How Green Was My Town
By Dr Syed Amir
Bethesda, MD

It was a small, peaceful town with a population of less than 22,000 that had not changed much over many, many years. The nearest railway station was in another town, some fifteen miles away, accessible via unreliable rickety buses that often broke down. Even when they moved, it took them two or more hours to cover the short distance to the railway station. Sahaswan, within the district of Badaun in Utter Pradesh, was the town where my family had lived continuously for five centuries. No one knew its history, but it was believed to have served once as the capital of an ancient Hindu kingdom.
When I was growing up, it had no electricity, running water, or telephone services and the news from the outside world filtered in through a few battery-operated radios. And even this link was unreliable. Bulky batteries needed to operate radios did not last for long and had to be frequently recharged. To save the battery power, radios were turned on only on special occasions, such as an important speech by national leaders, Jawaharlal Nehru, Maulana Azad, or intrusion of traumatic events, such as the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi.
In the section of the town where my family lived, almost everyone was related, closely or distantly, as marriages were strictly within the clan. Few strangers had any reason to visit Sahaswan, and virtually everyone knew everyone else in the town. Rarely, when an unfamiliar face was spotted, the person instantly became the object of curiosity, which was not satisfied until the antecedents of the stranger were ascertained. The close family connections brought both rewards and problems. As a child, I knew that some adult was always around, and mischievous conduct would bring swift admonition.
While many amenities were either fragmentary or nonexistent, the postal system functioned reliably, one of the legacies of the British colonial rule that had established an honest and efficient postal system throughout the subcontinent. Newspapers usually arrived a few days late but were much cherished. Few could afford to subscribe, but the papers were shared and read cover to cover, before being discarded. Life moved at a leisurely pace, and there were no major crimes apart from rare cases of family disputes which occasionally got violent. Murders, robberies, rapes or mugging were unheard of, although pick-pocketing incidents were more frequent. A few ill-trained and ill-equipped policemen, lorded over by a sub-inspector, usually seen whiling away the time at the lone police station, were sufficient to keep the peace. Most town folks preferred not to have any contacts with them.
Commercial activities centered on a small marketplace that came alive in the late afternoon. However, life in both the town and the bazaar came to a virtual halt as darkness fell, and the town was progressively suffused in a serene and quaint tranquility. The streets were dimly lit at night by paraffin lamps mounted on poles at street corners. They brightened the area for a few feet underneath them, while casting eerie shadows farther along. In winter, the silence came early, and late at night one could hear the howls of jackals in the distance who intermittently wandered in search of food. The occasional weddings brought a welcome break from the monotony, even though such festivities were much more modest affairs compared to the lavish modern-day ceremonies common in the subcontinent.
Wintry nights offered special delights. With little or no pollution and the absence of ambient streetlights, one could have a spectacular view of the star-studded night sky and the constellations. When the moon was full, one could virtually read a newspaper at night. My earliest memories of the winter mornings are associated with the sounds of geese flying high, in military-like formations, having spent the night by the nearby lake. It was commonly believed that they flew all the way from Central Asia to escape harsh winters and were heading towards the warm southern climes. They would undertake a return trip in early spring, following a routine they had instinctively pursued over the ages.
Sahaswan had no industry or business and many residents were dependent on ancestral lands for which they collected annual rent from peasants who ploughed the fields and harvested the crops. Consequently, it never attracted a significant number of outsiders. The zamindari system that had discouraged people from acquiring any saleable skills or education came to an end after independence, ushering in a period of hardship and painful adjustment. However, the communities lived in harmony. During the tragic and tumultuous period that the country underwent in the wake of partition and independence, Sahaswan did experience some tensions, but happily it never saw any communal riots or acts of violence.
Going back three generations, my ancestors had been practitioners of the Unani system of medicines, or Hakims. My father had a number of Hindu friends and patients. I fondly remember going around with him to greet them on festive occasions such as Diwali. I especially looked forward to a choice of scrumptious sweets that were invariably offered. In turn, we received father’s friends and visitors on Eid, following the end of Ramadan. Sadly, some conservative Hindus, even on festive occasions, could not accept food prepared by a Muslim host. This practice did circumscribe easy interactions on a social level between the two communities. But on weddings and similar celebratory occasions, the problem was circumvented by hiring Hindu cooks who prepared separate food for non-Muslim guests.
The unhurried pace of town life significantly quickened during the hot summer months, when a host of students and those employed outside returned home on break. The town was surrounded by a belt of mangoes orchards and guava trees and twilight hours often resonated with the melodious calls of female Indian koel that heralded the arrival of blossom. In the evenings, soft fragrance of Rat ki Rani (Jessamine) wafted through the gentle breeze. For me, following a stressful few weeks during the annual examination at Aligarh Muslim University, the home town provided a place of refuge, offering security in familiar faces and places. Sahaswan had a sizeable population of highly literate people, schooled in traditional scholarship, Eastern languages, religion, philosophy and poetry. The summer evenings saw a proliferation of literary activities, Mushairas and Bait Bazi competitions that were popular and well attended.
More than five decades have passed since I last visited Sahaswan following my return from England on completion of my education, before my parents came to join me in Pakistan. Most people I knew there, family and friends, have already gone. I have no doubt the town has changed in many ways and its new features and contours may no longer be readily recognizable to me.
When viewed through the fog of time, recollections and memories tend to get distorted, the mind over years selectively filtering those that are less alluring. The advice against revisiting places to which one holds long, sentimental attachment may still be most judicious, as we are likely to get disillusioned. “You can never go home again.”
(Dr Syed Amir is a former Assistant Professor, Harvard Medical School, and a health science administrator, US National Institutes of Health)