Regional perspectives on Indias Partition: Shifting the Vantage Points 9781032244150, 9781032244174, 9781003278498

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REGIONAL PERSPECTIVES ON INDIA’S PARTITION

This book expands the scope of understanding the vast, albeit uneven, experience of the 1947 Partition of India by including localities and life stories from and beyond the regions of Punjab and Bengal. Building on existing research on Partition, the chapters present and analyse the consequences of Partition displacement and the resilience of communities in different parts of the nation. Regions discussed include the Chhitmahals, Assam, Tripura, Mizoram, Hyderabad, Andaman Islands, and Jammu and Kashmir. The contributors show that the heterogeneity of people’s experiences resides in spaces of the family, home, neighbourhoods, villages, towns and cities, refugee settlements, letters, memoirs, biographies, films, fiction, oral histories, and testimonies. This book is, thus, a unique and comprehensive contribution in enabling a more complex understanding of how Partition played out and continues to do so for various groups and generations across India. It will be of interest to a multidisciplinary audience, including in history, literature, colonial and postcolonial studies, South Asia studies, and studies of memory and trauma. Anjali Gera Roy is Professor in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, Indian Institute of Technology Kharagpur, India. She is the author of Memories and Post-memories of the Partition of India (2019) and Imperialism and Sikh Migration (2017), also published by Routledge. Nandi Bhatia is Professor in the Department of English and Associate Dean (Research and Graduate Studies), Arts and Humanities at The University of Western Ontario, Canada. Her monograph Women’s Stories of India’s Partition is forthcoming with Routledge.

ROUTLEDGE SERIES ON SOUTH ASIAN CULTURE Series Editor: Diana Dimitrova

Rethinking the Body in South Asian Traditions Edited by Diana Dimitrova Regional Perspectives on India’s Partition Shifting the Vantage Points Edited by Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

REGIONAL PERSPECTIVES ON INDIA’S PARTITION Shifting the Vantage Points

Edited by Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

Cover image: [add credit line if known or TBC if pending] First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 selection and editorial matter, Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia to be identified as the author[/s] of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-032-24415-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-24417-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-27849-8 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498 Typeset in Times New Roman by Taylor & Francis Books

CONTENTS

List of figures Acknowledgements List of contributors Introduction Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

vii ix xi 1

1 Shadowy Pasts of Violence and their Negotiation: Rethinking Partition Violence (1947) Sukeshi Kamra

12

2 Bordering the Nation: Livelihood, Labour and Memory in Bangla Partition Fictions from Assam and Tripura Debjani Sengupta

27

3 Brick, Verse, Echo: Partition and the Decline of Urdu Poetry in Jeelani Bano’s Aiwan-e-Ghazal (1976) Nazia Akhtar

41

4 Poisoned Rivers: Partition in Punjabi Literature Hina Nandrajog

55

5 Screening the Spectre Nishat Haider

71

6 Multan Padmini Mongia

86

vi Contents

7 Sites of Memory: Popular Sufi Shrines in Post-Partition Punjab Yogesh Snehi 8 Sindhi Sikhs: Their Histories and Memories Himadri Banerjee 9 Partitioned Subjects: Women in Mainland “Permanent Liability” Camps and Andaman’s Archipelagic Settlements Raka Banerjee

101 121

136

10 Caught in a Time Warp: The Fate of the West Pakistan Refugees in Jammu and Kashmir Javaid Iqbal Bhat and Iftikhar Hussain Bhat

152

11 Living off the Grid: Surviving the Stateless Era in India– Bangladesh Chhitmahals (Enclaves) Md Rashedul Alam

168

12 Histories, Territories, Partitions, and Memories among the Zo Hnahthlak and the Chakma in the State of Mizoram Anup Shekhar Chakraborty

184

13 The Mechanics of Partition Gopa Sabharwal

199

14 Vicissitudes of Listening: Witness as the Archive of Pain Sadan Jha

215

Index

229

FIGURES

6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 6.6

Inside the Tomb of Shah Rukn-e-Alam Multan Fort Tomb of Shah Rukn-e-Alam Old City, Multan Old City, Multan Padmini Mongia; Multan Fort; 16 x 6 inches; Acrylic on Canvas, 2006 6.7 Padmini Mongia; Multani Chunni; 20 x 20 inches, Acrylic on Canvas 2007 6.8 Padmini Mongia; Inner Town, Multan 40.5 x 40.5 inches Acrylic on Canvas, 2006 7.1 Darbari Qawwals from Kaliyar Sharif performing at Amritsar in 2010 7.2 A Musical Concert at the Shrine of Data Gulami Shah (Banga) during the Annual Mela in 2010 7.3 A Flex Banner Displayed at Manakpur Sharif (Ropar) Congratulating the Pilgrims at the Annual Urs of Sheikh Hafiz Musa held in 2010 7.4 A Poster Representing a Popular Story of Shaikh Farid’s Visit to Faridkot 7.5 A Popular Poster of Saint Shaikh Farid in Contemplative Mood 7.6 Dargah of Haji Rattan (Left) and the Newly Constructed Mosque (Right) with the Gurdwara in the Background (Centre) in 2015

91 92 93 94 95 98 98 99 105 107

108 110 112

114

viii List of figures

7.7 A Member of the Muslim Human Welfare Society that Manages the Dargah 10.1 Strength of the Refugees at Tehsil Level 10.2 Composition of the WPR 10.3 Identity Certificate Form issued by the Govt. of Jammu and Kashmir 10.4 Document Facsimile of a Hereditary State Subject Certificate (issued by the Princely State of Jammu and Kashmir in 1929) 11.1 Chhitmahals across the India–Bangladesh Border. 11.2 A Chhit Passport authorized by the Balapara Khagrabari Council 13.1 HMG’s Plan, 3 June 1947: Key Tasks 13.2 Partition Committees (ToI, 26 June 1947, page 1, column 2)

115 154 154 155

159 170 173 201 206

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book emerged from several formal and informal conversations at workshops, seminars, conferences, and symposia held in different parts of the world. We wish to profusely thank Teresa Hubel, Viney Kirpal and Prabhjot for their critical interest and invaluable creative inputs. We would also like to thank Ananya Jahanara Kabir, Aruna Madnani, Ayesha Jalal, Bodh Prakash, Eleanor Nesbitt, Fakrul Alam, Harwinder Singh Bhatti, Hina Nandrajog, Ishtiaq Ahmed, Ian Talbot, Jagdish Chandra Batra, Nukhbah Taj Langah, Pippa Virdee, Saaz Aggarwal, Sekhar Bandyopadhyay, Somdatta Mandal, Sucheta Mahajan and Virinder Singh Kalra for accepting our invitation to share their research in the Partition Lecture Series in 2020 and 2021, and Gurmukh Singh and Dharamjeet Singh for co-hosting the 2021 Series. We appreciate the support of our contributors in India, Canada, and the US who enthusiastically responded to our call for papers and patiently worked with us through several stages of the preparation of the manuscript. This book is deeply indebted to their diverse, complementary, interdisciplinary, and region-specific expertise. Thanks are due to the Indian Council of Social Science Research for generously funding the International Seminar “India@70” (3–4 January 2018) at which several of the chapters included in this book were first presented, and to IIT Kharagpur for providing institutional support for holding the Seminar. Grateful thanks to Aiswarya Sanath, Prachi Ratra, Ritika Varma, and Shyama Sadasivan for lending their technical expertise in formatting the manuscript. Finally, we would like to thank the reviewers of Routledge for their constructive suggestions, and the editors, Diana Dimitrova, Dorothea Schaefter, and Saraswathy Narayan, for their interest and feedback at various stages.

x Acknowledgements

Our academic journey and partnership began a decade and a half ago. We could not have completed this journey without mutual understanding, support, and friendship and without ongoing conversations about Partition with our families, particularly our parents, Santosh Gera and Om Prakash Gera, and Shyama Bhatia and Harbans Singh Bhatia.

CONTRIBUTORS

Anjali Gera Roy is a Professor in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology Kharagpur. She is the author of Memories and Postmemories of the Partition of India (Routledge 2019), Imperialism and Sikh Migration: The Komagata Maru Incident (Routledge 2017), Cinema of Enchantment: Perso-Arabic Genealogies of the Hindi Masala Film (2015) and Bhangra Moves: From Ludhiana to London and Beyond (2010). She has co-edited (with Robyn Andrews) Beyond the Metros: Anglo-Indians in Smaller Towns (2021) and (with Nandi Bhatia) Partitioned Lives: Narratives of Home, Displacement and Resettlement (2008). She is currently engaged in an Indian government funded project on internal migratory flows after Partition. She was awarded the Writer of the Year Award (2011) by the International Research Confederacy on African Literature and Culture (IRCALC) for her contribution to African literature. Nandi Bhatia is a Professor in the Department of English and Writing Studies at the University of Western Ontario (UWO) in Canada. Her research interests include Colonial and Postcolonial Literature, the 1947 Partition of India, diasporic literature, theatre, and British India. She is the author of Acts of Authority/Acts of Resistance: Theater and Politics in Colonial and Postcolonial India (2004), Performing Women/Performing Womanhood: Theatre, Politics and Dissent in North India (2010), and co-editor (with Anjali Gera Roy) of Partitioned Lives: Narratives of Home, Displacement, and Resettlement (2008). At present, Nandi is working on a project funded by the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada on female performance in India. Her monograph, Women’s Stories of India’s Partition, is forthcoming with Routledge. For her research, she was awarded the John Charles Polanyi Prize for Literature.

xii List of contributors

Nazia Akhtar is an Assistant Professor (Human Sciences Research Group) at the International Institute of Information Technology (IIIT), Hyderabad (India), where she teaches courses in Indian and Russian literatures. In 2017, she was awarded a New India Foundation fellowship to write a book on Urdu prose by Hyderabadi women. Bibi’s Room: Hyderabadi Women and Twentieth-Century Urdu Prose went into print in July 2022. Nazia has recently received a commendation from the jury of the Jawad Memorial Prize (2021) for her translation of Zeenath Sajida’s Urdu short story Chhotam Jaan. She is currently translating more Urdu writings of Hyderabadi women and conducting research on literary representations of the transfer of power as it affected Hyderabad. Md. Rashedul Alam is a sociocultural anthropologist. His primary research interests are Bangladesh, borderlands, enclaves, statelessness, refugees, citizenship, and social movement. The India–Bangladesh border enclaves (chhitmahals) and their politico-legal transformation from statelessness to citizenship are the research focus of his doctoral dissertation. Alam also facilitated diverse applied research projects to analyse the socio-economic partnership among the grassroots communities, government, and NGOs in Bangladesh. He is currently a sessional faculty at McMaster University and Carleton University in Canada. Himadri Banerjee is Former Guru Nanak Professor of Indian History, Jadavpur University Kolkata. Among his publications are: Agrarian Society of Punjab (1982), The Other Sikhs (2003), The Khalsa and the Punjab (2003) and Beyond Punjab: The Sikhs of Eastern and Northeastern India (forthcoming). His contributions are also available in Encyclopaedia of Sikhism. Raka Banerjee is a Junior Fellow at Nehru Memorial Museum and Library (NMML), New Delhi. Her doctoral research combines Island Studies, Gender Studies, and Partition scholarship, to explore the making of Bengali women’s “settler” identity in the Andaman Islands. She has received the Journal of International Women’s Studies Fellowship; Jawaharlal Nehru Scholarship for Doctoral Studies; Ministry of Culture Junior Fellowship; Asian Graduate Student Fellowship, Asia Research Institute, NUS Singapore, among others. She writes on gender, Island Studies, Bengal Partition, and the Bay of Bengal region. Iftikhar Hussain Bhat is serving as senior Assistant Professor in School of Law, University of Kashmir. He specializes in Environmental Law and Intellectual Property Rights. His other areas of academic interest are Administrative Law, Constitutional Law, Media Law, Legal Aid and Public Interest Lawyering. Javaid Iqbal Bhat is an academic, writer and a cultural critic. He teaches at the Post Graduate Department of English, South Campus, University of Kashmir. He completed his PhD from the Department of English, Ohio

List of contributors xiii

University, USA. He is the author of Rupture (2022), Calm before the Storm (2020), Desolation called Peace (2019), Mourning Memories: From Amarnath Row to the Year of Dead Eyes (2017), Scars of Summer (2017) and Covering a Decade (2007–2017): Reflections on the Kashmir Cauldron and Global Affairs (2019). Anup Shekhar Chakraborty is Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science & Political Studies, Netaji Institute for Asian Studies, Kolkata, and member of the Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group (MCRG), Kolkata. He was the recipient of the IPSA (Indian Political Science Association) National Young Political Scientist Award 2020; the IDRC, DEF, and IDF ‘India Social Science Research Award 2009’ and the C.R. Parekh Fellow (2011–2012) at the Asia Research Centre, London School of Economics & Political Science. Nishat Haider is Professor of English at Jamia Millia Islamia (Central University), New Delhi. She is the author of Tyranny of Silences: Contemporary Indian Women’s Poetry (2010). She has served as the Director, Institute of Women’s Studies, University of Lucknow. Recipient of many academic awards including the Meenakshi Mukherjee Prize (2016), C. D. Narasimhaiah Award (2010), and Isaac Sequeira Memorial Award (2011), her essays have been included in a variety of international journals and books. Currently, she is working as the Project Coordinator (Jamia) of the English Access Micro-scholarship Programme (an initiative of the United States Embassy/ Consulate General in India and the United States Department of State). Her research interests include Postcolonial Studies, Cinema, Transnational Memory, Trauma and Gender Studies. Sadan Jha is Associate Professor at the Centre for Social Studies, Surat. His research interests are in areas of history, and urban society. His publications include Social City (2022), The Social Life of Streets in India (edited with Gauri Bharat, 2022), Reverence, Resistance and the Politics of Seeing the Indian National Flag (2016), Neighbourhoods in Urban India: In Between Home and the City (edited with Dev Nath Pathak and Amiya Kumar Das, 2021), Leaving and Living: Home, Belonging and Memory in Migration (edited along with Pushpendra, Routledge, 2021); Devanagari Jagat ki Drishya Sanskriti (2018); Half Set Chay aur Kuchh Youn Hi (2018). and a number of academic as well as non-academic articles in Indian Economic and Social History Review, History and Sociology of South Asia, Indian Express, Manushi, The Conversation, and Huffington Post. Sukeshi Kamra is Professor Emereta, Carleton University, Canada. Her research interests include South Asian Literature and Culture; Partition Literature and Historiography; Postcolonial Theory; and Historiography of Nationalist India with a particular emphasis on the periodical press. She is the

xiv List of contributors

author of The Indian Periodical Press and the Production of Nationalist Rhetoric (2011), Bearing Witness: Partition, Independence, End of the Raj (2002), and has contributed book chapters and articles on the legal trials of periodicals in British India, the rhetoric of violence in 1947, Partition and collective memory, and the war of images in the periodical press of 1947. Padmini Mongia is Professor of English at Franklin and Marshall College where she primarily teaches courses on nineteenth-century British literature and contemporary Indian literature in English. Between 2008 to 2010 she taught at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. She has edited Contemporary Postcolonial Theory: A Reader (1997) and has published articles on Joseph Conrad and contemporary Indian fiction. She has also published two books for children: Pchak, Pchak: A Story of Crocodiles (2008) and Baby Looking Out and Other Stories (2018). Hina Nandrajog is an Associate Professor in the Department of English and is currently serving as Officiating Principal, Vivekananda College, University of Delhi. Her areas of interest are the Partition of India in 1947 from a historical and literary perspective, the idea of diversity and multi-linguality in India and translation. She won the Katha Prize for Translation in 1999 and 2001, and a Consolation Prize from Sahitya Akademi in 2007. She was on the panel of jury members for the Sahitya Akademi Translation Prize 2008 in Punjabi and has been a part of several translation projects for the National Book Trust, Sahitya Akademi, Centre for Development of Punjabi Language and Culture (Punjabi University), Punjabi Academy and the Centre for Academic Translation and Archiving(CATA), (University of Delhi & University Grants Commission). She has also been actively involved in creating e-content for the Institute of Life Long Learning, University of Delhi. Gopa Sabharwal founded the undergraduate Department of Sociology, at Lady Shri Ram College for Women, where she currently teaches. Her research interests focus on ethnic identities, everyday life in India, visual anthropology, and the history of society. From 2010–2016, Gopa Sabharwal served as founding Vice Chancellor, Nalanda University – a unique international, research focused post-graduate University with a focus on inter-Asian relations. Gopa’s books include Ethnicity and Class: Social Divisions in an Indian City (2006); The Indian Millennium: A.D. 1000 to A.D. 2000, (2000) and India Since 1947: The Independent Years (2017). Debjani Sengupta teaches in the Department of English, IP College, University of Delhi. She is the author of The Partition of Bengal: Fragile Borders and New Identities (2016) and editor of Mapmaking: Partition Stories from Two Bengals (2011). With Rakhshanda Jalil and Tarun Saint she has co-edited the anthology Looking Back: The 1947 Partition of India 70 Years On (2017). Her recent

List of contributors xv

publication is Bangladesh: Writings on 1971 Across Borders (2022) that she has co-edited with Rakhshanda Jalil. Yogesh Snehi teaches history at the School of Liberal Studies, Ambedkar University. Delhi, India. His major teaching and research interests focus on the social histories of Punjab, and debates on sacred shrines, popular religion, reform and its practice. He has been a Fellow at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla (2013–15). His monograph Spatializing Popular Sufi Shrines in Punjab: Dreams, Memories, Territoriality (2019, Routledge) situates Sufi saint veneration practices in the partitioned (Indian) Punjab. Snehi has also jointly edited a volume Modernity and Changing Social Fabric of Punjab and Haryana (2018).

INTRODUCTION Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

On August 15, 1947, when the Indian subcontinent was partitioned into two nations—India and Pakistan – violence on a scale the world had never witnessed before broke out, engulfing various parts of the subcontinent and killing a million people or more. The violence resulted in the forced migration of more than 15 million people, Hindus and Sikhs to India and Muslims to the newly formed state of Pakistan. Memories of this event continue to haunt the nation even after 75 years, in part because this cartographic shift transformed people’s identities when they either became refugees in their own homelands or were forced to move across the borders of the newly formed nations. Information about the rehabilitation of refugees in camps, newly developed colonies, and settlements, not only in Punjab and Bengal but in widely dispersed parts of the country that were theoretically closed by the mid-1950s, remains incomplete. This book expands the scope of our knowledge regarding the far-reaching ramifications of the 1947 Partition in different geographical regions and contributes to the recovery of unknown or forgotten stories of people, places, and events affected by the Partition. Ongoing scholarly attention to the Partition underscores the need to analyse its effects in regions and regional languages whose stories have yet to be acknowledged in scholarship. In their edited collection of essays, Revisiting India’s Partition (2016), Amritjit Singh, Nalini Iyer, and Rahul Gairola cover a vast geographical terrain because, they say, “the Partition has made a serious impact on many regions beyond the typically studied Punjab and Bengal” (xviii) and because “the Partition is a tragedy of multiple narratives, and any single historical account might cover just one geographical facet, or the perspective or bias of one particular region or community” (xvi). Like Singh et al., Sarah Ansari and William Gould in Boundaries and Belongings (2019), register the need to direct attention away from the Partition “hotspots” of Bengal and DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-1

2 Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

Punjab. They focus on Uttar Pradesh and Sindh, considering the implications of the Partition for citizenship and minority rights in these regions. And Vazira Zamindar, in The Long Partition and the Making of Modern South Asia (2007), brings together oral histories of Muslim families who navigate the cities of Karachi and Delhi.1 While adding to this corpus of Partition scholarship, our book emphasizes the regional focus because many of these kinds of Partition stories aren’t readily available and so have yet to be heard. Being on the regional periphery, they are hidden by language and cultural and political differences. They are also hidden because the mainstream tends to see only those stories that are obvious to it. We would argue that retrieving lesser-known narratives and histories of the Partition enables new understandings of the many phases and faces of this cataclysmic rupture that created an unprecedented scale of violence, trauma, and a refugee crisis, all of which had a significant influence on language politics, class, caste, community, and gender relations. While attentive to the idea of region as a geographical designation, what we also mean by this term are areas of human culture that challenge and complicate the grand narratives of the nation, marked, as they are, by specific ethnic enclaves, linguistic differences and overlaps, local social practices, and religious affiliations. To this end, we ask the following questions: what new cultural norms, categories, and taxonomies resulted from the Partition in regions whose stories are also deeply intertwined with that of the nation? How did uprooted migrants handle resettlement in the regions to which they migrated? How did local politics affect their rights and security? How did regions outside Bengal and Punjab bring the Partition into their fold? How do people in peripheral places remember and recall the Partition? And how do cultural representations capture and position some of these stories? The various chapters in Regional Perspectives on India’s Partition: Shifting the Vantage Points attend to such questions. By analysing Sufi shrines and practices in East Punjab that show inter-faith camaraderie, addressing the ongoing implications for West Pakistani Refugees (WPR) in Jammu and Kashmir, examining Sindhi-Sikh identity formation in Ulhasnagar, and exploring middle-class Hindu memories of Multan, some of the chapters in our book highlight the hidden consequences of Partition-related migration and resettlement and the unseen resilience of communities in various parts of the nation. Others examine the stories of Namasudra Dalit refugees in the Andamans, tribal groups such as Zo and Chakmas, and the emergence of linguistic nationalisms and their consequences for Urdu, Multani, and Sylheti. In so doing, the chapters transform our understanding of the tangled and knotty effects of migration and resettlement in frontiers, borderlands, islands, cities, towns, and neighbourhoods in the Northeast (Assam, Tripura, Mizoram), Bengal, the borders of India and Bangladesh, Hyderabad, Andaman Islands, Punjab, Jammu and Kashmir, and the Northwest. Because the multiplicity of Partition stories finds articulation in a variety of spaces, sites, and representations, the chapters in this book deploy multidisciplinary methodologies and

Introduction 3

approaches to assess the complexities embedded in everyday lived experience. These include literary and cultural analyses, ethnographic and archival research, oral histories and interviews, personal and family memoirs, along with an examination of Sufi shrines, Sindhi gurdwaras, newspapers, refugee settlements, and transit camps. Collectively, the chapters put a human face to the history of the Partition, one which gets erased when violence is reported in terms of statistics alone. Since the shift away from the grand national narratives of the Partition in the 1990s, several studies have focused on its specific local and regional outcomes. Gyanendra Pandey’s path-breaking 1997 article, “Partition and Independence in Delhi: 1947–1948” introduced and theorized this shift towards specificity by examining the implications of the Partition for Muslims in Delhi. A year earlier, however, Subhadra Anand’s National Integration of Sindhis (1996) brought to light the travails of a community that was broadly forgotten as a result of the tendency in scholarship to emphasize the Partition’s impact on the western border of Punjab. And a few years after that, Ian Talbot’s intensive ethnographic research on the cities of Lahore and Amritsar shows that at the time of the subcontinental division, “Almost 40 percent of Amritsar’s houses were destroyed or damaged and its Muslim population fell from 49 percent on the eve of Partition to just 00.52 percent in 1951”. Alternatively, Talbot observes, “Six thousand houses were damaged in Lahore and its Hindu and Sikh population who formed over a third of the population departed for India” (2006, xvii).2 Jasodhara Bagchi and Subhoranjan Dasgupta’s The Trauma and the Triumph (2003), Joya Chatterji’s The Spoils of Partition (2007), and Debjani Sengupta’s The Partition of Bengal (2015) all revealed the impact and consequences of Bengal’s Partition. These invaluable studies have prompted a rethinking of several issues. They emphasize the need to revisit historiography’s focus on the “high” histories of political leaders and national consequences and the resultant “paucity of work on the human dimension” (Talbot 2006, 132). In response to such “high” histories, which played down the Partition’s “darker side in order to trumpet the achievement of freedom” (Talbot 2006, xix), historians and scholars, in the last few decades, began to address its effects on ordinary people as they were uprooted, displaced, and resettled. An early example was Shadakshari Settar and Indira Gupta’s Pangs of Partition: The Human Dimension (2002). Others retrieved migratory and resettlement patterns in detail (Khan 2003; Talbot and Gurharpal Singh 1999). Ravinder Kaur explored the afterlives of Punjabi Hindu refugees in Delhi in her landmark 2007 study, Since 1947. Also in 2007, Veena Das’s anthropological study examined women’s narratives to argue that their silence about their traumatic experiences was due to the unspeakable nature of Partition violence that eluded everyday language. Yet others pointed out the lack of attention to the migration of working-class, Dalit, and mixed-race communities and the need to recover their stories. As Amit Ranjan has pointed out,

4 Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

despite a plethora of literature on the subject of Partition, women, and Dalits are notably absent from most of it. Hence, most of the emotionally charged stories related to Partition – those expressing hatred towards the other, calling for vengeance, desiring a sense of belonging, yearning for a lost ‘home,’ and searching for a new identity – are political, sociological and psychological expression of the dominant social groups. It is their narration of Partition that has been accepted as the official version in India, Bangladesh, and Pakistan. The non-dominant groups have their own stories and interpretations, which in many cases are different from the official one, but they have been ignored by most of the scholars and official historians of Partition. (2019, 8) Our book’s contribution lies in giving voice to these non-dominant groups. But, additionally, our expansive coverage in terms of the topics of our chapters as well as their diverse methodologies documents how the national rupture became domesticated at the level of the local in multiple and far-off regions of the country. In our earlier collection of essays, Partitioned Lives: Narratives of Home, Displacement and Resettlement (2008), we sought what was at the time a more holistic approach to Partition histories by addressing the multifaceted experiences and perspectives of communities both across the subcontinent and in the diaspora. In this book, we contribute to Partition Studies by extending our geospatial scope in two ways: i) by including chapters on underexplored regions, such as Tripura, Mizoram, Andamans, and Hyderabad; and ii) by examining how the Partition played itself out in the much-explored regions of Punjab, Kashmir, Sindh or Bengal but attending to their diverse linguistic, sectarian, gendered and ethnic politics. This extended emphasis also reveals how individuals and communities negotiated post-Partition connections across the borders of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh rather than only within them. Another contribution of this book is to show how specific local and political circumstances – circumstances that have been hidden by the concentration on dominant groups, dominant histories, and the national – shape and affect Partition memory. Much critical scholarship has relied on recovering memories of the Partition by turning to individual, collective, public, popular, and official sources. Drawing on insights from Ricoeur (2004) and Marianne Hirsch’s ground-breaking work on the postmemories of children of survivors of the Jewish Holocaust (2008; 2012),3 scholars have called attention to the dichotomy between the forgetting of the Partition in celebratory accounts of independence evoked by the Indian state and the remembering of trauma in actual survivors’ testimonies (Bhalla 1999; Hasan 2002). In probing this dissonance, Pandey’s Remembering Partition (2001) exposed the state’s failure to confront the fact of the Partition’s violence through the simple gesture of disowning it. Feminist historians Urvashi Butalia, Ritu Menon, and Kamla Bhasin created an invaluable archive that highlights official history’s erasures of the violence,

