IT was November 1947. I was 22, very scared, pregnant with our first son. Our first night in India, the whole family slept on the platform. IK was in Delhi, but we didn't know where. A 40-strong family group had taken the train from Okha (Gujarat) to Delhi. Badi dehshat thi, they were massacring trainloads. We put bindis even on nine-year-old girls.

We were relieved to leave Lahore. I remember hiding in my father's house as my brothers humoured some rioters parked on our sofas, cajoling them out of their intent.

Slip-ups, tragedies were aplenty. An aunt lived in the old city. She sent her jewellery with our Muslim munshi , promising to follow with her husband. That's the last we heard from her. Vanished with no trace. A cousin's 11-year-old son was left behind. He was traced 17 years later. A father of two, married into the Muslim family that had raised him. He came over on a false passport, remarried. He lives in Hapur now.

As for us, we left it all--home, lands, carpets, curtains, furniture. We just took our jewellery,...