A rare commemoration of Pakistan's independence declaration on August 14, 1947

I was a mere eight years old, a second-grader attending Khaalsa High School nestled within the Peshawar Cantonment-a stronghold of the Sikh community. The rhythm of routine had assigned us homework for the annual summer vacations spanning June through August. Amidst this academic intermission, my eldest brother, Sayed Mahboob Shah, found himself stationed as an Anti-Malaria Officer at the Combined Military Hospital (CMH) in Loralai, Balochistan. He extended an invitation to his five younger siblings, myself included, urging us to spend the summer vacation with him.

A kaleidoscope of memories unfurls-days woven together with our Sikh and Hindu neighbours, a tapestry of camaraderie and playfulness. Amidst these joyous moments, the schoolwork assigned by Khaalsa School lay untouched, a testament to my youthful priorities. As August neared its culmination, the specter of resuming my studies cast its shadow. The thought of Master Taara Singh, a figure always armed with his oil-soaked "danda" (a punitive tool), evoked a visceral dread. I envisioned myself subject to his disciplinary ire, a fate that chilled me to the bone.

Then, on that pivotal August 14th, as the nation reverberated with celebrations marking Pakistan's inception, a distinct euphoria surged within me-for a reason divergent from the general jubilation. Word reached me that the Sikh community, responding to the partition, was relocating to India, resulting in the closure of Khaalsa High School. Consequently, this date etched itself as a day of personal triumph, shielding me from the impending wrath of Master Taara Singh, spared from his punishment for neglecting the summer homework.

Though my celebration was fervent, it was tinged with a poignant undercurrent. My family and I shared profound bonds with our Sikh and Hindu neighbours. My hometown, Bishar in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK), had embodied unity and tranquility. The advent of partition had caught us all by surprise, for none envisaged the exodus of Hindus to India. Names like Aziz, Raajpul, Jiggy, and an elusive Christian friend, whose name I don't recall now, populated my early recollections-they were my closest companions, and together, we celebrated Diwali in harmonious unison. The tapestry of my memories was woven with threads of unity and kinship, testament to the bonds that transcended religious divides.

Moreover, whenever there were Sikh religious celebrations at my high school, particularly for Baba Guru Naanak Jee's birthday, our esteemed teacher made sure that his students were the first to receive and consume the prashaad (blessed food). Despite what you hear about the brutal rivalries of Hindus and Muslims - which of course did exist - there was also places like Bishar: cohesive, peaceful and full of love.

Bishar holds a special place in my heart, serving not just as my home but also as the cradle of my patriotism. The profound connection with our revered leader, Quaid-i-Azam, who himself graced the lands of KPK, further deepens my bond with our nation. The year was 1948, the month April, and the air was charged with anticipation. News had spread that the distinguished Governor General of Pakistan, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, was scheduled to visit Peshawar, traversing the very Maal Road that winds through our cherished locality.

Like many others, I found myself on Maal Road that day, and the memories of that moment still rush back to me-the exhilaration, the surge of adrenaline-as the distant screams and clamor grew louder from my right. It was happening. He had arrived in Peshawar, traversing the very road beneath my feet. As his car advanced along the thoroughfare, I caught sight of his lowered window. The iconic Jinnah cap fixed its gaze upon me, and I found myself entranced, as if in a dream. The surreal encounter was abruptly disrupted by the commotion behind me-a woman, overcome with hysteria, shrieking, gesticulating wildly, and ultimately collapsing. Perhaps it was this peculiar scene that seized Jinnah's attention. He signaled his driver to decelerate and emerged from the vehicle.

In that bewildering moment, I think he mistook me for the son of the distraught lady, guided by the steadfast traditions of our Pakhtun culture-wherein men refrain from shaking hands with women outside their kin. And so, my hand met his in an unexpected handshake, a fleeting connection. With that, he returned to his car. Strangely enough, the previously frenzied lady then seized my hand, her grip resolute as she vigorously shook it.

This, however, was not the first instance of Muhammad Ali Jinnah gracing Peshawar with his presence. My memory drifts back to another occasion in 1936 when he visited and wore an expression of profound disillusionment at the palpable schisms within the political landscape. He scrutinized the bureaucrats, whose motives were often perceived as self-serving rather than altruistic. Likewise, there were those who donned the Gandhi cap as a symbolic gesture of allegiance to the Congress. Engagements with tribal Maliks provided him the reassurance that the Muslim League had successfully rooted itself in Peshawar. I had the privilege of bearing witness to the poignant renaming of Kalinga Park. It was a momentous day when Quaid-i-Azam stood amidst the verdant expanse, addressing the citizens of Peshawar. The assembly encompassed individuals from diverse tribes, united by an unwavering reverence for our leader.

Whenever his oration briefly paused, the air resonated with echoes of patriotic chants and fervent declarations, carrying across vast distances. It was on that very day that the proclamation resounded: Kalinga Park would henceforth be known as Jinnah Park