Introduction 5

which was carried out particularly on the bodies of women, by gently nudging the repressed memories of gendered victims (Butalia 1998; Menon & Bhasin 1998). Butalia’s work gave the largest impetus to memory studies through a combination of oral history and analysis of the effects of these histories on second-generation members such as herself. Other studies focused on children of migrants in Lahore and Delhi (Sharma 2009) whose memories challenge accepted accounts of the Partition; memories of British civil servants posted in Punjab in 1946–47 (Coombs 2011); and memories and postmemories of Hindu and Sikh survivors from West Punjab and their psychological and material transformations during their journeys from refuge to citizenship (Gera Roy 2019). In addition to oral interviews and survivors’ testimonies, scholars reached out to literary and cinematic texts as critical sites for recovering memories.4 This is because, although survivors’ testimonies told an important part of the Partition story, they only provided partial accounts, especially when witnesses were reluctant to speak about their experiences or recollected only bits and pieces of their own stories. Because literary texts were amongst the first venues to record and capture this experience (as the vast corpus of literature that was produced in the aftermath of the Partition by writers such as Saadat Hasan Manto, Ismat Chughtai, Rajinder Singh Bedi, and Amrita Pritam, among others, attests), they supplied stories that were inaccessible through personal accounts. Tarun Saint writes in Witnessing Partition that literary fictions “stand as testimony to the horrors of collective violence” (2020, 1) and Gera Roy and Bhatia point out in Partitioned Lives (2008) that they perform the work of preserving, supplementing, and complementing the memories and postmemories of individuals who either observed and suffered through the violence of Partition directly or who were second-generation recipients of those memories. Other sites of analysis include the construction of Partition memory through official textbooks (Kumar 2002; Chhabra 2015), journalism, photographs, cinema, political speeches, and political cartoons, as in Sukeshi Kamra’s Bearing Witness (2002). In subjecting these sites to critical scrutiny, scholars attended to individual experiences across class, caste, and gender, an aspect that can be seen in Suvir Kaul’s edited book, Partitions of Memory (2002). The chapters in this book address the issue of memory along with the questions that we raised at the beginning of the introduction. Drawing on his experience of listening to narratives of violence during fieldwork that involved collecting and examining oral histories and memories of survivors, Sadan Jha argues for the importance of testimony as a site of memory but one that involves the listener as a witness who comes to partially experience trauma through the very act of listening. Acknowledging grief as an experience transforms the listener into a witness. Debjani Sengupta’s chapter reorients Partition historiography by throwing light on the transregional impact of the division of the subcontinent. Sengupta revisits the pre-colonial and colonial cartography of the Bengal province, which included parts of Tripura and Cachar Valley in Assam, to illuminate the stories of Bengali inhabitants or

6 Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

refugees of these regions who have been left out of dominant West Bengal narratives. Raka Banerjee extends the imagined boundaries of Bengal and Bengaliness to the Andamans to foreground the differences in the settlement patterns of nimnabargo (Dalit) Namsudra cultivators in Neil Island from those in West Bengal. By juxtaposing the multiple versions of histories, partitions, and memories among the Zo Hnahthlak and the Chakmas inhabiting Mizoram, Anup Shekhar Chakraborty turns to the erasure of regional histories. For the Chakmas, he says, the national borders of 1947 are mere “Shadow Lines” because they are engaged in struggles that arise from the pre-1947 period. Chakraborty unpacks the complexity of claims to indigeneity in the Northeast by tracing intertribal hierarchies between the Upper Lushai and Lower Lushai tribes and the Zo’s framing of the Buddhist Chakma residents in Mizoram as undocumented immigrants or illegal settlers from Bangladesh. By addressing the position of Chakma Buddhist tribes in relation to Zo Christians in Mizoram, Chakraborty emphasizes that the prevalence of multiple ethnic, linguistic, and tribal cleavages and nationalisms eludes the binary lens of Hindu–Muslim violence through which some scholarship has theorized the Partition. Rashedul Alam introduces the various ruptures and resolutions that characterized the chhitmahals (enclaves) across the borders in India and Bangladesh because of the post-swap government programs and the implications for chhitbasis without a country. By deconstructing the different meanings attached to migrants, refugees, and citizens, Alam expands the debates about what Uditi Sen calls the “citizen refugee” (2018). Javaid Bhat and Iftiqar Hussain Bhat particularize the differences in the experiences of refugees in Jammu and Kashmir. They problematize the category of West Pakistani Refugees, which refers to Sialkoti-speaking rural Dalits and their ongoing attempts to resettle in Jammu and Kashmir. The denial of their basic constitutional rights, even after 70 years of living in Jammu and Kashmir is a reminder of their ongoing marginalization. Investigating the migration of Sindhi Sikhs across the northern and western urban centres of Ajmer, Bhavnagar, Jaipur, Jodhpur, Mumbai, and Ulhasnagar, Himadri Banerjee complicates the story of Sikh migration. He focuses specifically on the town of Ulhasnagar near Mumbai in the decades after the Partition and suggests that unlike in East Punjab and West Bengal, Sindhi Sikhs did not have concentrated refugee settlements, an analysis which accords a plurality to the Partition experience for Sikhs. Banerjee also emphasizes the religious syncretism in the Guru Dhan Nanak Gurdwara in Ulhasnagar that disrupts notions of a monolithic Sikh identity. Yogesh Snehi concentrates on Sufi shrines in East Punjab that occupy the landscape despite the reduced Muslim population in this region because of the Partition. The presence of Sufi shrines and their upkeep through the collective efforts of communities from different faiths, asserts Snehi, adds another layer to the historiography of Punjab, which has obscured those harmonious relationships that exist across religious groups. The Sufi shrines, he argues, “encapsulate multiple narratives of belonging” for Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs.

Introduction 7

Several chapters examine literary and cinematic narratives in Punjabi, Bengali, Urdu, and Hindi to not only uncover the Partition’s specific impacts in Punjab, Assam, Tripura, Hyderabad, and Kashmir but also to probe what Paul Brass identifies as deep scriptural, regional, and linguistic cleavages (Brass 2003). Padmini Mongia’s elegiac piece recollects the multiple ruptures faced by several generations within the family – of language, geography, and cultures – during their transition from Multan in Pakistan to Delhi in India, when she navigates the landscape of Multan on a trip with her mother in a postPartitioned India confined and defined by national borders. The ruptures, connections, and reconnections to the “imagined” homeland of Multan are captured through the fruits, languages, landscapes, and architecture of Multan but also in the paintings Mongia produces after her visit, which preserves the memory of Multan. Hina Nandrajog alludes to Punjabi literature in Gurmukhi as a “repository of individual and collective memory” that presents a nuanced narrative of the Partition. She shows “how this literature foregrounds the imperative to heal” and that “Confessional voices”, which empathize with victims and perpetrators, make available “a chance to mourn and grieve, thereby offering a chance at restoration of the civilizational fabric”. In an insightful analysis of Jeelani Bano’s Aiwan-e-Ghazal (1976), Nazia Akhtar shows the “profound sense of loss” captured in the text regarding the fate of Urdu in Hyderabad. With attention to the text’s literary elements, including the Prologue, Akhtar describes the decline of Urdu literary culture, “the exclusive equation of Urdu with Muslims, who are stereotyped as princes and paupers in their marginalisation…and the waning of Urdu as a language of communication, which goes hand in hand with the rise of Telugu.” Viewing the Northeast as a prime example of the fissures that existed in the nation-building project, Sengupta provides a nuanced analysis of Sunanda Bhattacharya’s Bangla stories from Chanchtolaye Rwod (2003) and Pubduari (2014) and from Jhumur Pandey’s Sukh Gacher Golpo (2005) to show how the Partition emerges in the context of Tripura and Assam. The stories she analyses give new perspectives on the Partition in the East “because they map out the ethical and representational outlines of the nation in its far-flung boundaries and in the lives of people who seem to belong to the periphery in direct oppositional location to a metropolitan center”. Articulated in these short stories are also linguistic sub-nationalisms that are reflected in the focus on borders, borderlands, and resettlement. Nishat Haider’s conceptually layered chapter proposes the idea of “ghosts” as a useful prism for viewing Bollywood’s aesthetic and political engagement with “traumatic” lingering spectres of the Partition, as manifested in the Kashmir insurgency. Asserting that repressed memories of the Partition “create cryptic enclaves in the inaccessible psychic recesses, which haunt the actual victims and are passed on through the generations”, Haider views Vishal Bharadwaj’s representation of Kashmir as a place that is disturbed by the legacies of the Partition, whose ghostly spectres are shown through a Shakespearean plot.

8 Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia

To the emotional, literary, and cinematic archive can be added periodicals and newspapers that emerge as a parallel archive of emotional self-restraint in articulating the experiences of the Partition in ways that both interrogate and accommodate dominant nationalist discourse. Sukeshi Kamra’s minute scrutiny of Indian vernacular periodicals and pamphlets published in various languages in India and abroad shows how Indian language media navigated the national debate on violence. Locating in the Indian periodical press public attempts to negotiate the uncomfortable subject of political violence and national character, Kamra turns to two defining moments in Indian history – the 1857 Rebellion and 1905 Partition of Bengal – to offer an incisive history of the Indian nationalist disavowal of Partition violence. The “non-engagement” with Partition violence in independent India, she concludes, emerges from the nationalist attempt to secure the body of the nation from the taint of violence associated with those two earlier moments. Gopa Sabharwal’s study of The Times of India, in the months following the declaration of the Partition of India, provides a glimpse into the complex discourse on violence. Through a close examination of reports between June 3, 1947, and August 15, 1947, Sabharwal summarises the newspaper’s coverage of events to substantiate the view that the state’s preoccupation with the minute details of the transfer of power diverted its attention from the uncontrollable flare-up of violence following the June 3rd announcement about a possible Partition. She establishes the complicity of the Indian-owned English language print media in enabling a forgetting of Partition through the Times of India’s careful omission of reports of widespread riots, massacres, and killings, in specific places. As outbreaks of violence erupt amongst and against communities in postPartition India, they result in the reawakening of memories about the Partition, especially for those who lived through the event and whose children imagined some of those experiences when their elders shared their stories with them. These memories are captured in phrases such as “mini-Partitions”, “macroPartitions” and “Partition all over again”, confirming that the Partition is a living presence in the subcontinent. Partition’s traces are visible in refugee colonies, buildings, names of shops in the bazaars of various cities literary stories, films, cinema houses, and languages. And the Partition keeps emerging in different formulations in nationalistic discourse: in book collections, novels, poetry, and anthologies of short stories in vernacular languages and English translations.5 Most recently, its memories have been collected in the Partition Museum, which was established in Amritsar in 2017 to coincide with its 70th-year commemoration. The expanding corpus of Partition scholarship draws on these sites as source materials to unpack stories contained in these artefacts and render visible what Butalia calls “hidden histories” of the Partition (1995). That the Partition continues to be evoked in the public sphere speaks to the profound influence it had on the bodies and psyches of countless people and on the politics of South Asia. In Pakistan and Bangladesh too, as Amit Ranjan asserts,

Introduction 9

the impact of Partition is still visible in matters of the state…and in social relationships because of the way the dreadful event has been narrated. Narratives of Partition have constructed an image of people belonging to different religions based on each narrator’s experience during Partition or in its aftermath. Therefore, it is important to understand those narratives, those constructions, within the historiography of Partition. (2019, 7) The chapters in this book make apparent that memories of the Indian Partition continue to be articulated in homes, neighbourhoods, villages, towns, and cities in regions and localities across South Asia. Collectively, they confirm and complicate the stories of many of those who lived through this great upheaval. Historians, journalists, television hosts, archivists, curators, and documentary filmmakers are recording the memories of the dwindling generation of survivors and preserving them for posterity before they are irretrievably lost.6 Although oral historians have collected stories of the Partition since the 1980s, new technologies and archival methods have opened up new vistas for recording memories in digital projects, such as “The 1947 Partition Archive”, and the “India Memory Project”. This book unpacks stories that are hard to see because they are at times available in languages that are not accessible to all scholars or because they emerge in ethnically complex places. Its focus on different regions, localities, and contexts allows access to repressed, suppressed, and hidden stories. The analysis of such stories can lead us to insights and understandings that we haven’t yet been able to grasp.

Notes 1 For research on reactions to incoming Hindu and Sikh refugees and departed local Muslims in Uttar Pradesh, see Yasmin Khan (2003). 2 Talbot’s claims find further support in studies by Ravinder Kaur (2007), Pippa Virdee (2008), Ishtiaq Ahmed (2011) and Ilyas Chattha (2011) on Punjabi narratives of displacement and resettlement. 3 Memory is often used as an umbrella term and prefixed with definers like individual, collective, public, popular, official, social, and so on to describe the different forms of remembering (Ricoeur 2004). 4 See, for instance, Rachel Dwyer (2017) “Partition in Hindi Cinema: Violence, Loss and Remembrance.” 5 The most comprehensive collection of texts in English translation from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh is Alok Bhalla’s Stories About the Partition of India in four volumes. 6 See, for example, Devika Chawla’s Home, Uprooted: Oral Histories of India’s Partition (2014), where Chawla explores oral histories of three generations of Partition refugees from Hindu and Sikh families in Delhi.

References Ahmed, Ishtiaq. 2011. The Punjab Bloodied, Partitioned and Cleansed: Unravelling the 1947 Tragedy through Secret British Reports and First-Person Accounts. New Delhi: Rupa Publications.

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Anand, Subhadra. 1996. National Integration of Sindhis. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Ansari, Sarah and William Gould. 2019. Boundaries and Belongings: Localities, Citizenship and Rights in India and Pakistan. Cambridge University Press. Bagchi, Jasodhara and Subhoranjan Dasgupta (eds). 2003. The Trauma and the Triumph: Gender and Partition in Eastern India. Kolkata: Stree. Bhalla, Alok. 2012. Stories about the Partition of India, Vol. 4. Delhi: Manohar Publishers. Butalia, Urvashi. 1995. “Hidden Histories”. Index on Censorship 4, 81–88. Butalia, Urvashi. 1998. The Other Side of Silence. Duke University Press. Brass, Paul. 2003. “The Partition of India and Retributive Genocide in the Punjab, 1946–47: Means, Methods, and Purposes”. Journal of Genocide Research 5(1), 71–101. Chawla, Devika. 2014. Home, Uprooted; Oral Histories of India’s Partition. Fordham University Press. Chatterji, Joya. 2007. The Spoils of Partition: Bengal and India 1947–1967. Cambridge University Press. Chhabra, Meenakshi. 2015. “Memory Practices in History Education about the 1947 British India Partition: Opportunities and Challenges to Breaching Hegemonic Remembering”. Journal of Educational Media, Memory & Society 7(2), 10–28. Chattha, Ilyas. 2011. Partition and Locality: Violence, Migration, and Development in Gujranwala and Sialkot 1947–1961. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Coombs, Catherine. 2011. “Partition Narratives: Displaced Trauma and Culpability among British Civil Servants in the 1940s Punjab”. Modern Asian Studies 45(1), 201–224. Das, Veena. 2007. Life and Words: Violence and the Descent into the Ordinary. Berkeley: California University Press. Dwyer, Rachel. 2017. “Partition in Hindi Cinema: Violence, Loss and Remembrance”. The Wire, 10 August. Accessed on March 15, 2022. https://thewire.in/film/parti tion-hindi-cinema. Gera Roy, Anjali & Nandi Bhatia. 2008. Partitioned Lives: Narratives of Home, Displacement and Resettlement. Delhi: Dorling Kindersley. Gera Roy, Anjali. 2019. Memories and Postmemories of the Partition of India. Routledge. Hasan, Mushirul. 2002. “Partition Narratives Source”. Social Scientist 30(7), 24–53. Hirsch, Marianne. 2008. “The Generation of Postmemory”. Poetics Today 29(1), 103–128. Hirsch, Marianne. 2012. The Generation of Postmemory: Writing and Visual Culture After the Holocaust. New York: Columbia University Press. Jalal, Ayesha. 2013. The Pity of Partition: Manto’s Life, Times, and Work across the India–Pakistan Divide. Harper Collins India. Kamra, Sukeshi. 2002. Bearing Witness: Partition, Independence, End of the Raj. University of Calgary Press. Kaul, Suvir. 2001. The Partition of Memory: The Afterlife of the Division of India. New Delhi: Permanent Black. Kaur, Ravinder. 2007. Since 1947: Partition Narratives Among Punjabi Migrants of Delhi. Oxford University Press. Khan, Yasmin. 2003. “The Arrival Impact of Partition Refugees in Uttar Pradesh, 1947–52”. Contemporary South Asia 12(4), 511–522.

Introduction 11

Menon, Ritu & Kamla Bhasin. 1998. Borders and Boundaries: Women in India’s Partition. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Pandey, Gyanendra. 1997. “Partition and Independence in Delhi: 1947–48”. Economic and Political Weekly 32(36), 2261–2272. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4405816. Pandey, Gyanendra. 2001. Remembering Partition: Violence, Nationalism and History. New York: Cambridge University Press. Ranjan, Amit (ed.). 2019. Partition of India: Postcolonial Legacies. Routledge India. London and New York: Routledge. Ricoeur, Paul. 2004. Memory, History, Forgetting. Translated by Kathleen Blamey and David Pellauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Saint, Tarun K. 2020. Witnessing Partition. Memory, History, Fiction. London and New York: Routledge. Singh, Amritjit, Nalini Iyer, and Rahul K. Gairola (eds). 2016. Revisiting India’s Partition: New Essays on Memory, Culture, and Politics. London: Lexington Books. Sen, Uditi. 2018. Citizen Refugee: Forging the Indian Nation after Partition. Cambridge University Press. Sengupta, Debjani. 2015. The Partition of Bengal: Fragile Borders and New Identities. Delhi: Cambridge University Press. Settar, Shadakshari. and Gupta, Indira B. (eds). 2002. Pangs of Partition: The Human Dimension. New Delhi: Manohar. Sharma, Vanita. 2009. “Inherited Memories: Second-Generation Partition Narratives from Punjabi Families in Delhi and Lahore”. Cultural and Social History 6(4), 411–428. Talbot, Ian. 2006. Divided Cities: Partition and its Aftermath in Lahore and Amritsar 1947–1957. Oxford University Press. Talbot, Ian and Gurharpal Singh (eds). 1999. Region and Partition: Bengal, Punjab and the Partition of the Subcontinent. Karachi: Oxford University Press. Virdee, Pippa. 2008. “Partition in Transition: Comparative Analysis of Migration in Ludhiana and Lyallpur”. Partitioned Lives: Narratives of Home, Displacement and Resettlement. Anjali Gera Roy & Nandi Bhatia (eds). New Delhi: Dorling Kindersley, 156–173. Zamindar, Vazira. Fazila-Yaqoobali 2007. The Long Partition and the Making of Modern South Asia: Refugees, Boundaries, Histories. Columbia University Press.

1 SHADOWY PASTS OF VIOLENCE AND THEIR NEGOTIATION Rethinking Partition Violence (1947) Sukeshi Kamra

The 1947 Partition of India remains an unsettling past that the postmemory generation has done much to render visible,1 as precisely that—an unsettling past. Arguably, the monumental violence which was constitutive of this originary moment of India’s history is an important reason that the 1947 Partition remains outside of the dominant fiction of nationhood. In the influential, public statements made by a shaken political elite in 1947, grappling with a seemingly unending cycle of violence that gripped much of the subcontinent, violence is encased in metaphors of inexplicability, irrationality, contagion, mob fury, insanity, and the like.2 In such rationalising, for that is what these are, we witness the fragility and, paradoxically, tenacity of preferred fictions of identity as these are invented and subsequently sustained, from quotidian to symbolic layers of national life and everything in between. To the consternation of Partition survivors and the postmemory generation, the story of Partition continues to be marginalised, at best, in the nation’s “cultural recall”.3 Annual Independence Day commemorations on 15th August remain a stark reminder of this fact. The stigmatising of a past of unimaginable violence has had deep effects, of which we have been made aware by social memory projects,4 Partition historiography, literature of Partition, and clinical psychology.5 To this corpus, we can add the recently established museum in Amritsar, online archives, touring art exhibits, intergenerational literature, family narratives, films and documentaries, graphic narratives, and the like. Embedded in this rich archive of the Partition experience and lore is the grim reality of physical, emotional, economic, social, and psychological violence(s) that was the experience of so many. This rich archive-in-the-making has gone some way toward reversing the silence on Partition violence. Further, it has given a depth of meaning to the acknowledgement of Partition in all of its deeply disturbing aspects. How DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-2

Introduction 13

ought we to historicise the many forms of violence with which the 1947 Partition is indelibly marked outside of the very important and profound acknowledgement of it we find in the genres mentioned earlier? Are rationales for the widespread violence exhausted (communalism, the territorial nature of nationalism, colonial rule are the most touted)? What if one were to rethink this past (Partition violence), which in the national commonsense remains an unmanageable fact, in the context of a nationalist past, which was nothing if not a series of repeated encounters with violence? In each such encounter, how was the moment narrativised in a forum such as the periodical press and public? Do such moments, and the reactions they provoked, shed some light on the disavowal of Partition violence that appears to endure? Two pasts, deeply impacted by the fact, and theme, of public violence are considered in this chapter: the 1870s, in which the silence of the colonised over the 1857 rebellion begins to break, with periodicals countering the imperial views which, since 1857, had dominated English and colonial India’s periodical press and public;6 and the post-1905 Bengal Partition decade, which was marked by heated public debates on violence and national character.7 The debates were a consequence of the bold move by self-described revolutionaries to broaden their sphere of influence, which they did by establishing periodicals for the dissemination of revolutionary rhetoric, literature, and arguments. At the risk of overgeneralising, I will suggest that in both pasts we witness the rise of discourses, most visibly in the Indian-owned press and pamphleteering cultures, through which the public attempts to negotiate what is clearly a difficult subject—political violence and national character. In the 1870s, the violence of 1857 is an uneasy subject in the Indian-owned periodical press. Traces of the difficulty are to be found in the overly-visible discourse of loyalty. The discourse, which distances the Indian public from the 1857 insurrectionary violence, speaks of an anxious desire to secure the body of the (emergent) nation from the taint of violence. In the early 20th century, revolutionary propaganda practically forces a public discussion of violence. This history of debate—which is mediated by a government that embarks on a history of proscription in 1891, but which picks up pace starting in 1906—is played out in miniature in a not inconsequential episode of 1908–10, on which the chapter focuses. It is a story of a discussion triggered by Tarak Nath Das, an exiled revolutionary, when he wrote to Tolstoy (who was known to publicly critique regimes of power) in 1908 in the hope of garnering his support for the revolutionary cause. Tolstoy responded with a rebuttal of the revolutionary argument, in an open letter titled “Letter to a Hindu”. Mohandas Gandhi, who was sent the letter by a friend,8 wrote enthusiastically to Tolstoy and asked to republish the letter. My discussion of this crucial moment, in which shaping the views of the Indian public—on the subject of national character—was at stake, examines the positions taken by Das, Tolstoy, and Gandhi respectively, on the subject of violence and emancipatory history. In both pasts, the confrontation with violence

14 Sukeshi Kamra

produces a public rallying around vocabularies of evasion, vocabularies in which we can discern claims to the moral superiority of (a national character embedded in) non-violence.

Refusing Accusations of Native Violence: 1857 in the Indian Periodical Press of the 1870s In Indian historiography, the circulation in the Anglo-Indian and English press of a racialised view of the insurrection is a well-documented fact. To cite only one of several insightful works on 1857, Gautum Chakravarty’s The Indian Mutiny and the British Imagination, the public outcry in Britain was identifiable for “its xenophobia and shrill call for revenge” (2005, 32). It has been somewhat more challenging to locate an Indian response, both to the violence and its representation in the “white” press. What remain in archives are spectacular protestations of loyalty, submitted by the colonial elite in the form of “narratives” to officials, and taken out as advertisements by individuals and groups of the Indian urban middle class in prominent Anglo-Indian newspapers such as the Bombay Times. How should we read the absence of openly contestatory Indian opinion on the insurrection of 1857, a past which, for the colony, could not but include the sensational, racialised view of the “mutiny” that was overly-visible in the Anglo-Indian press? The resounding silence is hardly surprising, given the failure of the insurgency and the spectacular severity with which it was suppressed.9 There is, however, a fugitive history to be discovered in the pages of the periodical press, or what remains of it in the form of the Native Newspaper Reports (NNRs) of the 1870s,10 the decade which also saw the introduction of stringent legal measures for the control of public opinion and its circulation (section 124A of the Indian Penal Code in 1870 and the Vernacular Press Act in 1878).11 This history is of a rapidly developing periodical press pointedly drawing on the discourse of empire loyalism. In the ways in which this overly-visible discourse is employed—typically as mild rebuke delivered by an aggrieved people—lies evidence of a complex redirection of the notion of loyalty, which articles insistently re-claim for the colony. In the use and reclamation lies an unspoken, but nonetheless audible, allusion to 1857, a time when the language of empire loyalism was instrumentalised, spectacularly, by the colonial government to “discover” a loyal population. Importantly, for the argument I am making, the discourse, in the hands of the Indian-owned press, discovers the notion of (native) nonviolence in the claim of “native” loyalty: claims of loyalty, were after all, meant to distance claimants from the perpetration of violence against the company and associated publics and were, thus, easily assimilated to the notion of political nonviolence. The following NNR extract, from the Suhrid of 9 May 1876, is representative of the kind of argument commonly found in the newspapers reported in the NNRs.

