For many of us, the departure of the British and the longed-for independence of the subcontinent were overshadowed by the ferocity of partition. My recall is fragmented. Grouped round a boy waving a makeshift flag, a sudden rag-tag of urchins materializes on Warris Road. My brother and I rush out of the gates and, depending on the affiliation of the flag-bearer, our childish voices echo the words of the mobs. My father, who has never held a firearm, returns one afternoon with a long box.
Mother is skeptical, nervous.
Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs. To the left of our house on Warris Road is the whitewashed bungalow inhabited by Mr. Singh's extended Sikh family and their three water buffalo, which provide our daily quota of milk. The Singhs' children, Rosy and Peter, are our constant companions. Gradually the rioting subsides. By autumn 1948, with Pakistan just over a year old, the flood of refugees has shrunk to a nervous trickle.