I was six that year. My parents, three brothers, three of us sisters lived at Dheri, 5 km from Rawalpindi where we had brick kilns, farmland. On March 7, '47 a mob of 20 came from neighbouring villages to warn us they were going to attack the village. First our house. Then the rest.

A Muslim friend offered shelter to all 21 of us: grandma, five girls, six boys, my parents, Dad's two brothers with their wives. Also my elder uncle's doctor son who'd come visiting with his wife and three-year-old son from Rawalpindi. Our Muslim host barricaded the door of the room with grainbags. The mob returned next morning--500 people from 15 villages. They leered, yelled that if we came out, ate halal meat, converted to Islam, we'd be spared. Father refused, yelling back we'd prefer to die.

Suddenly a section of our room's kuccha roof caved in. Someone was trying to break in. Someone else fired a shot in the air. Father handed each of us kirpans explaining carefully that if the mob broke the door we should stab ourselves on the left side. My mother, nursing my three-month-old brother,...