The Begum

by Deepa Agarwal

  In Town Hall, New York, on 10 May 1950, she said:

  In Pakistan, we attach a great deal of importance to religion, and we want to build up our country as an Islamic State. I must explain that we are not going in for any sort of domination by priests or fanaticism or intolerance. What we wish to emphasize are the basic Islamic principles of equality, brotherhood, and social and economic justice.7

  In a later interview, with Afsheen Zubair, she is quoted as saying:

  . . . the idea of Pakistan when it first started was completely different from what we see today. There was no question of religion coming into politics. Everybody was free to follow or worship as they pleased, nobody interfered, it was between you and your God. We never talked of religion: there were Shias and Sunnis, we didn’t know who was who, we were just working together. Qaid-e-Azam himself said the basis was religious but Pakistan was visualized as secular and democratic.8

  After reading accounts of her two lives, before and after the partition of India, and after examining the choices she made, the leaps of faith, the courage and conviction amidst change and disruption, I struggle once again to understand the harrowing events of 1947. India and Pakistan were birthed in excruciating trauma. The British barrister Sir Cyril Radcliffe was dispatched to India on 8 July 1947 and given exactly five weeks to demarcate the boundaries between the new state of Pakistan and independent India. This was followed by the largest mass migration in human history, when 14 million people, Hindus and Muslims and Sikhs, were rendered homeless and travelled across borders to begin life anew.

  As W.H. Auden wrote in his poem ‘Partition’:

  . . . But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,

  A continent for better or worse divided.

  The criminal haste with which the two nations were created, and the resultant dehumanization and demonization of the other, has still not given way to acceptance and reconciliation. Like all of South Asia, India and Pakistan share so much in language, culture and historical memory, and yet the divides deepen daily. This biography attempts to nudge the human stories and connectivity between us.

  Ra’ana’s crucial legacy continues with APWA, the All Pakistan Women’s Association she devotedly set up. Today, the lasting sense of sorority of this enduring institution is a tribute to her. The story of her life is a bridge between these conflicting yet conjoined identities, and of a prescient feminism across boundaries. Her magnetic personality resolved the many contradictions of her person, and situation. But her life also remains an enigma, a reminder of the unfathomable distance between nations and peoples. As the reader turns the pages to study the photographs that document her life and times, they will encounter many a familiar face, and evidence of affection and goodwill even in the most bitter of times.

  In her moving afterword to this book, Laila Haroon Sarfaraz describes her as ‘ . . . a remarkable and warm-hearted woman with the mind of a strategist and the grit of a true pioneer . . . Begum Ra’ana had always been a role model for me, but as I embarked on my tenure as President (of APWA) she became more than that: she became an icon.’

  It is more than seven decades since the division of India and the creation of Pakistan, over seventy years since Ra’ana Liaquat Ali Khan left from Willingdon Airfield in a Dakota carrier, accompanied by her young sons Ashraf and Akber, moving from 8 Hardinge Road, New Delhi, to 10 Victoria Road, Karachi. The signposts, the goalposts, have all irretrievably changed. It is my hope and belief that the story of this one woman, whose life spanned so many distances and divides, and which in so many ways symbolizes more than the sum of its parts, will remind us of our conjoined histories. The saga of Begum Ra’ana is offered as a contrary narrative across the barbed wire of national borders.

  ‘I have been a political mystery all my life,’ she is quoted as saying. ‘I would do it all over again, ten times over,’ she declared9 in the later years when she was confined to a wheelchair.

  This book is a tribute to her extraordinary life and indomitable spirit.

  PART ONE

  A HIMALAYAN DYNAMO

  Deepa Agarwal

  1

  A Fateful Day

  17 October 1951

  It was on a hot day in April 1933 that Irene Ruth Margaret Pant embraced an unexpected destiny—she married Nawabzada Liaquat Ali Khan at Maidens Hotel in Delhi and adopted the Muslim name Gul-i-Ra’ana.1 She became Begum Liaquat Ali Khan, changing her given name and the religion she was born into.