Introduction 15

Taking, moreover, into consideration the signal loyalty manifested to the British Crown on the occasion of the visit of the Prince of Wales, it certainly seems strange that Government should have considered it desirable to enact a stringent law against sedition [Dramatic Performances Bill] to coerce this intensely loyal people. In the face of the fact, that even the females of a Hindu Zenana were allowed to see the Prince, an act which two hundred years ago no Hindu would consent to, there is no need for the enactment of a new law, which is the more needless as the sections of the Indian Penal Code, bearing on the subject of sedition and libel, are quite sufficient for the purpose. (Bengal NNR, week ending 20 May 1876, para. no. 4) Law, the extract suggests via its deliberate bringing of law and loyalty into a relationship of opposition/antagonism, is evidence of a breakdown in relations, and to be understood as an erasure of the bonds of affection binding colony and government. The following two equally representative extracts make substantially the same claims, and are marked by the same insinuations. The Bengal Native Newspaper Report, week ending 13 May 1876, includes the following extract, which it attributes to the influential Amrita Bazar Patrika of 4 May 1876. It is remarked by the Pall Mall Gazette that the Prince’s visit to India has filled the hearts of the natives with loyal feeling. The inhabitants of Manchester also said the same thing to Lord Lytton. Would to God the British believed this in all sincerity; but they do not. If they had such a conviction in their minds, the stringent Bill relating to dramatic performances would never have been proposed. (Bengal NNR, week ending 13 May 1876, para. no. 6) And the report for the week ending 8 July 1876 has the following paragraph, attributed to the Pratikar of 30 June 1876: Our rulers do not venture to place any confidence in us in anything, not even in the simple affairs of a municipality; and owing to this all their efforts prove abortive. We sometimes wish to know what may be the secret policy of our rulers in not confiding in us. No sooner was the liberty of the press granted, than the Sedition Act was published; and as soon as the privilege was given to the natives to be admitted into the Civil Service, something hostile to it followed immediately after. (Bengal NNR, week ending 8 July 1876, para. no. 11) “Native” disloyalty is conspicuously disavowed in these extracts as is any knowledge of reasons for the (claimed) shift in policy, which is variously described as a new distrust of the people, distancing from the people, and

16 Sukeshi Kamra

expectation of disloyalty. Indeed, the extracts confess to being mystified and disappointed by the downward turn in relations. The year 1857, identified in multiple ways as a symbolic, as much as a literal, rupture is, I will suggest, the missing piece—the unnamed something, and sharp breach in colonial time, that happened and of which the proliferation of laws for the criminalising of dissent is at once evidence and effect. As for the overly-visible discourse of empire loyalism, undoubtedly it is adopted by Indians strategically, for the shelter claims and protestations of loyalty afforded. However, a couple of decades on from the insurrection, it serves an additional function: it allows for a re-focussing of attention—away from the uncomfortable subject, for a stigmatised Indian public, of 1857—and an insistent laying of claim to the qualities of unfailing allegiance, steadfastness, and political nonaggression.

Debating Violence and the National Character in post-1905 Bengal Partition India The emergence of a radicalised youth in the early 20th century is another one of nationalist historiography’s well documented stories, along with the internal divisions within the Indian National Congress, between “extremists” and “moderates”. Broadly speaking, the argument of revolutionary groups active in the Bengal and Bombay presidencies was informed by their view that British colonialism in India was a rule of violence. Articles, poems, posters, essays, and the like aimed to persuade the public that the economic degradation of the colony, destruction of social structure, and cultural pasts, were properly regarded as forms of violence, along with physical brutality and famines as well as poverty. The immediate effect of “extremist” rhetoric and action was to make political violence a prominent subject, one that mobilised opinion on both sides of the issue.12 The conversation initiated by Das in his 1908 letter to Tolstoy— and which had consequences beyond his, Das’, imaginings and hopes of getting support of an international community via Tolstoy’s support—forms part of the drama, of energising and massifying nationalist sentiment, that took place in the wake of the 1905 Partition of Bengal. It was commandeered by Gandhi, who, with the weight of Tolstoy’s international reputation behind him, entered a debate that had been dominated by the groups within the Indian National Congress (“Extremist” and “Moderate”). At a commonplace level the Gandhian–Tolstoy argument spoke authoritatively to the idea of a national character grounded in a principled political nonaggression while the revolutionary argument, made by Das, spoke of the historical circumstances (colonial rule) in which resistance by forceful means was (he claimed) as justified as “passive resistance”. On 24 May 1908, Das, who had emigrated to Canada at the age of 22, was a founding member of the Hindustan Association in 1907 in San Francisco, and the editor of Free Hindustan, sent Leo Tolstoy a letter from Seattle.13 In this letter, which was accompanied by two issues of the journal Free Hindustan

Introduction 17

(which Das had started in Vancouver, Canada), Das appealed to Tolstoy to extend his interest in the oppressed to India and its “starving millions” (Bartolf 1997, 15), a fact directly attributable, he writes, to economic exploitation by the British government in India.14 This was a private letter but the reply came in the form of an open letter, titled “A Letter to a Hindu”, which Tolstoy began writing on 7 June 1908 and completed on 6 December 1908.15 Written in Russian, and opening with a statement of his commitment to speaking out against oppressive regimes, the letter tackles the question of (state) violence in history. Here I limit discussion of “A Letter to a Hindu” (which was subtitled “The Subjection of India—Its Cause and Cure”) to the way in which Das’ argument, of political violence as a historical necessity (the French Revolution is offered across revolutionary propaganda as a case in point), is met by Tolstoy.16 In a wide-ranging argument, that is philosophical and, importantly, incorporates sayings attributed to Krishna,17 Tolstoy refutes Das’ claim that colonial rule (a rule of violence) persists because the colonised are insufficiently inclined to exert counter-force. To this, Tolstoy responds with an argument focused not on the oppressive structures of exploitative rule but on the conditions which make such a rule possible. In his words, You say that the English have enslaved your people and hold them in subjection because the latter have not resisted resolutely enough and have not met force by force. But the case is just the opposite. If the English have enslaved the people of India it is just because the latter recognized, and still recognize, force as the fundamental principle of the social order. In accord with that principle, they submitted to their little rajahs, and on their behalf struggled against one another, fought the Europeans, the English, and are now trying to fight with them again. (Murthy 1987, 54) The point is made again in the following: “If the people of India are enslaved by violence, it is only because they themselves live and have lived by violence, and do not recognize the eternal law of love inherent in humanity” (Murthy 1987, 55–56). In Tolstoy’s argument, force is not the exception but the norm, as much in Indian society as in multiple others; and it is the familiarity of a rule of force that better rationalises colonial rule than the politics of fear or, indeed, notions of loyalty and belief in non-violence which thus are, in this view, a misrecognition of violence as social and political fact. If evidence of violence, as an accepted fact, Tolstoy argues, lies in war, evidence of the “law of love” (Murthy 1987, 56), by which, and only by which, the law of violence is defeated, lies in social structures grounded in and by non-participation in violence and, simultaneously, non-resistance to violence (resistance would be an engagement with it). In his words,

18 Sukeshi Kamra

As soon as men live entirely in accord with the law of love natural to their hearts and now revealed to them, which excludes all resistance by violence, and therefore hold aloof from all participation in violence—as soon as this happens, not only will hundreds be unable to enslave millions, but not even millions will be able to enslave a single individual. Do not resist the evil-doer and take no part in doing so, either in the violent deeds of the administration, in the law courts, the collection of taxes, or above all in soldiering, and no one in the world will be able to enslave you.18 (Murthy 1987, 55–56) “A Letter to a Hindu”, first published in the Russian Gazette in April 1909,19 was in global circulation, and drew the attention of influential figures such as Romaine Rolland, who had this to say about it: “‘Letter to an Indian’ has been made known throughout the whole world delivering terrific blows to colonial slavery” (qtd in Shifman 1969, 81). Response to the published letter came from China, England, France, Germany, the US, Japan and other countries (Shifman 1969, 80). Das read the open letter, and wrote an open letter in reply, which was published as a pamphlet with the following title page: “An Open Letter to Count Leo Tolstoy In Reply to His ‘Letter to a Hindoo’ by the Editor of ‘Free Hindusthan’ (New-York, U.S.A.).” It is dated 14 December 1909 and was banned by the colonial government, as was the equally critical response of the Bande Mataram in February 1910 to Tolstoy’s “Letter” (India Office Records [IOR], Proscribed Literature Series, EPP 2/3).20 In his reply, Das suggested to Tolstoy that his, Tolstoy’s, view was naturally informed by his own (read privileged) experience and social standing; that he, Tolstoy, had misread the intention of the revolutionary argument, which was to “advocate resistance”, not violence as “the only possible way of uniting peoples into societies” (IOR, Proscribed Literature Series, X 708/16534, 4); that Tolstoy’s was an absolute doctrine whereas that of the revolutionaries was based in historical analysis (historical materialist); and that “The idea of absolute non-resistance is not always love, but often bespeaks dullness, weakness, leading to fatalism” (IOR, Proscribed Literature Series, X 708/16534, 5). That is, Das questions the presumed stability of Tolstoy’s theory of love, as historically efficacious. Further, Das also questions Tolstoy’s understanding of Hindu metaphysics and interpretation of its foundational texts. The 46-page rebuttal concludes with the claim that violence, under certain historical conditions, is an expression of love. Das writes: they understand by his, Tolstoy’s, letter that British rule in India is a “self-inflicted calamity” (IOR, Proscribed Literature Series, X 708/16534, 42) and that the revolutionaries are working to reverse this same condition, seeking “Once for all, the liberation of India from the foreign yoke” (IOR, Proscribed Literature Series, X 708/16534, 42); that “Love is God, but at the same time [they] assert that the Divinity is best represented in humanity, and resistance to despotism is the first of all human duties” [Emphasis in original] (IOR, Proscribed Literature Series, X 708/16534, 42).

Introduction 19

It would appear that Tolstoy (who died in 1910) did not respond to Das’ rebuttal of his (Tolstoy’s) views. As for the colonial government, it does not appear to have been overly concerned either with the correspondence, judging by the India Office Records. However, the government did ban Das’ reply, along with a number of other revolutionary publications.21 The public life of the letter, in a mobilising India, is inextricably linked with Gandhi, who came across “Letter to an Indian” while in London in 1909 to meet with the British government over the treatment of Indians in the Transvaal (South Africa). He wrote to Tolstoy on 1 October 1909.22 In this letter, in which Gandhi spoke of the prison conditions endured by the members of the incipient passive resistance movement of which he himself was a key supporter, Gandhi asked Tolstoy for permission to translate and publish the letter. In his reply dated 8 October 1909, Tolstoy encouraged Gandhi to translate and circulate the letter. The result was a publication prefaced by an introduction written by Gandhi and dated Johannesburg, 19 November 1909. It was published in South Africa, in Gujarati as well as English. In the introduction, Das is mentioned, in passing, as the occasion for Tolstoy’s open letter (“The letter printed below is a translation of Tolstoy’s letter written in Russian in reply to one from the Editor of Free Hindustan” [Murthy 1987, 41]). The revolutionary argument is entirely discredited, routed one might say, when it is reduced, by Gandhi, to the argument for political violence which is, thus, decontextualised. Gandhi writes, One of the accepted and ‘time-honoured’ methods to attain the end is that of violence. The assassination of Sir Curzon Wylie was an illustration of that method in its worst and most detestable form. Tolstoy’s life has been devoted to replacing the method of violence for removing tyranny or securing reform by the method of nonresistance to evil. He would meet hatred expressed in violence by love expressed in self-suffering. He admits of no exception to whittle down this great and divine law of love. He applies it to all the problems that trouble mankind. (Murthy 1987, 41–42) What remains of the argument laid out by Das in his initial letter to Tolstoy—in which the call to arms is a situated one, forming part of a critique of colonial rule and, more generally, European imperialism—is, in Gandhi’s introduction, reframed as a moral problem incommensurable/falsely identified in Das with (mere) historical analysis and argument: The proper affective state, in the colonised, Gandhi writes, is “love” that is “expressed in self-suffering” (Murthy 1987, 42). What the paragraph omits is the serious consideration Tolstoy extends to the argument made by Das in his, Tolstoy’s, reply. Specifically, the view Tolstoy provides of Indian history—as a history constituted by violence—is, importantly, part of the argument Gandhi glosses over (in fact at one point in

20 Sukeshi Kamra

the Preface he advises readers, somewhat cryptically, “One need not accept all that Tolstoy says—some of his facts are not accurately stated—to realise the central truth of his indictment of the present system” [Murthy 1987, 42]). A consideration of the subject would have required reflection on the history of violence in India as a history of a recognition (and thus validating) of violence. In other words, it would have required a public undertaking to reflect on the role of violence in the constitution of individual and collective subjectivity. Instead, Gandhi brings into focus what he describes as Tolstoy’s “central truth” (Murthy 1987, 42). This truth, of the force of the law of love (superior to the force of the law of violence), Gandhi claims is identical with “self-suffering” (Murthy 1987, 42). Indeed, in a sweeping generalisation, Gandhi claims love-as-self-suffering is the principle by which “all the problems that trouble mankind” (Murthy 1987, 42) must be approached. With this one stroke, Gandhi assimilates Tolstoy’s expansive philosophy of love—as a doctrine expressed in the world’s religious figures and texts—to his own notion of “self-suffering” (Murthy 1987, 42) as the purest expression of the principle and practice of love.23 In the preface to the “Letter”, then, which is properly speaking an exegesis, instructing readers on the “correct” reading of Tolstoy’s “Letter” (which in turn sets up the “Letter” as a heuristic device, containing in its pages principles that offer a solution to the problem, of the “nature” of nationalist struggle), Gandhi assigns a very particular set of meanings to the terms Tolstoy set up as opposed categories—violence and love. If in Das’ Marxian argument, violence in the political arena of colonialism must be understood in a historical context and thus have a relative and relational meaning to passive resistance (non-violent protest), with both being legitimate, in Gandhi’s argument (via his reading of Tolstoy) the two are moral absolutes, where only one (non-violence) has a claim on (moral) validity. More specifically, in the Gandhian appropriation of the conversation Das sought to conduct with Tolstoy, the terms violence and love take on the character of absolutes, creating boundaries for thinking nationalist character. It was a philosophy that was more comprehensively articulated by Gandhi in Hind Swaraj, which was written between 13 and 22 November 1909, on his return journey to South Africa from London, and banned by the British government in India in 1910.24

Traces of the Past in the Present: Concluding Thoughts How does this early 20th century moment resonate with the post-1857 moment of the 1870s and both with 1947, and after? The 1870s, I have suggested, was a moment constituted by the production of an enabling fiction. Grounded in the idiom of the day (empire loyalism), it goes some way toward restoring to a deeply impacted people, a sense of themselves as, on principle, refusing political violence. One could speculate that the Gandhian Tolstoy of the “Letter” reframes (what appears on the surface to be) victimisation as moral superiority (thus strength) in a manner that is reminiscent of the 1870s–1880s moment. In

Introduction 21

the latter, the colony had rediscovered (its own) moral force by reframing/discovering victimisation as the space of moral superiority and a spirituality that (mere) history could not destroy. In the Gandhian edition of the Tolstoy letter non-violence, self-sacrifice, and self-suffering are cornerstones of national identity and sovereignty. In fact, as we see from nationalist propaganda that can loosely be called Gandhian, but predates Gandhi’s actual entry into India (in 1915), British violence is very successfully transformed in the collective imagination into Indian sacrifice, victimage into moral strength (the popularity of posters focused on the colonial jail, with nationalists and Mother India described/labelled as heroic figures is a good example). This is to say, Gandhian nationalism “rescued” the mobilising public from the stigma of violence, giving nonviolence a depth of meaning that reaches back to the 1870s, if not earlier. In both moments, a distinct “Indian” civility gets defined, linked with nonviolence and nonviolence with civility. This is a narrative that, by 1947, was both fragile and tenacious, and possibly a habit, of collective thought, one which more or less successfully distanced the collective subject from the violence that was clearly constitutive of it. Partition violence is of course one of several histories, and inheritances even, of violence which continue to be disavowed. As Romila Thapar has put it, “We continue to reiterate tolerance and non-violence as cherished values of Indian culture irrespective of the evidence to the contrary” (2018, 27–28). In this chapter I have, I hope, opened up one avenue of inquiry, into the persistence of the fictions by which we live, by turning my attention to the colonial past, specifically for moments in which violence was a phenomenon (one might say). The considered reaction, in both pasts examined here, was not so different than the response in 1947, or indeed, since then, to Partition violence. The last word, perhaps, should go to Gandhi as what I am about to quote makes clear why (the fiction of) a national identity inhabiting, and inhabited by (an inherited definition of) non-violence is such an attractive one. In a 10 May 1910 reply to Mr. Wybergh, who, in a letter to Gandhi had remarked that passive resistance, which Gandhi espoused, was a weapon—not physical, but a weapon nonetheless, of “intellectual and psychic force” (Parel 1997, 141), Gandhi offers as a parting shot the following observation: Supposing that these deportees [Wybergh was in favour of deporting Indians from the Transvaal] were capable of offering physical violence against forcible deportation, and yet from pure choice elected to be deported rather than resist deportation, will it not show superior courage and superior moral fibre in them? (Parel 1997, 149) In other words, the Gandhian nonviolent character is not one that is unaware of the power of violence and of its own capacity for violence. It is one that knowing s/he could engage in violence, refuses it, on principle.

22 Sukeshi Kamra

Notes 1 This chapter is dedicated to my father, Mulk Raj Kamra, for whom home was Lyallpur, always. I would like to thank Professors Anjali Roy and Nandi Bhatia for organising and hosting the International Interdisciplinary Seminar on “India@70: Memories and Histories” at IIT Kharagpur in January 2018, where I first presented some of the ideas explored in this paper. I would also like to acknowledge their tremendous commitment to making the Partition experience part of an intellectual landscape, globally, which they have done generously, in collaboration. I feel very fortunate to have been involved in this project of theirs over the years. I am drawing here on Marianne Hirsch’s influential concept of postmemory to make visible the active engagement of the generation(s) of indirect witnessing with the catastrophic experience most directly an experience of the Partition generation. In her words, “[The term] describes the relationship that the ‘generation after’ bears to the personal, collective, and cultural trauma of those who came before to experiences they ‘remember’ only by means of the stories, images, and behaviors among which they grew up”. She adds that these memories are “transmitted to them so deeply and affectively as to seem to constitute memories in their own right”. It is important to note, then, that in her view, the connection covered in the term postmemory is “mediated not by recall but by imaginative investment, projection, and creation”. Elsewhere she describes such memories as “inherited memories” (“postmemory.net”; accessed 30 January 2022). 2 In previous book chapters and book I have discussed forms of the othering of the 1947 Partition in some detail. See Kamra 2011 and 2015. 3 In “Engaging Traumatic Histories” (2015), I discussed the question of the absence of Partition from the critical realm of “cultural recall” (Mieke Bal’s term, discussed in the “Introduction” to Acts of Memory. See Bal 1999). The term makes visible the ways in which culture and society are active participants in the production of “recall”, complete with a willed absence of certain pasts and a universalising of preferred pasts such that the latter occupies the horizon of social memory. 4 “Social memory” bridges the notion of history (group/collective) and memory (individual) in an attempt to render visible, and legitimate, the view that there is such a thing as group memory and ascribe to it the status of “force”/power. That is, the term acknowledges the connection there is between social identity and historical memory. 5 See Sanjeev Jain and Alok Sarin’s introduction in The Psychological Impact of the Partition of India (2018) and the first few chapters of the edited book for accounts by clinical psychologists on the psychological effects of Partition on survivors. See also: Gyanendra Pandey’s Remembering Partition (2001), which explored the elisions, rationalisations, and silences by which Partition violence was disavowed in the influential field of disciplinary history; Veena Das’ Critical Events (1996), and Urvashi Butalia’s The Other Side of Silence (1998), both of which practically seeded Partition as a social history project. 6 The brief discussion of the 1870s is, for the most part, drawn from chapter 2 of my book The Indian Periodical Press and the Production of Nationalist Rhetoric (2011). In the latter, the argument proceeds by including numerous examples of press opinion as the latter is reported in the Native Newspaper Reports. Closely linked to the argument I make here, in general, is my book chapter, “The Rhetoric of Violence: Cultures of Affect in Resistant Nationalism and the 1947 Partition” (2018). In this I engage the same two moments—1857 and its aftermath, and the emergence of revolutionary nationalism—in an attempt to understand the affective dissonance of 1947. I argued then for the historical evidence there is that colonial rule produced, in the colonised, a structure of feeling anchored in negative social emotion, and for many, in rage. I argued then that this range of negative affects were “themed” in the literature of revolutionary nationalism and effectively

Introduction 23

7

8 9

10 11 12

13 14

15

foreclosed, transformed even, in and by Gandhian themes. This unresolved past (an unrealised Fanonian moment you might say), I suggested in the book chapter, resurfaces with ferocity in 1947. A couple of caveats: in choosing these two moments, I do not mean to suggest that individual moments which feature in a history of violence in British India are reducible to the fact, or that Indian history is not replete with examples of violence and their attempted assimilation to strategies of reading, or that there aren’t other moments of mass violence in colonial India that merit attention, for reasons identified in this chapter. The two specific pasts have been chosen because they form part of early, amorphous nationalism and were, arguably, influential in shaping the ways in which violence, and the structuring of national identity, were or were not confronted in public culture. Anthony Parel writes that the “Letter” was sent to Gandhi in 1909, while he was still in London, by a friend based in Paris (Parel 1997, xxix). The first published Indian account of the revolt, which considers the reasons it failed, was Bholanath Chunder’s Travels of a Hindoo published in 1869. Syed Ahmed Khan’s 1858 memorandum titled “The Causes for India’s Revolt” was published in 1873 as Causes of the Indian Revolt. For an interesting account of the multiple meanings the revolt held for the different regions of India in subsequent decades, see Swarupa Gupta’s 2007 article titled “1857 and Ideas about Nationhood in Bengal, Nuances and Themes”. See the Introduction in my book, The Indian Periodical Press and the Production of Nationalist Rhetoric (2011), for a discussion of the Native Newspaper Reports. For a history and analysis of Section 124A of the Indian Penal Code and reasons for the 1878 Act only a few years later see pages 87–98 of my book, The Indian Periodical Press and the Production of Nationalist Rhetoric (2011). The distinctions between “extremist” and “moderate” positions were not quite as rigid as one might think. A.C. Guha, editor of The Story of Indian Revolution (1972), who identifies himself as a freedom fighter, remembers the revolutionary phase (of the early 20th century) as a “phase of secret movement” that had as one of its key aims, “rousing the people to consciousness of self-assertion” (Guha 1972, 8). About his participation in both revolutionary and Gandhian phases, he writes: “When we joined the non-violent mass movement, we never had any occasion to repent our past contact with the secret violent movement” (Guha 1972, 7). This is a view commonly encountered in memoirs and remembrances of freedom fighters. Das was not the first Indian to approach Tolstoy for support. Shifman’s chapter titled “Indians Write to Yasyana Polyana” suggests such correspondence can be traced back to 1901 (Shifman 1969, 55). Das wrote to Tolstoy again on 15 July 1908. In this letter Das informs Tolstoy that he is sending the latter some more publications “concerning the present situation” (qtd in Bartolf 1997,16). The letter concludes with the following postscript: “If it is possible we wish that you will kindly mention of the Free Hindusthan movement + my present address in your proposed article so that we can reach after people who might be interested by reading your article” (qtd in Bartolf 1997, 16) Initially the letter was titled “A Letter to an Indian”. In Note 34 to Tolstoy’s diary entry dated 10 June 1908, the editor and translator, R.F. Christian, writes that the letter, written in Russian, was translated into English as “Letter to a Hindu” by Aylmer Maude (1985, vol. 2, 719). Tolstoy apparently did not work much on the letter for the next few months. He returned to writing it toward the end of 1908. The diary entry for 28 November reads: “I’m still writing the letter to the Indian. It’s all repetition. Physical health poor, but I feel good at heart” (1985, vol. 2, 592). The entry for 6 December 1908 reads: “I’m still plodding away at the Letter to an Indian. I think it’s rubbish and all repetition. I must finish it and tear myself away” (1985, vol. 2, 593). The entry for 14 December 1908: “…haven’t written my diary for six whole days. Finished the ‘Letter to an Indian’; it’s weak and repetitive.

