I can still tell you the name of our village, in Pakistan. Pind Lagaran, Jila Sheikhupura. I know, by memory, our street and the location of our home. Ive sat in front of Google Map, for hours, and traced the steps my Bapu Ji must have taken to go to his fields. Ive cried over the fact that the only thing of value that my family took from their home was my Mama Ji, born in Gurdwara Sahib Sacha Sauda, named Gurbegh Singh. Named by my Nani Ji, because he was Sent by The Guru as a beacon of hope in a time where there was none. Ive seen the sorrow, and pride, when listening to my Mom tell stories of her grandfather. He was the Lambardaar of five villages. When he spoke, everyone listened. The most respected man from Lagaran to Nankana Sahib. When he died, in the Partition, they buried him as he was. They didnt dare remove anything of value from his person, out of respect for the man that he was. And my Masi Ji, she was just recently married when she died en route. ... Her Dola hadnt even left. She cannot tell me anymore, because her tears have overtaken her voice. These wounds are my familys inheritance, to be passed on from one generation to the next. Ive never been to Lagaran, but I cry every time I think of our home.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 21:34:54 +0000
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