  The decision would lead her to a new country, Pakistan, and she would become its first lady—an unlikely destiny for a Christian girl born in Almora, a little town in the remote Kumaon region of the Himalayas where almost every face was familiar and there were hardly any strangers.

  Fourteen years later, in 1947 she travelled to Pakistan, the country whose birth she and Liaquat Ali Khan had struggled and fought for. Muhammad Ali Jinnah took over as governor general of Pakistan, and his protégé and close friend Liaquat Ali Khan was appointed its first prime minister.

  As Gul-i-Ra’ana—mostly known as Ra’ana—boarded a plane with her husband and two sons, Ashraf and Akber, to Pakistan, little did she realize what a wide chasm would soon open up between the two countries. It would not be easy to casually meet all the members of her large, close-knit family in India—her father Daniel Devidutt Pant, her mother Annie, brothers Edward, Norman, Arthur, Henry and George, and sisters Shanti, Muriel and Olga—again.

  As for the family, their pride in what Irene had achieved diluted other emotions perhaps.

  Four years later everything changed.

  On the morning of 18 October 1951, Daniel Pant was sipping tea on the veranda of his comfortable cottage in Almora. His wife of fifty years had passed away just a few months ago, and the sense of loss was still strong. Daniel looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stone-paved courtyard and saw the familiar face of Arthur, a close friend of his second son, Norman. It was barely 7 a.m. Arthur, a doctor, sometimes dropped in to check on his friend’s eighty-year-old father. But today his characteristic smile was missing.

  What was wrong? Daniel was about to call out to Norman, when his short, dapper son appeared from within the house. His friend gestured to him and the two slipped away to confer in private. Daniel rose as he saw them return. Still an imposing figure at his age, he was a man with strong features—a sharp, aquiline nose, piercing eyes and a decisive manner. Not for nothing had he been honoured with the title of Rai Sahib by the British government.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ he demanded.

  The two younger men faced him, utterly distraught.

  ‘I heard it on the radio,’ Arthur said, his tone grave. He drew a deep breath and continued, ‘Liaquat Ali Khan has been shot. It . . . it happened yesterday.’

  ‘Shot?’ Daniel whispered. ‘Is he badly injured?’

  Arthur’s gaze dropped. ‘It seems the wound was fatal . . . ’

  Brushing away his tears, Norman squeezed his father’s shoulder. ‘What a bad year it has been . . . first Mamma, now this. Kamla, please turn on the radio,’ he said to his wife in a choked voice. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything new.’

  Norman had heard the news at night but had decided to wait till morning to tell his father, fearing his shock and grief. Seventy years ago, the limited means of communication made it very difficult to get any information other than what was available through official channels. Hardly anyone in Almora had a telephone, and placing an international call was both complicated and time-consuming.

  Norman’s two young sons, Hemant and Jitendra, had just woken up. Sensing something in the atmosphere, they crept to their grandfather’s side, eyes wide with apprehension.

  ‘Uncle, please, you will have to be strong,’ Arthur pleaded, bending over Daniel, who had gone rigid. ‘For your daughter’s sake. Think of what she must be going through!’

  ‘Is Irene . . . Ra’ana all right?’ the elderly man finally said in a low voice. ‘And her boys, Ashraf and Akber? They�
��re so young!’

  ‘I’m sure she is facing it bravely, Uncle,’ Arthur said gently. ‘She’s a plucky woman.’

  Daniel brushed away a tear almost angrily. ‘She’s all alone,’ he said, ‘with none of her family beside her.’ He flung up his arms helplessly. ‘I never wanted her to marry him. Or to go so far away in such troubled times. But she had made up her mind.’

  ‘I’ve asked my wife to send some breakfast,’ Arthur murmured.

  Daniel made an impatient gesture. ‘Main kyun kode pe baitthoon!’ he exclaimed furiously.

  Not only the two other men, but his grandson, Jitendra, who was around nine years old at the time and clearly recalls his grandfather’s reaction, started in shock. Daniel’s outburst was so unexpected.

