My Mother Savitri Devi - Part II

My Mother, Savitri Devi

Part II — From the Tragedy of Partition to the Joys of Motherhood

The Panipat Years, 1947–1960s

By Preet Mohan Singh Kapoor

Introduction — A World Lost, Another Rebuilt

When I look back upon my mother’s life, I find it natural to divide her journey into three broad periods.

The first belonged to Multan, where she was born in 1926 and spent her childhood as the youngest daughter of a prosperous and affectionate family. Those were years of comfort, music, cultural refinement, and the warmth of a large household.

Marriage at fifteen brought her into a different world, with new responsibilities and challenges. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the upheaval that followed.

In 1947, at barely twenty-one, she witnessed the collapse of the world she had known since childhood.

Partition uprooted our family from Multan, where our ancestors had lived for generations. In the months that followed, she survived a brutal attack, suffered permanent injuries, faced the uncertainty of her husband’s disappearance, and eventually found herself in Panipat, beginning life again with almost nothing.

But my mother was not a woman who allowed adversity to overwhelm her spirit.

The years that followed were devoted to rebuilding a home, raising her children, and creating a new circle of friendships. She gradually recovered the cheerful, musical, and outgoing personality that had distinguished her childhood.

Indeed, when I look back over her life, I believe that the years in Panipat became her happiest and most fulfilling period.

She was surrounded by growing children, devoted friends, religious gatherings, music, cinema, and the everyday pleasures of family life.

My father provided stability through his work, while my mother gave the household its warmth, discipline, and character.

Much of what follows comes from my own childhood memories. Some events, particularly those surrounding Partition, were narrated to me repeatedly by my father, Chacha Ji, and other family elders.

Together, these recollections form the second part of my mother’s extraordinary journey—from the comforts of Multan to the uncertainties of Partition, and finally to the creation of a happy family home in Panipat.

Chapter 1 — Balwa: The Gathering Storm Over Multan

One of the earliest words I remember hearing from my mother was balwa.

Whenever communal violence broke out in Multan, she would remark with concern, “Oh, there is another balwa!”

As a small child, I did not fully understand the meaning of the word. Gradually, I came to know that it referred to communal riots, when mobs attacked neighborhoods, burned houses, looted property, and sometimes killed innocent people.

During the months preceding Partition, such disturbances became increasingly frequent.

There was fear and uncertainty everywhere. People discussed the possibility that British India would be divided into two countries—India and Pakistan.

Yet my father, Sardar Vas Dev Singh, remained doubtful that such a division could permanently uproot families like ours.

He believed that even if Partition took place, the disturbances would eventually subside and people would return to their homes.

After all, our ancestors had lived in Multan for centuries. Our family had its ancestral house in Aghapura, agricultural lands, property, relatives, and deep social connections.

How could families established over generations simply disappear from their homes?

My father and his younger brother, Sardar Inderjit Singh, discussed the situation and decided that, as a precaution, the family should temporarily move to the part of Punjab expected to remain within India.

We had close relatives in Faridkot, including Dr. Banta Singh, who was well established there in the dental profession.

Other members of our extended family, including relatives of my grandfather, joined the journey.

Before proceeding to Faridkot, the family visited Haridwar, a traditional place of pilgrimage that our elders had frequented over the years.

The journey was undertaken in the belief that we would eventually return to Multan.

Nobody imagined that we were leaving our ancestral homeland forever.

My mother was barely twenty-one.

She had already experienced the responsibilities of marriage and motherhood, but she had never known what it meant to become a refugee.

That experience was now about to change her life completely.

Chapter 2 — The Night That Left Permanent Scars

After reaching Faridkot, our extended family rented accommodation and settled temporarily.

The arrangements were modest, but at least we were together.

The women and young children slept in one room. My grandmother, whom we affectionately called Bhabhi Ji, my mother, my Chachi Ji, my elder sister Bhagwant, and I were among those staying there.

My Chachi Ji was pregnant at the time, while my mother had two small children to care for.

One night, a terrifying incident occurred.

A woman with her face concealed entered the room carrying a toka, a heavy, sharp cutting implement commonly used in agricultural households.

Without warning, she attacked my mother.

The weapon struck her head and face.

As my mother instinctively raised her hand to protect herself, one of her fingers was severed. Her nose was also badly injured, leaving a deep and permanent scar.

The attacker then moved towards my Chachi Ji, apparently intending to seize the women’s ornaments.

But Chachi Ji was physically strong and courageous.

She struggled with the assailant and managed to seize the toka from her. During the confusion, the woman escaped.

My mother was rushed to the hospital, where her wounds were stitched and treated.

She survived, but the injuries remained with her for the rest of her life.

Throughout my childhood, I never saw her with that missing finger. The scars on her head and nose were also permanent reminders of the violence she had endured.

I was too young to understand the full horror of that night.

Only much later did I realize how narrowly we had escaped losing our mother.

The attack was believed to have been motivated by robbery, particularly the ornaments worn by the women. However, the attacker’s identity and precise motive remained unknown to us.

Around the same period, my Chachi Ji gave birth to her second child, Gurpal Singh, in Faridkot.

I retain a faint childhood recollection of his arrival.

Thus, even before our family had fully experienced the consequences of Partition, my mother had already suffered a brutal assault that permanently marked her body.

Yet what strikes me most, looking back, is that she never allowed those scars to define her personality.

In later years, she became one of the most cheerful, sociable, and energetic women in our neighborhood.

Her scars belonged to the tragedy of Partition.

Her laughter, music, and devotion to her children belonged to the life she rebuilt afterward.

Chapter 3 — My Father’s Dangerous Journey Back to Multan

Partition finally became a reality in August 1947.

