MY memories are of Kala in Jhelum where I was raised. Of the Army evacuation, which meant escorting convoys of refugees across the border through slush, mud and massacres. It poured rain, rained riots that summer of'47.

An incident springs to mind. I raced down from Mussoorie when I heard my brother-in-law had been stabbed at Jhelum. At Amritsar I was luckily put in charge of a military vehicle going into Lala Moosa from where I drove to Jhelum. I found my brother-in-law safe. He refused to accompany me as he'd already arranged to go across to Ferozepur under military escort.

On my way back to Amritsar with a truckload of refugees I had tense moments: the truck broke down on a bridge. A Muslim crowd's help was elicited to push a truck carrying Hindu refugees to the side of the road. It wasn't always so smooth. Once Pakistani officials insisted on searching the truck--they suspected us of carrying ammunition. It was a thin cover for the real purpose: looting refugees of their gold, cash. Much aggressive posturing, paper waving, phone calling, wheedling later, we...