Most people in Pakistan would not be able to find Uttar Pradesh on a map of India but the sudden Hindutva uprising has them concerned especially after the induction of Yogi Adityanath as the new CM. We simply can’t imagine life without kababs, after all beef and mutton dishes have been a perennial favourite here for many. The recent events in UP have me worried as well, for her people and for her centuries long Ganga-Jamuna tehzeeb that I’ve been a witness to myself. I consider myself a complete UPite by blood: belonging to the Mahajir community of Karachi, my roots can be traced back to the region of Banaras and beyond, prior to partition. The subculture of home always had smatterings of Bhojpuri as well as a strong love for the saree and daal chawal.

I know how vital religious syncretism is to the social fabric of Uttar Pradesh because I grew up listening to my grandfather, a Pakistani diplomat, narrate stories of swimming in the Ganges, bunking school with friends, which included an equal number of Hindus and Muslims, and also of one day abandoning his hometown for a new desh in 1947. Three wars with India did not diminish the fondness and longing he had for his birthplace, the pain all the more visible as he got older and laid down for storytelling sessions with his grandchildren.

Around ten years ago, while still studying in college, much after my grandfather had passed away, I decided to embark on a journey to my ancestral home in Ballia, UP. Perhaps it was a bid to relive my childhood bond with my dada (the love of a grandparent is special and only realised upon losing one). I had no address on me, just my last name to guide me, and a fascination with India to keep me motivated. India also symbolised Bollywood to me, so a part of me almost expected to run into SRK right after landing at the airport but that was not to be.

As Mahajirs, we have always been acutely aware of not completely belonging in Pakistan; some of it has been due to our own political design and the rest due to discrimination faced early on after the creation of Pakistan. We are a resilient bunch though, those of us with Uttar Pradeshi roots have the ability to survive uprooting, upheavals and still thrive-which is why I believe people from my beloved UP will be just fine once this current storm passes them. And that is why I was sure of finding the backyard my grandfather ran amok in during the afternoons.

Once in India, I decided to savour my journey so I got myself an unlimited railway travel pass. This was the era of Lalu Prasad as the railways minister so the Rajdhanis and Shatabdis were spick and span, raring to go. I made many stops before heading into the heart of UP; Jaipur, Ajmer, Agra, Delhi, Lucknow were relished, and captured on my camera. Folks were friendly, willing to share their life stories and snacks with me, sometimes even pitying me for being a lone traveler. This was also an India that was comfortable with its Mughal past, barring Aurangzeb who everyone held a personal grudge against, many people took pride in discussing Mughal architecture with me as my train journey lunged forward.

Banaras came next on my itinerary and that meant I was barely a 150 kms away from Ballia city, my final destination. The language by now had gotten more rustic, the dilapidated buildings and anonymous gulliyaan sent me into a slight panic mode. Had I signed up for a monumental, nearly-impossible task? How was one to locate any place on this side of the world amidst lazy cows giving dharna in front of houses with several partitions? Eastern UP lived in some other century but I decided to drown my fears in a big fat glass of Banarsi lassi and go sight seeing instead. ‘Hamare Ballia ki bitya ho, worry not,’ the pandit at Kashi Vishwanath Mandir remarked as he gave an extended tour of the temple, even though entry for Non-Hindus was prohibited at the time owing to bomb threats.

Two days later I found myself on a bike riding through the pothole-filled Ghazipur-Ballia highway. ‘What do you mean you have no address baaji?’, Danish asked as we rode past lentil fields. He was a distant relative, belonging to the same community but not in anyway related to my grandfather’s side. My presence had intrigued him, so he offered to come along and I took it up happily thinking a bike ride to Ballia would add a new dimension to the journey. “You have two hours to find this place of yours, then we will go back to Banaras,” Danish warned me, his faith in me clearly diminishing halfway through the journey. At that moment, I merely closed my eyes, turned my face towards the unforgiving sun and asked my late grandfather to come to my help, I had not come all this way to return empty handed.

Ballia welcomed me with posters of Bhojpuri cinema, men clad in dhoti were selling masalas on street corners, and women moulding clay toys made for a striking first impression. All I could recount at this point was an area that often came up in the story sessions, Bishnipur. Bishnipur turned out to be a rather buzzing residential area, with private schools in every gully, we rode past a house with a name plate that carried a Muslim name. “Rukko rukko,” I ordered Danish, ‘Maybe the people inside will know someone from my khandaan?’ I thought out loud. Danish dismissed my thought, smirked at my foolishness and chose to stand in a corner as I got off to ring the bell.

A middle aged man greeted me at the door and I politely informed him about my purpose of being in the city by the Ganga. He then proceeded to interrogate me for twenty minutes-asking me names of everyone in my extended family. Exasperated with his lack of warmth and constant questioning, I excused myself and turned around disappointedly to head back. “But you have come to the right place!,” he grumbled loudly. Pleasantly jolted, my eyes started welling up, it was surreal to believe that the first house I knocked on turned out to be the one I was looking for! Destiny had placed me right where I belonged.

Within minutes I became phupho (aunt) to the man’s children inside the house. 1947 did not just separate India and Pakistan, entire families were partitioned, split between ideologies some family members chose to stay back while others believed in Jinnah’s vision. I discovered relatives previously unknown to me.

There was much jubilation surrounding my presence in Ballia, people from the neighbourhood both Hindus and Muslims frequently dropped in to chit chat. This is how most people in UP live, with one foot constantly in their padosi’s place. Religion is crucial but interpersonal relations reign supreme, especially the ties that have lasted for years.

The portion of the house my grandad was born in was now on lease, on one end of the vast space a Mandir had also been erected. Ganga flowed nearby blending the green and saffron of people’s hearts into one divine hue. I was right at home yet an outsider, but more importantly closer to the beginning of my dada’s life, and now equipped with a story I can share with my future grandkids.

The author can be contacted on Twitter @MariaSartaj