  The term ‘koda’ is a Kumaoni one that means the period of ritualistic retreat after a death when the bereaved family isolates itself and food is cooked outside the house or brought to them by other people. The idea is to allow them to grieve in private. Daniel’s words were more startling because it was a Hindu ritual, while the family had converted to Christianity a generation ago. It was true nonetheless, as converts still observed Hindu customs such as not cooking in the house after a death.

  Daniel’s grief at the tragedy that had struck his daughter had taken the form of refusing to observe mourning rituals—Hindu or Christian.

  Thoughts of Irene, addressed as Ra’ana after her marriage to Liaquat Ali Khan, completely occupied his mind. His brilliant, beautiful, spirited and headstrong daughter had married Liaquat Ali Khan eighteen years ago in the teeth of his opposition. Though the family has been described as ‘‘cosmopolitan’’ by neighbours, Daniel was not pleased when young Irene announced her decision. She was going to be the second wife of a man ten years her senior. Moreover, he was a Muslim.

  The Pants were aware that he was rich and belonged to a family of landowners whose property stretched over two provinces—Eastern Punjab and the United Provinces; that he was a highly qualified barrister and above all a rising star in the freedom movement. Indeed, Nawabzada Liaquat Ali Khan was one of the most prominent leaders of the Muslim League. His commitment and charisma had attracted Irene, who had been passionately involved in the cause of freedom from British rule since her student days in Lucknow. She had heard Liaquat Ali’s stirring speech against the Simon Commission in the UP Legislative Assembly with great interest in Lucknow in 1928. That was her first glimpse of her future husband, who was then an elected MLA from the Muzaffarnagar constituency.

  The Pants, however, also knew that Liaquat Ali was married and had a young son. His religion permitted a second wife, but as Christians, this was an uncomfortable issue for them.

  Irene was not the first person in the family to take a step as radical as this. Daniel’s father, Taradutt Pant, a scholarly Brahmin, a physician by profession, had faced great outrage in his community when he had decided to embrace Christianity. The protests, the ostracism, had been overwhelming. But he had stood firm. Now Irene was similarly turning her back on the faith of her fathers.

  Daniel must have recalled his decision to close the doors of his house against Irene when she tied the knot with Liaquat Ali. A decision he went back on later but was perhaps thankful for now.

  When Liaquat became the prime minister of Pakistan, Ra’ana’s family was well aware of the long struggle that had gone on before. Liaquat had worked tirelessly for the cause of a Muslim homeland, and Ra’ana had flung herself into the fray along with him, supporting the League’s demand with great enthusiasm.

  She had earned the position of first lady of Pakistan because of those determined efforts. However, unlike many first ladies, she did not remain a ceremonial figure. She joined the government as the minister for minorities and women’s affairs in her husband’s cabinet. Ra’ana was a well-educated woman, with a mind of her own, far ahead of her times, as many of her speeches and public statements demonstrated.

  Those times were daunting in the extreme. Organizing the governance of a new country was a massive challenge. The pervasive scenes of bloodshed and the grim realities of the refugee camps—where thousands of people stared at a dismal future, deprived of home, family and livelihood—added to the numerous issues confronting the fledgling nation. The sight of the homeless and hopeless wounded and sick—mothers wailing for their children, lost children crying for their parents—may have dismayed others but not Ra’ana. Her petite figure strode through the most horrifying scenes to bring relief wherever it was needed. Determinedly, she organized aid for the numerous displaced persons, particularly for women torn apart from their families in the most terrible circumstances. Apart from her social work, she also volunteered her expertise on economic matters and addressed many gatherings to motivate the citizens of a country trying to find its feet. Her work brought her into contact with important world leaders as well, and she was totally at ease hobnobbing with them, as if she had done it all her life.

  Being first lady might have seemed like a fairy tale for a girl who had grown up in such an isolated part of the country, but Ra’ana had always been one to grasp the reins of her own destiny with certainty and self-confidence.

