Fortunately, no such attack materialised. I was in a state of terror though. Even today I shudder to think about the adequacy or otherwise of defence by an ‘army’ of women and children. Things, though, settled down after an hour or two. However, no one was the wiser about how and why this melee had started in the first place. It was later learnt that the panic was not just confined to our area but had gripped the entire city at the same time. Both Hindus and Muslims had feared an oncoming attack by the other in their respective areas.Lahore was on edge. My eldest brother cracked under the pressure. The family was advised to take him to some peaceful part of the country to recover. This meant that a good part of our family left Lahore to live in the serenity of a small town in the then princely state of Jammu and Kashmir.I was part of the family baggage. And I was quite happy to escape. But soon after arriving there, I contracted malaria. The place had no medical facilities worth the name, apart from a municipal doctor of some sorts. He put me on (liquid) quinine treatment. They did not have quinine in tablet form then, at least not where I was. It was horrible taking my quinine dose four times a day. My mouth would remain bitter all day and for many days during the treatment. I did recover after about a month but it was quite an ordeal. It was also in this small town that I saw for the first time a human being die before my eyes. It involved a child, my age, who had contracted diphtheria. He died before he could be moved to a city hospital for treatment.Even in this generally idyllic place, we were not free of the politics of the time. After the Calcutta riots in 1946, the communal situation was very tense. Mahatma Gandhi, the uncrowned leader of the Indian National Congress, was grudgingly veering around to accepting the idea of a separate state of Pakistan. This was considered the only way to prevent India from drifting into a civil war. The looming partition of the country also envisaged the division of Punjab, with Lahore earmarked for Pakistan.In the midst of all this, rumour was rife that the Muslim-majority state of Jammu and Kashmir, ruled by a Hindu maharaja, would soon be in trouble. The small town where we had moved temporarily was in that state. At the time, the state was dependent for its rail and road links on, what was soon to become, Pakistan. It meant we could be stranded in that small town with no easy way into India if Pakistan were to cut off these links. We, therefore, decided to move to Hardwar, a Hindu pilgrimage town on the banks of the river Ganga. On the way, we stopped for a day in Lahore.Even though Pakistan’s official birth was still a fortnight away, Lahore was already virtually empty of its Hindu population. When we reached our house in the city, the place wore an eerie silence. We, therefore, boarded the next available train to Hardwar only after a few hours at home. It was a sad farewell to a city where our forefathers had lived for generations. Still, we did properly lock our house, hoping to return soon, which never happened. During our departure I was probably the saddest in our family. As the youngest I had to simply tag along. In the circumstances, though, I would not have had much choice even as an adult. But I would have, at least, understood what was going on.We all believed, though, that we would soon return. My father simply had no doubt. He often said that we had Muslim rulers before. He would tell his sons that even if they were all gone, he would still return to live in his beloved city. He was not the only optimist. Most, at least from his generation, thought likewise.I was simply a spectator in this unfolding human tragedy. Almost all through 1947 I did not go to school. I had no friends. My family was on the move. There was a pervasive atmosphere of fear, insecurity and tension, with everyone living on edge. At Hardwar, our first temporary residence, there were no jobs and no future plans. All the family felt trapped and confined with nowhere to go. All adults, especially male members of the family, were generally grumpy and irritated. And their irritation was often visited on me, being conveniently around.My eldest brother and his family lived separately, just across the street. My second eldest brother was now the boss. Seeing me around idly made him angry. He would, therefore, order me to go and pore over my old textbooks. I had done that over and over again. And when I showed my resentment, it only got me into deeper trouble time and again.One day the family pounced on me with a verbal lashing. I do not remember why and how it started but, I think, they all thought that I was being terribly rude to my second eldest brother. My father too was very agitated at my presumed rudeness towards my brother. It surprised and shocked me because my father was not the sort of person to work himself up over family matters unless it affected him personally. I suppose I was the lightening rod for everyone living in a state of heightened frustration and agitation. It was pretty frightening at the time, with nowhere to turn to for explanation and solace.That day I cried all day, feeling totally helpless. I even toyed with the idea of running away from home to become a street peddler. Hardwar was full of people then, most of them refugees from Pakistan. To become a peddler seemed the easiest way to earn a living but I was too young and timid to launch on my own. However, I felt the need for some sort of protest against family tyranny. So, I went on a hunger strike of sorts, hoping that my family would be duly chastened at the thought of my dying. But they were singularly unimpressed. They knew that I would soon feel hungry. And they were right. My hunger strike lasted till dinner when I broke it unconditionally. I was back in the real world. Pride and honour were not for me, not yet anyway. The third part of this article appeared in this paper on September 2, 2015 (Concluded) The writer is a senior journalist and academic based in Sydney, Australia. He can be reached at sushilpseth@yahoo.co.au