24 Sukeshi Kamra

16

17

18

19

20

Wrote a few letters” (1985, vol. 2, 594). On the other hand, in a 19 March 1910 diary entry, Tolstoy expresses his satisfaction with the letter: “Read my letter to the Indian and very much approved of it. But the one to the Japanese is terrible. But it’s good that that isn’t important to me” (1985, vol. 2, 651). Shifman writes that there are 29 versions of the “Letter”, totaling 413 pages (1969, 79). Here I am not focusing so much on the larger argument which Tolstoy makes, about the dangers posed by “modernity” (which he regards as a western notion, that is unfortunately, he says, accepted as the horizon of “progress” by the political elite of colonial India). Its negative effects, Tolstoy claims, are apparent in the abandoning of a rich set of religious and spiritual traditions. These are traditions, he argues, that teach the (superior) force of love, with which the state’s (or other authority) claiming of “legitimate” force and exercising of it is best met. In his words, ‘From your letter and the articles in Free Hindustan as well as from the very interesting writings of the Hindu Swami Vivekananda and others, it appears that, as in the case in our time with the ills of all nations, the reason lies in the lack of a reasonable religious teaching which, by explaining the meaning of life, would supply a supreme law for the guidance of conduct and would replace the more than dubious precepts of pseudo-religion and pseudo-science with the immoral conclusions deduced from them and commonly called ‘civilization’. (Murthy 1987, 45) Tolstoy’s diaries (edited by R.F. Christian) show the abiding interest he had in the Vedas, Brahminical Hinduism, and contemporary figures such as Vivekananda. Shifman’s Tolstoy and India is a valuable source of information on Tolstoy’s reading in Hinduism and Buddhism and his attempts to make the philosophies available to Russians in translation. See Chapters 2 and 3 of Shifman’s (1969) book. This was not the first time that Tolstoy had written to an Indian on the subject of British colonialism and its (principled) resistance. In a letter he wrote in July 1901 to the publisher of The Aryan (Madras) Tolstoy cautioned about the use of violence against the colonial government. Citing Europe as an example, he writes, “A society or a gathering of people based on violence is not only in a primitive state but also in a very dangerous situation” (qtd in Shifman 1969, 55). In its stead, Tolstoy writes, the path of principled resistance is one of non-participation: “You must not help the English in their rule by violence and you must not participate in any way in the government based on violence” (qtd in Shifman 1969, 56). The letter was published in the Aryan. It received an enthusiastic response in the Indian press. The publisher, a moderate, left out statements that he thought could provoke the authorities (Shifman 1969, 57). Following the publication, the Hindu published an article in which it agreed with Tolstoy’s critique of colonial rule and, says Shifman, “urged the Indian people to follow the great Russian writer’s advice” (1969, 57). Shifman adds: “Similar comments appeared in the other progressive newspapers and journals which defended the national interests of India as testified by the cuttings sent to Tolstoy.” (1969, 57) This is to say the “A Letter to a Hindu” forms part of a larger discussion with Indian correspondents, where substantially the same ideas are rehearsed and the anxiety about (what Tolstoy considered to be) a normalising of violence in the name of modernity and progress is writ large. In the diary entry of 20 April 1909, Tolstoy writes: “Yesterday I came across my ‘Letter to an Indian’ in the Russian Gazette. I read it and relived the thoughts it contained with emotion; and immediately afterwards I read the memoirs of the actor Lensky. I couldn’t help bursting out laughing. The contrast was so sharp” (Christian 1985, 610). Parel writes that Das’ reply appeared in The Twentieth Century (a Boston monthly). The Bande Mataram response was, he writes, by another revolutionary expatriate, V. Chattopadhyaya, and Parel notes that it was serialised in the African

Introduction 25

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22

23

24

Chronicle in April 1910. The latter periodical, he adds, was “A Durban weekly run by Gandhi’s Indian rivals in Natal” (Parel 1997, xxix). Reading through the formidable array of demi-official reports filed by the Indian civil and political departments of the time and the correspondence between the India government and the Secretary of State for India (part A and part B of Proceedings and the Minto-Morley correspondence) turns up nothing on the letter. The absence is surprising, given the level of revolutionary rhetoric and activity (guerilla acts of sabotage mainly) that finds mention in inter-government memoranda and correspondence. It is worth noting that Das was subject to surveillance. See India Office records (IOR), L/PJ/12/1, file 126/13. Although Tolstoy’s diary entry for 24 September 1909 mentions that he has received a letter from “an Indian in the Transvaal” (Christian 1985, 633), Shifman states that Gandhi wrote to Tolstoy for the first time on 1 October 1909 (1969, 85). The letter published by Murthy is also dated 1 October 1909. Parel writes that for Tolstoy individual self-regulation is the proper basis of society (and is what Tolstoy meant by the law of love). In Parel’s words, “growth in inner perfection is the necessary spiritual condition that would make life at the social and political level less violent. The reality of this development he called the kingdom of God.” (Parel 2002, 101). Parel adds that Tolstoy himself must have believed this view to be impractical/idealistic and offered an additional conceptual space for the realisation of a self-regulated constructive society: public opinion. He (Parel) quotes from Tolstoy’s The Kingdom of God is Within You (a favourite with Gandhi): “The moral progress of humanity is accomplished not only by a recognition of truth, but also by the establishment of a public opinion.” (Parel 2002, 101) In “Measuring Truth: The Importance of Dhamma”, V. Geetha notes that in the period in which Gandhi corresponded with Tolstoy he formulated ideas that would be developed in Hind Swaraj. Geetha writes, “In his thoughts on petitioning, his letter to Tolstoy and his views on the subject of militancy, we find him essaying arguments that anticipated those principles which animate Hind Swaraj—especially the theme of not returning evil for evil and deploying satyagraha in return” (Geetha 2013, 188). Parel also writes of the continuity of argument between Gandhi’s preface in “Letter” and Hind Swaraj and points to the fact that both were composed over the same few days: “The translation and the editing [of “Letter”] took place on board the Kildonan Castle, during the same week that he wrote Hind Swaraj” (Parel 1997, xxix).

References India Office Records (IOR), British Library Bengal Native Newspaper Reports. 1876. Shelfmark: L/R/5/2 Das, Tarak Nath. “An Open Letter to Count Leo Tolstoy in reply to his ‘Letter to a Hindoo’ by the Editor of ‘Free Hindusthan’ (New-York, U.S.A.).” Proscribed Literature Series. Shelfmark: X 708/16534. Proscribed Literature Series, Shelfmark: EPP 2/3. Public & Judicial Department Records1795–1950. Shelfmark:L/PJ/12/1, file 126/13

Secondary Sources Bal, Mieke. 1999. “Introduction”. In Acts of Memory: Cultural Recall in the Present, edited by Mieke Bal, Jonathan Crewe and Leo Spitzer, vii–xvii. Hanover, NH: University of New England Press.

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Bartolf, Christian (ed.) 1997. Letter to a Hindoo, Taraknath Das, Leo Tolstoi and Mahatma Gandhi. Berlin: Gandhi-Informations-Zentrum. Butalia, Urvashi. 1998. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India. New Delhi: Viking. Chakravarty, Gautam. 2005. The Indian Mutiny and the British Imagination. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Christian, R.F. (ed. & trans.) 1985. Tolstoy’s Diaries. Vol. 2 (1895–1910). London: Athlone Press. Das, Veena. 1996. Critical Events: An Anthropological Perspective on Contemporary India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Geetha, V. 2013. Measuring Truth: The Importance of Re-reading Hind Swaraj: Modernity and Subalterns, ed. Ghanshyam Shah, 186–195. Delhi: Routledge. Guha, A.C. (ed.) 1972. The Story of Indian Revolution. Calcutta: Allied Pub. Gupta, Swarupa. 2007. “1857 and Ideas about Nationhood in Bengal, Nuances and Themes”. Economic and Political Weekly 42(19) (May 12–18): 1762–1769. Hirsch, Marianne. 2012. Postmemory.net (website). Accessed January 30, 2022. http:// www.postmemory.net. Jain, Sanjeev & Alok Sarin (ed.) 2018. The Psychological Impact of the Partition of India. New Delhi: Sage. Kamra, Sukeshi. 2018. “The Rhetoric of Violence: Cultures of Affect in Resistant Nationalism and the 1947 Partition”. In The Psychological Impact of the Partition of India, ed. Sanjeev Jain & Alok Sarin, 188–209. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Kamra, Sukeshi. 2011. The Indian Periodical Press and the Production of Nationalist Rhetoric. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Kamra, Sukeshi. 2015. “Engaging Traumatic Histories: The 1947 Partition of India in Collective Memory”. In Partition: The Long Shadow, ed. Urvashi Butalia, 155–177. Delhi: Zubaan & Penguin Books India. Murthy, B. Srinivasa (ed.) 1987. Mahatma Gandhi and Leo Tolstoy. Letters. Long Beach, CA: Long Beach Publications. Pandey, Gyanendra. 2001. Remembering Partition: Violence, Nationalism and History in India. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Parel, Anthony J. (ed.) 1997. M.K. Gandhi. ‘Hind Swaraj’ and Other Writings. First South Asian Edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Parel, Anthony J. 2002. “Gandhi and Tolstoy”. In Meditations on Gandhi: A Ravindra Varma Festschrift, ed. M.P. Mathai, M.S. John, and S.K. Joseph, 96–112. New Delhi: Concept Publishing. Shifman, Alexander. 1969. Tolstoy and India. Trans. A.V. Esaulov. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi. Thapar, Romila. 2018. Indian Culture as Heritage: Contemporary Pasts. New Delhi: Aleph Book Company.

2 BORDERING THE NATION Livelihood, Labour and Memory in Bangla Partition Fictions from Assam and Tripura Debjani Sengupta

The Genealogy of a Division The transformation of India’s Northeast from a frontier during colonial times to a borderland in 1947 is an aspect of the nation’s vivisection that has not been suitably addressed in our Partition historiography. Certainly, the region’s extensive cartographical configurations that resulted from 1947 continue to be significant concerning issues of ethnicity, identity, language and belonging. Thus terms like ‘citizens’ ‘aliens’ and ‘infiltrators’ have metamorphosed into loaded idioms that often result in internecine bloodshed and various kinds of conflagrations between ‘indigenous people’ and others perceived as ‘outsiders’. An understanding of the genealogy and formation of India’s northeastern states subverts commonly held assumptions about 1947 (including the term Northeast) that complicate questions of communal polarizations, the formation of the border as well as the participation of non-political groups like the tribal populations who had little at stake in the working out of the Radcliffe Line. India’s Northeast is a prime example of the fissures that existed in the nation-building project that emerged from the dominant nationalist discourses around 1947 and the politics of ethnicity, language, and citizenship continue to draw blood. The spatial and temporal realities that came into being in the northeastern region through postcolonial state making practices have produced almost irreversible patterns of social and political unrest to this day (Yumnam 2016, 157). Any study of the histories and fictions of the Partition of 1947 remains incomplete unless some account of the literatures from the Northeast of India are taken into consideration because the division of the country had a transregional impact whose complex contours are coming to light only now. For example, the Northeast of India was a creation of the Partition, Assam was DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-3

28 Debjani Sengupta

bifurcated and the region has experienced all the vagaries and problems that a forced vivisection brings in its wake: the territory’s economy, social and future political life have been directly affected by the Partition’s shadows (Schendel 2011, 32). The exigencies and calibrations of the modern postcolonial state have often hidden these regional and local fallouts of the disruptions and dislocations of the Partition, while rootless and migratory populations, of varied ethnicities and religious affiliations, have journeyed across makeshift national borders in search of a livelihood and a place of sojourn. In this chapter, I critically examine some short fiction from Tripura and Barak Valley, Assam, all written in Bangla, that give a perspective on the Partition in the East (apart from West Bengal and Bangladesh) because they map out the ethical and representational outlines of the nation in its far-flung boundaries and in the lives of people who seem to belong to the periphery in direct oppositional location to a metropolitan centre. Three stories from Sunanda Bhattacharya’s two collections Chanchtolaye Rwod (2003) and Poobduari (2014), and Jhumur Pandey’s Sukh Gacher Golpo (2005) are under discussion because they raise some significant queries regarding the representation of marginal identities in the context of the Partition in the Northeast, especially in Tripura and Assam.1 Limited by a lack of language to probe the Partition’s fallouts among people in the Northeast like the Chakma, the Hajong and the Rajbongshi, I focus on only Bangla narratives from Tripura and Barak Valley, Assam but this small beginning will, hopefully, point a way for future studies of the region in greater depths and with more concerted academic cooperation.2 From the 13th century under the Manikya rulers, Tripura had seen the influx of Bangla speaking Hindus. The kings had invited high caste educated Bengalis from other regions of undivided Bengal to settle in the kingdom to receive patronage from the royal household. The migration of agriculturalists, both Hindus and Muslims, from East Bengal, also followed a steady pattern especially in times of natural calamities, and the cultivation of wet rice settled land cultivation owed largely to the newcomers while the tribes followed shifting agriculture. In colonial times, the indigenous tribal people of the region were barely half of the total population and the newcomers were considered ‘British’ subjects as opposed to the hill tribes who were ‘not classified’ (Debbarma 2017, 206).3 But even among the indigenous tribes there were significant differences. For example, the Tripuris, Reangs, Lusai and Kukis were indigenous to the region while the Santhal, Lepcha, Khasi and Bhutias came to settle in Tripura for trade and other reasons throughout the 19th and the early 20th centuries. In 1946, when communal riots overtook the districts of Tippera and Noakhali in Eastern Bengal, a number of Hindu refugees were resettled in various areas under the patronage of Tripura’s Hindu king. 1947 and the division of Bengal into East Pakistan and West Bengal meant that Tripura state became a kind of buffer zone between East Pakistan and the rest of the region as the kingdom shared 839 kilometers of border with

Introduction 29

East Pakistan. After 1947, the physical and geographical contiguity of Tripura with East Pakistan meant that refugee migration from East Bengal was almost a given. Prior to 1947, Bengali Muslims constituted the second largest group in Tripura while the Bengali Hindus were numerically the first. After the partitioning of the country, the Hindu middle class refugees were joined by other tribal exiles like the Chakmas from the Chittagong Hill Tracts, and from Mymensingh and Rangpur, who crossed into Assam and Tripura for a variety of reasons. The migration patterns in the two regions were diverse and complex. They alternated between communal persecution in East Pakistan, economic reasons (by government servants or ‘optees’ who chose to go where their jobs were), natural disasters or even familial or marriage ties. The resultant tension between the ‘native’ population and the ‘intruders’ often took the form of linguistic and economic domination, sometimes between the same religious or ethnic groups. For example, in 1956, when 2,500 tribal people were forced out from East Pakistan, they were stopped from entering Tripura’s borders. This is an instance where one can see that the fallouts of the Partition in the region were not always communal conflagration between Hindus and Muslims but often gathered political inducement from geographical claims to habitations or from linguistic/ethnic differences. Therefore, the Bengali Hindu and Muslim settlers often faced serious violence as a result of ethnic nationalism of Tripuris and Assamese that made them unwelcome in these regions after the Partition. This is a major variance on the pattern of sectarian violence of 1947 that mostly played out as a binary conflict based on religions elsewhere in the country. The period between the death of the last Manikya king in 1947 and the formation of the Tripura Territorial Council in 1963 saw the competitive rise of spatial and territorial ethno-nationalisms between Tripuris, Bengali Muslims, and Bengali Hindus with contesting claims of belonging and ideologies. The gradual demographic change in Tripura’s population in favour of Bengali Hindu and Muslim settlers meant that local protests against immigrants took an organized form, right from 1947, when Seng-krak, the first anti-refugee and antiBengali political union was established (Bhattacharya 1988, 12). By 1951, the tribal population had come down to 37% and as the princely state merged into India to become a Union territory in 1956 and a full fledged state in 1972, the marginalization of the tribal population was further accentuated. In Tripura, the fallout of 1947 had affected three communities in diverse ways: the Bengali Hindu and the Bengali Muslim migrants, and the tribal people had different affective responses to the long durée of 1947 (Debbarma 2017, 207–8). In Assam, apart from the agriculturists and artisans who came as refugees to the Barak valley, there were a large section of Sylheti middle-class economic migrants to the region who were not ‘refugees’ in the sense meant in Partition Studies. Their identity had been formed not as a result of rivalry against Muslims but in opposition to the Assamese Hindus who had resented their elite status and government jobs that many had enjoyed from British

30 Debjani Sengupta

times. In the late 19th century, this rivalry began to assume serious proportions. The new Assamese middle class floated a number of organizations (for example the Asom Jatiya Mahasabha that began work in 1945–46), expressing alarm at the ‘Bengalisation’ of Assamese society by Bengali speaking Hindus and Muslims arriving from Sylhet. A major section of the Assamese population was agitated over the ‘outsider’ issue that could be seen clearly in the Sylhet Referendum.4 The ideological ramifications of ‘infiltration’ and the language question in the Barak and Brahmaputra valleys erupted in the ‘Bangal Kheda’ movement when Bengali settlers were targeted and terrorized after the Partition. This movement was the result of an opposition to an Indian law of 1950 that openly encouraged free entry into Assam of Hindus who were victims of disturbances in East Pakistan.5 In their turn, the Bengali settlers’ consciousness about language and identity took the shape of an aggressive and defensive linguistic nationalism especially through language movements in and around the Barak valley. Things came to a pass on 24 October 1960, when the Assam Legislature passed a bill stating that Assamese would henceforth be the only official state language. The bill was to politically deny the existence of a large minority, the Bengali settlers who had made the Cachar region their home after the Partition. The Bengali settlers claimed that the Barak valley in lower Assam had always been an important cultural centre of Bangla, and Sylhet was a centre of politics, education and cultural activity from medieval times. During the Chaitanya period (end of 15th and beginning of 17th century), the expansion of Bengali language and literature took place in the neighbouring regions of the Surma-Barak valley, in Jaintia, Dimasa and Tripura kingdoms particularly under royal patronages. In the modern age, poets and writers like Ashokbijoy Raha, Nirmalendu Chaudhury, Hemango Biswas, Khaled Chaudhury and Syed Mujtaba Ali were all born in the Barak valley. The region had a flourishing culture of literary magazines and journals that promoted the Bangla language. Thus when the bill was passed restricting the use of their mother tongue, the Bengali population erupted in anger. On 19 May 1961, a procession of students and writers went on a peaceful march through Silchar town demanding recognition of Bangla as a medium of instruction in schools and colleges. The police fired on the unarmed demonstrators and a 15-year-old student Kamala Bhattacharya and 10 others died to become ‘language martyrs’ (Basu 2009, 20).6 The Hindu and Muslim Bengalis of the Barak Valley region are mindful of the fact that their language movement has never been seen in the historical context of the other language movement across the border, the 21 February Bhasa Dibosh or Language Day that is celebrated in Bangladesh as the originary moment of the birth of the new nation. The Bangla writers in Barak Valley and in Tripura have observed 19 May as Krishnachura Utsav, underlining the effect of an ethno-linguistic partition in their lives. So, it is not communal polarization, but ethnicity and language that have played out in their fictional narratives. These have flowered in stories of refugee lives as the

Introduction 31

language question has generated its own creative output. With the Partition, the literary isolation of the Northeast was doubly compounded. The geographical and physical distance from the mainland as well as from the literary centres of Calcutta and Dhaka have kept the Bengali writers in these regions cut off in a certain way that has certainly shaped their intellectual and creative lives. The existence of the Barak valley as a peripheral region so far as the geo-physical nature of West Bengal and its culture are concerned has created a ‘third world’ in Bangla fiction. This is of course a contentious literary and critical issue and outside the scope of this chapter.7 This regional and physical sense of seclusion has had a different trajectory in Tripura’s Bangla literature. The Bengali Hindus, to counter their sense of isolation, conceived of Tripura as a place within ‘Bengal’ and therefore a part of India. This spatializing imagination of the homeland left out the Bengal that came to be redefined as East Pakistan in 1947. Therefore, Tripura was to a certain extent ‘imagined’ as an appendage of Bengal that was the homeland of Bengali Hindus and the ‘enemy’ therefore constituted not only the tribal ethnic minorities but also the ‘infiltrating’ Muslims. The borders that defined Tripura were often seen as necessary by the Bengali Hindu political elite to keep out the ‘other’, the ‘infiltrator’ while the exodus of the Bengali Hindus from East Pakistan was seen as natural and logical. If the Bengali Hindu political elite in Tripura has had a contentious and contested political life, literature has been able to capture the chasms and fissures of this ideological discourse of Tripura as a homeland for Bengalis in many diverse ways, particularly by stressing the exile and migrant status of Bengali Hindus in this contested terrain where the Muslims are also fellow exiles. Proscribing groups, contesting rival ideologies of place and belonging, do not see these complexities of livelihood and labour. So in many short fictions of the region the idea of a naturalized ‘homeland’ for Bengali migrants is constantly questioned and thwarted by depicting protagonists in perpetual exile either in the borderland or within the space of the state of Tripura or the region of Barak Valley. Given the geographical distance from the literary metropolis of the mainland and their minority status in the hierarchical chain of publishers and the publishing industry of Kolkata, the writers of these two regions are constantly engaged in defining the form and content of their fiction. The short story emerges as the chosen form by many writers (rather than the novel as in West Bengal’s Partition fiction) in these regions because the form of the short story is an expression of their ambivalence not only to mainland Bengali literary culture but an articulation of their location in terms of the Indian nation. These stories exhibit what Aamir Mufti calls the “problem of minoritization” (Mufti 2001, 11) as they turn their aesthetic attention to a ‘minor’ epic form to explore the themes of homelessness, identity, and belonging that carved out a different aesthetic impulse from ‘mainstream’ canonical Bangla fiction of the ‘mainland’.8 Thus, the specificities of region and politics have enabled this corpus of writing to be substantially different from West Bengal’s Bangla novels and stories on the

32 Debjani Sengupta

Partition. The short fiction that comes out of the Partition experience in Assam and Tripura has some distinctive features, both in terms of themes and genre (though not shared uniformly by every writer) that are readily discernible. A particular locality and geography spawns a hopelessness of exile, a nostalgia that is pronounced in these narratives both in terms of language and emplotment of the narrative. In them, Partition is not a forgettable aberration but a traumatic site of experience where a profound and transcendental rootlessness can be configured, remembered and articulated. In many of these stories that refer implicitly or explicitly to the Partition, we discern a certain pattern or reverberation. The narratives assume a phenomenological stance that is articulated through the minutae of description of a physical space and the protagonist’s movement through such a space; the small room where the character lives or the incessant border crossings that assume great significance not just as settings to the story but as direct expression of the self’s relation to grief and loss. Most of them are ‘travel stories’…to use Michel de Certeau’s term, that show us the topography of exile: a small, constricted room in a refugee camp or the trauma of a journey acts as a metonymical gesture towards other stories, a memory or a past history of belonging and un-belonging.9 By concentrating on the quotidian movements of the characters through diverse spaces, the narratives go beyond the historical accumulation of knowable data to give us an eloquent affective approach to what one may remember of the Partition. Their contrapuntal juxtaposition of ‘Time’, where the time of memory and the real/clock time form a complex grid, alerts us to the ways in which this different episteme can nudge us to move from a particular historical event to literature’s different ethical practices. In these stories, ‘Time’ is both synchronic and diachronic where the ‘semantics of action’ is transformed into the ‘syntagmatic order’ (diachronic narrative) through the use of symbolic images.10 (Ricoeur 1984, 56) In them, the trope of exile creates a plane where past and the present intermingle and are constitutive of each other. Yet each of the protagonist’s journeys, across borders and terrains, become in essence a journey to reformulate the trajectories of history as felt and narrated through a diachronic concept of time. The choice of the short story performs an epistemological function in helping us to know the hitherto unknowable, the taedium vitae of a marginal life, in spaces that remain outside the canonical narratives of 1947.

The Storytellers Jhumur Pandey’s story ‘Mokkhoda Sundorir Haranoprapti’ (Mokkhodasundari’s Lost and Found) (Pandey 2005) is a luminescent memory text with a lyrical quality of language and affect. The story opens with a marriage song (‘Chalor tolay jhamur jhumur/Kolar tole biya’) that the old woman Mokkhoda Sundori recollects as she lives destitute and alone in the Meherpur Relief camp. The story is set on two planes of Time, the present and the past, where Mokkhoda

Introduction 33

remembers her life before the division of the country, her life of plenitude and then the subsequent uprooting. In the melee of fleeing a riot, her husband is killed and she is separated from her young son. Many years later, in the relief camp, the now penniless and decrepit Mokkhoda still awaits the arrival of a lost child: Mokkhoda is alive. Yes she still waits for Kokhon. If one day, the boy comes wandering here, searching for his mother? How old will he be now? If he had been eight or ten then, he must be sixty now. Will Mokkhoda recognize her sixty year old son? (Pandey 2005, 11) Pandey’s story employs a slew of narrative strategies to represent Mokkhoda’s loss of status and her present impoverishment not only in terms of language but also in terms of the spaces that she moves through. The insertion of folk songs in the Sylheti language in the body of the text is a case in point. The marriage songs that Mokkhoda remembers from her own past, the images of rituals, and her life as a wife and a daughter-in-law are interspersed in the narrative with present poverty and loneliness, the meagre rations that are given to her as dole, her small cramped room without a window and her last assertion, ‘manusher mon re partition diya bandha jaynigo’ (the human heart cannot be bound with a partition). These are the affective reverberations of her loss. The word ‘partition’ is a new terminology in her consciousness that exists along with the names of trees and food, people and places culled from the expansive universe of her early years that has now shrunk to the four walls of the camp room. This squeezing out of spaces, the weight of vocabulary, the intangible sense of sorrow and nostalgia cannot be captured through a reiteration of words, but words are the only way through which Mokkhoda can articulate her pain: ‘Boro koshto go! Boro koshto!’ (How painful it is! What pain!) Pandey’s story hints at the inflexibility of history just as it states the intractability of words to convey loss and grief. The results of the Sylhet referendum would have been very different, ‘if the tea garden workers had the right to vote, then Sylhet would have been saved, Mokkhoda would have been saved’ (Pandey 2005, 14). Events then become the grids on an invisible dice board where the small players are perpetually at a loss. The story points at fate and chance as the optics through which we may understand the inevitability of history. Ricoeur’s idea that fiction fuses with history to go back to their common origin in the epic may be usefully explored in this story that unearths a ‘sphere of the horrible’ that inserts the memory of suffering of an old woman, victim of a history not of her making, into our scheme of things. Pandey’s story is of great literary and socio-historical significance in its act of teleologically re-inscribing the short story back into the canon of Bangla Partition fiction, an act, which not only maps the marginalization of the region but also reaffirms the art of storytelling as a form of ethical remembrance.