  True, the birth of the two new nations had turned out to be a gory affair, and the trauma would continue to cast a shadow for generations, but her family had believed that the worst was behind them. However, even after four years, the dust of Partition had not completely settled.

  Almora had been spared most of the savage bloodletting that had afflicted north India. It had a very small Muslim community and relations had always been cordial among the different religious groups. The appearance of a few refugees from Punjab had given the locals an inkling of the scale of the tragedy. Travel-stained, gaunt with the ordeal they had been through, these displaced families arrived seeking shelter. They struggled to find ways to survive, to obtain a footing in the new environment. The salwar-kameez-clad women, so different from the Kumaoni women in speech and demeanour, did not hesitate to look for jobs—washing clothes, taking up knitting and sewing and turning their hands to any work that might help them earn a living. The men did their bit by looking for opportunities in trade and small businesses. Word had spread that there were many, many more refugees like these, who had settled in the terai region, the lowlands that bordered the hills—marshy, covered with dense forests and infested with wild animals. In time they managed to convert this area into prosperous farmland.

  At the time of Liaquat Ali Khan’s death, only four years had passed since Independence, and India was still shaping its democratic identity. In 1950, it had declared itself a republic, and now the country was preparing to go to the polls to elect its first Lok Sabha. The first census after Independence would also take place in 1951.

  Almora was part of the large province of Uttar Pradesh, formerly known as the United Provinces. The pace of development was slow compared to larger places, and the town still lacked many amenities which were taken for granted in the plains. While a motor road had been constructed from the railhead at Kathgodam in 1920, making travel faster, within the town, people continued to rely on their sturdy legs to get about. Mules were used to transport goods and ponies to travel further into the mountains. There was hardly a car to be seen; just a bicycle or motorcycle or two. Houses in Almora still did not have access to piped water—women drew it in copper pots from the numerous nullahs or springs that dotted the hill town; and men, hired for the purpose, carried vessels suspended from poles slung over their shoulders. Electricity was a fairly new phenomenon and many still shunned it, distrusting this dangerous new invention.

  Sitting in this sleepy old hill town, Ra’ana’s eighty-year-old father turned numb at the thought of the travails that awaited his daughter—a woman who had lost her husband in this brutal manner and had two young sons to bring up. Though communication had not been easy, news reports had informed him that shaping the future course of the new country had been fraught with conflict. Liaquat Ali Khan had occupied the most importa
nt political position in the country, but with the untimely death of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, he had lost a powerful champion. Like all highly placed men, Liaquat Ali had many enemies—people who did not see eye to eye with his policies or had some agenda of their own. Earlier that year, there had been an attempt at a military coup, the Rawalpindi Conspiracy case, which had been uncovered in time. The assassination proved that his foes were prepared to go to any extent.

  The question of Ra’ana ’s safety and that of her two sons preoccupied her father. How were Ashraf and Akber coping with the violent death of their beloved father? The only relief was that her old friend Kay Miles was with her. Kay, known as ‘Billy’, was like family. She would provide solid support.

  This friendship went back to Ra’ana’s student days in Lucknow. A British lady who hailed from Wales, Kay was the principal of a well-known educational institution of the city—Karamat Hussain Girls College. Launched in 1913 with just six students, this school had been set up to provide education to Muslim women in Lucknow, and was initially known as the Muslim Girls’ School. Later it was renamed after a leader of the community, Justice Sayyid Karamat Hussain. Ra’ana had met Kay while she was studying in Isabella Thoburn College, and the two had become very close. They had continued to be close friends through the time Ra’ana studied and taught briefly in Calcutta (now Kolkata) and later moved to Delhi to teach. When Ra’ana got married, Kay was the only guest from her side. Later Kay would become a valuable part of the Liaquat Ali Khan household.

  When the cause which Ra’ana and her husband had been pursuing for decades was finally attained—independence from the British rule and the birth of Pakistan—Kay, an able administrator and educationist, decided to accompany the Liaquat Ali Khan family to their new home. Her presence was the only solace that Daniel could find as the reality of the assassination took hold.