Engrossed in searching the most important diary of his boss usually called ‘Barey Sahib’ (means big boss), Saleem fretted as he could hardly breathe in an attic full of dust with no window for ventilation. But more importantly he was concerned about the boss because as soon as the diary would go into his custody, he would remain sad and anxious for days. 

The month of August came heavy upon Wali Murad as it brought monsoons as well as poignant memories of partition. He would confine himself in his room and keep flipping the pages of the maroon leather bound diary which belonged to his elder brother Arif Murad. The diary had an account of his personal life events that took place during and after the historic migration in August 1947.
Saleem, respectfully called Wali Murad ‘Barey Saheb’ as he had raised him like his own child from a tender age of 3 and under his guardianship, he learnt the ways of life. Wali had two daughters but since he married them off abroad, he was left all alone with his wife in an ancestral Haveli in Lahore. When Saleem found the diary, it had turned dark outside; he hurriedly entered Wali Murad’s room on the first floor, and handed him the diary. Wali opened the first page and read:
14  August 1947
“There was a deafening noise of fireworks outside the streets of Muzaffarnagar, after the historic announcement of independence on All India Radio. People were out on the streets chanting “Pakistan ka matlab kya, La ilaha Illallah” in jubilation. But I felt estranged about the future that lay in front of us. Why do we have to leave our home where I, my father and grandfather opened our eyes? What would happen to Abba’s flurishing business? What would our new home be like? I am afraid to even think that this was surely the beginning of a new struggle.”
23rd November 1948
“Ram Mohan, the head of Mahajan community and Abba's good friend visited us for the third time. It was odd to see his harsh behavior while giving the final ultimatum to Abba for leaving the city. By now, most of the Muslim families in our neighborhood had migrated to Pakistan. Last month, there was a havoc created by Hindus which resulted in bloodshed and the breaking down of  the houses of Muslim families in Muzaffarnagar. Wali was 10 and Azra 8; they were terrified of the increasing riots each day. I was baffled to see the hostility of Hindus towards Muslim they once called brothers. And I’m certain that the time to take the decision is now or never.”
10th January 1949
“In the biting cold of January, we boarded the train going to Lahore. Abba, Ammi, Azra, me and Wali. Azra had a high fever, Ammi kept checking her temperature and gave medicines her accordingly. It was a very sad day; we left our home, business and birthplace but more than that we were shocked to see the real face of our once Hindu best friends. The train headed towards its destination but none of us were in anticipation of reaching there. I had scored the highest grades in my Bachelors, and was expecting a scholarship for further studies but all in vain. Was this all worth it?”
2nd March 1955
“Abbu,Wali and me were standing in the Gora Qabristan, Lahore, reciting Fateha for Azra who was buried there after a long illness. I felt devastated; migration was supposed to be a comfort, and sure it was but it took away little Azra’s life. Abba got a train master’s job in the railways, and was granted a small quarter to reside. I decided to give up on my studies with a heavy heart so as to keep things going. Wali is a promising bright child, he takes lessons in the evening from me.”
31st October 1958
“The Government of Pakistan has announced claims to compensate the migrants. But our lives seemed stagnant, Abba still works as a train master. I go to my job religiously every day and all the families in our area live prosperously in poverty. Although I am the most educated in my office eligible for a raise in designation, I have no one to back me.  I turned 31, last month. Ammi says it is the right age to get married. But I think it is not the right time, I do not wish to give a deprived life to my family.”
13th August 1961
“Uncle Safdar and Masood got their claim this month and had moved out of railway quarters with families. It had instilled hope in the colony members. I have been raised to an accountant’s post and this has left me with little savings and a thought of resuming my studies. Wali has just applied for university. People are energized to celebrate the independence day tomorrow. I still have to shop for clay oil lamps for Ammi, she would light up the quarter and cook delicious food.”
It was the last written page of the diary, Wali closed the diary with trembling hands, it was 2 in the night. He felt suffocated and the memory of the fateful day after came rushing back to him. 37 years ago, on the 14th Independence Day of Pakistan, while returning home Arif met with a road accident and died on the spot. He bought a flag of Pakistan that day. His body was covered in the same flag during his burial. As destined, the same year, Murad Ali (Abba) got his claim and with that he had a humble start in the jiggery business. Good at his craft, Murad converted hundreds into thousands and thousands into lakhs within no time.  The sad part was that Arif Murad could not see the progressive years of Pakistan and his Abba. Both Murad Ali and Ammi could not recover from Arif’s death. And one after the other they passed away leaving Wali and his wife Salma behind.
Next day, it was Pakistan’s 77th Independence anniversary, schools organized programs, houses lit with fairy lights and markets teemed with Pakistan's flag, banners and brooches with Milli Naghmas playing on the loudspeakers. Wali Murad woke up spirited in the morning, wore his black sherwani, pinned a Pakistani brooch on it and left for Gora Qabristan. He recited Fateha for his Ammi, Abba, Arif and Azra, placed fresh flower petals on their graves and stayed for a while. He was proud of the fact that the people who died before or after reaching Pakistan during migration were the unsung heroes of Pakistan. The ones who sacrificed their lives to achieve their homeland and his family were also amongst them. A throng of people gathered at Mazar-e-Iqbal to register their love, respect and gratitude to the national poet and the dreamer of Pakistan. Wali and Salma celebrated the day with all zeal and zest by lighting up the oil lamps and arranging a special feast for all who entered their premises, just the way as his Ammi did. The haveli reverberated with a glorious voice of Nayyara Noor singing: “Watan ki Mitti Gawah Rehna”!

Pakistan Zindabad
In the land of the pure, where eagles soar high,
Beneath the azure, boundless sky,
Stands a nation, proud and grand,
Pakistan, our cherished homeland.
From the peaks of K2 to the Arabian Sea,
A tapestry of beauty, wild and free,
Emerald fields and deserts wide,
In every heart, a nation's pride.
Green and white, our flag unfurls,
A symbol of hope to the world,
Unity, faith, discipline's call,
For peace and progress, one and all.
Martyrs' blood, a sacred trust,
In every grain of this blessed dust,
Their dreams we hold, their sacrifices recall,
In unity, we stand tall.
Land of poets, scholars, and more,
From Iqbal's vision to Jinnah's lore,
With resilience and courage, hand in hand,
Together we build, together we stand.
Oh Pakistan, forever thrive,
In every heart, you are alive,
In every prayer, in every stride,
Pakistan Zindabad, our eternal pride.