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In its short span, the narrative performs a feat of linguistic flagging: the language of the Sylheti people, now swamped under the hegemonic mainstreams of Bangla and Assamese, remains redolent with melancholy and anguish because the very act of articulation is an act of remembrance of a culture, a homeland, a way of life, now vanished forever. We know that Sylheti linguistic sub-nationalism of the Barak Valley has seen itself as separate and unique from Bangla and has developed the Sylheti Nagri script that is very different from the Bangla alphabet. Yet by using both literary Bangla and Sylheti as the twin staves of her story, Pandey places both at the heart of her project of recuperation of memories and cultures. The mode in which both the languages intermesh and co-mingle in the story is to reiterate how intricately languages and cultures feed each other and are interdependent. Pandey’s story stresses that the Sylhetis of Barak Valley have been culturally and linguistically shaped by the Bangla literary sphere and vice versa. In Sunanda Bhattacharya’s collection Chanchtolaye Rwod, we revisit the Partition of India in ‘Kerech Buri Britanto’ (The Narrative of the Old Woman Kerech).11 In the story, Hemantabala comes to Dharmanagar during the Partition, fleeing with some neighbours to save herself from the engulfing riots. Although she now has a roof over her head (of sorts), she is an exile in the metaphysical sense because memories of her lost home and village constantly haunt her. Like Pandey’s story, the interplay of the past and the present make this story not only a tale in time but also a tale about time: Hemantabala’s state of perpetual exile is configured as a metaphysical human condition that is seen beyond despair or ordinary temporality. In her recollections, the home Hemantabala has lost is marked by her youth; it has now become a time manifest by absence and pathos. She is separated from that self: so it is not a coincidence that the story opens when Hemantabala is very old. Like Mokkhoda, Hemantabala sometimes tries to go back in time, through remembrances of things past but her fleeting memories of loss mark her out as a perennial outsider to her society: Kerech Buri is taunted by her neighbours for being ‘different’ because she, a Brahmin widow, sells ‘kerech’ or kerosene to the village, so very different from a landowning past. The penury of her life is a direct consequence of the division of the country yet there is more than a pauperized life that is at stake in this story. Like a stigmata, Hemantabala carries her suffering and the loss on her body: she lives from day to day, bearing a burden of inexorable melancholy that corrodes her life and separates her from her neighbours. The use of a constricted space in the story, her small hut that she builds brick by brick after clearing a rubble land, stands as a symbol of the lack of home in her life, a lack that she desperately tries to fill. In the relationship of the body to spatial sites, Hemantabala’s mythological experience of space is through movement. So, her life scripts a genealogy of spaces she leaves and then comes to inhabit. Hemantabala manages to buy a small plot to build herself a home, an act that is detailed threadbare in the story:

Introduction 35

Then she came across a small plot of land to be sold cheap—a small hillock between four houses, dry and full of rubble, laden with wild jungles of bhattgach and patli flowers. There was no separate entry. She would have to walk through the yard of other houses. … Hemantabala did not take too long to make the hut habitable. (Sengupta 2011, 96) Her lonely end in this hut, where she dies of cholera, is symbolic of a squeezing out of a capacious life that she had enjoyed before the Partition. The small, restricted space where she dies is a reminder of what she has lost: not just family but an un-quantifiable loss of social status and economic well-being; yet her attempts to domesticate and refurbish a new space allows her to write herself back into selfhood that history has denied her. Her efforts to give herself a semblance of life and livelihood is thus not just an inexorable ability to survive but to script a new dialogue of the self through labour and spatiality. Hemantabala’s everyday struggles are a practice of her identity, an assertion of her essential humanity that Partition has eroded. After Hemantabala is found dead in her small hut, her neighbours go through her meagre belongings that contain a ‘sign’ of her lost life: [The] men of the village took down the small tin trunk kept near the head of the bed. The small fragile lock opened easily. From the box emerged the post office pass-book, a few withdrawal forms, and a small wooden red case on which, faded green decorations encircled the word ‘daughter-in-law’ in even fainter letters. Inside it, in tissue paper, was wrapped a thin gold chain. The neighbours took the responsibility of cremating her. Before that, the dead woman’s thumb-print was taken on a few bank withdrawal forms: the money would come in handy for the funeral expenses. (Sengupta 2011: 98) Hemantabala’s journey has entitled her to a meagre destination: her death is a silence both in reality (because it is annihilation) and metaphorically (erasure of a ‘sign’) that signifies how her home is forever at a remove. Her life’s relation to exile and loss are set out through the very space of the text that signals this connection in sparse, terse language. What constitutes the essence of this journey in search of a ‘home’ points to the way in which memory can ultimately betray: the past is irrevocably gone and the present signifies that absence. This short story reformulates the ideological thrust of fiction that is bound up with history: to free certain possibilities that were not actualized in the historical past … the quasi-past of fiction in this way becomes the detector of possibilities buried

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in the actual past. What “might have been” … includes both the potentialities of the “real” past and the “unreal” possibilities of pure fiction. (Ricoeur 1984, vol. 2, 191–192) Sunanda Bhattacharya’s anthology Poobduari contains a few stories that eloquently investigate the affective dimensions of India’s Partition. Borderer Golpo (Border Stories), from the collection, has recently been translated and anthologized in a book on 1947 (Jalil et al. 2017, 265–76). Border Stories is a collection of vignettes, based on characters who inhabit a small place on Tripura’s border with Bangladesh. The narrative space of the story is broken into fragments, literally and metaphorically mirroring the fragmentation that borders have wrecked in the lives of the inhabitants. The story however reveals that the border is a place of relations, in spite of its fragmentations, and is a place where people eke out a livelihood through arbitrary strategies of surveillance and resistance. Rather than contestation and dispute, the caprices of the border are defeated by human will to survive against odds. The militarization of this border imposes certain restrictions and anomalies but they cannot defeat the ties of economy, labour and movement that bind people together. Subol Biswas, a smuggler, who was once a cultivator, is under orders from Haripada Goswami, a man with political connections and a larger stake in keeping the border porous. So does B.D. Singh, the BSF [Border Security Force] man, who aims to protect the border for certain ends. It is a set of intertwining relationships that allow the border to be alive and yet impinge on people’s lives in myriad ways: Everyone knew who went smuggling at the dead of night across the border. Nobody gave a hoot about it: after all, they never created the border. If there was an epidemic of cholera on the other side, people’s lives were saved with the medicines from this side; the hilsa fish from that side decorated the dinner plates of people from this side. Many homes here kept a pile of stacked goods: a carton of medicines or a few sacks of salt or soap or cosmetics, to smuggle out when the coast was clear. The time when onion prices had hit the roof this side of the border, sacks of onions from the other side had made some people very rich. From the time he understood it, Subol had seen this state of affairs. (Jalil et al. 2017, 267) Like Subol Biswas, Nitai too is a smuggler. His fragmented identity is held together with recollections of his past life in Bangladesh with its memories of plenitude and happiness. As he walks by the sandbank and looks at the river with its invisible international border, he ruminates on the self, alien and homeless, whose quest is to belong to a place. In a passage of great power and beauty, Bhattacharya brings us the infallible yet illogical reality of a border,

Introduction 37

its demarcation of spaces and its ultimate potential to assert itself in its inviolability over even the shifting body of a meandering river: Nitai sat quietly listening to Haripada raging. Why did nobody explain to him why he thought Bangladesh as his own country too? In that country where the paddy fields looked verdant, the shol fish leapt in the aal water, in that country where the smell of soil wafted with his memories of eating a full meal and sleeping like the dead! Those rich memories filled his heart and mocked his colour-less present where he did not have the money to fill even half his belly. Nitai, countryless, moneyless, vagabond, anxious, walked aimlessly by the side of Muhurir char. Tomorrow, Subol will go up in court. There was no way Nitai could save him. Haripada had washed his hands of the matter. He had also threatened Nitai not to show his face in the area. What could Nitai do? Whom should he turn to? […] Nitai walked on. On his left was the fertile char, made by the shifting river, acre upon acre of lush land, untilled. Whose fault was that? On Muhurir char, the moonlight came down with the winter fog. In the moonlit breeze over the char, Nitai’s laments were carried off to the deepest point of the river that was the Indira-Mujib Treaty.12 (Jalil et al. 2017, 275–76) In Border Stories, the landscape is fertile with tales, not only of the past but also of the present. The disputed char land, sandbanks that are regularly claimed by India and Bangladesh as their own, is a place where children from either side congregate to play football. The factitious border becomes, for those brief moments, a site of play, of relationships and a pause in the hostility between the two sides. As he walked he could hear the cries of children: of course a football match was in progress on the char. If the children played in the disputed territories, the BSF or the BDR looked the other way. Instead they sat relaxed in their bunkers, watching the match. At the time of a goal, they too sat up in excitement. That excitement was enjoyable, benign, harmless. The excitement that broke out between two countries about the ownership of the char land sometimes reached the zenith. The char, stretching over a few acres, remained fallow: nobody could cultivate it. The river had crept far away to the other side: the char had risen on this side and its soil was very fertile. Bangladesh claimed it was theirs while India claimed on the contrary. According to the 1972 treaty between Indira and Mujib, ‘the deepest point of the river is the border.’ Then the char belonged to India. But Bangladesh disagreed: argument-counter-argument; bullets: counter-bullets; lots of excitement. When the boys played football on the large swathe of excitement’s land then a temporary relief was established. Subol too stood to

38 Debjani Sengupta

watch the match. Hey, hey, a missed goal. Arre! The boy at the goalpost looked like Akram Mian’s nephew! Akram Mian’s whole clan had a cloth business, on that side of the border. Subol often helped them to carry the bundles of cloth to their shop. During play, the border did not exist: there were no this side or that. Bhala: good! Khub bhala! Those who quarrelled about this side and that side had made Subol’s life difficult. If there were no sides how good it would be! During winter, the char land yielded a bumper crop of potatoes! Three crops easily each year! There would be no need to smuggle goods. But what use was saying all this? (Jalil et al. 2017, 268) In the story, Bhattacharya locates her lower-caste Bengali Hindu protagonists not in the spatio-temporal frame of ‘Tripura’ but in the borders of the state and of the nation. The link that connects modern Tripura to the postcolonial Indian nation state is seen not only in the presence of the Border Security Force and the heavily militarized region but the ways in which smuggled goods find their way to metropolitan centres. However, the border is not fixed in terms of keeping people in or out; it becomes a site of forms and practices of marginality and reciprocity through which the state is both experienced and undone: ‘margins (are) sites that do not so much lie outside the state but rather, like rivers, run through its body’ (Das and Poole 2004, 13). Bhattacharya’s story stretches the semantic meanings of migrations and resettlements, borders and borderlands. It forces us to see how geographical and political boundaries reconstitute, reconsolidate and refashion marginalization and how political violence lives at the heart of the modern nation state. Subol and Nitai are victims of a history they do not understand, and which they subvert and resist. The land they inhabit is divided and contentious but their very presence on that land raises questions about the way the border is unable to keep the two warring sides separate: Subol and Akram Mian share an economic relationship because of the border. The trajectory and inter-dependence of their lives disrupt the binary of Hindu–Muslim animosity that underlies so much of Partition narratives of the sub-continent. In Bhattacharya’s stories, geography becomes deeply incriminated with history and politics just as it creates newer forms of alliances and dependencies: the bio-geo-political implication of being an exile or a minority in the borderland is fraught with issues of livelihood, labour and homelessness that are daily reconfigured in the everyday practices of her protagonists. The struggle to be heard from the margins, to live and work from the margins, confers on the contingencies of Partition another set of allegories that articulate another reality: not displaced refugee-hood and sectarian violence but the possibilities of being border-dwellers within the space of the nation.

Introduction 39

Notes 1 All subsequent translations from the stories are mine. 2 The movement of various tribal people as well as Hindus and Muslims in the Northeast before and after 1947 is a rich area of investigation. Some important works in this area are Doullah (2003); Schendel (2005). 3 Tripura’s long history of cultural relations with undivided Bengal is best exemplified in the friendship of the royal court with the prominent Tagore family at Jorasanko. Rabindranath based three of his works on the history of Tripura: his novel Rajorshi (1887), and his plays Visarjan (1890) and Mukut (1908). 4 The 1947 Sylhet Referendum, the only one that took place in the Eastern part of the country, asked residents to choose between joining India or Pakistan and resulted in the separation of Sylhet from Assam. Sylheti migrants to the Assam Valley speak of it as a ‘betrayal’ by the Assamese Hindus who wanted Sylhet to go to Pakistan to separate the Bengali speaking districts of Cachar and Sylhet from the administrative unit of Assam. This was meant to reduce the percentage of the Bengali speaking officers from government jobs. The clearest example of the involvement of the Assam Government’s attitude to the Sylhetis can be seen in the disenfranchisement of some 1.5 million non Muslim tea garden workers who would have nullified the verdict of the Referendum. See Anindita Dasgupta (2008, 192–200). On the growth of the Assamese middle class and its oppositional stance to ‘Bengal’ and ‘Bengali’ I found a rich discussion in Abikal Borah (2010). The Partition has had a profound effect on the region’s cultural and social history. Noted filmmaker Jahnu Barua’s film Ajeyo (‘Invincible’, 2014) goes back to 1946 and traces its aftermath on Assamese rural communities. 5 See S.P. Mookerjee (1950) for reports of incidents of violence between the two communities. 6 She discusses the significance of Krishnachura Utsab in Barak Valley, celebrated every year on 19 and 20 May remembering the language martyrs. 7 This term has been coined by Bhattacharya (2002, 9). The existence of Tripura and Assam as a peripheral region so far as the geo-physical nature of West Bengal and its culture are concerned has created a ‘third world’ in Bangla fiction. The coinage implicitly questions the literary hierarchy of the ‘first world’ (West Bengal), and the ‘second’ (Bangladesh), and has drawn protests from West Bengali critics who see Bangla literature as a pan-regional phenomenon without specificity of region, politics and identity. 8 The writers from West Bengal preferred epic scale novels to capture the trauma and the rootlessness of the Partition, especially when we think of Manik Bandopadhyay, Prafulla Ray, Shaktipada Rajguru and Ateen Bandopadhyay. Sunil Gangopadhyay, a later generation writer, turned to the novel as well. This is not to say there were no short stories that did not encapsulate Partition experiences but the form of the novel was very popular for other historical and social reasons. 9 See Sengupta (2016, 188–219) for a fuller discussion of the aesthetic and historical trajectories of stories from the region. 10 ‘With regard to the paradigmatic order, all terms relative to action are synchronic … the syntagmatic order of discourse, on the contrary, implies the irreducibly diachronic character of every narrated story.’ 11 For a fuller discussion of this story and its context see Sengupta (2016, 196–98). 12 The Indira-Mujib treaty was ratified in 1972 to demarcate borders between India and Bangladesh and to set 1971 as a cut off date to identify ‘infiltrators’, a common tag for Bangladeshi nationals who entered India for livelihood or familial ties. The cut off dates are contentious issues that seek to keep out or keep in people. In the present day context of the nationwide National Register of Citizens by the BJP government, the dates have become even more significant to designate citizenship.

40 Debjani Sengupta

References Basu, Nandita. 2009. ‘Ek Anubhobir Kichu Antorongo Katha: Krishnachura Utsab.’ Baraknandini. Silchar: Baraknandini Sanstha. Bhattacharya, Bijit K. 2002. Uttor Purbo Bharatey Bangla Sahityo. 2 vols. Hailakandi, Assam: Sahityo Prakashoni. Bhattacharya, Gayatri. 1988. Refugee Rehabilitation and Its Impact on Tripura’s Economy. New Delhi: Omsons Publications. Bhattacharya, Sunanda. 2003. Chanchtolaye Rwod. New Delhi: Worldview. Bhattacharya, Sunanda. 2014. Poobduari. Agartala: Book World. Debbarma, R.K. 2017. ‘Celebrating a New “New Year” in Tripura’, in Yasmin Saikia and Amit. R. Baishya (eds) Northeast India: A Place of Relations. London: Cambridge University Press. Certeau, Michel de. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Chatterjee, Partha and Pradeep Jaganathan (eds) 2001. Subaltern Studies XI: Community, Gender and Violence. Columbia: Columbia University Press. Das, Veena and Deborah Poole (eds) 2004. Anthropology in the Margins of the State. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. Jalil, Rakhshanda, Tarun Saint and Debjani Sengupta (eds) 2017. Looking Back: The 1947 Partition of India 70 Years On. N. Delhi: Orient BlackSwan. Mookerjee, S.P. 1950. Papers Relating to Assamese and Bengalee Conflict in Assam. Installments 1 and 2, Sub File 62, Nehru Memorial Museum and Library. New Delhi. Mufti, Aamir R. 2001. ‘A Greater Story-writer than God’, in Subaltern Studies XI: Community, Gender and Violence, (eds) Partha Chatterjee and Pradeep Jaganathan. Columbia: Columbia University Press. Pandey, Jhumur. 2005. Sukh Gacher Golpo. Hailakandi: Sahityo Prakashoni. Ricoeur, Paul. 1984. Time and Narrative, Vols 1–3. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Schendel, Willem van. 2005. The Bengal Borderland: Beyond State and Nation in South Asia.London: Anthem Press. Schendel, Willem van. 2011. ‘The Dangers of Belonging: Tribes, Indigenous Peoples and Homelands in South Asia’, in The Politics of Belonging in India: Becoming Adivasi, (eds) Daniel J. Rycroft and Sangeeta Dasgupta. London: Routledge. Sengupta, Debjani. 2011. Mapmaking: Partition Stories from Two Bengals. N. Delhi: Amaryllis. Sengupta, Debjani. 2016. The Partition of Bengal: Fragile Borders and New Identities. Delhi: Cambridge University Press. Singh, Amritjit, Nalini Iyer and Rahul K. Gairola (eds) 2016. Revisiting India’s Partition: New Essays on Memory, Culture and Politics. New York: Lexington Books. Sujaud Doullah, M. 2003. Immigration of East Bengal Farm Settlers and Agricultural Development of the Assam Valley 1901–1947. New Delhi: Institute of Objective Studies. Tan, Tai Yong and Gyanesh Kudaisya. 2008. The Aftermath of the Partition in South Asia. London: Routledge. Yumnam, Babyrani. 2016. ‘From Frontiers to Borders: Partition and the Production of Marginal Spaces in North East India’, in Amritjit Singh et al. (eds) Revisiting India’s Partition: New Essays on Memory, Culture and Politics. New York: Lexington Books.

3 BRICK, VERSE, ECHO Partition and the Decline of Urdu Poetry in Jeelani Bano’s Aiwan-e-Ghazal (1976) Nazia Akhtar

The crisis in shared literary cultures and language communities during Partition has been an important theme in the study of this transformative event and its aftermath. Saadat Hasan Manto (1912–55) had written about the absurdity of the Hindi–Urdu language conflict and worried about the future of literary culture, asking in bewilderment if literature too would be partitioned (Manto 1972, 68–72; Jalal 2013, 146–47). And, indeed, the landscape of Urdu presented an interesting dilemma: born and nourished in India, the language thrived among north and south Indian language communities that were not distinguished by any singular religious sense of belonging. But by the mid-twentieth century, the communalisation of language had taken its toll, and an exclusive Muslimness— contrary to historical fact and ground realities—had been impressed upon the face of Urdu, which was going to become the national language of Pakistan, a country imagined as a homeland for South Asian Muslims. Another predicament associated with Urdu that arose as a result of Partition is the place of Urdu in the erstwhile princely state of Hyderabad, where it was the official language and the dominant medium of instruction. The Deccan region had also marked the blossoming of Dakhni—a regional variant of the common tongue—as a literary language from the fifteenth century (for more, see Shaheen and Shahid 2017, 89–90, 99). The course of Urdu and Urdu literary culture during and after Partition are explored in Anita Desai’s English novels Clear Light of Day (1980) and In Custody (1984). While In Custody vividly portrays the material and creative impoverishment of Urdu literary culture and performance in post-Partition Delhi, Clear Light of Day brings this discussion to the context of Hyderabad. Raja—an aspiring Urdu poet in Delhi—is discouraged from studying Urdu at university because he is a Hindu. After Partition, all roads for him lead ultimately to Hyderabad, where he is reunited with his Urdu mentor and enjoys a successful career as a poet. DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-4

42 Nazia Akhtar

A few years before Desai’s novels, an Urdu novel called Aiwan-e-Ghazal (The Palace of Ghazal; 1976) was published. It was written by Jeelani Bano (b. 1936) and offers profound contemplation of the changing place of Urdu and Urdu literary culture, specifically ghazal poetry, against the events and aftermath of Partition in the context of Hyderabad. Through my reading of this text, I argue that the upheavals of Partition laid the groundwork for the homogenisation and marginalisation of both Hyderabadi Muslims and Urdu, contrary to the historical reality and diversity of these categories. I show how the fate of Hyderabadi Muslims and that of Urdu became inextricably intertwined, leading to the minoritisation of this singularly defined community and language. This fact acquires further salience in view of Taylor Sherman’s (2015) argument that it was the treatment of Muslims and Urdu in the context of Hyderabad that came to define the understanding of Muslim belonging and citizenship in the national imagination of post-Partition India.1 This chapter is divided into two sections. First, I demonstrate that the text challenges hegemonic narratives of a monolithic, communal Hyderabadi Muslim community—which is upheld by Indian narratives about the transfer of power—through Bano’s critique of the ruling class and key political figures and groups, as well as her depiction of ambivalence and scepticism among four generations of one nawabi family, who live in a deodi called “Aiwan-e-Ghazal”.2 The leitmotif of the novel is the ghazal genre of Urdu poetry, which is built into the name of the deodi and mirrored in the life of the character called Ghazal. Mushairas featuring ghazal poets are regularly held at Aiwan-e-Ghazal, where seven generations of patriarchs have been proponents of the erotic ghazal. The second part of this chapter shows how the novel charts the stagnation of the erotic Urdu ghazal patronised by the patriarchal feudal elite, and the transformation and revival of Urdu poetry under the direction of the Progressive Writers’ Movement, before decline unmistakably sets in after Partition, leaving Urdu a minoritised language identified with a marginalised community. Both these sections of the chapter involve an engagement with history through the lens of fiction because the text digresses frequently from narrating the lives of the fictional Nawab Wahid Hussain and his family to referring to the politically, socially, and culturally vital moments in the history of the Partition as it unfolded in Hyderabad. Bano offers detailed descriptions of the growth and development of divisive communal politics, various democratic struggles, the invasion of Hyderabad by Indian forces in 1948—an event known euphemistically as “Police Action”—and the aftermath for Hyderabadis, particularly Muslims.3 Through its minute historical facts, insights, and criticisms about contemporary events in Hyderabad, Aiwan-e-Ghazal acts as an important “source” for what many people in Hyderabad felt and thought about the transfer of power, in which they were participants, witnesses, and/or spectators. In so doing, it weaves a powerful narrative that expresses the long-term impact of Partition on Hyderabadi Muslims and cultural institutions that had thrived for centuries in the Deccan region.

