My school curriculum imprinted young minds of my generation with the ideal of separating religion from state. Being born in a country harboring some of the world’s most prolific religions: Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Jainism, Sikhism, Zoroastrianism and Baha’i to name a few, meant secularism became a way of life. How else could people with such vast religious and cultural differences unite under one country? Never were these differences more pronounced than in the countless disparate surnames of my countrymen. Each surname was like a key unlocking information about its owner: religion, language, vocation, culture, food, clothing and more. On a map of India, specific surnames topographically map to particular geographical regions. However, my grandfather’s name—Purshotam Lal Malik—exists as a ridge traversing the border India shares with its archival neighbor Pakistan, two countries that could not be more different yet similar at the same time.
My fondest memories of my grandfather are grounded in his stories about India’s
tumultuous history and its struggle for freedom from colonial rule. He was born during the British Raj, a period when the British colonized the Indian subcontinent for over a hundred years before partitioning it into present day India and Pakistan along sectarian lines. The British left an imprint on every facet of Indian society: governance (democracy), customs (high tea), sports, railways, postal system, tax code and much more. My grandfather’s vivid accounts of the lives of Indians under British rule were a portal into India’s enigmatic past—a past my school books attempted to capture by stitching together a series of drab facts with complete disregard to the art of storytelling. As a kid, I didn’t care for facts. I cared about stories. My books did little to capture a child’s curiosity, the very subjects they were trying to imbue with a sense of nationalistic identity and pride, because of the looming threat to the west. A series of turf wars fueled by religious differences had left both India and Pakistan wary of one another.
My morning routine while visiting my grandparents was the same each day. After my
breakfast, I wandered into the courtyard to spend time with my Grandfather. By then, he had already been awake for a few hours, having read the daily newspaper, taken his morning walk, and eaten his porridge. He was usually in the middle of his shave when I arrived. His setup was simple: a tiny mirror inset in a wooden frame perched atop a rickety table with legs that were almost as tall as me. The razor moved across the canvas of his face, covered in white stubble, in long smooth brushstrokes as if he were an impressionist painter.
“Dada, can I shave too?” I asked him.
He would break into a big smile. “You are too young. Someday in the future when you
are taller than me, you are going to complain about shaving.”
My grandfather had an uncanny ability to predict the future. He knew when the papayas would ripen, when the black bulbuls would return from their migration, even the exact time of day it would rain. His predictions about me growing taller than him, being more educated and earning more money, all came true. He had an unshakable belief in my future.
After his shave, we would sit under the noon sun, discussing India’s history. I listened with wondrous eyes while my grandfather recounted his experiences, weaving tiny snippets of history into a coherent whole. He was a masterful storyteller, enacting each character with great precision, from the curt, raspy tone of a British soldier to the softer, reserved voice of an Indian mother. In contrast to popular opinion, my grandfather viewed the British in a favorable light. His stories had a positive bent. However, discussing the partition made him sad. Back in Multan (now a part of Pakistan) he had owned land used for growing wheat and raising cows and buffaloes. His last name “Malik”—a name predominantly used by Muslims—signified his status as a landowner. His first name “Purshotam Lal” indicated his adherence to Hinduism. The juxtaposition of his first and last name symbolized the brotherhood that existed between the Muslims and Hindus living in British India.They shared not only names but also cultural sensibilities, cuisine, clothing, and customs. Partition severed those bonds. My father, who was born after the partition, was named “Sushil Kumar Malhotra”—Malhotra being a Hindu last name. The absence of “Malik’’ in my father’s name signified my grandparents leaving their home behind.
A few years ago, while entering a country in the Middle East that wasn’t on good terms with Pakistan, the border officer asked me for my grandfather’s name. I remember the moment clearly: the border officer squints his eyes as I stand still. I can’t remember my grandfather’s name. The officer repeats the question. My brain is on overdrive. In a flash, the name arrives on my lips, but I don’t utter a word. After the officer asks a third time, I blurt out “Purshotam LalMalhotra.” The officer stares at me for a few seconds, takes some notes, before letting me pass.
Afterward, I felt guilty for changing my grandfather’s name, for not acknowledging being related to the man who saw the world in me because I was afraid and ashamed to be associated with Pakistan. Over time, I realized that the country I had vilified under the veal of patriotism, was an integral part of my identity. I ate the same food, wore the same clothes, and spoke the same language as many in Pakistan. I was as much a child of Pakistan, through my grandfather’s legacy, as I was of India—a fact I had eschewed for most of my life. My grandfather’s name, with its juxtaposition of Hindu and Muslim sensibilities, confused me as a kid, but as an adult it helped me make peace with my ancestral lineage. As clairvoyant as my grandfather was, he would have never predicted that.
Sushant Malhotra is a writer based in Oakland, always experimenting with different forms of storytelling. For him, writing is a way to explore both the world outside and the world within.