The situation deteriorated rapidly. Violence spread, communications broke down, and returning to Multan became increasingly dangerous.

Yet our family had left behind important property documents, agricultural land records, bank papers, and other valuables.

My father, being the elder brother and familiar with the family’s affairs, was entrusted with the task of returning to Aghapura to retrieve them.

Both brothers understood the danger, but they still believed these documents would be essential for protecting the family’s assets.

My father traveled alone to Multan.

He was given sufficient money to return by air if necessary. I was later told that the airfare to Delhi was approximately ₹500, a very large amount at that time.

He reached our ancestral home and collected the important papers.

My maternal grandmother, Nani Ji, was also still in Multan, along with a few other relatives who had been unable to leave.

Meanwhile, in Faridkot, the family waited anxiously.

Eight days passed.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

There was no news of my father.

Telephones were not available to us, and ordinary postal communication had become extremely uncertain.

My Chacha Ji grew increasingly worried.

He later told me that he went to the railway station every day, searching the trains arriving from Pakistan.

Those were terrible days.

Some trains arrived with wounded and traumatized survivors. Others carried the horrifying evidence of communal massacres.

My uncle would search the carriages and watch the passengers coming down, hoping to see his elder brother.

He often remained at the station from morning until late evening.

Years afterward, he told me repeatedly that this was perhaps the most distressing period of his life.

He kept asking himself why he had allowed his elder brother to undertake such a dangerous journey.

Chapter 4 — Sardar Dalip Singh and the Rescue from Multan

Eventually, Chacha Ji remembered a close family friend serving in the Indian Army.

His name was Sardar Dalip Singh.

My uncle wrote him a letter addressed simply to:

Sardar Dalip Singh
56 APO
Indian Army

I remember this address even today.

Fortunately, the letter reached him.

On receiving the news, Dalip Singh approached his commanding officer and requested assistance in bringing his friends and relatives out of Multan.

He obtained a military vehicle and arranged an armed escort.

He then proceeded to Multan.

On reaching our house in Aghapura, he instructed my father and the others to prepare for immediate departure.

Naturally, my father wanted to carry a few more belongings, while Nani Ji wished to save some household valuables.

But Dalip Singh was firm.

There was no time for packing furniture, ornaments, or unnecessary possessions.

They were to take only the most essential clothes, documents, and personal belongings.

My father carried his licensed single-barrel gun and the important family papers.

Nani Ji also joined the party.

Under military protection, they finally left Multan.

After nearly a month of uncertainty, my father reached Faridkot safely.

What a moment of joy that must have been!

For my mother, who had already suffered a brutal attack, the return of her husband was an immense relief.

For Chacha Ji, it ended weeks of anguish and self-reproach.

He narrated this episode to me many times during his lifetime.

Even decades later, his voice would become emotional when he described those days of waiting at the railway station.

I have always felt grateful to Sardar Dalip Singh, whose courage and timely assistance saved members of our family during one of the darkest periods of our history.

Chapter 5 — Two Brothers Choose Different Destinations

With my father safely back, the family had to decide where to begin life again.

Our ancestral home and familiar surroundings in Multan were now across an international border.

Our younger maternal uncle, Jai Singh, helped arrange employment for Chacha Ji in the Civil Secretariat at Shimla.

Through his contacts, he learned of a suitable vacancy and immediately informed the family.

Chacha Ji obtained the position.

Since his father-in-law was already living in Shimla, he also had a place to stay.

Thus Chacha Ji, Chachi Ji, and their two young children moved to Shimla.

My father decided to proceed to Delhi.

My mother’s eldest sister, whom we affectionately called Baiji, was living in a spacious government officers’ residence on Lodhi Road.

Other sisters, their children, and several relatives had already gathered there.

Delhi appeared to offer a secure temporary home among our own people.

We therefore boarded a train from Faridkot, expecting to reach Delhi.

But destiny intervened.

Chapter 6 — The Train That Never Reached Delhi

Our train reached Panipat and stopped.

It never proceeded farther.

The railway system was overwhelmed by the enormous movement of refugees. Trains were overcrowded, communications disrupted, and violence had made travel extremely dangerous.

Passengers were left to find their own arrangements.

Our family spread whatever bedding and cloth we possessed outside Panipat railway station and settled on the ground.

For several days, the railway station became our temporary home.

Gradually, we discovered other refugees from Multan and nearby districts.

There was comfort in finding people who spoke our language and understood our circumstances.

Among them were two families with whom we became particularly close—one belonging to a jeweler and another to a teacher.

The three families began sharing their difficulties.

At night, the men took turns remaining awake to watch over the women and children.

Nobody wanted to live alone in those uncertain days.

We had no house, no permanent income, and no clear idea of what the future held.

Then an unexpected opportunity changed everything.

Chapter 7 — A Hundred-Rupee Job That Changed Our Destiny

The government announced that it was establishing a rationing department in Panipat.

Educated people were needed to help organize food distribution and issue ration cards to the population, including the large number of newly arrived refugees.

My father possessed his matriculation certificate and the necessary qualifications.

He applied, appeared for an interview, and was selected as a Rationing Inspector.

His salary was ₹100 per month.

It was a respectable income in those days, particularly for a family whose requirements were modest.

The appointment also provided him with a curfew pass, enabling him to move around the town on official duty.

He was assigned to Wards 11 and 12, where he inspected households and helped prepare the rationing records.

Our refugee companions requested that he use these visits to search for a house large enough for all three families.

One day, he found a suitable building near Kalandar Chowk.

It had two large halls on the ground floor, some additional accommodation, and an upstairs verandah.

It was far from luxurious, but it was spacious enough for three families to share.

The building lacked proper sanitation, and some portions remained locked.

Nevertheless, it offered shelter and a measure of security.

The families moved in together.

