Migrating to another city is always a painful experience. The exercise of going through precious documents accumulated over a long time period of time stirred up an array of emotions in me. As I pulled out a tiny box that my father had passed on to me as my great-great grandfather’s belonging, it brought to light a number of stories. This is one of them.

Sometime in the pre-independence era in the 19th century, my great-great-grandfather M.S. Lal (MSL) inherited a palatial house from his great-aunt who had died childless. It was clearly a situation akin to gifting a white elephant to a person. MSL already had a lot of properties and found it difficult to manage them all by himself. The latest one had 15 bedrooms, sprawling gardens and servant quarters.

While family members contemplated the status of the new and unwanted gift, news of the war for independence broke and from then on, the sight of many broken homes and families was an everyday occurrence.

One of the family members found eight-year-old Seema Kumari and her five-year brother Arjun Kishan hiding inside a cowshed, trembling in fear. The children were not only left orphaned but terribly shaken by the brutal violence. It took MSL about six hours to calm them down. While Seema cried bitterly and continuously, Arjun was absolutely quiet as a result of the shock. The pain of seeing their near and dear ones dead was too emotional for them to handle at that tender age. Since the trauma lingered on, they had difficulty talking, eating and sleeping. It was absolutely dreadful and upset all in our family. In a diary which my great-great grandfather used to write, he mentioned how disturbed he was to wake up each day to witness more displaced people, of all ages, pouring in the city in large numbers. They were all shaken and victimised. Some had been maimed and handicapped as a result of the brutalities. Day after day, he saw the young and old die unsung and with no one to weep for them. Nobody would bother because there were so many of them.

No social security or amenities

MSL knew that there was no social security or amenities for such people who constituted a majority of the population. Deeply moved by the penury and misery suddenly all around him, he could no longer bear the pain of watching ill-fed and malnourished people. He kept thinking of how he could make a difference to help secure a better and brighter future for them. Since he came from a well-to-do background, MSL took the inheritance of the palatial property as a sign from above. He thought to himself that he had been blessed with abundance and it would be unjust not to give it back to the society. Having been moved by the sight of young widows and orphaned children, he sat down with his family one evening and declared that he would transform their large home into a vocational training centre-cum-hostel.

While this initiative was appreciated by few, it was ridiculed by most people in that conservative society. Vocational training in those times was a stupid idea as working under the administration was considered ‘secure’ and a ‘privilege’.

MSL slowly realised that not many rich people were willing to participate in any sort of charity. There were very few admirers who volunteered to offer free lessons in the craft they excelled in. Some women decided to teach sewing and cooking as a means to help earn a decent meal a day, if not two.

Since the age groups were varying, the students were initially encouraged to spend time gardening or making handicrafts of their choice. Some had been severely traumatised and would sit, unable to speak.

Eventually, the students gained a sense of self-worth, now able to make a happy and productive living for themselves — and this turned out to be the best part of the entire exercise. Just a few weeks later, a batch of senior citizens and locals stepped forward to work for free. Thereon, on an average, most “students”, once assigned with an art class, would move on.

As I turned over the yellowed pages of the hand-written diary, I found hundreds of thank you letters and notes addressed to MSL for changing people’s lives. He died a happy man.

As tears slowly welled up, I held the very priceless box close to my heart.

Lalit Raizada is a journalist based 
in India.