Kalu Ram and his cycle
THE partition of the country saw much bloodshed and many harrowing tales have been narrated by those who had to leave their lands and settle elsewhere. There were, however, some heartwarming stories of compassion. This is one such tale.
The sun was setting one October evening. After getting off a tonga at Basti Danishmand in Jalandhar, my grandfather, Sardar Jawahar Singh, started walking briskly towards his house in Gakhal village. As Sardar Sahib (whom we addressed as Bapuji) was walking along the sandy path, he heard soft footsteps behind him. He looked back and found a boy, barely seven to eight years old, clad in a dirty kurta salwar following him. The child froze. No words were exchanged. Bapuji resumed his walk. The boy followed him. When Bapuji reached home, the child was right behind him. By then, the lamps in the house had been lit. Taking pity on the boy, my granny, the lady of the house, whom we addressed as Maaji, ushered the boy in. He was given a meal, which he devoured quickly, and a mat to sleep on in the deori (common hall of the house). No words were exchanged till next morning. The boy apparently had separated from his group while his caravan was migrating from Pakistan. He knew little else. The boy had a lean frame and a vacant gaze. He spoke after much coaxing. His Jhangi dialect indicated that he belonged to Sindh. He didn’t remember his name. Despite being fair and rosy, he came to be called Kalu Ram.
Jalandhar had nine hamlets or bastis, including Danishmand, Bawa Khel, Sheikhan, Mithu and Guzan, largely inhabited by the Muslim population. During Partition, the Muslim population migrated westward, leaving their homes vacant. These were later occupied by many refugees from the other side of the border. Bapuji visited many refugee camps in different bastis in search of Kalu Ram’s family, but had no luck. The boy was finally adopted by the family. Fed on regular rich farm milk and a nutritious diet, Kalu soon blossomed into a strapping young man. He ran errands for Maaji and helped Bapuji with odd jobs. Bapuji gave him a ‘phatti’ (wooden notebook), ink pot and ‘kalam’ (wood-sharpened pen) and tried to teach him Urdu and arithmetic, but Kalu was not interested in studying.
He must have been around 12 years old when he requested Bapuji to help him set up a cycle repair workshop under the village banyan tree. Once his enterprise was set up, Kalu Ram’s hard work and keen business acumen started getting him many customers. He shifted his enterprise to Basti Adda in Jalandhar city when he felt he would get more clients if his set-up was closer to a transport hub. The place was well connected on all sides and rickshaws would bring passengers from the narrow lanes of the Jalandhar city interiors to Basti Adda, from where the horse-drawn tongas would take on. Kalu Ram would leave early and return late. This went on for a few months. It was quite taxing but the effort was showing its results and his enterprise started doing well. With some financial help from Maaji and Bapuji, Kalu Ram started living in a rented room near Basti Adda.
Every alternate week, however, he would cycle back to the village. He would spend a day with my family and return to the Adda that evening carrying a bagful of farm produce on his cycle, which had been loaded with much affection by Maaji. This would sustain him till the next visit. His hard work and entrepreneurial skills helped Kalu Ram establish his business very well. A few years later, as he sat beside my mother, he said, “Chhaijee, main hun iss kabil ho gaya ki apna pariwar shuru kar sakaan (I am now capable enough to start my family).” My mother said he should get married. “Eh kamm taan tusan he karouna (This task is in your hands),” retorted Kalu Ram. We sought the help of a Hindu village pandit to find a match for him. Kalu Ram got married and became father of three sons. While one son joined the Military Engineering Services, with some assistance from my father, another one became a teacher and the third son took up his father’s trade, which had started flourishing.
From cycle repair to cycle sales to a welding plant and manufacturing school furniture, things started looking up for Kalu Ram’s family, but even as he prospered, he never forgot his humble beginnings. On our visits to the village during my father’s annual leave, Kalu Ram would come to meet us at Basti Adda. He would serve us lemon soda at his shop and load us on to a tonga. If there was any heavy luggage, he would hold it back and have it delivered the next day. He would visit us the following Sunday, spending the entire day regaling us in Jhangi accent.
For us, Kalu Ram was family. When my father, Col Gurmohan Singh, retired in 1972, we set up a farm closer to Basti Danishmand. Every Sunday morning, Kalu Ram came cycling in his spotless white kurta salwar and a matching white-starched kulla turban with a long trail, his rosy cheeks flushed by the cycling effort. He would draw a peedi (stool) by my mother’s side and give her his family’s update. After lunch, he would take a round of the farm and collect fresh produce. Though my mother never asked him for anything, on his own he would make a piece of furniture that would help my mother in her kitchen management. That piece of furniture came strapped on the carrier of his cycle.
Some years later, his wife passed away. My parents went to attend the last rites and console Kalu Ram. As he aged, Uncle Kalu Ram’s visits became fewer. Though his family had a car, he would always visit us on his cycle. We would say to him, “Uncle, car tey aaya karo (Uncle, you should come in a car).” To this, his humble reply was that this family gave him the beginning which was a cycle, how could he come riding in a car. About a decade back, Kalu Ram passed away. The unique bond that Kalu Ram and the Gakhal family developed was all thanks to the Partition.
— The writer is based in Panchkula
