry. He would listen to stories about Jinnah and Liaqut Ali Khan. His father was an educated man who was forced, like many others, to give up their education because he was a Muslim.

Entering the house, he greeted his mother and elder sister who were both ready to go to the neighbouring village to work as maids. His father worked as a labour in the fields owned by Hindu landlords. Combined, their pay was not enough to buy food three times a day.  They were not the only family suffering in hands of such a fate. Majority of the Muslims had a similar fate. 

Setting the pots safely on the floor, he hurried out of the house running towards the fields. His duty in the house was to collect water and feed and milk the cows. As a Muslim boy he struggled with the daily routine of washing the cows, collecting their urine and decorating the cows as the Hindu’s did. Reaching his usual spot his stomach rumbled with anxiety and his face turned pale. Sweat beads decorated his forehead as he scanned the entire place. The cows were missing. Clenching his toes and rubbing them against the soft grass, he groaned and let out a sigh. This was it. This meant nothing but more trouble for his Muslim community. 

Rubbing his hands together, he took baby steps towards the chief’s resting place. In the middle of the fields sat the Hindu chief’s chair with his sons and other members of the village sitting around him. Gulping, he walked towards the centre with shaky legs. All heads turned towards him. He could feel the venomous glare. They knew something was wrong. With the recent incident that had taken place, this really wasn’t a good time for the cow to be missing. The men of this village, including his father, had tried to build a mosque around the corner of the village. The chief had been really upset with them. He hand gotten the mosque demolished and had warned against any such activity. 

He stood in middle of the circle and explained to them what had happened.  The members of the council shrieked in horror. The blood on his face drained as the chief’s elder son stood up yelling at the boy for stealing the cows. In his defence, he began to explain that he was not involved in any way but was only shut away by the men. His heart began to beat faster and faster and he found himself sweating despite the wind. His eyes filled with tears as he heard the men accuse him of wanting to eat their Holy Cows. Without being given a chance to explain his situation, one of them grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the men. Twisting his arm, they threatened him to speak the truth. He felt the muscles of his stretch to a point where pain overwhelmed him and he shrieked in pain.  He didn’t know how to explain himself. 

Just as the pain was getting unbearable, the chief stepped out of the fields. His face filled with confusion, he questioned the course of actions. Upon hearing the excuse, he let the boy go urging him to be on time the next day. Because he was late, the chief had taken the cows for the daily routine himself. Shaking and scared, he thanked the chief and hurried to his home.

The above mentioned story is completely imaginary set in a time when Pakistan was not made. The purpose of the story is not to defame any religious party but is only a realisation of what might happen in case there was no Pakistan. As a minority in Hindustan, Muslims would have been treated as slaves and as outcasts bearing severe consequences in the first few years at least. This certainly does not mean that we do not recognize the social activists working in India for Muslims.

Amina Saleem

(3rd Prize Winner - Essay Competition,Walwala-e-Azadi Conference by Positive Pakistan.)