My mother was particularly concerned about hygiene and insisted that a proper dry toilet be arranged.

Slowly, the household began taking shape.

What had begun as a temporary refuge became our permanent family home for approximately twenty-five to thirty years.

We had intended to go to Delhi.

Instead, Panipat became our destiny.

Chapter 8 — My Mother Builds a Home from Almost Nothing

My mother’s new life in Panipat was a remarkable contrast to her childhood in Multan.

She had grown up in a prosperous home with music, comforts, and a lively social environment.

Now she was managing a modest refugee household with two young children and very limited resources.

My father’s salary of ₹100 had to meet nearly every family expense.

We lived simply.

I remember that even a quarter kilogram of milk was considered sufficient for our limited daily needs.

There were no unnecessary purchases and very few luxuries.

Yet my mother gradually transformed our circumstances.

She organized the household, cared for the children, managed the cooking, and began establishing friendships in the neighborhood.

She was energetic, practical, and determined that her children should not suffer educationally because of Partition.

Education became her greatest priority.

She had lost her ancestral home, but she was determined to build a better future for her children.

Chapter 9 — My Mother, Our First Schoolteacher

My mother had studied up to middle school and was proficient in Hindi and Punjabi.

She loved teaching.

Long before we entered formal school, she began teaching my sister Bhagwant and me at home.

We learned the Hindi alphabet—ka, kha, ga—along with reading, writing, and elementary arithmetic.

My father, who was particularly good at mathematics, taught us counting and multiplication tables.

My mother concentrated on language, stories, history, and geography.

She was an excellent storyteller.

She would describe her childhood in Multan, her father’s prosperous household, the deer and other pets they kept, and the beautiful harmonium imported from Germany.

She remembered its foot-operated bellows and the melodies she could play upon it.

She also told us about her travels, including a visit to Karachi, where she recalled seeing enormous whales moving in the sea.

To a young child, these stories were fascinating.

They introduced us to a world far beyond the narrow streets of Panipat.

My mother did not restrict her teaching to her own children.

She began teaching neighborhood women who had never received formal education.

Some were married women, others widows.

She patiently taught them the alphabet, basic reading, and multiplication tables.

Adult education became one of her favorite activities.

Looking back, I realize that she was quietly contributing to the education of women at a time when such opportunities were still limited.

Chapter 10 — My Admission to School at Four

My mother’s teaching prepared me so thoroughly that I was ready for school at an unusually young age.

The primary school was barely a hundred yards from our house.

My father took me to meet its headmaster, Master Satpal.

I still remember the occasion vividly.

My father was offered a chair, while I was seated on a bench in front of the headmaster.

Master Satpal gave me a book and asked me to read.

I read confidently and answered his questions quickly.

I knew almost everything he asked.

However, I was either excited or nervous, because I kept swinging my legs.

“Don’t move your legs,” he instructed.

I stopped, but soon started again.

Even my father had to remind me to sit properly.

The headmaster was satisfied with my knowledge but refused admission because I was only four years old.

He suggested that my father could change my recorded date of birth.

My father firmly refused.

He insisted that my actual birth date, July 29, 1944, must remain unchanged.

In those days, I later heard that a small unofficial payment of one rupee was sometimes expected for school admissions.

But my father was a government officer, and the headmaster apparently did not wish to raise such a matter with him.

Instead, my father suggested that Master Satpal provide me with private tuition at his home.

I attended for about a month.

After another test, I was finally admitted.

My early preparation enabled me to advance rapidly. I received double promotions and entered the fifth class at approximately eight years of age.

I completed my matriculation at fourteen.

The foundation of that achievement had been laid by my mother.

Whatever I accomplished later in education, I owe much of it to her patient preschool teaching.

Chapter 11 — Bhagwant: My First Sister, Her Marriage, and Our Mother’s Devotion

My sister Bhagwant was the eldest of my four sisters and the closest to me in age. We grew up together, shared our earliest lessons at home, and were constant companions during our childhood in Panipat.

Our mother was our first teacher.

She taught us the Hindi alphabet, elementary arithmetic, reading, and writing long before we entered formal school.

Being younger than I was, Bhagwant sometimes found it difficult to keep pace with my lessons.

My mother, who was a strict and enthusiastic teacher, would occasionally become impatient.

“Why can’t you remember this?” she would ask.

At that age, Bhagwant was barely two or three years old, and the difference of a year or two in childhood can be enormous.

But as she grew older, Bhagwant proved to be exceptionally intelligent and hardworking.

She performed brilliantly at school, completed her teacher training, and secured a teaching position in Panipat at a young age.

My mother was naturally proud of her achievements.

A Marriage Promised Before Her Birth

There was an unusual story behind Bhagwant’s marriage.

Long before she was born, our paternal grandmother, whom we affectionately called Bhabhi Ji, had made a verbal commitment to a close friend.

The two women had agreed that if my father was blessed with a daughter, she would eventually marry the friend’s son.

Such understandings were not uncommon in traditional families, where longstanding friendships and mutual trust often formed the basis of marriage arrangements.

At that time, nobody could have imagined the upheaval that Partition would bring.

Our family eventually settled in Panipat, while the family of Bhagwant’s prospective husband settled in Rohtak.

Despite the displacement and the passing years, the old understanding was not forgotten.

One day, the family came to renew the relationship and formally accept Bhagwant as their future daughter-in-law.

Thus, a promise made by two women before Bhagwant’s birth eventually became a marriage alliance.

Marriage at Twenty

Bhagwant was married in 1965, at approximately twenty years of age.

Her husband, whom we affectionately called Jijaji, was serving in the Indian Air Force.

Although she was now married, Bhagwant continued her teaching career in Panipat.

This arrangement was possible largely because of the support of our parents.

