I Was a Rolling Stone — Sabeeha Rehman

“Did you move as a child? What was it like?” my son asked.
Did I ever? Short answer: All the time. Moving was a way of life.
Daddy was in the military and it was routine for the army to keep their officers on the move, transferring them from station to station, as in: cities to cities, for a number of reasons. One I think was they did not want the army officers to establish ties. The other was diversity of training and exposure to various units of the army. We lived in the army Cantonment and officers and their families were always on the move.

Transfers could never be anticipated. One day my father would come home and announce, “I have been transferred to Quetta.” (see map)

I don’t remember how much lead time we had before Daddy had to report to his new station, but I do remember that right away my mother would start packing. One of the items on her checklist was to get Transfer Certificates from our school. My sister Neena and I would run over to our neighbors and tell auntie and our friends, “Daddy got transferred. We are leaving.” As kids, we were always excited about moving to a new place.

On moving day, the army soldiers would come—in their uniform—carry away and ship our stuff. My father would go first, get settled, and once he had secured army housing, he would come get us. Meanwhile we would move in with my maternal grandparents Aba Ji and Ami Jan in Multan. (See map).

Daddy would drive us in our black Ford Consul. Mummy packed lunch in a tiffin-carrier and we stopped on the wayside to have a meal. There were no roadside eateries, and the few that existed—well, let’s just say: eating out was not a thing you did. Daddy would sing along the way and we would sing-along. If it involved an overnight trip, we would stop enroute at a relative’s home and check-in for the night. Did we give them advance notice of our arrival? We had no telephones, letters took a few days, and telegrams were reserved for special occasions, usually announcing a death. But knowing my parents, I would guess that they would have mailed a letter informing their hosts. He would drop us off at Multan, and then head off to Quetta or wherever.

Next day my mother would enroll us in school at St. Mary’s in Multan. I hated that. For one thing, I hated school. Period. And while I hoped for some respite from school in my temporary abode, it was never meant to be. And the nuns were especially mean, corporal punishment being their modus operandi. My knuckles were sore from being hit with the edge of the ruler. Somewhere along the way, Daddy’s letter would arrive: he had the house and was coming to get us. Then the drive to Quetta (or wherever), a new house, and a new school.

The only thing I liked about a new school was that I was regarded as a ‘new student’ and given some slack. I was a slacker, so I welcomed the concession. Then it was off to making new friends in school and in the neighborhood. I don’t remember that as being an issue. My mom would get busy in setting up house, getting settled, until the next transfer.

At times we would run into the same families, also shuttled from one city to the other. “Oh, so you are also here!” I would hear Mummy exclaim, glad to have a familiar face in the new surroundings.

Officers had no say in when they were transferred or where. And once that decision was issued, the sun could turn cold, but there was no overturning a transfer order.

There were times when we moved within a city. Daddy, being an automobile engineer, was once stationed at the 502 Workshop in Rawalpindi, an outfit that maintained army vehicles. The workshop had its own housing adjacent to the workshop. Then he got transferred to GHQ, the General Headquarters of the army, also in Rawalpindi. However, he had to vacate the house and then wait around until GHQ allotted the house. Rawalpindi had a perpetual housing shortage and you had to wait in line for your turn which could take as long as ten months to a year.

This time we did not go to Multan. My father’s cousin, auntie Furrie lived in a sprawling house in the Civil Lines. Her husband, uncle Rauf generously offered to have us stay with them. We took our cook with us and I have no idea how the kitchen arrangements were handled. Anyhow, we stayed there and waited for our turn to get a house, and I didn’t have to change schools. Then uncle Rauf got transferred to another city.
“Oh no!” I remember Mummy saying.
I thought that we would now have to go to Multan to my grandparents and change schools. You won’t believe what happened next. The new family who was to move into uncle Rauf’s house, offered to keep us until we got a place of our own. Total strangers! A lovely couple, auntie had a sweet-looking face and a gentle demeanor. I don’t remember her husband. But my parents became friends with them and long after we had left, we would pay them a visit. Anyhow, they offered to house us, so we stayed. And one fine morning, Daddy got the allotment of his house—a dream house. A beautiful three-bed three-bath house, a garden, wrap-around verandah, and a sprawling backyard. Six months later, while Mummy was still relishing her good fortune, Daddy got transferred to Staff College at Quetta for a one-year course.

For the first time, I was devastated at the idea of moving. I would be leaving my best friend Rehana, also ten years old, who lived next door. This time we accompanied Daddy because Staff College provides housing it’s community. It was a long drive and we made overnight stops at Multan and at an army rest house. Staff College course coincided with the school year, so we didn’t lose any school time. I wrote regularly to Rehana. Staff College was located on the hilly side of Quetta with streets branching out from the college, lined with single family houses for the officers. It housed a private movie theater, swimming pool, library, a clubhouse, tennis courts and cricket field. The college provided bus service to St. Joseph’s Convent Girls School where all Staff College girls were enrolled.

The next transfer was the worst in terms of being shuttled around. When the course at Staff College was over and all the officers got their transfer orders, guess where we got posted to. Back to Rawalpindi. Mummy threw her hands up. Now we were going to be homeless again. I was ecstatic: Rehana is there. What I didn’t know then was that Rehana’s father had been transferred out. Anyhow, my maternal aunt, whose husband, uncle Humaiyun was also at Staff College got transferred to Kharian. (Its not on the map, but it’s half-way between Rawalpindi and Lahore). They offered that we stay with them until Daddy got housing. Kharian Cantonment was another self-contained military enclave, similar to Staff College. I completed my 8th grade in Kharian at a co-ed public school. No more nuns. It was in Kharian where I met my lifelong friend Fawzia, who lived down the block. I just got off the phone with her. She lives in Atlanta. A year later, a friend offered their vacant house in Rawalpindi to us, and we moved there. When they returned, another friend offered their vacant house to us until Daddy finally got his housing.

By then, I was a senior in high school, no more a child. But the moving from one city to the next; sometimes living in our own home, sometimes in friend’s vacant homes, at times with family, at times with kind new people, continued until I went away to college.

I am dizzy just writing about it.