Brick, Verse, Echo 43

“Hyderabad was a Folly”: Aiwan-e-Ghazal and the Remoteness of Hyderabad4 Aiwan-e-Ghazal is narrated in flashback, and we are introduced to the last decades of princely rule in Hyderabad through the thoughts and feelings of Wahid Hussain, the patriarch of Aiwan-e-Ghazal. Sometime in the 1930s,5 Wahid Hussain sits under a tree in his garden at sunrise and tries to compose a ghazal. Surrounded by a swiftly changing world and a debilitating inheritance of debt, Wahid Hussain takes refuge in erotic ghazal poetry, which he considers his legacy and true calling. Viewing poetry solely as a place of cultivated escape, he is unable and unwilling to compose poetry outside the hackneyed classical tropes of erotic love (Bano 2012, 16). Wahid Hussain loves his country, venerates the Nizam of Hyderabad, and wishes he could get by without knowing much about the outside world. But he cannot continue to look away, partly because he is anxious about the financial and political future of his family. As the political situation intensifies, he is unable to stay away from the newspaper and radio. By the late 1930s, even Wahid Hussain’s pleasure-seeking self begins to experience disenchantment with the Nizam’s disconnectedness from his people’s wants and needs. Bano’s choice of the novel genre over others, such as the short story (in which she has been prolific), to write her magnum opus on Partition is significant in this regard. The novel genre allows her to chart the events of the mid-twentieth century in an expansive and comprehensive manner that conveys the magnitude of what the transfer of power meant for Hyderabadis.6 Furthermore, Aiwan-e-Ghazal’s historical perspective spans centuries. While the narration focuses mostly on events between the 1930s and the 1960s, it also embeds a longer, collective memory that sees mid-twentieth century Hyderabad as simultaneously occupying two historical epochs and ethos. While the Qutb Shahi sultans (1519–1687), who built Hyderabad city, represent a nostalgic regional ideal of plurality and harmony, owing to their inclusive political, social, and cultural policies, the last Asaf Jahi Nizam is seen as the eccentric, disconnected architect of Hyderabad’s ruin. This contrast between the two rulers, and the past and present of Hyderabad is repeatedly evoked in both the narration and Wahid Hussain’s thoughts as the novel progresses. The representation of the Nizam’s remoteness is accompanied by a sense of absurdity associated with his actions. Wahid Hussain wears his cap and sits down respectfully while reading the ruler’s Farman Mubarak (royal order) in the newspapers, only to find him lamenting that the abundance of mushaira performances in the state do not promote Urdu or complaining about the composition of salads served in the royal household (Bano 2012, 78).7 And this sense of the absurd or ridiculous is not restricted to the Nizam alone, but extends to the entire ruling class over which he presides. For instance, untrained for any profession and unsure how to traverse financial uncertainties in a world that is rapidly leaving them behind, Wahid Hussain and his

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neighbour Dulhe Nawab devise a naïve scheme to export kachchi biryani and baghare baingan to western countries, which they feel are deprived of such Hyderabadi delicacies (Bano 2012, 95–97). While most of Bano’s criticisms of the actions of the Nizam or the ruling class stand up to scrutiny, one in particular does not. The founding of Osmania University (1918), the first university in the subcontinent to offer a wide variety of education completely in a vernacular medium, is condemned in the text as a communal move by the Nizam (Bano 2012, 87–88), a position that is unfair to the secular, patriotic principles behind the founding of the university. It is true that cultural nationalist movements in Hyderabad criticised the choice of Urdu as an example of Muslim domination, but that was more the result of the general communalisation of language in the subcontinent, which made itself amply felt in Hyderabad by the 1920s, and a systematic deprivation of education in Telugu by the state, which had more to do with the political culture and social class of the urban elites of Hyderabad than the assertion of Muslim hegemony. The founders of the university saw the choice of Urdu as patriotic and strove to provide an indigenous Indian alternative to English-language education, which had completely colonised the landscape of higher education in the subcontinent by the twentieth century. Their ambition to carve out a national role for Urdu represents the attempts of Muslim intellectuals to reject the minoritisation of both Urdu and the Muslims with which it became inseparably connected.8 The most meaningful criticism of communal politics in Bano’s novel emerges in the depiction of the Ittehad-ul-Muslimeen, a communal Muslim political party, and Qasim Razvi, its President. Both the party and its leaders are subjected to sharp criticism in the context of their steering of the Razakars, a volunteer organisation aimed at militarising Muslim youth in the service of a Muslim nationalism symbolised by the Nizam, who was believed to represent the right of every Muslim to rule and dominate over the Deccan. From about 1946–48, the Razakars were in their heyday, acting on Razvi’s belief that “Muslim rule” could be protected in Hyderabad with the use of force. He was notorious for his inflammatory speeches. Swayed by his passionate oratory, armed mostly with swords and sticks, the Razakars terrorised Hyderabadis, particularly in the districts, but also in Hyderabad city. They singled out Hindus and Hindu property and also attacked Muslims who protested and resisted them, vandalising, plundering, raping, and even killing. And while the Nizam did not condone Razakar violence, he also did precious little to contain the Ittehad, seeing it as a political force that would help him retain his rule over Hyderabad in the face of pressure to accede to the Indian union. Bano’s Aiwan-e-Ghazal condemns the ideology of the Ittehad and the actions of its Muslim leaders and members as misleading, hollow, and usually leading to tragic consequences. The narrator points out that Razvi’s speeches were always accompanied by communal violence, especially in the districts. In this regard, she also mentions the empty statements made by the Nizam

Brick, Verse, Echo 45

(Bano 2012, 265). There is also a marked sense of ambivalence towards the Razakars and the Ittehad among the members of the Aiwan-e-Ghazal family, even the politically naïve Wahid Hussain and the secluded older women, who neither know much nor care for the Razakars. These older people see through the façade of the Ittehad’s ideology and are worried about the actions of the Razakars, especially when they hear radio broadcasts about the state of refugees who have suffered communal violence. In fact, they scold their teenaged grandsons Shaheen and Ayaz, who have taken to wearing the Razakar uniform and attending daily drills and parades, where they are taught to fight with swords and sticks. There is a deeply personal anxiety that the older residents of Aiwan-e-Ghazal experience when this happens. Wahid Hussain is doubtful about the Razakars’ approach to save the “honour” of Hyderabad and wonders if there are not better political alternatives to champion the cause of the state’s sovereignty. The women of the house do not reflect on the ideological or political issues associated with the Razakars, and are concerned only that the boys and men of their family should stay away from this sinister organisation. Among the next generation, Wahid Hussain’s son Rashid’s actions are driven by the motive of personal gain, not political or religious conviction. Rashid does not want a peaceful settlement between Hyderabad and India because he expects to make a profit from war and has even begun hoarding key commodities that are likely to become scarce in the event of a blockade. Indeed, his membership and funding of the Ittehad—a decidedly communal Muslim organisation—does not prevent him from serving on the local Congress committee or partnering with his childhood friend and neighbour, a Hindu man called Mallesham. Together, they “sell petrol at the price of alcohol and medicines at the rates of gold” (Bano 2012, 202). 9 In this regard, the narrator comments that politicians and businessmen were using the transfer of power as an opportunity and leading young men astray (Bano 2012, 264). The hollowness of Razakar ideology and action is exposed also through the comical and ridiculous figure of Shaikhu Bhai, a poor relative of the family, who is tearfully sent off to the front by the ladies of the house, only to return within a couple of days, drunk as per habit, and bragging that he has sent the boys off ahead and will join them in a few days.10 But the most poignant depiction in this context is that of Ayaz, which compels us to look at the Razakar organisation in a different light, through the hollow promises it offered to young and vulnerable Muslim men. The women of Aiwan-e-Ghazal try to prevent Ayaz from leaving for the border in preparation for war, and it is clear that he is afraid. But he tells them that he must go because he has not been able to find a job, and Razvi has promised that the Razakars will be employed in the army after the war. Ayaz and his sister Ghazal come from a broken and deprived home. For him, then, the Razakar organisation is but a practical route out of his poverty. Ayaz also becomes the victim of patriarchal anxieties about communal masculinity, for

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Rashid rebukes the women for discouraging him, reminding them that Ayaz is saving the name of their family by being the only member who has entered the fray (Bano 2012, 270). Unlike the more privileged Shaheen, Rashid’s son, for whom the Razakar organisation was a passing preoccupation and who becomes a successful and respected doctor, Ayaz is transformed into a tragic figure because he never returns from the border. The ideological ambivalence, indifference, or scepticism of different generations of Wahid Hussain’s family towards the Razakars pointedly disrupts hegemonic Indian narratives about the ostensible conviction that an undistinguished, homogeneous Hyderabadi Muslim community was believed to harbour towards the organisation.11 Unmasking the dangerous divisiveness and emptiness of the Ittehad’s ideology and actions is an important aim in this novel, and Bano holds Razvi as well as the Nizam directly responsible for the misguidance, instigation, and massacre of young boys who were naïve and vulnerable. The tragedy of this entire exercise is conveyed forcefully when the narrator informs us—no less than thrice—that unarmed young men threw themselves before the Indian tanks. The historicity of this claim is doubtful, but that does not matter here. It signals the futility of such actions and the empty ideology behind them. What we take away from the novel is the unequivocal indictment of key political figures and powerful parties, who are portrayed as profoundly irresponsible, weak, and ambitious men without the political acumen to fulfill their claims and promises. At the risk of totally waiving the individual accountability of Razakars themselves, the text powerfully zeroes in on the sense of folly associated with influential figures sending mostly disprivileged boys and men to fight the mighty Indian army and die for an empty cause. The biggest statement on this comes from the thousands of dead youth themselves, whose static, open eyes ask: “For what did we fight?” (Bano 2012, 279).

New Subjects for Poetry: From Bibi to Kranti The sense of being out of touch with the world, with disastrous consequences, is not limited in Aiwan-e-Ghazal to key political players. Wahid Hussain’s poetry belongs to the tradition of the erotic ghazal, whose theme is romantic and sexual love and whose object is the beloved (“maashuq”). For Wahid Hussain, this beloved is his wife Bibi, a poor munshi’s daughter whom he has forcibly married and who remains distant from him all her life. Like his ancestors, Wahid Hussain has hounded women in order to stir or stoke his literary creativity. For him, worldly experiences of love and desire are essential because they allow elevated explorations of the poetic imagination. Women are, thus, abstractions for other things. They embody sensibilities and are not, properly speaking, real entities beyond their sexual function and circumscribed familial roles. It is Wahid Hussain and Bibi’s granddaughter Ghazal who totally embodies the evaporation of a woman into abstraction through the vagaries of the ghazal

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poet’s imagination. Ghazal was an unwanted girl child and is later used and abused by her lovers. The poet Naseer—for whom she pines—feels that Ghazal is so beautiful that she would evade containment in Omar Khayyam’s entire divan. His thoughts represent her beauty as extraordinary, archetypal, and almost mythical; he wonders whether poetry is, in fact, the name given to the quest for her (Bano 2012, 251). Ghazal represents the zenith as well as nadir of erotic ghazal poetry, and her oppression, fatigue, and ultimate death mark both the toll taken by an outdated, objectifying attitude towards women that relies on poetic tradition for its cues as well as the exhausted resources and possibilities of the erotic ghazal itself. In this context, ghazal poetry becomes a tool of feudal patriarchy, in which the oppression of women of all classes features prominently. The text suggests that just as feudalism has run its course by the middle of the twentieth century, so has this classical ghazal with its tired tropes of luxuriant, sensual love. Even though Bano is not a Progressive writer, these are positions that align her novel with the critique and agenda of the Progressive Writers’ Association (PWA), which was founded in 1936 and specifically condemned classical ghazal poetry for its obsolete erotic sensibility, founded in an oppressive, patriarchal feudal milieu (Mir and Mir 2006, 29). This new age in poetry is inaugurated in the text through the revolutionary figures of Qaisar and Kranti, poor relations who exist on the fringes of the family. Qaisar has a lifelong rivalry with Chand, Wahid Hussain’s precocious and pampered granddaughter. She has a strong sense of self-respect and fully reciprocates the contempt and hatred with which she is treated by Chand. She acquires a university education and becomes a guerilla fighter in the Telangana People’s Struggle (1946–51), leading the squad that attacks her own family’s estates. Probably one of the most moving moments in the text occurs when Qaisar returns to Aiwan-e-Ghazal to hand over the care of her daughter Kranti to Chand because she herself is likely to be executed if caught by the Hyderabad forces. Chand and Qaisar are reconciled and united by their love for Kranti’s father, a communist, Dalit man called Sanjiva. Later, Sanjiva writes a letter to Chand, in which he connects experiences of feudal injustice to turning working-class women like Qaisar to revolution. He writes that Chand must narrate to Kranti the history of Aiwan-e-Ghazal because “it is Qaisar’s story. It is the story of every laundi found in Hyderabad’s deodis” (Bano 2012, 318).12 While Qaisar ushers in churn and flux in existing patriarchal vocabularies used to contain women, it is Kranti—whose very name means “revolution”— who effects the transformation of the idea of the poetic muse. True to her name and parentage, the fiercely independent Kranti is drawn to people’s struggles and leaves Aiwan-e-Ghazal to become a Naxalite revolutionary. She casually rejects the unwelcome overtures of the middle-aged poet Naseer. Schooled in feudal, patriarchal ideas that girls of the new generation like forceful lovers, Naseer grabs Kranti’s hand, only to have her coolly inform him that she has a

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bomb in her pocket that she could detonate at any point (Bano 2012, 382). Even though she refuses to become the object of his sexual and poetic attentions, Naseer’s imagination is stimulated by Kranti, and he sees her revolutionary spirit as a new theme for ghazal poetry. This overdue shift in the subject of ghazal poetry was signalled much earlier in the novel through the figure of Hyder Ali Khan, Wahid Hussain’s son-in-law and Chand’s father, yet another Hyderabadi Muslim in Aiwan-e-Ghazal who defies the Razakar stereotype. Hyder Ali Khan is a British educated barrister from a jagirdar’s family who goes on to become a Telangana revolutionary, much to his father-in-law’s shock. The fictional Hyder Ali Khan is depicted as one of the leading lights of the PWA. Through Hyder Ali Khan’s centrality in this new literary movement—which Wahid Hussain finds perplexing and disagreeable—we are exposed to fictional enactments of “iconoclastic” debates about literature and politics that were taking place in Hyderabad around the same time, that is, the 1930s and 1940s, under the aegis of the PWA, which called for a radical change in the language, frame of reference, figurative universe, genre, and, of course, the subject (theme) of writing (Mir and Mir 2006, 22). While many Progressive poets turned to other genres, such as the nazm, others such as Faiz Ahmad Faiz (1911–1984) and Majrooh Sultanpuri (1919–2000) chose to write ghazals about more radical themes (29–45). Citing an example from Makhdoom’s revolutionary poetry, scholars Ali Husain Mir and Raza Mir (2006) signal this critical shift in poetic paradigm among the Progressive poets: “Beauty for them had to be sought not just in the face of the beloved, but in the body of the toiling worker” (37). Hyder Ali Khan retires from his practice and fights against the Nizam’s army in squads, disarms landlords, captures entire districts, and is depicted as instrumental in the communist takeover of Nalgonda, which was one of the most important battles in the entire struggle. This convergence of literature and politics was a prominent feature of the PWA during the struggle. In the text, the prehistory of this new literature is represented also in the casting of poets and intellectuals, such as Altaf Hussain Hali, Rabindranath Tagore, Muhammad Iqbal, Premchand, Josh Malihabadi, and Qazi Abdul Ghaffar, as politically significant figures who played an important role in kindling the political consciousness of Indians and Hyderabadis and propelling them to participate in the rapidly changing world around them. And yet, despite the inspiring and productive years in which Progressive writers from Hyderabad participated in the revolutionary struggle and wrote glorious verses in praise of it, the decline of Urdu is distinctly depicted in what is, in fact, the Prologue to the retrospectively narrated novel. This Prologue shows us the afterlife of Aiwan-e-Ghazal, which has been donated to a literary institution. While mushairas are still conducted in the august halls of the grand old deodi, these are watered down versions of the brilliant age of Progressive poetry and even that of the classical ghazal.

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This opening scene is a demonstration of Bano’s skill at characterisation and her profound insight into the psychology and sociology of literary gatherings in Hyderabad in the second half of the twentieth century. With a few, well-chosen details, she reveals to us the character of the chief guest Yella Reddy, the easily flattered, opportunistic politician alert to his self-interest in the midst of Urdu poets, scholars, political activists, and fans. The superficial and, indeed, farcical nature of the Telugu-speaking politician’s patronage of the Urdu mushaira is demonstrated not only in his preoccupation with his possessions and appearance, but also in the fact that he knows no Urdu and cannot tell “whether ghazal was the name of a bird or the name of a woman” (Bano 2012, 7). The subtlety of Bano’s critique can be seen in the casual reference to Yella Reddy’s attire, which in fact informs us that the distinct Hyderabadi sherwani, worn by men of all religious affiliation in Hyderabad, has been replaced by the Indian dhoti. Furthermore, Yella Reddy’s ignorance and, therefore, unsuitability as the chair of such a poetic gathering, is seen in his stereotyping of Muslims as two extremes: the decadent nawab, or the “poor cobbler who looked like one of the old, rotten shoes he was fixing” (Bano 2012, 8). Yella Reddy is not alone in his ignorance. Most meaningful in the context of this essay is Bano’s depiction of the evident deterioration in the influence, currency, and quality of Urdu poetry and Urdu literary discourse, which is represented in the figure of a speaker who glibly claims that the origin of the word “ghazal” lies in “gazelle” (Bano 2012, 11). Decline in the status of Urdu is also suggested in the information that the audience is satisfied with what they think is Yella Reddy’s appreciation of Urdu. Despite the prevailing sense in Aiwan-e-Ghazal that the disappearance of the feudal way of life and the princely state that sustained such an oppressive system was just and inevitable, a profound sense of loss permeates the text with reference to the past. This is connected to the fate of Urdu, which Bano communicates succinctly in the Prologue. An entire history of language politics is encased within a few pages: the state of decline of Urdu literary culture after the “Police Action”; the exclusive equation of Urdu with Muslims, who are stereotyped as princes and paupers in their marginalisation; the impoverishment of public knowledge of Urdu and Urdu literary discourses; and the waning of Urdu as a language of communication, which goes hand in hand with the rise of Telugu. This representation also gestures towards the downturn of the Progressive movement in the early 1950s, thanks to the breaking up of Urdu language communities as a result of Partition (Mir and Mir 2006, 11), the entry of communalism even within the Progressive fold (13), and the brutal and repressive crackdown in Telangana by the new Indian military regime in Hyderabad (12). Mir and Mir point out that the Progressive writers created their best work in moments of crisis (48), for which the mass movements of the 1940s provided fertile ground. But in the wake of the bloodshed of Partition, and in the context of Hyderabad—the violence of the “Police Action”

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and crushing of the Telangana People’s Struggle—Progressive writers experienced a deep disillusionment with the nation-state and its policies, which had long-term setbacks on their work and agenda (64–67). The Prologue of Aiwan-e-Ghazal is a fictional representation of what Taylor Sherman (2015) has demonstrated in her work, with regard to the manner in which Hyderabadi Muslims and Urdu were co-opted into the Indian nation. The post-Partition world introduced drastic changes in the circumstances of both Hyderabadi Muslims and the Urdu language. Urdu had been a link language in Hyderabad, understood by most Hyderabadis, and it was patronised by the ruling elite, which prominently consisted of both Muslims and Hindus. However, the communalisation of Urdu, which had begun a few decades ago, was definitively institutionalised by the post-1948 Indian military regime and subsequent unelected civilian government (1949–52), which was markedly communal in its attitude towards Hyderabadi Muslims and everything it saw as associated with them. This period saw a systematically discriminatory policy by the new Hyderabad authorities, which led to the arrest of 13,000 Muslims on charges of being “Razakars” (11,000 were later released for lack of evidence); instant removal of large numbers of Muslims from government positions, rendering many destitute and triggering waves of migration out of Hyderabad; denial of relief and justice to Muslims who continued to suffer from persecution; and refusal to restore sacred spaces and private and collective property that had been seized or destroyed during the violence of “Police Action”. This official discrimination was also extended towards Urdu, which now became seen as a “Muslim” language, unwanted and undesirable in a new India. It was replaced by English as the official language, and many prominent Urdu institutions lost the state patronage that had been important in the historical progress of the language. This methodically engineered deprivation of Urdu and marginalisation of Hyderabadi Muslims resulted in the minoritisation of both in the Indian nation, which has come to define the way the state has related to Muslims and Urdu ever since.13 Bano renders the tragedy of Urdu in Hyderabad through the depiction of the characters and their lives in Aiwan-e-Ghazal, while simultaneously offering examples that contest the damaging and divisive stereotypes of Hyderabadi Muslims that were created in Indian narratives during the transfer of power. She uses the metaphor of Urdu poetry to narrate the transformation of Hyderabad as a result of Partition. She blames the violence that took place in Hyderabad on its political leaders, who had not fully appreciated the tectonic political shifts taking place in the subcontinent, had an exaggerated understanding of their own power, and harboured a dangerously divisive notion of Hyderabad and the nature of its sovereignty. It is easy to find offensive Bano’s almost total absolution of the Razakars, unless we take into account the critique of communal nationalism and class power that her condemnation of the Ittehad and the last Nizam enables, and the ideological ambivalence of both

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Razakars and other Hyderabadis towards this organisation. Obliquely, she also criticises the Indian military regime and subsequent unelected civilian government that came to power after the invasion and promptly swept away everything Hyderabadi culture and society had once stood for, replacing it with reductive and ahistorical stereotypes and binaries. In themselves, these parallel phenomena—the marginalisation of Urdu, and the profiling and persecution of Muslims—are not unique to Hyderabad. They mark the fate of many Muslim-ruled princely states with majority Hindu populations, such as Junagadh and Bhopal, which either voluntarily joined the Indian union or were forced to accede through annexation. But in the case of Hyderabad these upheavals acquire a different hue for two reasons. First, because Hyderabad was the largest and wealthiest princely state and was particularly rich in natural resources, the refusal of the Nizam to accede to India was especially irksome to the independent Indian government.14 This led to sustained propaganda and the creation of damaging communal narratives about Hyderabadi Muslims and Urdu—which came to be singularly associated with Muslims—during the transfer of power that still thrive and dominate popular as well as electoral discourse in a manner that has become archetypal. In fact, Taylor Sherman has argued that the process by which Hyderabad was integrated into India offers critical insights into the problematic understanding of secularism and democracy in early postcolonial India, which went on to supply the template by which Muslim belonging and citizenship have been since defined in the national imagination. Thus, what happened in Hyderabad during the transfer of power is important not only in and of itself, but also because it signalled the way minority Muslims in India came to be cast in general, and how Urdu became a casualty of this process. As this chapter shows, Bano’s novel makes a vital intervention in this regard, by replacing durable stereotypes of Hyderabadi Muslims with a range of complex subject positions and ideologies that trouble those very conditions of Muslim belonging and citizenship in the national imagination. Second, there is a sharp irony and poignancy associated with these marginalisations that marked the transfer of power in Hyderabad, on account of the specific history of Hyderabad. For it was in the syncretic spaces of the Deccan, patronised by the courts and Sufi brotherhoods of Hyderabad and Bijapur, that Urdu first developed and blossomed as a literary language, centuries before it was adopted by north Indian poets. It was here that Urdu became a robust medium for poetry and prose in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, where the distinctly localised language and patriotic ethos of Amir Khusrau (1253–1325) were realised in the compositions of the Dakhni poets, who consciously drew their images and ideals from the landscape and languages of the subcontinent. And Hyderabad was not only a centre of Urdu letters and print culture, like Delhi and Lucknow later became, it was also the refuge of many a north Indian Urdu poet seeking patronage after 1857. Figures such as Dagh Dehlavi

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(1831–1905) and, later, Fani Badayuni (1879–1961) flourished at the courts of the Asaf Jahi princes, Hindu rajas, and Muslim nawabs of Hyderabad. The case of Hyderabad—its Urdu and its Muslims—thus interrogates the democratic claims of a constitutionally secular state, one whose leaders had fought for independence from colonial rule using non-violent means. For the scholar of Partition, it poses broader questions about the integration of the princely states into the new postcolonial states of India and Pakistan, and the discourses that went into that re-mapping of people and places. Between which cracks in a newly independent, linguistically imagined nation, whose internal borders now marked major language communities, did Urdu slip? Like Manto, with whom this chapter began, Bano exists on the fringes of the Progressive Writers’ Movement. Although she refuses to identify with any specific school of literature, she grew up in an environment charged with the writings, perspectives, and activism that stemmed from this movement. Therefore, her writing has many elements of the Progressive credo, in terms of its rootedness in the contemporary milieu and its principled concern for social justice and political action. And unlike Manto, Bano lived to witness and chronicle what Manto feared would transpire as a result of Partition: the targeted polarisation and marginalisation of human communities and languages that were far more diverse and inclusive than they were ultimately made out to be.

Notes 1 Historians such as Taylor Sherman (2015) and Kavita Saraswathi Datla (2013) have made this argument in their respective studies of policy and governance in the context of Hyderabadi Muslims and Urdu on the part of the post-1948 Indian military regime. Sherman has argued that it was the way Muslims and Urdu were treated in Hyderabad that set the tone for both state rhetoric and policy towards Muslims and Urdu generally in postcolonial India. For more, see the conclusion to her book Muslim Belonging in Secular India (2015). 2 Deodis were the grand, fortified city mansions of Hyderabadi nobles. 3 For more on these events, see Pernau (2000); Stree Shakti Sanghatana (1989); Sundarayya (1972); Benichou (2000); Leonard (2007); and Sherman (2015). For more specifically on “Police Action”, which was actually a military operation titled “Polo”, see Sundarlal and Abdulghaffar (1949) and Sherman, esp. Chapter 2. 4 I borrow the title of this section from Ian Bedford’s novel (2014, 40), which portrays the façade of strength that Hyderabad showed to the world just before the “Police Action”. The word “folly” here is interpreted as both disastrous ill-judgement on the part of the powers that be, as well as the deceptive architectural feature usually constructed in gardens, which suits no practical purpose and is meant for decoration. This is an uncannily accurate depiction by Bedford of the political culture of both the state as well as political parties, such as the Ittehad-ul-Muslimeen and the Hyderabad State Congress, in the 1940s, and converges with Bano’s representation. For more on Bedford’s novel, see my essay (Akhtar 2017). The subtitle of this section is a play on a phrase once used by Gyanendra Pandey (1991, 571) to describe the real and discursive disconnectedness of decision-makers in New Delhi as they ruled over the fates of a country.

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5 We know from a reference to the Silver Jubilee (which could refer to either the anniversary of the Nizam’s reign or that of George V), which is yet to happen in the historical time of the novel, that the time period at the beginning of the novel proper is probably the mid-1930s. 6 Aiwan-e-Ghazal (“The Palace of Ghazal”) was originally called Ahd-e-Sitam (“The Age of Suffering”). From these two titles, it is evident that Bano sees the events that took place in Hyderabad in the mid-twentieth century as epic in scale and scope, upheavals that would have transformative and long-lasting impact on Hyderabad and Hyderabadis. Such a broad vision spanning centuries requires the dimensions of a novel for its exposition. With the possibilities it furnishes for long character arcs and temporal frameworks, the novel genre is arguably better suited for such a narration than a short story or other forms of prose. 7 The fact that the narration renders Wahid Hussain’s solemn deference in comical tones also conveys a great deal about the increasing lack of relevance of the culture of the ruling class and its ideals, and thus, the absurdity of such veneration as Wahid Hussain’s. 8 For more on this, see Kavita Saraswathi Datla’s insightful and persuasive history of the Osmania University, especially the debate between Maulvi Abdul Haq and M.K. Gandhi (2013, 135–36); and Sherman (2015, 150). 9 However, when push comes to shove, it becomes evident that communalism has crept into even Rashid and Mallesham’s lifelong friendship. 10 Shaikhu Bhai’s political opportunism is seen later in the fact that he leaves the Ittehad and joins the Congress peace committees after the “Police Action”. Having served in a communal Muslim organisation in the past, he now organises gatherings for Hindu–Muslim unity and simultaneously presents a list of traitorous Muslims to the new military regime. As a result, he is flush with cash and alcohol (Bano 2012, 309). 11 India’s White Paper on Hyderabad (1948) is a good example of the government’s perspective on this issue. The Indian press also assiduously maintained this conflation of Hyderabadi Muslims as Razakars. See Sherman (2015, Chapters1 and 2) for the attitude of the Indian military regime and unelected civilian government in Hyderabad from late 1948 to early 1952. 12 Laundi is an insulting word used to refer to working-class women. Like other places, Hyderabad’s feudal homes had “laundis” and “baandis”, which may be translated as girls, slave-girls, and hand-maidens depending on the context. 13 This paragraph summarises the arguments and information provided by Sherman (2015, Chapters 1, 2, and 6). 14 Indeed, the White Paper (Government of India 1948) transparently stresses the strategic importance of Hyderabad to India, on account of its rich mineral deposits and other natural resources, and emphasises that this was why Hyderabad’s accession was necessary.

References Akhtar, Nazia. 2017. “Recasting the Outcasts Hyderabad and Hyderabadi Subjectivities in Two Literary Texts”. In Urban Outcasts in South Asian Literature, edited by Madhurima Chakraborty and Umme al-Wazedi, 21–38. New York: Routledge. Bano, Jeelani. 2012. Aiwan-e-Ghazal [The Palace of Ghazal]. 1976. Delhi: Educational Publishing House. Bedford, Ian. 2014. The Last Candles of the Night. Westgate NSW: Lacuna. Benichou, Lucien. 2000. From Autocracy to Integration: Political Developments in Hyderabad State (1938–1948). Hyderabad: Orient Longman.

