The decade of 1938-1948, brought two significant partitions in Jinnah’s life, one that lived to be his raison d’être, and one, of which he would speak nothing of. It was at the turn of the century, when a daughter was born at the house of Sir Dinshaw Petit. The only daughter of this textile magnate, Ruttenbhai Petit was brought up with great love and in extraordinary privilege. Beauty must have been her godmother, for when it came to her countenance even Bombay could not bring yield a parallel. At the tender age of 16, she first met the honourable M A Jinnah, and love followed without delay. When Sir Dinshaw Petit became learned of this, he was furious and would not hear a second word. The orthodox Parsi filed a restraining order under the Parsi Act, but alas, fate had put him up against the most accomplished barrister in the British India. Along that, Ratti was warned of absolute estrangement, one that would last even beyond the grave. Sir Dinshaw did not attend Ratti’s funeral (1929) but this by no means denied his lingering affection for her. A broken man he must he have been at his own death, torn between ego, religion, love and the memories of a daughter that disobeyed him. Though profoundly iconoclastic in nature, Jinnah’s marriage was not an illustrious one; they both parted ways before Ratti succumbed to ill health. Perhaps only Charles Dickens of the Victorian era could have seen it coming; for the great Dickens saw no greater disparity in marriage than unsuitability of mind and purpose. The couple in question were just too disparate, a failed communion of a hearty soul and a workaholic barrister. With Ratti gone, from sight was stowed away every object that belonged to her. But perhaps so dreary was the nature of this memory lane that Jinnah did not rest until the whole house was brought down (1939) in favour a new mansion. Dina, their only child, was the only living memory that he would not part with. Jinnah was not a man who was prone to many emotions, but after Ratti’s death, Dina really did become the centre of his life. He loved her deeply. The eternal karma could only remain offstage until the year 1938. After that, its had its say and it had its say ex-cathedra when Dina decided to marry a wealthy Parsi, Neville Wadia. Interestingly, at the time of their marriage, Neville was far older than her — a haunting flashback of history. Karma, however, had just begun its march; just like his father in-law, Jinnah would not hear of it. Just like her mother, Dina would also offer true defiance and discount religion as a consideration to communion. Karma finally stopped its relentless march, the day Neville and Dina parted ways. History had now repeated itself, in an inverted mirror. Many hearts were broken, but the prime estrangement had already followed: it was Jinnah and Dina this time. The nation stood confused, and with safe denial saw no daughter in her. Jinnah would not speak of his family life and there was yet to be born a man, who had the prodding will to interfere in his matters. One cold look from Jinnah, and such conversations stood over. Not that Jinnah spoke much anyways. The year of lord, 1948, brought a forced and unseen funeral; Nawab Liaquat Ali swung a plane to and fro from Bombay and that was all this nation saw of Dina Wadia for about half a century. There was silence, complete silence that emanated from all fronts. Indeed thorny was the rose bush that let go of this petal, confused at the parting but haughty in the aftermath. Statements of common contempt I shall not delve in, for the desideratum of my ink includes not hate, not today, and certainly not for her. I give plentiful kudos to the cricket diplomacy of PCB chairman Shahryar Khan, which cut the thorns and called her to Pakistan (2003). It was Ardeshir Cowasjee of the might pen that led her to her father’s mausoleum. A tale says that the late stalwart inquired of Dina why she never came back. The reply that followed was simply impaling; no one had bothered to invite her. Was this the first failure of this nation? Though he said he would cut ‘ties’, Jinnah did distantly remain in touch with by way of the letter and did meet her children in 1946. Until today, she continues to fight a legal battle for the mansion on Malabar Hill, Bombay. Dina never did give up on the memory or love of her father, which we so complacently assume. Was love too great a sin, or are we too intent on her apostasy from Islam? Here, we must note that in Jinnah’s envisioned country, religion had nothing to with the business of the state. It is the year of the lord, 2012: Shahryar Khan no longer holds the chair of the PCB and Ardeshir is too busy writing columns behind the pearly gates. I wonder if any such man walks our corridors of power, a man who has the heart to send a green passport to the 93-year-old Mrs Dina Wadia and tell her that she is and was our daughter after all. I am waiting. Charles Dickens’s time and tide, however, is not. The writer is studying at the Lahore University of Management Sciences and can be reached at k.alizubair@hotmail.com