A note on this document In August 1947, the British partitioned India into two independent nations — India and Pakistan. An estimated 10–20 million people were displaced in one of the largest forced migrations in human history. Between 200,000 and 2 million people were killed. My grandfather kept a diary throughout his journey. What follows is based directly on those diaries — primary historical documents, written by a young man alone, crossing a country that no longer existed in the form he had always known it.
"15th August is the day when two new countries are being born.— Yusra's Grandfather, diary entry, 15th August 1947
Many a man feels happy today, many a man dies today."
Between Gwalior & Laksar — July to September 1947
My grandfather's family had lived in Gwalior for generations. Their home was an ancestral house — the kind of place that holds a family's entire shape of life within its walls. He traveled often between Gwalior and Laksar, a small town where he studied statistics at college. It was an ordinary life. Then the India Bill was read.
In the weeks before independence, the city of Gwalior began to change. Muslims were being abducted. Shops were looted. False propaganda circulated. In the nearby town of Danoli, mosques were being stoned and people killed. He writes of leaving for Lashkar and seeing three casualties on the road. In Lashkar itself, more casualties. Arson.
"There was a lot of violence in the month leading up to independence once the India Bill had been read; the city of Gwalior saw abductions of Muslims and a deteriorating situation, with false propaganda and literature being distributed. Shops and accommodation were being looted. In the nearby town of Danoli, mosques were being stoned with reports of Muslims killed. Leaving for Lashkar, I saw 3 casualties."
By 11th September, Nehru wept publicly, threatening to resign unless conditions improved. Martial law was imposed in Delhi. A curfew was enforced in Lashkar from 5:30 to 9. By September 15th, migration was in full swing — and the worst of it was in Delhi, where trains to Pakistan were being attacked.
On 18th September, he left Lashkar for the last time. He knew it was forever. The motor bus they were on was nearly overturned; they were saved. The next day his family began their own fractured journey — separately, toward Moradabad. By the end of September, he had reached Agra by way of Moradabad. He notes it was "a wrong step" — the way had been very dangerous.
"I knew I had to leave Lashkar, leaving forever on 18th September. The motor bus we were on was about to be upturned but we were saved."
The Bairagarh Camp — October to December 1947
By the beginning of October, he had reached the refugee camp in Bairagarh, on the outskirts of Bhopal. He was in Bairagarh North Camp. He was alone, with no friends.
"It was my first ray of liberty, on the road to Pakistan. I relied on the help of strangers, many of whom were friendly and sympathetic. In the city, there was a great gathering one Saturday where the Muslims were garlanded by the Hindus amidst all the violence across the country."
On 26th October, rebellions broke out in Kashmir. Liberation armies advanced. His younger brothers had begun their own caravan to Pakistan on October 28th. By the end of November, they had reached cities he could only dream of: Sargodha, Multan, Lahore. The camp was beginning to empty. Restrictions were placed on refugees entering Bhopal between 4pm and 8am.
He stayed. He was still alone. He writes about what that does to a person — the particular quality of waiting, of time stretching out when you do not know when it will end:
"My peace of mind was highly disturbed, for apparent reasons. How long have I borne it? As the length of time apart from my family increased, I did not know when I would be reunited — the minutes and distance lengthened. All acquaintances had deserted me, it was becoming difficult to pass the time. Once, I had thought of settling here, in Bhopal, but not anymore. The circumstances had changed my mind. I wanted to go to Pakistan. I could not live here even for a day."
In early December, the situation worsened further. His brother was wounded in the head by Hindus while returning from the hospital. By mid-December, the camp itself was being vacated.
To Pakistan — January to March 1948
January brought political tremors. On the 9th, India broke its financial agreement with Pakistan, stopping the transfer of 550 million rupees as well as arms and ammunition. On the 30th of January, Gandhi was shot dead by Nathuram Vinayak Godse in Delhi.
In the middle of March, he left for Pakistan. He had been waiting since October. Five months in a camp, alone, watching others leave.
"The land of my hopes. How I longed to go there, and how I removed the stumbling blocks to take my first step for Pakistan. I marched forward, with a glimpse of my acquaintances in Bairagarh, left Bairagarh. Onward moved the train, backward moved the land where for the first time I had sought refuge. The lights of the camp gradually faded away into darkness."
The journey south before the border crossing had its own quiet beauty. Through Nagda, Ratlam, Chittogarh, Marwar Junction. He notes the landscape: green fields of sugarcane, opium, wheat, barley. Then the desert began.
At Badhur, before Hyderabad, all passengers were searched. Then — Pakistan.
North Through Pakistan — April to July 1948
He arrived in Karachi. A friend had come before him. He searched for that friend for days in an unfamiliar city before finally finding him — a reunion that made the next leg of the journey possible.
Then he turned north. The subcontinent is vast; even after the border, there was still so far to go.
In Lahore he registered at the employment exchange and received his ration card. On July 1st — a date he marks as historic — the State Bank of Pakistan opened. He heard Jinnah's voice for the first time.
At the end of July 1948, he reached Chakwal. A small town. Bigger than Khushab, smaller than Shikarpur. The people, he writes, are better than those in Lahore.
"It resembles Gohad in some respect. It is dry but of growing importance."
"The land they had owned in India was handed to the government. Equivalent land was awarded to them in Chakwal — this is where his journey ends."
The ancestral home in Gwalior — the one his family had lived in for generations — was surrendered to the Indian government. In exchange, they received land in Chakwal. A kind of accounting that could never actually balance.
He had left in September 1947. He arrived in July 1948. Ten months. Across two countries that had not existed, in the form he crossed them, when he began.
My grandfather kept these diaries during one of the most violent and disorienting events of the twentieth century. He was a young man, largely alone, watching a world reorganize itself around him. That he wrote it all down — that he continued to observe, to note the landscape, to record the dates — says something about the particular human need to bear witness. These diaries are a primary historical document. They are also, simply, his story. I am grateful he trusted it to paper.