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Datla, Kavita Saraswathi. 2013. The Language of Secular Islam: Urdu Nationalism and Colonial India. Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan. Government of India. 1948. White Paper on Hyderabad. Jalal, Ayesha. 2013. The Pity of Partition: Manto’s Life, Times and Work across the India–Pakistan Divide. Noida: Harper Collins. Leonard, Karen Isaksen. 2007. Locating Home: India’s Hyderabadis Abroad. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Manto, Saadat Hasan. 1972. “Hindi aur Urdu” [“Hindi and Urdu”]. In Manto ke Adabi Mazamiin [Manto’s Literary Essays], 68–72. New Delhi: Etiqad Publishing House. Accessed April 26, 2020. https://www.rekhta.org/ebooks/manto-ke-adabi-ma zameen-saadat-hasan-manto-ebooks/ Rekhta.org. Mir, Ali Husain, and Raza Mir. 2006. Anthems of Resistance: A Celebration of Progressive Urdu Poetry. New Delhi: Roli. Pandey, Gyanendra. 1991. “In Defence of the Fragment: Writing about Hindu–Muslim Riots in India Today”. Economic and Political Weekly 26(11/12) (March): 559–572. Pernau, Margrit. 2000. The Passing of Patrimonialism: Politics and Political Culture in Hyderabad, 1911–1948. New Delhi: Manohar. Shaheen, Shagufta and Sajjad Shahid. 2017. “The Unique Literary Traditions of Dakhni”. In Languages and Literary Cultures in Hyderabad, edited by Kousar J. Azam, 89–154. New Delhi: Manohar. Sherman, Taylor. 2015. Muslim Belonging in Secular India: Negotiating Citizenship in Postcolonial Hyderabad. Delhi: Cambridge University Press. Stree Shakti Sanghatana. 1989. We Were Making History: Women and the Telangana Uprising. New Delhi: Zed. Sundarayya, P. 1972. Telangana People’s Struggle and Its Lessons. Calcutta: Communist Party of India (Marxist). Sundarlal, Pandit and Qazi Abdulghaffar. 1949. “The Sundarlal Committee Report on the Massacre of Muslims”. Appendix in The Destruction of Hyderabad by A.G. Noorani, 361–375. New Delhi: Tulika 2013.

4 POISONED RIVERS Partition in Punjabi Literature Hina Nandrajog

Introduction The festering wounds of the “complex choreography of Partition” (Alter 2000, 155); the physical and psychological scars stamped on the mindscapes of the people have been recorded as literature which has functioned as a repository of individual and collective memory. There is a rich repertoire of literature in the form of short stories, novels, and poems in Hindi, Bangla, Urdu, Punjabi, Sindhi, and English. Short fiction in Punjabi, particularly, has thrown up kaleidoscopic images of the bewilderment and angst of an entire generation as no Punjabi writer could remain untouched by the catastrophe. Much of the corpus in Gurmukhi script has been relatively unknown due to its unavailability in any other script/language. The purpose of this chapter is to bring out a brief, nuanced narrative of the Partition of the Indian subcontinent through glimpses of short fiction in Punjabi around the tropes of violence, migration, and alienation. It begins with tracing the eruption of savage violence, especially against women, and consequent migration when independence and Partition became imminent. It goes on to look at the tentative attempts of “refugees” to rebuild lives and livelihoods in an alien homeland, and the lingering sense of nostalgia and loss. The chapter argues that writing fiction about Partition became a coping mechanism in the wake of violence and illustrates how Partition literature in Punjabi foregrounds the imperative to heal through confessional voices, thereby enabling empathy and giving a chance to mourn and grieve. It concludes by reiterating the significance and relevance of such literature both to understand the past and as a moral compass for contemporary times.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-5

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The Myth of the Evil “Outsider/Other” One strand of nationalist discourse emphasises the congenial relations that existed among the three major religious communities—Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs—and blames the imperial policy of divide and rule.1 As Amrita Pritam says in her iconic poem, “I Say Unto Waris Shah”, Someone has poured poison into the waters of the five rivers and these waters are now irrigating the land with poison (Pritam qtd in Hasan 1995, 278) Popular perception about the horrific violence unleashed at the time of Partition was that it was outsiders who raided and burnt down neighbouring villages and that one’s own village folk were either helpless in staving it off, or that they rescued and escorted minorities in their villages to safety. Even if it was acknowledged that neighbours and acquaintances themselves turned inimical, it was designated as random acts of temporary insanity caused by “an evil breeze”. While this discourse is presented in Punjabi short fiction, so is the deepening of the underlying fault lines in inter-community relationships during the run up to freedom through stories that undercut the metanarrative of the demonic “outsider”. Examples of such stories include, “Savage Harvest”, “A Village called Laddewala Varaich”, and “My Precious One” by Mohinder Singh Sarna. “Savage Harvest” (Sarna 2013, 1–11) is a story about a blacksmith, Dina who finds himself suddenly inundated with work to forge axes and spears during the riots; his own son, Bashir, and his companions are on a killing and raping spree. He looks with heartache at the abandoned ripe fields. He muses, “The season of sickles and scrapes had passed; this was the time of axes and spears. And it had been a strange harvest. Instead of the wheat, those who had planted it had been chopped up” (Sarna 2013, 2). Another story by Sujan Singh (1995), “Manukh te Pashu” (41–46) or “Man and Beast” describes a raid on a Muslim village. It bears witness to later historical findings about such attacks being carried out with military precision. In an ironic mode, it describes the “braves” and the “scouts” who post guards strategically to make sure that no one can escape the violent assault. Their disappointment at finding the village abandoned turns to rage as they hunt the “traitor” who would have helped a population of 2,000 to escape without a sound. Realising that most valuables would have been carried away by the fleeing villagers, they decide to forage for the rest of the things. The pattern of dividing loot and women is an “established tradition”. The story reveals how local leaders used such occasions to stamp their power over rival groups, a fact that is borne out by historical evidence.

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Untold Savagery That the savagery of Partition was in a different register altogether is well documented. An example of one of the most horrific kinds of violence was the ghost trains carrying corpses to the imagined homeland; so much so that the taking of a train became a colloquial metaphor for death as in Sarna’s (2013) story “Jathedar Mukand Singh” (41–50), Over the last three or four months, the Jathedar and his men had put several hundred Muslim refugees on this train. But the train did not go to the Pakistan of Muhammed Ali Jinnah; its destination was the capital city of the Angel of Death. (Sarna 2013, 41) The visceral violence of Partition led to bewildered rage, causing people to spiral down an abyss of annihilation. Horrified writers record the various atrocities— the branding of religious and political symbols on the breasts of women, cutting off of the breasts, mutilation of the genitals, holding up of infants on spears like trophies etc.2 Sudhir Kakar writes in Colours of Violence, The riots brought to the surface (as they continue to do every time they occur in a fresh edition), both at the level of action and of imagination, certain primitive fantasies of bodily violence which are our heritage from infancy and childhood. (1995, 37) This physical mutilation, he suggests, especially of reproductive organs, is an unconscious desire to wipe the enemy off the face of the earth (Kakar 1995, 37–38). The violence degraded not just the victim but the perpetrator as well; even ordinary, God-fearing people became demonised. In “Heer Mirg” (Sarna 2013, 146–53) translated as “My Precious One” Sarna juxtaposes the loyalty of a family dog, Moti with the inhumanity of people. The dog wards off the attackers till he is killed, and the lady of the house, Khem Kaur, begs that he be cremated on the pyre along with the corpse of her daughter. She wails, “And if you are ever born again, may you be born a dog. May God never give you this cursed human form!” (Sarna 2013, 153). How benumbing the trauma of witnessing the horrors of Partition is is captured in Gurdev Singh Rupana’s “Hawa” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 227–32) translated as “The Carnage” in which Madan appears quite unmoved at the news of a personal tragedy after witnessing a gory slaughter on his way back home. First he sees a corpse with a moon and a star carved into his forehead and his intestines hanging out of his stomach, with his infant daughter lying close by. A white burqa fluttering nearby indicates that the mother had been abducted. He picks the infant

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girl up, intending to adopt her as his daughter. A little ahead, he finds the entire road littered with bodies. Apparently, a caravan of Muslims fleeing to safety had been attacked. As he moves ahead, an injured man calls out to him to give him water. Even at the pond where he goes to fetch water, he sees corpses floating and strewn along its banks. He counts thirty bodies there. He brings back some water and tries to bandage the man’s wounded head, but the man dies in his arms. Another grievously wounded man asks Madan to bind his stomach and prop him up against a tree, lest he be buried alive by the military. Madan’s initial horror at the violence and pity for the abandoned infant is gradually numbed as his mind is unable to register the trauma of such gruesome killing. As Madan moves ahead, he bumps into more bodies on the road. He sees a group of children ahead, wailing by the side of the corpses of their parents. Some wounded people lie writhing and groaning. His increasing dehumanisation is reflected in his abandoning the infant there with the group. As it grows dark, he can no longer see the corpses but is jolted in the cart every time it passes over a body. After travelling for about a mile, he could easily make out whether the cart had rolled over the body of an adult or a child. He could decipher from the footsteps of the camel whether the road was dry or steeped in blood. (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 231) Upon reaching home, he hears wailing from inside his house and learns that his only surviving son, Billoo, has fallen off the terrace and died. They had been waiting for him to return to perform the last rites. Even this shock is not enough to jolt him out of his comatose state and his callous reaction stuns his family, “Wait for a while, we’ll take care of this job too…. It appeared to him as if it were just one more corpse that lay a mile away from the others—that’s all” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 232).

Erasure of Women’s Agency The voices of the women, too, have been obliterated and subsumed in the male, patriarchal narrative. As Amrita Pritam laments in her dirge, “I Say unto Waris Shah”: When a daughter of the fabled Punjab wept he gave tongue to her silent grief. Today a million daughters weep but where is Waris Shah to give voice to their woes? … The girls fled the trinjan* screaming and the resounding whirr of the spinning-wheel stopped…. (Pritam qtd in Hasan 1995, 277)

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Urvashi Butalia says in The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India: “I knew by now that the history of Partition was a history of deep violation—physical and mental—for women” (1998, 131). As violence spiralled during Partition, a woman’s body became a site for the destruction of the community’s identity and a way for fanatics to record their bizarre victory over the Other. The violence inflicted on women was far worse than a mere invasion of the body; it was the ravaging of the womb to destroy the future generations of the race of the Other. Nor was it only the outsiders who wreaked violence on women.3 In Sarna’s “A Village called Laddewala Varaich” (Sarna 2013, 22–33) an old man, Khuda Baksh is unable to save a Sikh girl, Jagiro, from falling into the clutches of the men of his village. As he wakes up after being beaten senseless, he sees Jagiro’s salwar hanging from a pole. The little salwar, the salwar of a fifteen-year-old, was beginning to grow in his vision. The little green plants embroidered on it became huge, brooding trees. Countless salwars were hanging all around him. In the fields, on the parapets, on the hedges and even on the keekar above his head. They swayed in the wind: they caught in the thorns and were torn to shreds. (Sarna 2013, 32) Naked women of all ages were made to parade in the streets with hooligans accompanying them with drums—yet another blatant message to the men of their community that they were emasculated beings, incapable of protecting their women. Sarna’s story, “Parmeshwari” (Sarna 2013, 216–21) is about a Sikh woman who sees horrific violence against women on the streets, “the same ugly scenes lacerating her soul repeatedly, until she returns to the house, tired, defeated and polluted by what she had seen” (218). She is traumatised to hear her own son, Bhagwant, bragging about looting and dishonouring women. She bares her breasts and rages at him as he looks away, Why are you looking down now? Why didn’t you look down then? Weren’t they someone’s mothers and sisters? Raise your eyes now and see the breasts that have fed you. If I had known then that I was feeding a demon, I would have strangled you. (Sarna 2013, 220) Another kind of violence which, as Urvashi Butalia points out, has gone largely ignored so far, was honour killing—many women were either killed by their own clan or encouraged to take their own lives to protect their “honour”, thereby the honour of the community. The men repressed their own failure to save their women by assuming the mask of noble protectors who preferred to kill their own women rather than let them fall into the clutches of the enemy.4 Fiction

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was co-opted in glorifying the heroic martyrdom of noble women who volunteered to die or be killed at the hands of their men. About the women who jumped into a well to save themselves in Rawalpindi in March 1947, Butalia writes, “Because they could lay claim to this history, survivors from Thoa Khalsa, even today, seemed to have a higher standing among the Rawalpindi community, than the others” (1998, 197–98). And those who escaped, “are in some ways seen as being inferior to those who ‘offered’ themselves up to death to save their religion” (Butalia 1998, 209). In Remembering Partition: Violence, Nationalism and History in India, Gyanendra Pandey narrates an incident in village Chakkari Dheri in the Campbellpur district, where a woman was killed by her brother-in-law because she suggested that they convert to Islam to save their lives. This incident formed the basis of Gurmukh Singh Musafir’s story, “Khuda da Ghar” (1982 in Duggal 2005, 44–54) translated as “The Abode of God” in which Jaswant Singh battles a Muslim mob, refusing to convert to Islam, while his wife, Sita is killed by his brother, Sant Singh, as she had demurred and suggested that they save their lives by converting. Sita’s cowardice is contrasted to the aged mother who goes out “like a lioness” and is martyred. Two young girls, Naino and Tejo, are hurt in the scuffle as they resist being killed by their own family members and are seen as a blot on the community’s honour. The voices of such women were silenced both by history and literature and it was the men who were perceived to be the victims for having to bear the burden of the terrible act of killing their own kinswomen. Only by reading texts against the grain do such facts emerge, as, by and large, fiction affirms the privileging of death over dishonour. Often women were abandoned without the option of returning to their families as the latter had either moved away and were untraceable or refused to accept abducted women back as they were considered “tainted”. This is the predicament of Pooro-Hamida in Amrita Pritam’s Punjabi novel, Pinjar, translated as The Skeleton. Pooro’s family refuses to accept her back after she is abducted by Rashid. Rashid, aware of his wife’s trauma, attempts to redeem himself in her eyes by aiding her brother’s abducted wife during Partition riots. At the end, Pooro-Hamida “elects” to stay back with her husband, though in reality, she probably would not have been given a choice. In Kanwal’s “Sarde Zakham” (Deed 1995, 156–63) or “Festering Wounds”, Sardar Begum née Rajinder Kaur, says that being asked if she would like to go to India was like rubbing salt into her wounds as there was never any real possibility in her mind that she would be able to return to her family or be accepted by them. In fact, because of the stigma attached to these women, Indian leaders were forced to make repeated pleas to the public to treat recovered women as “pure” by citing the example of Sita in the Ramayana. And despite women being abandoned by their families, the two governments reached an agreement to return abducted women, even forcibly, if necessary (despite there being a shift in policy regarding the return of refugees as that was no longer considered feasible). To prevent Muslim men from creating insecurity and fear among the minds of the Hindu

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women that they would not be accepted back, “it has been mutually agreed between the two Dominions that in such cases they should be forcibly evacuated” (Butalia 1998, 159–60).5 Women were seen as property that had to be returned to the rightful owner. The recovery operation for abducted women continued for nine years after Partition, though recoveries began to drop off after the initial few years. In all, some 30,000 women were recovered, about 22,000 Muslim women from India, and about 8,000 Hindu and Sikh women from Pakistan. (163) Thousands were still unaccounted for, and probably stayed back with their abductors, either willingly or unwillingly. Several leaders cautioned against this second violence, but women were refused a choice. In Kartar Singh Duggal’s Punjabi short story, “Pakistan Hamara Hai” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 42–46) translated as “Pakistan is Ours”, the insensitive policy of both the Indian and the Pakistani government forces Rakkhi to leave her husband and go to India with her unborn child. Her husband, Sherbaz, is helpless. Our own Muslim government was saying this. And then every Hindu girl would be exchanged for a Muslim girl from there. In lieu of Rakkhi, who had been born a Hindu, a girl born in Islam had to be brought here. Pakistan required every sacrifice to be made. (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 45) It was considered mandatory to make such sacrifices to pamper the infant Islamic nation. “One had to surrender even to its excesses” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 45). In an interview with Ritu Menon and Kamla Basin titled, “Oranges and Apples” (Hasan 1995, 122–32), Kamlabehn Patel narrates the following incident: A young girl named Kismet was forced to return to Pakistan, because as K.L. Punjabi, a senior officer put it baldly: “If we don’t honour the agreement, how can we expect Pakistan to enforce it—we have to consider the wider interests of the country” (Hasan 1995, 126). Kamlabehn says resignedly, “how many women we sold in the same way that baskets of oranges or grapes are sold or gifted. Women were distributed in the same way” (Hasan 1995, 128). She feels that it was not possible for such women to be truly secure in the house of their abductors. In Kanwal’s “Sarde Zakham” Sardaro manages to write a letter in secrecy to her friend as Zaheer, her “owner” is away in Lahore. She has Rahimo, a refugee from Sarhali village in Amritsar, to thank for providing her with the means to write. She is aware that women like her were considered to be “the dirty secret of Hindustan that Pakistan spits upon”. She has read in the newspapers that thirty thousand prostitutes had been added to India and

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Pakistan. She is also aware that the children born of such unions were doomed to orphanhood, and even God would not accept them. She signs off by saying,“With the wounds of thousands of sisters, this is Sardaran, urf Rajinder Kaur, B.A.” (Deed 1995, 163)6 Where there were children, reintegration was especially problematic, as these mute victims were a living symbol of the woman’s violation; often the women were compelled to leave their children behind, usually to be brought up in orphanages. “Allah Wale” (Jalil et al. 2017, 216–22) by Gurmukh Singh Musafir, translated as “People of God”, is about the recovery of a young Sikh girl, Savinder, who presumes that the claim of “chaste” women was somehow greater than that of women who had been forced into sexual relations with men of the other community; thus her claim to being recovered is greater than that of her friend, Banso, who had an infant in her arms by then. She had herself escaped that fate by being “fortunate” enough to be grievously injured when she was abducted. In fact, the choice of being recovered is a specious one, as the governments did not leave such a decision to the women at all. The women who were not recovered were forced to consign their past lives as a forgotten memory.7 Baldev Singh’s “Jaandi Vaar diyan Haakan” (Mansingh 2002, 123– 39) translated as “Her Last Cries” narrates the story of a Muslim girl who had been converted to Sikhism during the Partition riots. Hardly anyone knew or remembered her past, but at the time of her death, her repressed trauma finds a voice and in her delirium she repeatedly pleads with her abba to save her from the Sikhs. Another nuance is offered by Kulwant Singh Virk’s “Khabal” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 66–70) or “The Resilience of Weeds” in which an abducted woman requests a Recovery Officer to rescue her younger sister-in-law captured by someone from a neighbouring village and bring her so that she could marry her off in her own locality. The woman is resigned to her fate and only seeks to put down roots there. The Recovery Officer is reminded of an old Jat’s words about how a new stalk sprouts every time a weed is yanked out. Gurmukh Singh Jeet’s “Thandiyan Kandhan” (Deed 1995, 128–41) or “Cold Walls”, set in 1955, is about Ishar Das whose refugee neighbour, Mohan Lal, and his wife, Mayawanti, lament the abduction of their daughter, Chander Kanta. Mohan Lal makes great efforts to locate his daughter through the Home Minister, the High Commission, and by offering a reward through advertisements published in Pakistani newspapers. She is finally recovered, and her father offers a large dowry to marry her off, but no match is found for her as she has been recovered from Pakistan after eight years. Soon, the parents begin to lament her recovery rather than her abduction. Ishar Singh voices the writer’s frustration as he wonders why the governments insisted on recovering girls if they could not be reintegrated with the community. Gradually, Chander Kanta, who had maintained a stony silence, opens up about being converted to Islam and married to Nisar Ahmed, the son of Zaildar Chaudhary “Ghulam Qadir” in Behlolpur. She had two children—Naeem and Salma. She had been forcibly recovered and yearns to

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return to her husband and children. Finally, Ishar Das helps her to escape back to Pakistan. He is charged with treason and sentenced to two years of prison. Ishar Das is not repentant and is willing to endure the scorching prison cell, tasteless food, and the barred window as he had succeeded in uniting Sayida Khatoon and Nisar Ahmed. Not only does the story demonstrate the tragedy of recovery and the disastrous process of rehabilitation of women, Ishar Das’s lack of remorse at the end is a denunciation of the government policy as viewed in public imagination.

Conversion/Assimilation The people who were forced to convert were neither happy nor accepted fully by the adopted community. In Gurbaksh Singh Preetlahri’s “You Shall Always be My World” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 1–7), Kurban, a Muslim boy, is brought up as a son by a Sikh, yet cannot feel any kinship with a community that had killed his mother and other family members. He yearns to go to Pakistan, and as per his surrogate father’s promise, he is safely sent across the border. A Punjabi poem by Joga Singh titled “Munshi Khan” too speaks of the torment that Munshi Khan, now Sajjan Singh, suffers every time he is addressed by his new name after his forcible conversion to Sikhism: But whenever he was called Sajjan Siyan I’d see strange hues flit across his face Laughter like the shadow of clouds! Three-fold furrows on his forehead! His very blood did indeed melt but not as if he wanted to sob and cling when hailed by one’s own. The fact that the granthi of the Gurudwara continues to call him “mullah” shows how imperfect the assimilation is. He finally accosts the narrator and entreats him to make a promise that after his death, he would be buried and not cremated. Sardaro says in Kanwal’s “Sarde Zakham” that Hindu and Sikh women had been made to eat beef, and Muslim women made to taste pig meat, yet they were still derogatorily referred to as “kafir” or “musli”. Another story by Gulzar Singh Sandhu, “Shaheed” (Deed 1995, 120–27) speaks of how anyone wearing a shiny new iron kara or a brand-new yellow turban was killed as it was clear that they were recent converts. Again Sandhu’s, “Gods on Trial” (2004, 18–24), shows a similar situation where new converts are killed while some Muslims escape, making the native Sikhs wonder if the Muslim God was more powerful than theirs.

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Unwelcome Refugees The destruction of faith in humanity saw the longest migration in human history. Often subjected to ferocious attacks en route, only about half of the travellers made it to the chimerical homeland. Even this was no guarantee of safety or self-respect. Refugees assumed that once they reached their destination, they would find kindness and be able to resettle. However, after some initial sympathetic noises, the refugees streaming in were viewed with vexation for straining the resources of the city, and even suspicion and derision for their different dress and language. In Lochan Bakshi’s “Mud Muddon” (Deed 1995, 230–36) or “From the Start Again”, refugees are ridiculed as men are sometimes seen clad in a woman’s kameez or in silk garments (probably the only clothes available with them). People would pass comments such as “You are refugees, so to speak, but you wear silks” (Deed 1995, 234). This story depicts the loss of dignity of the refugees and their continuous struggle to rebuild life in an alien land. Kesar Singh escapes to India with his three daughters, thankful that he has come with his selfrespect intact. But the harassment that he faces in his new homeland is demeaning. The story demonstrates how at the beginning the refugees are spared some cursory sympathy and are seen as victims, but as they flood the neighbourhood, they become an “aafat”—a calamity, “an entire world turned homeless!” Refugees swarm all over Delhi—in the bazaars, roads, lanes, pavements. They soon face hostility as they eke out a meagre living by selling some odd wares on the streets, earning measly amounts, and as a result chip away at the profit made by shops who pay rent or tax. Government apathy only makes it worse. They are turned off the roads and slapped with a notice to pay cumulative rent if they seek refuge in some house lying vacant. Kesar Singh is arrested and thrown into jail for participating in an agitation for better conditions. After a month in jail, he seems to have spent thirty years instead of thirty days. He has aged and looks weak. He says, “Yaaro! We endured the tyranny of those foreigners, but our own people have exceeded even those people in their tyranny. Now there is no justice” (Deed 1995, 235). When hounded by the Rent Collector, it seems to the narrator that Kesar Singh had bartered his daughters in return for exemption from rent. Kesar Singh’s daughters, well-bred and gentle girls, are literally forced on the streets; at the end it is left to the reader’s imagination if they are likely to be able to live respectably or be forced into prostitution in a dehumanised world. Such stories are a powerful indictment of the social and judicial system of independent India and chart the absurdities inherent in the demands the new nations made on their people. Sukhwant Kaur Mann’s story, “Sapp te Sheher” (M. I. Singh 2011, 25–37), translated as “The Serpent and the City” describes how Pitaji, a bearded man, who escaped Pakistan because he looked like a Muslim, is stoned and beaten to death in India by callous louts for the same reason. The story not only

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highlights the similarity of Punjabi appearance and attire across religions, but also the irony of how “after having come from Pakistan, losing all that he had, family members butchered…in a city of Punjab in independent India, a man called Sardara Singh should be killed as Sardar Khan…” (M. I. Singh 2011, 36).

Interrogating the Popular Narrative In The Aftermath of Partition in South Asia, Tan Tai Yong and Gyanesh Kudaisya say that the “overwhelming memory of 1947 for people across the whole of North India remains that of partition, rather than of independence” (Tan and Kudaisya 2000, 7). Punjabi stories expose the hollow metanarrative of a “triumphal march to freedom” and reveal that the people squarely blamed their leaders for accepting the Partition Plan; feeling that they were made sacrificial lambs in the leaders’ quest for power. “Chattoo” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 186–93) by Sukhwant Kaur Mann, translated as “The Mortar”, mentions how the old grandmother of a refugee family would roundly abuse Nehru and Jinnah whenever their names came up as Dadaji related bits of news from the Urdu newspaper. Sardar Begum, an abducted woman in Jaswant Singh Kanwal “Sarde Zakham” offers a deeper insight into the minds of the people who felt betrayed by their leaders. In a letter to a friend, she blames the leaders for the blood-soaked Holi that was played during the liberation of the two nations of India and Pakistan. “Black and white politicians had colluded to knife in an instant the rocklike entity of Punjab and had ground the lives of ordinary folk like grain” (Deed 1995, 156). “Both nations have sacrificed twelve lakh people to welcome freedom. Hindustan has made a lot of sacrifices for independence. I have also sacrificed my father and brother; and myself too…” (Deed 1995, 158). She reminds her friend that Jawahar Lal and Baldev Singh could become leaders only because of the votes of people like her in independent India. However, she laments, the leaders had no time to address the human tragedy, especially of women, as they were busy carving a niche for themselves in the international arena, and ordinary citizens of their nation were expendable pawns to be bartered to achieve their selfish interests. In a searing indictment of the leadership, she says to her friend that it was not “us women who had divided the nation” (Deed 1995, 159); nor did women like her go on stage to shower vituperation over Islam, Hinduism, and Sikhism or to inject poison in newspapers. She is aware of the bitter irony that despite being hostile to each other, Pakistan and India governments collaborated to safeguard mutual interests and had robust trade relations. Kartar Singh Duggal’s story, “Tu Khaanh” or “Be Damned” expresses the angst of a generation as the protagonist, the Chaudhry of Jassowal shudders as he reflects on the horrors that he has witnessed during the partition riots, and, lifting his head, curses God.

