Pakistan is a foreign country now. This is no ordinary foreignness, but one riddled with distrust and wrapped in layer after layer of obscuring cloth. How could a trip there be as simple as buying a bus ticket and setting off? Acquiring the necessary permissions and permits itself involves so many stages and steps that even the most courageous and daring will have their patience tested to the limit. A few moments ago, Lahore and Karachi were our own, just like Bombay or Calcutta. But now there are so many veils [between us] that from this perspective going to London or New York would be far easier….

On the first of April, the seventh of Sha‘ban, after saying the Friday prayer, we departed on the late afternoon train from Lucknow to Amritsar. Before Partition, this train went straight to Lahore. It used to be called the Calcutta–Punjab Mail. On the train platform such a crowd of relatives, friends, supporters, and others had gathered to see me off that it felt as though I were not going to Pakistan, but rather going on hajj and to visit [the Prophet’s grave in Medina]. It felt as though I were going on a trip that would last years, not just two and a half weeks! Among the crowd were pure-hearted old men who had full faith in their supposition that I was on a political mission, as a Governor-General, or to serve as a constitutional advisor. They were sure that I could assist their [relatives] in securing jobs and promotions for bureaucrats and office workers at every rank. “Listen, please find a job for my dear So-and-So. The poor boy has yet to find a position.” Innocent people piled filing cabinets’ worth of requests and petitions onto these weak shoulders with complete faith. The scene of my departure was emotional, and anyone with a feeling heart would have been overcome with melancholic sorrow and pain. It was just like the soul’s journey at the end of life.