My father encouraged her to remain employed, while my mother was always ready to help with the responsibilities of the household.

In due course, Bhagwant gave birth to her first son, Raju.

My mother became deeply involved in caring for the baby.

She looked after him with the same affection and dedication she had shown while raising her own children.

For a working young mother, having her own mother nearby was an enormous comfort.

There was also a period when Bhagwant moved to Pathankot, where Jijaji was posted.

Later, she returned to Panipat, and my father helped her secure a teaching position again.

This enabled her to continue her professional life while remaining close to the family.

Two Grandsons Under My Mother’s Care

In 1970, Bhagwant gave birth to her second son, Sandeep, whom we affectionately called Sunny.

He was born at home, in the same family surroundings where other children had been born and raised.

Once again, my mother played a major role in caring for the newborn.

Thus, both Raju and Sunny spent much of their early childhood under the loving supervision of their Naniji.

My mother had already raised five children of her own, yet she willingly accepted the additional responsibility of helping to raise her grandchildren.

Those were demanding years.

She managed the household, participated in her religious and social activities, and helped Bhagwant continue working as a teacher.

Bhagwant has often acknowledged that her mother’s assistance made the early years of marriage and motherhood considerably easier.

As life moved forward, circumstances and responsibilities naturally changed, and my mother could not always provide the same level of help.

But during those formative years, her contribution to the upbringing of Raju and Sunny was invaluable.

The Curious Case of Budh Singh

Sunny’s birth gave rise to one of the most amusing incidents in our family history.

He was born on a Wednesday.

My father, who took great interest in family matters, went to the municipal committee to register the newborn’s birth.

For reasons connected with family tradition and his own sense of history, he entered the child’s name as Budh Singh.

There was a historical association behind the choice.

According to our family’s recollection, Maharaja Ranjit Singh had also originally been named Budh Singh, and was born at his maternal grandparents’ home in Badrukhan, not far from our ancestral connections in the Barnala region.

My father apparently found the parallel delightful.

Here was another grandson born on a Wednesday, and he thought it appropriate to give him the same original name!

But when Jijaji discovered what had happened, he was furious.

“Budh Singh? Who has given my son this name?”

He was certainly not prepared to allow his son to grow up with a name he had never approved.

He took an entire day’s leave, went to the municipal office, and arranged for the official record to be corrected.

The child’s name was changed to Sandeep Singh, while Sunny remained his affectionate household name.

Thus, for a brief period, our little Sunny had entered the official records as Budh Singh!

My father’s enthusiasm for historical associations had been overruled by the practical wishes of the baby’s father.

Even today, I remember the incident with amusement.

It was one of those small family episodes that became part of our shared history.

Bhagwant and the Generosity of Our Mother

Bhagwant’s life illustrates another important aspect of my mother’s character.

She did not consider her responsibilities finished once her children were married.

She continued to support them whenever circumstances required.

For Bhagwant, that support was particularly meaningful.

It allowed her to pursue her teaching career while knowing that her young children were being cared for by someone she trusted completely.

My mother belonged to a generation in which grandmothers often played an essential role in raising the next generation.

She fulfilled that role with affection, patience, and an extraordinary sense of duty.

When I think of Bhagwant’s early married life, I see not only my sister beginning her own family, but also my mother entering a new phase of motherhood—becoming Naniji to two little boys who brought fresh joy into our home.

The same woman who had taught Bhagwant her first alphabet was now helping raise Bhagwant’s children.

It was a beautiful continuation of the family bonds that had sustained us through Partition and the difficult years of rebuilding our lives in Panipat.

Chapter 12 — A Dangerous Pregnancy and the Journey to Delhi

A few years after settling in Panipat, my mother suffered a very serious pregnancy complication.

I was too young to understand the medical details, and even today I cannot identify the condition with certainty.

There were very limited specialist medical facilities in Panipat at that time.

Traditional birth attendants handled most deliveries, but they were not equipped to manage complicated pregnancies.

My mother’s condition deteriorated so badly that her life was in danger.

She was taken to Lady Hardinge Hospital in Delhi.

Her eldest sister, Baiji, played a major role in arranging medical care and looking after her.

My mother remained hospitalized for an extended period, perhaps nearly two months.

I was later told that the pregnancy ended with the loss of a baby boy.

Fortunately, she survived and gradually recovered.

The doctors warned that another pregnancy could be dangerous.

Those were the days before reliable family-planning facilities were widely accessible in India.

For my mother, motherhood carried risks that are difficult for later generations to imagine.

Yet she returned to Panipat and resumed caring for her children.

Chapter 13 — The Birth of Ambu: September 1, 1950

Despite the medical warnings, my mother became pregnant again.

This time the family decided that she should be taken to Delhi well before delivery.

She was admitted to Lady Hardinge Hospital.

On September 1, 1950, my sister Amarjit Kaur, affectionately known as Ambu, was born.

I remember our visits to the hospital.

My father would take us there, and we would wait near the large iron gate for visiting hours to begin at four o’clock.

We were delighted to see our mother and the newborn baby.

The hospital had good facilities, and some European nurses were still serving there.

Ambu was a beautiful, fair-complexioned child.

My mother would jokingly say that because fair-skinned nurses had cared for the baby, she had become so fair herself!

It was one of those affectionate explanations that mothers invent and children remember.

Finally, on a rainy day, my mother returned to Panipat in a horse-drawn tonga, carrying the tiny baby.

But her happiness soon turned into indignation.

During her absence, my grandmother had been looking after Bhagwant and me.

My mother discovered that our hair had not been properly washed or combed and that both of us had developed a serious infestation of lice.

She was furious.

She spent considerable time washing, combing, and cleaning our hair.

