Spitfire Singh

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Spitfire Singh Page 40

by Mike Edwards


  The next day, Mountbatten’s aircraft left Palam Air Base in Delhi, just 40 days after it had arrived. This time it carried Lord Ismay with the plans for the division of India to be submitted to His Majesty’s Government. The Mountbattens had a bumpy trip by air to Ambala and an equally uncomfortable four hour journey up the twisting mountain track to Simla for another meeting with Nehru. All the advisors told the Viceroy he was mad to meet with Nehru, but when he told them that he intended discussing the partition plan with Nehru, and not with Jinnah, they told him that he risked civil war right there and then. However, Mountbatten had taken his own path several times in his military career, and did so once again. Calmly, Mountbatten slid the document over the dinner table telling Nehru to read it later. When Nehru was alone, back in his room, he scrutinised the text. The effect was dramatic as he exploded with rage on seeing the clauses arranged by Mountbatten. Any state could claim Independent status if the inhabitants so wished for it through a vote. Nehru could see this was an attempt to let Bengal and Kashmir become a separate entity outside of India.

  He stormed into the room of his friend staying next door. It was Krishna Menon, the man who had recommended Mountbatten to Attlee. Nehru exclaimed ‘it is all over’, but Menon preached calm. When Mountbatten heard the news in the morning of Nehru’s explosive reception to his plan, he felt the whole plan was disintegrating before him, and this was just as Ismay was offering the plan to the British Prime Minister! However, a combination of Menon’s counselling and the respect between Nehru and Mountbatten, led to an extra night at Simla which brought the two men back into discussions. Mountbatten gave all the ground to Nehru to keep the head of the Congress Party on his side. There, in Simla, described by Lady Mountbatten as ‘a hideous house, bogus English Baronial, Hollywood’s idea of a Viceregal Lodge’, the final plan for the partition of India was set. The regions of the North that were of Muslim majority, together with parts of the Punjab, would become West Pakistan. Bengal would be split, with the areas of a Muslim majority becoming East Pakistan. The new country of Pakistan would have one head, but two bodies, with no land connections between the two. The issue that so enraged Nehru was removed; the Indian provinces and princes would only have two choices; India or Pakistan.

  Harjinder had strived for a lifetime to achieve Independence, but he could never imagined the speed it would arrive at. The three party leaders announced on the 3rd June 1947, that India would be carved up into two sovereign states just two months hence. The unbelievable was happening in London as they watched Indian Independence moving from an unthinkable concept, to reality, in the blink of an eye. The Indian Independence Bill was drawn up in six weeks, incredibly thin, with just twenty clauses on sixteen pages; a model of conciseness and simplicity. Even Churchill labelled it ‘a tidy little bill’. On the 18th July 1947 when the bill arrived in the House of Lords for the final act, it had to wait its turn. The Clerk of Parliament read out the title of the first bill to be considered; the South Metropolitan Gas Bill. The next bill he came to was the Felixstowe Pier Bill. Then, after a household utility and seaside tourist feature, it was the moment that would place the British Empire in the history books. The Clerk of Parliament read out, to a hushed chamber; ‘The Indian Independence Bill’. The reply, with the ancient Norman phrase, seemed so innocuous; ‘Le Roi le veult’. However, the words of ancient Britain sealed the end to the modern British Empire. The path to the dissection of one country, with the formation of two new sovereign states was now a reality. The dissection was not to be carried out with scalpels, however, but with a pencil.

  This cartographical nightmare was to be the onus of one man, Sir Cyril Radcliffe, a man who had never before seen India. A potent combination of the New Delhi summer, and the dubious task of having to draw up a boundary that would determine the fates of million, drove Radcliffe to seek solace in the hills of Simla – he escaped his green shuttered bungalow in Delhi, and moved into the splendid Viceroy Palace at Simla.

  The difference in accommodation was astounding, even if it wasn’t to Lady Mountbatten’s taste. The tall arches of the high ceilinged first floor were topped off by smaller arches on the second floor, which provided the balconies for the top floor, giving the building a whiff of Versailles. On one side, an octagonal turret jutted up a further level, topped with the ornate roof and splendid weather vane that called to mind Germanic great houses. The square, Norman-like tower on the opposite corner seemed like it belonged to a world of fairy tales and magical kingdoms, but Radcliffe felt no magic as he spent day after day hunched over his table. On top of the loathsome job of drawing lines on maps, he had suddenly been presented with an unbelievably short timescale. Every day he was drawing 30 miles of frontier, basing it on the few documents he had been provided with. At first, he tried to clear his mind by venturing out but he was constantly showered with requests to place this village in India or that area in Pakistan. Eventually, he locked himself away and lived with only his maps, his books and his pencil for company. There was no time to visit the villages whose names flashed past on the maps. There were no walks in the fields marked as open spaces on his maps. He knew, but could not see, how the lines would separate a farmer from his fields, a village from its well or the thousands of family members divided by a hitherto unseen border. Then there was the problem of Lahore. He was supposed to be splitting the country on religious grounds but Lahore was evenly split. It was surrounded in the immediate vicinity by mainly Muslim areas but with the solidly Sikh city of Amritsar only 20 miles away floating in a sea of Muslim townships and hamlets. Could he place Lahore as a separate enclave? The beautiful, and strategically important, state of Kashmir was an issue of even more immense proportions; was it to be part of India or Pakistan? Sir Cyril needed guidance.

