The Muslims are coming! The Muslims are coming!" The cry of the watchmen rang through our small village of Malaudh in Punjab, India. Gunfire sounded in the distance as shop owners hurried to close up shop, fearing the dozens of men on horseback brandishing weapons and riding our way. My father, a shop owner himself, rushed home to help my mother herd me and my siblings to the outskirts of Malaudh, where a maharaja, a wealthy landowner, had built a fortress known as a qila. Shouts filled the air as dozens of families rushed for safety. Six years old at the time, I struggled to keep up with my parents. The chaos around me struck fear in my heart, and my feet trod the dirt path quickly.

It was the year 1947, and as Hindus, we found ourselves fearful of the anger and hatred set in motion by the partition of India. The partition drew new geographic lines, turning the northern part of India into a new nation, Pakistan, and forcing many Muslims to move north to the new country. The Hindus living in what is now called Pakistan were forced to migrate south. My family and I lived at the heart of the conflict because there were many Muslims in our state of Punjab, and they did not want to move. The partition bred violence — Muslims killing Hindus and Hindus killing Muslims.

The fortress, surrounded by fifteen-foot-high walls, covered ten acres, and contained three residential buildings, stables, a jeep, and an open area for the water buff alo to graze. My family and I felt safe with the guards pointing their guns through small holes in the wall, allowing them to shoot if the enemy came near.

Approximately two hundred families from Malaudh entered the qila and waited in an open area. My two older sisters and older brother formed a tight circle around me. My father, Mukandi Lal, paced back and forth, occasionally speaking in serious tones to other men standing nearby.

Seeing the fearful look in my eyes, my mother, Maya Wanti, spoke soft encouraging words. The early afternoon heat thickened, and dust rose in little clouds at any movement of wind or person. The heat and dust were a constant part of our lives, but this new thing, this violence and fear, made everything else fall to the background. As the noise outside the fortress grew closer, my father stood straight and still, like an immovable tree. Angry shouts and the thunder of hooves echoed outside the walls. A few gunshots blasted the air as the men passed us by on their way to the next town. My mother's soothing voice came like a powerful mantra to drown out the frightening sounds. She prayed to the gods of our Hindu faith, asking for safety and protection, for blessings to fall on us. Grandmother sat quietly. My father's uncle, whom we called Grandfather, also spoke strong, hopeful words to us.

The leaders of India thought it would be a peaceful migration, but after the hasty withdrawal of the British, centuries of peaceful coexistence was laid waste as Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs engaged in a bloodbath that killed two million people. Rumors reached our village describing the ghost trains carrying nothing but corpses with their heads removed from their bodies, an act executed by both sides. With the angry Muslims crossing deeper into India every passing day, no one was safe, either on the roads or in the villages.

My family fled to the qila four times during the next few months. The Muslims could not reach us behind our high walls, and each time, we emerged from our hiding places to resume our ordinary lives.

Ordinary life for me took place in a small house behind my father's cloth shop. Like most homes in Malaudh, ours had a front yard where we kept our water buffalo. Every morning, I led her to a common place, and from there, a village boy steered the herd of buffalos and cows to a field to graze. Despite its small size, the village of Malaudh was the kasba, the center of commerce, for the surrounding thirty-six villages to buy their goods. Neither Malaudh nor the other villages had running water or electricity. Those too poor to afford a hand pump drew water for cooking and bathing from a central well, located in each residential street. My family owned a hand pump, but occasionally, we still used the well near our house.

School became a regular part of my life as I progressed through primary school, middle school, and finally, high school. Every day, I walked a mile outside the village to the high school, a compound of two buildings behind an iron gate, where we learned math, science, history, geography, English, and Hindi. One hundred and fifteen boys from Malaudh and the surrounding villages attended the school, Our Hindi teacher held class beneath a large neem (Azadirachta indica) tree. Its cooling shade refreshed us from the overbearing midday sun as we drank water out of clay jars, which kept the water from the hand pump cold.

Teachers did not hesitate to discipline with physical punishment, hitting us with sticks or slapping our faces if we misbehaved, answered incorrectly in class, or failed to complete the homework. They fabricated ways to embarrass students as well. One day I was sitting in class, pretending to listen to the physics teacher. The teacher asked a student a question. The student made a show of thinking hard. "I-I don't remember," he finally said.

"This is the third time you have come unprepared to class," the teacher said sternly. "Come to the front."

The student slowly stood and trudged to the front of the room.

"Bend forward," the teacher said.

Frowning, the student leaned over, his arms dangling near his toes.

"Now put your arms through your legs and touch your ears." We all watched anxiously, yet curiously, thankful we were not in his position.

The boy bent his knees so that he crouched awkwardly, his rear end sticking in the air. He grimaced as he stretched his arms as far as he could through his legs, finally latching on to the tips of his ear lobes. Several students snickered. The murgha (chicken) pose is one of the more humiliating punishments the teachers used. If the student lowered from the position even for an instant, the teacher would strike him with a long stick on his rear end.

After school, I helped my father in his shop, which adjoined the back of our house. The wooden shelves held stacks of beautifully woven, vibrantly colored fabrics. My father would greet the customers and ask what they would like to drink. Then I'd bring them either lemonade or hot tea. The drinks made the customers feel close to my father, and they would not bargain too much.

A thin woven rug covered the floor, and on top of the rug, we placed a sheet. My father sat on a round white pillow, signifying he was the owner, and the customers sat cross-legged before him. After an initial greeting, the customers would tell him what sort of cloth they were looking for (blue shirt material, perhaps), and then my father would order me to bring several bolts of cloth for the customers to examine. Once they made their choice, my father measured and cut the cloth before passing it to me to fold and wrap in paper. On weekends, I sprinkled water on the dirt road in front of the shop to keep the air free of dust. When the shop closed, I helped my father count money until 7:30 p.m.

My father was strict, well-built, and hard-working. He managed his income wisely, spent frugally, and never wasted a rupee (Indian Currency). At times, he exhibited a demanding character....