She scolded my father for allowing the children to become so neglected.

“Thank God I have returned alive,” she exclaimed. “Otherwise, what would have happened to my children?”

That was my mother.

Her love often expressed itself through fierce concern for our welfare.

Chapter 14 — Mohinder Kaur (Bobby): A Sensitive, Determined, and Caring Daughter

On July 26, 1952, another daughter was born to my parents at Panipat Civil Hospital.

She was named Mohinder Kaur, but at home we affectionately called her Bobby.

I remember my father taking me on his bicycle to visit my mother and the newborn baby. As we rode along, he casually announced:

“Preet, do you know you have another sister?”

Thus arrived the third daughter of our family, after Bhagwant and Ambu.

Bobby grew into a hardworking, focused, and rather serious-minded child. She was affectionate and caring by nature, but she also had a quick temper, particularly when she felt someone was teasing her or treating her unfairly.

Her elder sister Ambu, who was barely two years older, was often the source of these little provocations.

Ambu was lively, mischievous, and fond of asserting her seniority. She enjoyed teasing Bobby, who was much more sensitive and would react angrily.

Their quarrels sometimes became quite dramatic.

The Dupatta That Fell Victim to Anger

I remember one occasion when Ambu teased Bobby so persistently that Bobby lost her temper.

Unable to contain her frustration, she picked up a pair of scissors and cut her own dupatta.

It was an impulsive expression of anger, and one that became a memorable family incident.

On another occasion, blue ink accidentally spilled onto Bobby’s school uniform.

Instead of sympathizing with her, Ambu found the situation amusing and teased her about the stained dress.

Poor Bobby was furious.

These were the ordinary rivalries of two sisters growing up close in age, but Bobby took such matters seriously.

She disliked being made fun of, especially when she felt embarrassed or helpless.

“My Name Is Mohinder, Not Bobby!”

Perhaps the most amusing and memorable dispute concerned her name.

At home, everyone called her Bobby, but as she grew older, she developed a strong preference for her formal name, Mohinder.

She particularly disliked being addressed as Bobby at school.

Both sisters attended the same Government Girls’ High School on G.T. Road in Panipat.

Ambu knew perfectly well how much Bobby disliked her household nickname being used among her classmates.

And naturally, that made it an irresistible opportunity for mischief.

One day, Ambu deliberately went to Bobby’s classroom and loudly asked her classmates:

“Where is Bobby? Has anyone seen Bobby?”

Bobby was furious.

She had repeatedly warned Ambu not to call her Bobby in school, but her elder sister seemed determined to provoke her.

The quarrel began at school and continued all the way home.

The two sisters argued throughout the walk, each defending her position.

On reaching home, Bobby immediately complained to our mother.

“Beji, I have told her so many times not to call me Bobby at school, but she keeps doing it!”

For Ambu, it was harmless fun. For Bobby, it was a matter of dignity and personal identity.

Looking back, I find the incident rather touching. Even as a young girl, Bobby wanted to be recognized on her own terms.

She was proud of her proper name, Mohinder Kaur, and did not want her elder sister embarrassing her before her school friends.

My Mother’s Assessment of Bobby

My mother understood Bobby’s personality very well.

She often remarked that Bobby was serious, hardworking, affectionate, and deeply sympathetic toward others.

She believed that Bobby would be particularly suited to the medical profession.

“She should go into the medical line,” my mother would say. “She is so caring and sympathetic. She would look after patients very well.”

It was an interesting observation.

My mother recognized that beneath Bobby’s occasional outbursts of anger was a compassionate and responsible young girl.

Her sensitivity, which sometimes made her react strongly to teasing, was also the quality that enabled her to understand the difficulties of others.

However, circumstances took her in a different direction.

Like her other sisters, Bobby received training to become a teacher.

She later married a veterinary doctor who served in the villages of Punjab.

After marriage, she devoted herself to her household and family rather than pursuing a teaching career.

The Sister Behind the Childhood Temper

When I remember Bobby today, I do not think merely of the little girl who became angry when Ambu teased her.

I remember a determined child who worked hard, valued her dignity, and was unwilling to accept unnecessary humiliation.

Her childhood quarrels with Ambu were part of the lively atmosphere of our growing household.

The cut dupatta, the ink-stained school uniform, and the famous dispute over being called Bobby are memories that still bring a smile to my face.

But they also reveal something about her character.

She was sensitive, proud, hardworking, and deeply affectionate.

My mother had recognized these qualities early and believed that Bobby possessed the compassion required to care for others.

Behind that serious face and occasional quick temper was a loving heart—and my mother understood it better than anyone else.

Chapter 15 — Tripat: The Daughter Who Completed Our Family

By 1952, with the birth of my sister Bobby, our family consisted of four children—myself and three younger sisters, Bhagwant, Ambu, and Bobby.

Those were the days when having sons was considered particularly important in traditional Indian families. A son was expected to carry forward the family name, look after his parents in old age, and fulfill certain religious and social responsibilities.

Although my parents already had one son, there was constant advice from relatives and acquaintances that they should have another.

“Three daughters and only one son! You should have a second son,” people would say.

Such remarks were common in those days, reflecting the deeply rooted preference for male children.

My mother had already experienced difficult pregnancies, including one that had nearly cost her life. Nevertheless, in 1958, she became pregnant again.

After nine months of waiting, the baby was born on December 12, 1958.

Unlike the earlier deliveries in Delhi and Panipat hospitals, this child was delivered at home with the assistance of a traditional birth attendant, commonly known as a dai.

I was then in my final year of high school.

Early that morning, at about six o’clock, my friend Roshan arrived so that we could go together for our tuition lessons.

As I was preparing to leave, I was told that a baby had been born during the night.

Naturally, everyone had been hoping for a boy.

