A 'Tryst with Destiny:' A Refugee Tale

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I’m a Global Nomad.  At first, it was my sassy teenage rebellion to condense a lifetime of homes in numerous countries into a brief response to the question, “Where are you from?”

I eventually realized however, that those two words don’t just express my individuality. They define my family’s history and represent our shared experience.

Two summers ago in Delhi, my grandfather found a faded piece of cardstock declaring his refugee status tucked amidst yellowing documents in a battered, brown leather briefcase.

It’s hard to imagine my grandfather as a refugee. He was the eldest son of a prosperous, landowning family in Takhat Hazara, a township about 120 miles from Lahore. My brother and I have often been treated to stories of an idyllic childhood: sleeping on woven mats underneath a starry sky, watching his female relatives dress themselves in layer upon layer of gold jewelry, and eating meals laden with fresh fruits and chapattis.

Then, in 1947, India broke free of the British Empire and awoke to her “tryst with destiny,” as Jawaharlal Nehru, the first prime minister of the independent nation, said.

The region of Punjab, the land of five rivers, was partitioned off to create Pakistan, an Islamic nation, leading to one of the largest migrations in history. More than 14.5 million Muslims and Hindus left behind their homes to cross into a land that offered them religious freedom.

My grandfather was 20 years old and a Hindu residing in the new Pakistan. Along with an uncle, he concealed the family wealth in-between the stairs and behind bricks in the walls of their ancestral home and began a reluctant journey into India.

The population exchange was chaotic. Neither nation was prepared to deal with the floods of people. Violence ensued on both sides of the border. My grandfather and his uncle walked part of the way till they were able to board a train that pulled into the station in New Delhi, their new home.

It was months before their entire family was reunited; their status, wealth and identity tumbled away on the trek to their new land.

Unlike most refugees who flee their homeland to become shadows in an adopted country, my grandfather migrated to India to embrace his people. He believed—and still believes—that India had the potential for a triumphant destiny; that sometimes, you need to move to find out where you really belong, regardless of the sacrifice.

My grandfather and his family always assumed they would return to Pakistan, that two separate nations was a temporary disruption. I have left many homes myself-- in Riyadh, Jakarta, Paris and Beijing—and each time I too need to hold onto the hope that I will return to that ideal setting.

In the act of moving, I rediscover a bit of my innocence. The moment the suitcases are packed and the keys placed in an envelope, every negative memory of that physical place is erased. Mimicking my grandfather in his tales of Takhat Hazara, the clouds become the most robust clouds in the world, the smells the most vibrant, the people the happiest. In my mind, there settles a sense that I will never be as content as I was in that place.

As an immigrant family, we experience both sides of our nomadic nature: the past is blissful and secure, but we keep searching for that place that will awaken us to our destiny.