Excerpt:
In January 1946, elections were held for the UP Provincial Legislative Assembly and my father won a seat as a Muslim League candidate. That same January the British government awarded him a knighthood.
These were happy events not only for the family and but also for the people of Baghpat, who rejoiced at the honours. We had been the landlords of Baghpat and the surrounding areas for over a hundred years and our relationship with the peasantry, the notables, and people of all religions and castes in the area remained one of mutual respect and cordiality.
Our countryside was inhabited by volatile Jats and Gujars, warrior races who could be lawless if not handled firmly My ancestors had subdued them, checked their criminal activities resolutely, and ensured that they lived within the parameters of the law. There are on record a number of testimonials from the British government dating from the time of the famous Indian Mutiny of 1857 and even earlier, expressing appreciation of the excellent service rendered by the family in curbing the activities of the marauders and looters who roamed the countryside with impunity.
In a vast area strongly dominated by Jats and Gujars, we, a small island of devout Muslims, defiantly stood our ground against all odds. We are Muslim Rajputs, a warrior race, and we hail from Kalanaur in the Rohtak district of Ambala division in the former East Punjab, now Haryana Province, where traditions and customs played a dominant role. Our names are usually prefixed with the word Rao. It is a matter of choice whether or not one uses this title; some still use it, others dont.
For generations, the religious concepts and beliefs of the family have been strictly Islamic, tied to the religious moorings of Deoband and Thanabhavan. However, our administrative role in general was of a secular nature in the sense that we dealt justly, fairly and honestly with everyone, regardless of creed, caste or political affiliation. Muslims were not unduly favoured and a low-caste Hindu, if he was in the right, was supported against a highborn Muslim, if he was in the wrong. The lesson we had learned at the outset was that no matter how hostile the populace and the territory, justice should be the prime factor in all dealings with the people and this remained the cornerstone of our policy.
On festivals such as Holi, Diwali, and Dussehra, group after group of villagers would come to pay their respects to my father, carrying baskets of sweetmeats, beating drums, singing, and dancing. They thronged our haveli, which became an open house for any and everyone, a tradition that went back for over a century.
The sighting of the Eid moon was a time of fun for us children, as conflicting reports poured in from far and near, until an announcement by All India Radio or the decision of the Imam Sahib of the great Jaama Masjid in Delhi concluded the matter. As there was no telephonic contact with Delhi, a man was specially sent by car to the Imam Sahib of the Great Mosque for his pronouncement.
Before the days of radios and cars, a relay of messengers on fast horses would be deployed for the job. On the eve of Eid, or Chand Raat, peasants from our villages would travel several miles through the night to the haveli, carrying large metal pots slung on both ends of long bamboo poles resting on their sturdy shoulders.
These pots contained milk and the men made sure they reached the haveli well before daybreak so that sheer could be prepared and served before Eid prayers. Maunds of sheer in enormous pans were set out for everyone to eat.
There were two direct routes from Baghpat to Delhi, as well as a narrow-gauge train service, which terminated three miles short of Delhi at a place called Delhi-Shahadara. There was a road on the UP side, which ran along the banks of the Jumna, and a canal road. Another crossed the Jumna by a boat bridge and continued for three or four miles before joining the Grand Trunk Road at Bahalgarh and thence traversing the Punjab. This route was two miles shorter than the road on the UP side and was my favourite as it took me on a journey through history. All along the route lay the ruins of famous landmarks dating back to the Indian Mutiny (or the First War of Independence as it is now known) and the Mughal era.
The Grand Trunk Road entered Delhi through the Kashmiri Gate. Here stood more historical sites of the Mutiny: massive ramparts and parapets, a reminder of the last stand of the beleaguered Mughal forces.
Ziaul Hassan, then almost 80 years of age, had been the manager of the estate since the time of my grandfather. It was he who told me the stories of the famous sites; he had heard them in his childhood from the aged warriors who had taken part in various battles in their youth. As a boy of eleven, I would listen to these tale with rapt attention. During the Great Mutiny, the troops from the Punjab under General Nicholson had assembled at Bahalgarh, and it was from here that they had marched on Delhi, playing martial tunes on their bagpipes.
On the UP side of the route, there was a long stretch of very fertile, flat agricultural land, about 15 miles wide, which ran approximately a hundred miles or more along the river Jumna from Delhi to Saharanpur. Haryana Province is clearly visible on the other bank of the river. There used to be a narrowrailway track on the farthest edge of this flat plain.
The train that once plied on this track from Delhi-Shahadara to Saharanpur had been owned by a British Company called Martin & Bum Light Railways. Its route lay through a thickly populated area, connecting small towns of great historical importance, which had witnessed the Muslims jihad against the British, before and after the 1857 War of Independence, in its most glorious manifestation. The famous townships of Thanabhawan, Shamli, Kandhla and Nanauta lie along the main line, while towns such as Deoband, Gango and Jhinjana are served by connecting roads.
It was here that brave men, tattered, underfed and poorly armed, but with the flame of Islam illuminating their hearts, fought numerous hand-to-hand battles against the colonists, finally over-run the enemys pickets and forcing them to retreat from the field. Rather than yield an inch they had preferred to die where they stood. These exalted martyrs of Islam lie buried in this lush green countryside with nothing to mark their graves, nor epitaphs to commemorate their feats.
Hazrat Haji lmdadullah Makki, who used to dominate this area and stood firm in his resistance to the British onslaught, migrated to Saudi Arabia when Muslim resources began to dry up in the changing environment. His disciple, the great Muslim luminary, Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi, accompanied Hazrat Haji lmdadullah in this hijrat. Maulana Thanvi however, returned to India on the orders of his mentor, to reorganise the madrasah and preach Islam with the same zeal and spirit as before. The other Muslims from this area had fanned out all over the subcontinent as well as to Afghanistan, Iran and Central Asia, to preach Islam and die in its cause.
Our entire family was devoted to Hakimul Ummat Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi. My father had the honour of being his disciple, while I, at the age of five, had the privilege of having my Bismillah ceremony solemnised by him. The exact date was May 15, 1939 (1357 Hijri).
He rests as he had wished, in a kutcha grave with no tombstone to mark it, in a small, serene orchard of beris (plums), about a furlong from Thanabhavan. Beside him is the grave of his first wife and nearby is a simple little mosque. I make a point of offering fateha here as many times as possible whenever I visit India. Thanabhawan is about 35 miles from Baghpat.
The narrowrailway track, once a feature of this area, has now been replaced by a broadgauge rail link. Modern developments have obscured the old-world charm of the area but a gentle, soothing breeze from the Jumna still blows over its verdant beauty, which survives yet due to the blessings of the great pillars of Islam who lie beneath the rich soil.
The Grand Trunk Road entered Delhi through the Kashmiri Gate. Here stood more historical sites of the Mutiny: massive ramparts and parapets, a reminder of the last stand of the beleaguered Mughal forces. I was fascinated by all that I saw, and whenever our car passed by, my father would ask the driver to slow down so that I would have a better view.