But the newborn was another girl—our fourth daughter and my fourth sister.

Instead of the customary celebrations, there was an atmosphere of disappointment.

Nobody seemed eager to announce the arrival of the baby.

There were no enthusiastic congratulations, no sweets distributed, and none of the excitement that usually accompanied the birth of a long-awaited son.

The news gradually spread through the neighborhood. People had noticed the arrival of the dai and knew that a delivery had taken place.

Soon there were whispers:

“Another daughter has been born.”

Looking back, I find this reaction particularly sad.

The little child had done nothing to deserve such an indifferent welcome. She had entered the world as innocent and deserving of affection as any other baby.

Yet she was born into a society where the arrival of another daughter, after three daughters and one son, was regarded by some as a disappointment.

A Name Born of Humor and Resignation

For the first few days, the baby did not even receive a proper name.

Then, about four or five days after her birth, our relative Rani Chachi Ji came to visit.

She was a cheerful, outspoken woman with a lively sense of humor.

Observing the subdued atmosphere, she laughingly asked:

“Well, what are you going to call this baby?”

When the discussion turned to choosing a name beginning with the letter T, she made a witty suggestion.

“Why not call her Tripat? We are now tripat—fully satisfied and contented with daughters! Surely, we need no more!”

Everyone understood the gentle sarcasm.

The Punjabi word tripat conveys contentment or satisfaction.

Thus, in a somewhat ironic way, the baby received the beautiful name Tripat Kaur.

What began as a humorous comment on the family’s disappointment became her lifelong identity.

And, as events proved, she was destined to bring us a great deal of happiness.

My Little Sister, Almost Like a Daughter

There was a considerable age difference between Tripat and me—more than fourteen years.

By the time she was a little girl of three or four, I was already a grown young man with a beard and moustache.

She became particularly attached to me.

I can still picture that tiny girl standing beside me, looking up at my face with admiration.

“Kakaji, you look so handsome with your beautiful beard!” she would say.

Then she would throw her little arms around me, give me a warm hug, and run away.

It was such an innocent and spontaneous expression of affection.

Perhaps because of our age difference, I never regarded her merely as another younger sister.

She was almost like my own daughter.

And that special relationship has continued throughout our lives.

Even today, after so many decades, she retains the same warmth and affection for me.

The little girl who once admired her elder brother’s beard has never lost her loving nature.

The Schoolgirl Who Preferred Home

Tripat’s early schooling was somewhat different from that of the rest of us.

My mother had been an exceptionally dedicated teacher to her older children. She had prepared us carefully for school, taught us the alphabet, and insisted upon regular studies.

But Tripat was not particularly interested in formal education.

She was intelligent and capable, yet she did not possess the same enthusiasm for textbooks and examinations as her elder siblings.

I remember my mother complaining about her unusual habit.

She would take Tripat to school, leave her there, and proceed with her household errands.

By the time my mother returned home, she would sometimes discover that Tripat had already come back!

My mother would become exasperated.

“She simply doesn’t want to stay in school!” she would complain.

Compared with her older sisters, who had performed well academically, Tripat appeared less disciplined in her studies.

But academic performance is only one measure of a person’s abilities.

And in Tripat’s case, life was to demonstrate that she possessed many other remarkable qualities.

The Most Resourceful of the Sisters

As the years passed, Tripat developed into an intelligent, practical, and exceptionally helpful woman.

Today, I often feel that she is among the most resourceful of all my sisters.

She has a natural ability to understand people, manage situations, and extend assistance whenever someone needs help.

She may not have pursued education with the same intensity as some of her siblings, but she possesses a great deal of practical wisdom.

She is warmhearted, alert, and generous with her time.

Whenever there is a family difficulty, she is often among the first to offer assistance.

These qualities cannot always be measured through school examinations.

They are acquired through character, experience, and a genuine concern for others.

Marriage, Family, and the Courage to Carry On

Tripat married relatively young.

A suitable proposal came from a respectable family, and her marriage was arranged without prolonged difficulty.

She established a happy household and raised her children.

Over the years, she became a devoted mother and later a loving grandmother.

Life, however, brought her its share of sorrow.

She lost her husband in recent years.

For someone who had spent so much of her life within the warmth of a family, such a loss was deeply painful.

Yet she showed remarkable courage.

Rather than withdrawing from life, she continued caring for her family, enjoying her grandchildren, and remaining actively involved with those around her.

I admire her resilience and the dignity with which she has faced this difficult chapter.

The Child Who Became a Blessing

Whenever I think of Tripat’s birth, I cannot help reflecting upon the irony of her arrival.

She was the baby whose birth was received with disappointment because she was not a boy.

For several days, she did not even have a name.

And yet she grew into one of the most affectionate, capable, and helpful members of our family.

Her life is a reminder that the worth of a child can never be determined by gender, academic performance, or the expectations of society.

The little girl who was once considered an unwelcome fourth daughter became a source of joy and strength to everyone around her.

For me, she has always occupied a particularly tender place in my heart.

She is my youngest sister, but in many ways she is also my daughter.

I still remember her standing beside me as a little child, admiring my beard and giving me an affectionate hug.

And I am grateful that, even today, she continues to express that same love so openly.

Tripat was named to signify that our family had enough daughters. But, in truth, she gave us one more reason to feel blessed and contented.

May Waheguru Ji bless my dear baby sister with good health, happiness, peace of mind, and many more cherished years surrounded by her children and grandchildren.

Chapter 16 — The Thursday Kirtan and My Mother’s Beautiful Voice

Music had always been one of my mother’s greatest pleasures.

In Multan, she had grown up surrounded by music and had learned to play the harmonium.

In Panipat, she found a new opportunity to express this talent through the Gurdwara.

