70 years ago, my great-grandmother called Patiala, home.

The city of glittering palaces and crumbling ruins,

Dotted with temples, mosques and mausoleums,

It has a charm of its own.

Fast forward 30 years on, and home was no more.

Bodies upon bodies lay strewn on the roadside.

My Nani Ji, packed her bags and fled the city,

Leaving a plethora of memories behind.

Descended from the Mughals,

My Nani Ji had royal blood in her veins.

She settled for endless summers and the desert winds,

A stark contrast to those of Patiala.


Two of those on either side of the fence,

Yet this one felt different.

Dusky-skinned people in robes of all colours whizzed past her,

Here they spoke in foreign tongues,

Not Punjabi,

Neither Urdu.

Nani Ji soon learned that it was called Sindhi.

These roads were unfamiliar.

Eons ago, trodden upon by men of God,

Searching for the ultimate Truth.

Dervishes once swayed in its very streets,

And saints were laid to rest in its grounds.

From a Syed to a Bhatti,

From a Mughal to a Sufi,

From Patiala shalwar to Sindhi ajrak,

From Ravi to Indus,

And from the gardens of Patiala to the deserts of Hyderabad.

With love, from home to another home.

India  Religion Hindu Muslim Conflict  1947


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