  Kashmir bordered China, Tibet, India and Pakistan, but with an overwhelmingly Muslim population, the obvious choice was that it be linked to Pakistan. All that was required was for the Maharaja, Hari Singh, a Hindu, to accede his principality to Pakistan, and all would be in order. Lord Mountbatten was now franticly trying to pull the thousands of untied ends together. He had known the Hindu Maharaja since they galloped together across the manicured polo field at Jammu during the Prince of Wales’s visit. The Viceroy arrived with all the splendour of a state visit, in an attempt to sway the dithering leader. Mountbatten intended to affix Kashmir to Pakistan and he brought Hari Singh the news from Jinnah, that the Maharaja would be given an honoured place in the new dominion. The dust from the horses’ hooves was still to settle and notes from the blaring trumpets yet to fade, before Mountbatten was brought thumping back to earth. The Maharaja told him that he would not accede to Pakistan. Mountbatten pleaded with Hari Singh to reconsider, since 90 per cent of his subjects were Muslim. With visions of bloodshed already leaping into his mind, the Viceroy quickly promised Indian troops posted in Kashmir for Hari Singh’s protection if he did insist on acceding to India. Mountbatten was briefly caught off guard, and then enraged, when the Maharaja said he would not accede to India either, but wanted to be independent. The Viceroy could have had no idea how quickly his words would come true when he said, ‘What I mind most is that your attitude is bound to lead to strife between India and Pakistan. You’re going to have two rival countries at daggers drawn. You’ll end up being a battlefield.’

  The date fast approached for the birth of two new nations. What seems almost inconceivable now is that Jinnah and Nehru would not know the border of their countries, would not know what towns and cities they would govern, until the day after Independence was granted. Radcliffe’s work would be revealed to them after the celebrations, the pomp and ceremony, in Delhi and Karachi. Radcliffe knew from the very beginning that whatever he did, there would be terrible bloodshed and slaughter when his work became reality; ‘I am going through this terrible job as fast, as well as I can,’ he wrote, ‘and it makes no difference because, in the end, when I finish, they are all going to start killing each other anyway.’

  Alr
eady, stories were trickling in about frenzied attacks in Punjab. With a sizeable population of both religions, it had the most to lose by the twist and turn of Radcliffe’s pencil. History would turn on the Viceroy, Mountbatten, for his lack of understanding of the Punjab and Bengal, but the reality was that all the main players, with the exclusion of Gandhi, failed to see the magnitude of the forthcoming disaster. Nehru and Jinnah assumed that their countrymen would have the same, tolerant, un-bigoted views as them. They genuinely believed that partition would stamp out the flaring of violence already taking hold, and therefore, speed was essential. They assumed that all would react to the unfolding story with the same reasoning, the same humanity as they would. They were grievously wrong. Gandhi knew what was coming even as he found himself being attacked by people infuriated by his opposition to partition. One particular Muslim woman asked him, ‘If two brothers were living together in the same house and wanted to separate and live in two different houses, would you object?’

  ‘Ah’ said Gandhi, ‘if only we could separate as two brothers. But we will not. It will be an orgy of blood. We shall tear ourselves asunder in the womb of the mother who bears us.’

  The military also prepared to break the deep bonds that comrades-in-arms share. Just three years earlier, they had fought alongside each other and spilt their blood for their Imperial master. In the Delhi Gymkhana Club, a party was held by the Officers of the Dominion of India as a ‘Farewell to Comrades Reception, in honour of the Officers of the Dominion of Pakistan’. With arms around each-others’ shoulders, the Cavalry officers discussed next September’s polo matches. The Hindu Brigadier, Cariappa, called for silence before speaking to the various assembled military officers. ‘We are here to say au revoir and only au revoir, because we shall meet again in the same spirit of friendship that has always bound us together…. We have been brothers. We will always remain brothers. And we shall never forget the great years we have lived together.’

  To the senior Pakistani officer attending, he presented a silver statue of a Hindu and Muslim solider standing side by side. The band struck up Auld Lang Syne and spontaneously the officers reached for each other’s hand. It is true; they would compete against each other soon, under circumstances more deadly than a game of polo.