Every Thursday afternoon, the ladies gathered for kirtan.

My mother became one of the leading participants.

She played the dholak beautifully and sang shabads with great feeling.

Her sense of sur and taal was excellent.

She was also frequently invited to recite Gurbani during religious gatherings and kathas.

I particularly remember her melodious recitation of the concluding shlokas of Gurbani.

Her voice carried a sweetness and confidence that attracted everyone’s attention.

As a child, I felt immensely proud when people listened appreciatively to her singing.

The Gurdwara became an important center of her social life.

There were relatively few Sikh families in Panipat in those early years, and the community developed close relationships.

My mother made many friends through these gatherings.

The Thursday kirtan, along with regular Sunday visits to the Gurdwara, became an important part of our family routine.

Chapter 17 — Kalandar Chowk and the Growing Community

Our neighborhood around Kalandar Chowk gradually developed into a lively refugee settlement.

Families who had come from Multan and other parts of western Punjab began rebuilding their lives.

Many had lost substantial property and comfortable homes.

Yet they brought with them their languages, customs, food, religious practices, and strong community bonds.

We children played together in the streets and open spaces.

My sister Bhagwant initially attended a school functioning in the old mosque at Kalandar Chowk.

In those early years, the mosque premises were also used by neighborhood children for games such as gulli-danda and sometimes football.

Later, the school shifted to the Qila grounds.

These were unusual times, when buildings and public spaces were being adapted to meet the urgent needs of displaced families.

For us children, however, life gradually became normal.

We attended school, played games, made friends, and enjoyed the simple pleasures of growing up.

For my mother, Panipat was no longer merely a place of refuge.

It had become home.

Chapter 18 — Tuesday Films, Thursday Kirtan, and Market Friendships

My mother was naturally sociable and cheerful.

As the children grew older, she developed a wide circle of friends.

They visited one another, shared cups of tea, enjoyed chaat in the bazaar, and made frequent trips to the cloth shops.

Sometimes they bought clothes, sometimes exchanged them, and sometimes simply enjoyed browsing.

She was particularly fond of cinema.

Panipat had the Eros Theatre, where special ladies’ shows were held on Tuesdays.

The admission price was four annas, or twenty-five paise.

For my mother and her friends, these outings became a cherished weekly activity.

Tuesday was often cinema day.

Thursday was kirtan day.

Sunday was another occasion for visiting the Gurdwara.

The remaining days were filled with family responsibilities, friends, shopping, and social gatherings.

She was so regular at the cinema that her friends jokingly said no film show could run successfully without Baiji’s presence.

She was also very fond of cultural activities.

Whenever schools organized dramas, music performances, or annual functions, she tried to attend.

She loved watching the Independence Day and Republic Day parades.

She would be among the earliest spectators to arrive.

Her enthusiasm was infectious.

Chapter 19 — Ram Lila and the Warm Peanuts

One of my most affectionate childhood memories concerns the annual Ram Lila performances.

During the Dussehra season, Ram Lila continued for several weeks and was one of Panipat’s major sources of public entertainment.

My mother loved attending.

My father was less enthusiastic, although he sometimes arranged a pass so that I could sit on a chair rather than on the ground.

One evening, my mother accompanied me.

On the way, she bought some freshly roasted peanuts.

I had often watched other children eating those hot peanuts but had never asked my parents to buy them.

I was not accustomed to making demands.

When my mother offered them to me, I was delighted.

Thereafter, whenever Ram Lila season approached, I would eagerly ask:

“Beji, will you come with me? We can eat peanuts together!”

It was a small pleasure, but it remains vivid in my memory.

The warmth of those peanuts, the excitement of the performance, and the companionship of my mother became inseparable.

Even after so many decades, I remember that evening with extraordinary affection.

Chapter 20 — Our Shimla Cousins and the Extended Family

Although my father’s younger brother had settled in Shimla, the two families remained closely connected.

During school holidays, we frequently visited one another.

Their children—Rupa, Pali, Toli, Mindi, and the younger ones—became our closest companions.

Our ages were fairly similar.

Rupa was close to my age, Pali to Bhagwant’s, and Toli to Ambu’s.

Mindi was close in age to Bobby.

There were later additions to the family, including Pappu and Tippi.

We grew up almost as one extended household.

The cousins’ visits were occasions of great excitement.

There were games, laughter, occasional quarrels, and endless conversations.

I also remember the naming ceremonies held at the Gurdwara, where Ardaas was performed and names were selected according to the traditional practice.

On one occasion, similar initials led to the names Mohinder and affectionate nicknames such as Mindi.

Even when formal names were later changed, the childhood nicknames remained.

These close relationships gave us a sense of belonging that helped compensate for the ancestral world we had lost in Multan.

Chapter 21 — My Parents Working Together

Managing a large household in those days required enormous effort.

There were no modern kitchen appliances, washing machines, or convenient cooking facilities.

Initially, cooking was done on a traditional chulha using coal or other fuel.

Later, pressure stoves made the work somewhat easier.

My father was remarkably helpful.

After returning from work, he often brought vegetables for the following day.

He would cut and prepare them in the evening or cook them himself the next morning.

My mother prepared rotis, parathas, and other food while simultaneously getting the children ready for school.

Combing and arranging the long hair of the children was itself a considerable task.

We all had to be washed, dressed, fed, and sent to school on time.

My father sometimes became irritated when people arrived to discuss legal or official matters while he was busy helping with the morning household chores.

He had little patience for interruptions during those hours.

Before breakfast, we were expected to recite at least five pauris of Japji Sahib.

We sat together on a large jute mat spread on the floor.

These daily routines taught us discipline, simplicity, and respect for our religious traditions.

My mother sometimes encouraged my father and me to eat from the same plate.

