Our street in Lahore was a maze of intersecting lanes. In a way it was one large extended family. Like any extended family, it too had a hierarchy with street elders able to wield considerable power over all children. There were also some self-appointed guardians of morals, mostly old people, who made it their business to lord over children. On the credit side, children felt physically safe in their neighbourhood without having to worry much about strangers. And they generally had company in the street, as someone or the other of their age group would always be there during the day.In our house, things started to go from bad to worse after three weddings in our family. My sister had also gotten married. Three weddings in almost as many years severely upset the family status quo. Everybody had to make painful adjustments to accommodate new family members. The process of adjustment inevitably created new tensions. Some problems were never resolved and became a source of continuous friction. At that young age between five and 10, my world turned upside down. I had to learn to like, on the surface at least, new family members and, in turn, be liked by them. Otherwise, there would be trouble. And trouble there was aplenty for me. There was no way I could please them all, especially when they were engaged in guerilla warfare of their own with each other.My unmarried brothers, and there were quite a few of them, would have been company and comfort. But they were older than me by quite a few years and acted tough with me. When I started school, my youngest older brother was already in fourth grade. As the years passed, the gap was not bridged until much later in life. I had company in the street, though, with children of my age. And I played with them as much as family rules and discipline permitted. But there was nagging anxiety about returning home. I needed real friends, young or old, to help me with my emotional confusion. But that was virtually impossible because no one was supposed to talk about personal or family problems with outsiders for fear of bringing shame to the family. Even if I could I was too young to articulate my emotional situation.There was not much help at school either. Indeed, schools were virtual prisons with teachers acting as wardens. Teachers had almost absolute power over their students. There was no use complaining to parents because their retort invariably was that one got what they deserved. There was one time when my father was sufficiently enraged to go to my school to take my side. It involved a fight with a fellow student in third grade. Without bothering to find out why we had the fight, the class teacher went on to punish me by making me stand upright in the class with my hands stretched out. And when I loosened to itch or scratch, he would pull my belt to put me in the upright position.It was cruel and painful, and I cried all the way back home after school. For once my father was moved by my account and accompanied me to school. He was furious with the teacher while swinging his walking stick in the air, which he always carried as far back as I can remember. As a little of boy of eight I felt very proud of my father. His fiery intervention had me transferred to the headmaster’s class, fourth grade, and I had no trouble from that teacher any more. Most teachers in those days were sadists in one form or the other. One used to kick his second grade pupils with his boots. Another used to put a pencil through the students’ fingers to inflict excruciating pain. But school, like home, was a grim reality and could not be wished away.At home, the family was in constant emotional turmoil. When I was about 12-years-old, we moved to a new house in a new mohalla (street) not far from our old place, though it seemed far away. It was exciting at first but it was not easy to make friends in the new place. I was often picked on. I was the new kid on the block and hence easy game. Almost everyday I had to face the ordeal of wading through a street full of unfriendly boys making snide remarks and itching for a fight. I felt even worse, knowing that I could not get much sympathy and support at home.Some days I would sneak back into my old mohalla in search of my old playmates but it was not the same. They were not always around when I needed them. It was not like old times when I would step out of the house and someone or the other was around. At the same time, I also felt like a stranger and an ‘intruder’. It was miserable. It felt like I did not belong anywhere though I had no sense of conceptualising this at that young age.It was about this time in my life (at about 13 years of age) that India was caught in a political avalanche. The communal divide between the Hindus and Muslims had grown into a chasm. The Muslim League had become the political voice of most Indian Muslims. And it wanted to settle for nothing less than the separate state of Pakistan. It launched a ‘direct action day’ in Calcutta on August 16, 1946, culminating in communal carnage in the country. At the time our family was holidaying in the north Indian hill station of Dalhousie.I sensed trouble even though I did not understand the politics of it all at that young age. Early, in 1947, schools were closed in Lahore. I had only been recently promoted to high school after completing the eighth grade. With schools closed I was now stuck at home. As violence struck, menfolk organised themselves for night patrols. The entire atmosphere was like a war zone. Everyone seemed scared, some even hysterical. At times, in those days, Lahore would plunge into chaos.One such occasion stands out in my memory. One day my mother sent me to buy some butter from a shop across the street. Suddenly, I found everyone running hither and thither. I simply ran back home, not knowing what the commotion was all about. It was daytime and most men were at work. It, therefore, fell on the women to organise any kind of defence against a supposed Muslim attack. The first thing the women did was lock the steel gate of our street. They then asked all the children to fill up glass bottles with objects like nails, small stones etc. We (children) were then sent to the top of a building overlooking the road, with instructions to hurl the glass bottles instantly in case of trouble. At the same time, women started to equip themselves with weapons of all sorts, mostly wooden sticks to face the ‘attacking hordes’. Preparations were also made to store water in case of arson and/or sabotage of water supply. (To be continued) The writer is a senior journalist and academic based in Sydney, Australia. He can be reached at sushilpseth@yahoo.co.au