  The Air Force personnel were being shuffled around according to the country they had ticked on their chit. Arjan Singh was now a Group Captain and moved in to command the advanced flying training school just North of Delhi, in Ambala. He was assisted by the Station Commander, Erlic Pinto, who was already making a name for himself, and was vetted to follow Arjan Singh in the line towards IAF stardom. Arjan Singh was tasked with arranging the 18 Harvard aircraft that would spell out the word ‘Jai’ for the Independence flypast. He wanted the most experienced pilots he could get, so he thought nothing of including Flight Lieutenant Zafar A Chaudhry before releasing him to join his new Pakistan Air Force. So it came to pass that the Indian flypast would have a Pakistani flying in it, one who would go on to be the Chief of the Pakistani Air Force. With Arjan Singh destined to be Chief of the IAF, they would repeatedly cross swords on the orders of their political masters in the years to come.

  Harjinder had spent his life striving for an Independent India. When he stood in the Principal’s office at Maclaghan Engineering College in Lahore, with Captain Whittaker’s pistol placed in his hand, the Captain’s reasoning had hit home; idealistic thoughts needed to be backed up by a position of strength. He had spent his adult life working with Jumbo, with Mukerjee, and with Engineer, to see a strong Air Force lead the way. When their wish became reality, they didn’t have the luxury to sit and savour the moment. The rebuilding, reorganising and restructuring of their Air Force wouldn’t allow them a moment’s rest in the months to come. On the 14th August 1947, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the British Union Flag was lowered on every flagstaff, in every official building, throughout India. Under the direction of Mountbatten, there was no fanfare or ceremonial lowering of the colours. As the new day dawned on a new nation, the country would see a celebration as the Indian tricolour was raised for the first time. Gandhi spoke to the crowds; ‘From tomorrow we shall be delivered from the bondage of British rule. But from midnight today India will be partitioned too. Tomorrow will be a day of rejoicing, but it will be a day of sorrow as well.’

  In Lucknow, Major General Curtis could not bear the thought of another flag being run up the flag pole at the Residency where the Union Flag flew day and night, and had done since the siege of the city in 1857 by the Indian freedom fighters, or mutineers, depending upon which side of the fence you sat. That night, the British Sappers cut the steel flagstaff of the Residency from its base and pulled out its foundation. Then they re-cemented the base, leaving no trace whatsoever of the flag pole on which, for 190 years, the symbol of British Power had flown high without a break. The Union Flag which was removed from the Residency was sent to Field Marshal Auchinleck, who, in turn, sent it to Windsor Castle, where it still hangs.

  At 17, York Road, in Delhi, Nehru was just about to finish his dinner, when he was summoned to the phone. He returned with tears in his eyes and was, for a time, unable to speak. The call had come from Lahore, to report that the water to the Hindu and Sikh quarter had been cut. People were going mad from thirst in the dreadful heat, but when the women and children came out to beg for water, they were being butchered by the mobs. Fires were raging out of control in several parts of the city. In an almost inaudible voice he said; ‘How am I going to talk tonight. How am I going to pretend there’s joy in my heart for India’s independence when I know that Lahore, our beautiful Lahore, is burning?’

  It wasn’t just Muslims burning buildings in Lahore. In Nehru’s India, the Sikhs and Hindus were burning Muslims in their homes. V.P. Menon, a talented bureaucrat, had redrafted Mountbatten’s partition plans, and had been very influential in coaxing a majority of the Princes to the discussion table to ultimately throw their lot in with the new India. When his daughters heard the conch shells signalling midnight, they jumped about with delight. Menon brought them back down to earth. ‘Now our nightmare really starts.’

  Harjinder spent the last evening in British India with about 100 of his brother RIAF officers, including Subroto Mukerjee and Arjan Singh, in the Delhi Gymkhana Club. They enjoyed the good humour and banter at the ‘farewell supper’, whilst seated for the last time under the light blue flag; Union Jack in the top left corner, RAF roundel sitting over the Star of India at the centre.

  Tomorrow was another day.

  For years to come, the lasting memory for so many in the cities and major towns of India, would be the crowds, the sea of humanity, sweeping through the streets to celebrate the day they thought would never come. The rule book was briefly sent spinning out of the window. Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Brahmins, untouchables, Parsees, Anglo-Indians, rubbed shoulders, laughing, cheering and weeping with emotion. In Delhi, the outgoing Raj had estimated 30,000 people would come to see the official raising of the Indian tricolour. They were not wrong by a few thousand; they were wrong by well over half a million. This was not a crowd to look on curiously at some parade by their rulers. This was a crowd that insisted on witnessing the birth of their nation, so they could tell the next generations that ‘I was there’. The seething mass of scarlet and gold swept away any attempt at order by the departing masters. In Delhi, the little wooden platform at the base of the flag pole looked like a raft bobbing on a stormy sea. Nehru and Mountbatten looked out at this torrent of people sweeping away guide-ropes, barriers, the bandstand, and any scrap of the original, carefully-choreographed plan. Mountbatten’s daughter was stranded from her carriage by the crowd. Under Nehru’s guidance, shoeless, she stepped out onto the carpet of humans below who happily offered shoulders, backs and heads for her to walk across to join her father. Mountbatten had to shout at Nehru to be heard; ‘Let’s just hoist the flag. The band is swamped. They can’t play. The guard can’t move.’

 

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