She believed that sharing food would strengthen the affection between father and son.

It was a simple expression of her understanding of family relationships.

Chapter 22 — The Brother Who Was Always Scolded

My relationship with my mother was sometimes complicated.

Being the eldest son, I was expected to behave responsibly toward my younger sisters.

Whenever she went to the market, she would warn me:

“Preet, don’t tease your sisters. Don’t create any trouble while I am away.”

Naturally, disagreements occurred.

Bhagwant, being closest to my age, was usually the first to complain.

“Preet did this! Preet wouldn’t allow me that!”

When my mother returned, I would receive a stern scolding.

I often felt that she invariably sided with my sisters.

Bhagwant and Ambu were particularly close, while I sometimes tried to make Bobby my ally.

I remember giving my sisters money to buy sweets from the bazaar.

When they returned, I would mischievously accuse them of having eaten part of my share.

Bhagwant would immediately advise the younger girls:

“Don’t bring anything for him! He will only accuse you of eating his sweets!”

These were ordinary childhood quarrels, but they formed the lively fabric of our home.

At that age, I sometimes felt that my mother loved my sisters more than she loved me.

Only much later did I understand how mistaken that impression was.

Chapter 23 — A Mother’s Love That Was Seldom Expressed

My mother loved me deeply, but she was not demonstrative.

I cannot recall her frequently hugging me, kissing me, or openly expressing affection.

She belonged to a generation in which love was expressed primarily through responsibility, sacrifice, discipline, and care.

She would proudly tell others that I was her most handsome child.

She sometimes joked that I would have been even more handsome had I been a little taller.

She also recalled that I had been born with a dark complexion and curly hair, which had prompted affectionate teasing within the family.

Yet her praise was often accompanied by strict expectations.

As a child, I sometimes felt hurt by what appeared to be her preference for my sisters.

But gradually I discovered how deeply she trusted me.

Whenever she faced a difficult situation, she wanted me beside her.

She was particularly frightened of dental treatment, but she would willingly go to the dentist if I accompanied her.

My presence gave her confidence.

Years later, I met an old childhood friend after nearly fifty years.

He remembered my mother vividly.

He told me how warmly she welcomed my friends, how generously she fed them, and how hospitable she always was.

His recollections touched me deeply.

I realized that my mother’s affection had been visible to everyone, even when I had failed to recognize it fully as a child.

From her, I learned an important lesson:

Love should not merely be felt. It should also be expressed.

That is why, in my own life, I have tried to show affection openly to my son, grandchildren, and loved ones.

I enjoy embracing them, speaking warmly to them, and letting them know how much they mean to me.

My mother did not approve of public displays of affection.

“We are not like that,” she would say.

But her reserve taught me, in an unexpected way, the importance of expressing love while we have the opportunity.

Chapter 24 — My College Years and Her Homemade Pinnis

When I left Panipat to study electrical engineering in Chandigarh, my mother continued caring for me in her own practical way.

Before each departure, she prepared homemade pinnis with pure desi ghee.

They were rich, nourishing, and made with considerable effort.

She would carefully count them and instruct me:

“Eat only one each day. Not more!”

I followed her instructions, knowing that every pinni represented her affection and concern for my health.

My father encouraged me to return home whenever my studies permitted.

I usually visited Panipat about once a month.

In Chandigarh, I also had the comfort of my Chacha Ji’s home, where I spent many Sundays enjoying lunch, family company, and the familiar routines of childhood.

Our extended family bonds remained strong.

Even after I had left home for higher studies, my mother continued to think of me as the child whose education and welfare were her responsibility.

Chapter 25 — The Happiest Years of Her Life

When I reflect upon those years, I see my mother at the height of her vitality.

She had survived the violence of Partition, serious physical injuries, displacement, poverty, and a life-threatening illness.

Yet she had rebuilt her life with remarkable resilience.

She raised her children, educated them, welcomed relatives, cultivated friendships, sang in the Gurdwara, enjoyed cinema, attended cultural functions, and participated wholeheartedly in community life.

She was a capable homemaker, a gifted singer, a natural teacher, a generous hostess, and a woman of strong personality.

Her friends remembered her as cheerful, energetic, and beautiful.

Her children remember her discipline, her devotion, and the enormous effort she invested in their upbringing.

My father and mother worked together to create a home where money was limited but opportunities for learning, companionship, and happiness were abundant.

For me, the Panipat years represent the finest chapter of her life.

She had lost the comfortable world of her childhood in Multan, but she created another world through her own determination.

A world filled with children, music, laughter, friends, and family.

Epilogue — The Mother I Understand Better Today

As I grow older, I increasingly understand my mother.

In childhood, I sometimes saw only her strictness.

Today, I see the woman behind that strictness.

I see the young mother who survived a violent attack in Faridkot, who anxiously awaited her husband’s return from Multan, who began life again in a refugee household, and who faced dangerous pregnancies without the medical facilities we take for granted today.

I see the woman who taught her children their first alphabets, who gave free lessons to neighborhood women, who sang Gurbani with such sweetness, and who could turn an ordinary Tuesday cinema outing into a celebration.

Above all, I see a mother whose love was immense, even if she did not always know how to express it openly.

She gave us education, discipline, cultural roots, and the confidence to build our own lives.

And she left me with one particularly precious realization:

A mother’s love is not always measured by her embraces or affectionate words. Sometimes it is written in the sacrifices she makes, the lessons she teaches, and the life she builds for her children.

My mother, Savitri Devi, lived those truths.

Even today, after so many decades, I can still hear her singing, see her preparing our school mornings, and remember the warmth of those roasted peanuts as we walked together to the Ram Lila.

Those memories remain among the greatest treasures of my life.

— Preet Mohan Singh Kapoor