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Nostalgia for the Homeland Several stories also attest to the loss of identity and the longing for the homeland that people had fled to escape violence. A short story by Kulwant Singh Virk, “Mainu Jaan-ney?” (Koul & Bhat 2016, 56–58) as translated as “Do You Know Me?” is the story of an anonymous refugee who seems to have lost his spirit to live and had “as little life in him as the whiteness in a grain of black urad dal” (Koul & Bhat 2016, 56). He works as a coolie if he can find a customer; and when the narrator pretends to know him while he is carrying a basket for him, the refugee’s spirits suddenly lift as he feels rooted in life again. At the end, he says, “I have regained consciousness only now, ever since I came across the border. There was no one who knew me” (Koul & Bhat 2016, 58). Devendra Satyarthi’s “Angoor Puk Gaye” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 21–25) translated as “The Grapes Have Ripened” is the story of a refugee who sells corncobs or grapes, or whatever else he can manage to procure. As the narrator peevishly bargains with him, the refugee waxes eloquent over the grapevines in the land left behind and sighs, “Today we are no longer the masters of our homes. Today we have become common vendors” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 23). Non-acceptance in the adopted homeland made people yearn to reconnect to their roots, which is symbolised in the return of a bard in Gurbachan Singh Bhullar’s “Fattu Marasi” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 175–81) translated as “A Bard Named Fattu”. Fattu had fled the violence but had kept in touch with his friend who had not been able to muster the courage to tell him that his son had been killed and his daughter had been abducted. One day, suddenly Fattu returns to his village with his family and is disconsolate to find bare ground where his house had once stood. But the villagers assure him of their help, and he gradually settles down. When asked why he had returned, he says, “We were not allowed to stay in Hindustan, and no one considered us Pakistanis. We were muhajirs-refugees-poor souls!” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 181). He scoops up a fistful of soil and lifts it to his forehead and says, “Prabha, this is what pulled me back. This is what was missing there!” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 181).

Archiving Repentance and Mourning Many Punjabi stories present oases of sanity in a world turned “mad” and affirm the humanity of people who saved the lives of the people of the other communities. In an essay titled “Compulsions to Write” (Dhawan 1985, 35–39) Khushwant Singh admits to feeling guilty for not having done enough to save lives during Partition, “The partition theme was born out of a sense of guilt that I had done nothing to save the lives of innocent people and behaved like a coward” (Dhawan 1985, 36). Jagga, the man who ultimately sacrifices his life to ensure the safe passage of a train carrying Muslim refugees to Pakistan in his novel, Train to Pakistan, is his fantasised double. Nanak Singh’s “Sunheri

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Jild” (Deed 1995, 183–87) or “Gilded Cover” presents Karam Singh who orders a beautiful golden cover for the Quran to give as a wedding present to his adopted Muslim daughter, whose real father had saved Karam Singh’s wife from a mob. In Sarna’s “A Defender of Humanity” (2013, 245–49), the narrator reverently remembers a Muslim lorry driver, Hussain, who undertakes to drive them safely across the border from Rawalpindi to Srinagar, even though tribals lay in ambush. The lorry is attacked, but Hussain takes a sword from one of the Sikh travellers and jumps down to fight them single-handedly, while a passenger drives the lorry to safety. The narrator says, “This life and its joys are your gift to me. That is why when your memory knocks at my door, a hundred prayers burst forth from my heart” (Sarna 2013, 249). Confessional voices, too, form a part of the Punjabi narrative. In Mohinder Singh Joshi’s, “Tarbaini” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 82–87) translated as “The Triad of Trees”, Kartar Singh kills his Muslim neighbours, including a young girl, Fattan, who calls him Chacha and clings to him expecting him to save her. Singh is traumatised by his sense of betrayal of his own humanity. His attempts at atonement prove fruitless. He confesses, So many years have gone by since then, Masterji. I got Maharaj’s paath done, made pundits recite the seven days paath; I even went to Haridwar and Taran to take the holy dip. I’ve tried everything under the sun but haven’t been able to get Fattan off my chest. She haunts me every waking moment. She haunts me in my dreams. My family wonders what grief gnaws at my heart. Every morning is plunged in darkness for me. What shall I say, Masterji, the four-year-old dead girl doesn’t let me live! (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 87). Trauma theorists suggest that societies must provide cultural forms and occasions for remembering/mourning and build memorials for victims to air the past. In the absence of such sites of commemoration, the “never-ending past deprives the present of meaning” (Antze & Lambek 1996, 159) and, therefore, the past “must be exorcised, grieving process completed, the biopsycho effects of trauma reversed or controlled” (Ibid.). The wounds of Partition still continue to fester and the collective consciousness of an entire generation (and subsequent ones, too) have not been able to find closure because the attempt has been to commit the events to the realm of the non-narratable. Confessional narratives hold the possibility of healing the trauma for several generations of the Indian subcontinent. It is in the traumatised admission of Kartar Singh in “The Triad of Trees” that the possibility of healing lies. This process would only be complete when the trauma of guilt and remorse are acknowledged along with the trauma of suffering. As Salman Rushdie (1992) writes in Imaginary Homelands in another context, one can only write about atrocities “by admitting the atrocity hidden in [one’s] own traitorous heart” (Rushdie 1992, 197).

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By bringing to light the evasions and elisions in Partition historiography, literature has come to have an enormous sway in the discourse on Partition. Writers themselves may be viewed as oases of sanity who sought to alleviate the burden of bearing witness to those traumatic times and found ways to overcome their angst by aestheticising their experiences and reminiscences into fiction. Devastated by the fragmentation of the composite ethos, they agonised over how to come to terms with such a betrayal of ethical mores. Their fiction demonstrates that it is empathy for the victims that could enable one to transcend the regressive spiral and help to rebuild the broken linkages of community living. Their own deep humanism and their helplessness led them to write affirmative literature as an act of atonement for the bestiality that raged during the Partition. They advocated an ethic of repentance and forgiveness to re-establish the humane civilisational pattern to enable individuals and nations to overcome the trauma, by working through traumatic memories to heal the psychic wound. This is possible only through an acknowledgement of one’s own culpability, without which the psychic wound would continue to fester. Confessional voices offer the prospect of empathising with both the victim and the perpetrator and a chance to mourn and grieve, thereby offering a chance at restoration of the civilisational fabric.

Conclusion Punjabi literature enhances our understanding of the event as we view Partition as a multivalent symbol of aggression, alienation, and the anguish of individuals who are constantly threatened by the Other in their attempt to lead meaningful, ethical lives. Partition literature has enabled us to understand the angst of ordinary individuals caught in the crossfire of politics and religion, and to comprehend hidden, shifting, and volatile forces that work to undermine human values and destroy the fabric of civilised life. A systematic study of Punjabi fiction about the Partition can lead to a deeper understanding about our history and the cataclysmic consequences of a fragmented imagination. It points to the imperative of moving beyond the traumatic present, even if it is recurrent, and to keep alive the ethic of engagement. A story that tries to make sense of our history and takes a telescopic view is Mohan Bhandari’s “Paad” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 160–74) translated as “Chasm”. It represents Partition in juxtaposition with an eternal, ongoing sense of alienation. Harchand is a Muslim infant orphaned in the partition riots and adopted by a Sikh woman, Inder Kaur. His closest friend is the narrator, Atma, a Hindu. As the two friends grow up, the echoes of Partition are felt in the escalating Hindu–Sikh tensions in Punjab in the 1980s, forcing Atma to send his family away, and culminating in the violence against the Sikhs in 1984 when Harchand loses everything and shaves his head to save his life. As they walk to the bridge where years ago, Harchand’s kin had been killed during the Partition riots, even as the shadow of pessimism engulfs them, events such as the Partition are seen as ripples in the stream of civilisation.

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The story concludes, “As the stone fell, a great crater appeared in the water, and then, gradually, the water sewed up its rent again. The water, returning to its former tranquillity, continued on its journey once again” (Sieklucka & Noor 2005, 174).

Notes 1 Malcolm Darling, a civil servant travelling in Punjab in 1945–46, found much similarity between the Hindu and Muslim communities and discovered that they often had common ancestors and mixed with each other “like a rice pilaf”, and wondered “how Pakistan fitted into these conditions” (qtd in Hasan 2001, 254–55). 2 See Freedom at Midnight by Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre (1997, 251). 3 Butalia records how she came upon a book that had lists of thousands of women, abducted or reported missing. She says: “one of the myths that historians of communal conflict have held dear, and that victims of such conflict often help to perpetrate, is that the aggressors are always ‘outsiders’. This list, to me, was conclusive proof of the opposite: so many women had been picked up by men of the same village” (1998, 135). 4 An English short story, “Family Ties” by Shauna Singh Baldwin also shows the implacability of patriarchal honour through story of abduction and its effects on women in the domestic sphere (Baldwin 1999, 12–28). 5 Butalia says that the debate in the Constituent Assembly in this regard exposed the concern of the leaders to be not just recovery of women but to comment on the character of Pakistan. The process of recovery itself took on a mythical hue with claims being made that for the sake of one woman who was taken away by Ravana the whole nation took up arms and went to war. “We all know our history of what happened in the time of Shri Rama when Sita was abducted. Here, when thousands of girls are concerned, we cannot forget this. We can forget all the properties, we can forget every other thing, but this cannot be forgotten. […] As descendants of Ram, we have to bring back every Sita that is alive” (Butalia 1998, 178). 6 If the recovered women were pregnant, they were given no choice in deciding whether they wanted to bear the children of their abductors or not and were forced to undergo abortion. Butalia records that the State financed mass abortions, out of a special budget set aside for the purpose, though abortion was technically illegal. 7 At times, the eldest male of the family would insist on conversion of the entire family. Urvashi Butalia gives the example of her maternal grandmother who had been persuaded to stay back in Pakistan by her maternal uncle (1998, 43–44).

References Alter, Stephen. 2000. Amritsar to Lahore: Crossing the Border Between India and Pakistan. New Delhi: Penguin. Antze, Paul and Michael Lambek. 1996. Tense Past: Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory. New York: Routledge. Butalia, Urvashi. 1998. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India. New Delhi: Penguin. Baldwin, Shauna Singh. 1999. English Lessons and Other Stories. New Delhi: Harper Collins Publishers India. Collins, Larry, and Dominique Lapierre. 1997. Freedom at Midnight. Delhi: Vikas. Deed, Jaswant, ed. 1995. Desh Vand diyan Kahaniyan. Delhi: Sahitya Akademi. Dhawan, Rajinder Kumar (ed.) 1985. Three Contemporary Novelists. New Delhi: Classical.

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Duggal, Kartar Singh (trans.) [1982] 2005. Giani Gurmukh Singh Musafir. Delhi: National Book Trust. Hasan, Mushirul. 2001. John Company to the Republic: A Story of Modern India. New Delhi: Roli. Hasan, Mushirul. 1995. India Partitioned: The Other Face of Freedom, 2 Volumes. Edited by Mushirul Hasan. Delhi: Roli. Jalil, Rakshanda, Tarun Saint and Debjani Sengupta (eds) 2017. Looking Back: The 1947 Partition of India, 70 Years On. Delhi: Orient BlackSwan. Kakar, Sudhir. 1995. Colours of Violence: Cultural Identities, Religion, and Conflict. New Delhi: Viking, 2016. Koul, Omkar N. and Roop Kishen Bhat. 2016. People’s Linguistic Survey of India: Volume 24, Part 2. The Languages of Punjab. Delhi: Orient BlackSwan. Mansingh, Jasjit (ed.) 2002. Time Out: Stories from Punjab. New Delhi: Shristi Publishers. Pandey, Gyanendra. 2001. Remembering Partition: Violence, Nationalism and History in India. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rushdie, Salman. 1992. Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981–1991. Harmondsworth: Granta Books. Sandhu, Gulzar Singh. 2004. Gods on Trial and Other Stories. Delhi: Fiction House. Sarna, Mohinder Singh. 2013. Savage Harvest: Stories of Partition. Translated by Navtej Singh Sarna. Delhi: Rupa. Sieklucka, Anna and Sutinder Singh Noor. 2005. Santalinama: Partition Stories. Translated by Hina Nandrajog and Madhuri Chawla. Delhi: Punjabi Academy. Singh, Joga (online) “Munshi Khan”. Available at Punjabi Kavita, https://www.punja bi-kavita.com/Punjabi-Poetry-Joga-Singh.php#Joga1 (accessed 09. 10. 22). Singh, Khushwant. 1994. Train to Pakistan. New York: Grove Press, 1956. Singh, Manjit Inder (ed.) 2011. Contemporary Punjabi Short Stories: An Anthology. Delhi: Sahitya Akademi. Tan, Tai Yong, and Gyanesh Kudaisya. 2000. The Aftermath of Partition in South Asia. London: Routledge.

5 SCREENING THE SPECTRE Nishat Haider

Introduction Foregrounding the Frameworks of “Ghostpitality” (Coughlan 2016, 19) and “cryptomimesis” (Castricano 2001) as useful lenses through which to consider Bollywood’s aesthetico-political engagement with the “traumatic” events of the living and lingering spectres of Partition of the Indian subcontinent as manifested in the consequent insurgency in Kashmir, this chapter explores how Vishal Bhardwaj’s Hindi film Haider (2014) revisits Kashmir’s past not only to make sense of the present that is full of reminiscences and spectral encounters, but also to disturb the present with the possibility of alternative pasts and futures. Haider, the third instalment of Vishal Bhardwaj’s Shakespearean trilogy after Maqbool (2003) and Omkara (2006), refracts “the narrative of violence, enforced disappearances and the politics of betrayal entrenched in Kashmiri separatist politics through Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’” (Haider 2022, 31). While it appears that “ghosts are everywhere these days” (Blanco and Peeren 2010, ix), phantasms/ghosts are context-specific entities as they “appear at specific moments, and specific locations” (Blanco and Peeren 2010, xi). The fact that the ghosts that Bhardwaj conjures “speak to these timely, context-bound fears and desires” (Weinstock qtd. in Blanco and Peeren 2013, 64) particularly indicates that, at this juncture of time, the people are deeply vexed by the afterlives of the Kashmir imbroglio. The ghosts of the Kashmir conundrum and the postcolonial legacies, both “revenant” (that which returns from the past) and “arrivant”(that which is to come) (Derrida 1994b, 168), also confront the Indian state and citizens with the issue of “hospitality”, which calls for or suggests “a humanitarian commitment that effectively operates beyond the interests of Nation-States” (Derrida 1999, 101). Since the ethics of hospitality, as claimed by both Levinas and Derrida, is performative (Carlson 2009, 263), this chapter DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-6

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explores how Bhardwaj frames the spectro-poetic-historiography (or even “evental historiography”). Through the upshots limned out from these theoretical configurations, this chapter expands on theories of traumatic secrecy and cryptonymy to demonstrate the ethical and narrative possibilities of the uncanny in postcolonial cinema, including the ghostly metaphor’s power of summoning alternate ideas of space, history, and identity. Additionally, this chapter claims that our encounter with the ghosts of the afterlives of Partition, as manifested in the Kashmir insurgency, might lead to a new engagement with the present.

Framing the Spectre In the contemporary Hindutva-inflected India, when the Prime Minister Narendra Modi abrogated Article 370 and 35 A of the Indian Constitution and revoked the special autonomous status of the erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir (6 August 2019), which was granted to it as a sort of a quid pro quo for its “accession” to India (and not Pakistan) after the Partition of the subcontinent, it was seen as a renegation of the freedoms guaranteed by the Indian government through the Instrument of Accession of October 1947. Since the Partition, both India and Pakistan claim the Indian state of Kashmir as legally belonging to them as a result of which there is constant sparring and recurrence of violence. This shows that the violent legacies of Partition are continually unfolding in the present; not “in terms of nostalgia”, but “as reference point and frame, functioning to structure experience through a past that continues to change the present in terms of how it is narrated, commemorated and referred to” (Mahn and Murphy 2018, 9). If we map out the contours of Bollywood’s shifting gaze on Kashmir, we find that its imaginings of the Valley transform from an Elysian territory of desire, romance and innocence (Kabir 2005, 83–84) to a realm which performs “a dialectic encounter among Islam, Pakistan, the Kashmir insurgency, and the Indian nation” (Haider 2022, 33). However, Bhardwaj breaks through the discursive constraints of mainstream Hindi cinema to create a space in Haider for “spectropolitics”, which “may be a politics of or for spectres designed to address how, in different parts of the world, particular subjects become prone to social erasure, marginalization, and precarity” (Blanco and Peeren 2013, 19). Considering that “every nation beholds its visage in Shakespeare’s mirror” (Levin 1966, 117–18), Bhardwaj explores Hamlet’s meaning in the vocabulary of Kashmir imbroglio. Even though Haider is set in 1995, it attests to the “haunting legacies” (Schwab 2010, 1) of Partition as manifested in the violence and terror at the height of the Kashmiri insurgency and the consequent fierce response by the Indian army. Although the violent years between the 1980s and 1990s are still subject to strongly antagonistic interpretations by diverse national/political groups, the disappeared Kashmiris—as a population of ghosts—have become an integral part of life in Indian politics and society. The film frames how a liberal physician, Dr Hilaal Meer (played

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by Narendra Jha), the father of the eponymous hero Haider, was taken for questioning for dispensing medical care to a militant, despite the qualms of his wife Ghazala (performed by Tabu). While there are many divergences from the Shakespearean “Hamlet” that give Bhardwaj’s film its own unique identity, Ghazala’s (Gertrude) marriage to her brother-in-law Khurram (Claudius) and his subsequent connivance in his brother Hilaal Meer’s killing agrees with the source text. When Haider learns of the circumstances behind his father’s disappearance, he exclaims that “Poora Kashmir ek qaid-khaana hai” [All of Kashmir is a prison] (Bhardwaj and Peer 2014, 64). Like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, the spectre of Hilaal Meer returns to warn us that in Kashmir the time is out of joint. It calls for a better, a more just society that is linked to the idea of “justice”. In India, Kashmir is the site where biopower, the state of exception, and the “state of siege” (Mbembé 2003, 37) converge to create a space that is defined primarily by the hegemonic state machinery and laws like the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) and the Disturbed Areas Act (DAA), which allow for policies of impunity to illegally carry out not only crackdowns/raids in resident areas but also enforced disappearances of people on mere suspicion. The precise power of “disappearance as a system of terror and repression is the other door, being thrust across a menacing threshold and into a somewhere whose whereabouts and coordinates are unknown…that haunt the population into trembling silence” (Gordon 2008, 113). In Haider, the ghost of King Hamlet returns as Hilaal Meer, a character who represents the vulnerable, marginalized or disappeared in Kashmir, which is a space where the concatenation of disciplinary, biopolitical, and necro-political powers create “death-worlds” or “forms of social existence in which vast populations are subjected to conditions of life that confer upon them the status of living dead (ghosts)” (Mbembé 2019, 92). The film underscores the inhuman reign of terror unleashed by the agents of necropower, the Indian Army with the collusion of the local politicians and the pro-government militia (Ikhwan), in killing the Kashmiris remorselessly under the pretext of counter-insurgency. Many dissenting “voices” were sent to the torture camps and approximately 8,000 to 10,000 arrested locals who went missing during the Kashmir insurgency in 1995 never came back. In 2009, a human rights group, International People’s Tribunal on Human Rights and Justice in Indian-Administered Kashmir, exposed the finding of 2,700 unknown, unmarked, and mass graves across Kashmir that included more than 2,943 bodies (Chatterji and et al. 2009, 11). Many of these graves are “believed to contain victims of unlawful killings, enforced dis-appearances, torture, and other abuses committed by Indian security forces” (Bhan, Duschinski, and Zia 2018, 12). In the film, we see “disappeared” men including Roohdaar and Hilaal Meer illegally detained in a secret and unofficial detention-cum-interrogation centre called MAMA-2, a clever appropriation of the most feared and

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dreaded PAPA-2 in Srinagar, which was an abandoned hotel. In Kashmir, the nomos of the site of contemporary biopolitics is the “camp” (Agamben 1998, 170–172; 166) where the state of exception has become the rule. Suffering in this “hell”, Hilaal Meer, the doctor, exclaims, “Qafas udhaas hai, yaaron sabaa se kuch toh kaho.” [The prison is a sullen ghost. Ask the breeze for a whiff of hope.] (Bhardwaj and Peer 2014, 114). After his escape from this “fortress”, Roohdaar relates to Haider how “Iskey andar joh jaisey jaata hai, vaisey baahar naheen aata. [Men returned as shadows of their selves from MAMA-2.]” (Bhardwaj and Peer 2014, 116). The name Roohdaar means the keeper of spirit. Hilaal Meer haunts the entire film not only in his situation “as a disappeared person—perceived to be neither living nor dead, or simultaneously both living and dead—but in the form of his flesh and blood, satellite phone wielding, ghost: Roohdaar” (Mookherjee 2016, 5). Khurram tells Haider that Roohdaar is a double agent who has many fake identities and who has changed his allegiances so many times that it is extremely difficult to trust him and to unearth his genuine identity. As Christopher Peterson puts it assertively in his book Kindred Spectres (2007), such an argument underscores the questions: “What makes the ontology of the socially alive any more secure than that of the socially dead? Are not the socially alive themselves spectres?” (9). Furthermore, when “the disappeared make their presence known outside their own nether-world of darkened rooms, mournful moans, terrifying agony, and stolen moments of tenderness and solidarity with their fellow desaparecidos, they must perforce appear as ghosts” (Gordon 2008, 112). The uncanny status that Roohdaar appears to have can be explained by the conflation of the deep and common memory that Roohdaar shared with Hilaal Meer with whom he experienced imprisonment and torture in the detention and interrogation centre. The Kashmiri body’s interface with the state, the police, the intelligence, and the mutually constitutive corporeality in the context of torture in detention centres may be said to “expulse the spirit, reducing the person to a ghost” (Weber 2012, 91). In this extreme space, the incarcerated are ghost detainees, as the detention centres are the ghost sites designed for ghostification, that is the inversion of social realities and the decay of mutual vulnerability which, if Judith Butler (2004) is right, causes humans to treat the Other with compassion (29). While “there is no doubt that ‘ghosting’ is done in order to torture, torture, in other ways, is also a practice, and determined pursuit, of ‘ghosting’” (Weber 2012, 85). At the heart of this framing of “ghosting” in Haider is an incident in which a young man (played by Basharat Peer, the screenplay writer of Haider) stands for hours at the entrance of a house in a catatonic state and does not go inside it despite his mother’s repeated requests. The term “the expressionless” (das Ausdruckslose), a term borrowed from Walter Benjamin (1972, 191), offers “a mute yet powerful” concept for understanding Peer and thousands of “those whom violence has deprived of expression; those who, on the one hand, have been historically reduced to silence, and who, on the other hand, have been

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historically made faceless” (Felman 2002, 13). He finally relents when Roohdar frisks him and asks him to show his I. D. proof card. He enters the door, and, plunged into the overbearing dialectic of visibility and invisibility, learning and unlearning, acknowledgment and denial, he negotiates a journey into the normalized unreality of the other side. Roohdar identifies this neurotic condition of the man as the new disease which affects the men of the region who have been subjected to “dispersed and intense forms of psychosocial regulation exercised through the use of death and deception to discipline the living” (Chatterji et al. 2009, 9). In the film, the “interiors and exteriors have been turned inside out” in order to “emphasize the state of constant surveillance, the loss of privacy and the crumbling of individual identity” (Panja 2017, 107). This specific incident is an exemplary instance, which evocatively portrays in what ways the physical and psychic violence of counterinsurgency haunt the lived experience of Kashmiris. Thus, haunting in the film is not just the subjective, private suffering that underscores how the ghostly traces of one’s past self or the disappeared absent others haunt the life of the individual and society, it is an encounter with the ambivalences of power and personhood, the complexities of violence and hope, and the shadows of ourselves and our society. Central to this enunciation is the thinking of hospitality and the lexes of host, guest and so forth, implicated in, or implicating histories and praxes of the hospitable. Peer finds himself “on the threshold” and, as a result, it has to be said that “we do not know what hospitality is” (Dick and Wolfreys 2013, 147), which is reiterated throughout. In talking about “the figure of the door”, Derrida introduces “the economy of metaphor, a performative figure that encapsulates, embodies or gathers to itself economically all those limits, those acts and practices of determining, of marking the very end and beginning of any hospitality conventionally conceived” (Dick and Wolfreys 2013, 147). In fact, “the trope of the door opens itself also a means of negotiating the limit between hospitality and hostility, host and guest, master and stranger” (Dick and Wolfreys 2013, 147). Through the seemingly innocuous, apparently metaphorical, or merely material figure of the door Bhardwaj affirms both “law of a place” and the “law of identity” that mark “limiting the gift”, of “fixing a limit to hospitality” (Dick and Wolfreys 2013, 147).

Framing Ghosts, Enforced Disappearance, and Ghostpitality Through the frames of the prevailing political as well as humanitarian concerns in Kashmir, the hauntings of enforced disappearances and the issue of (un) home(ly), the film Haider shows that there is an urgency to engage with the question of hospitality to the spectres of the past. The relationship between hauntology and hospitality is both complex and challenging. Ghostpitality, according to David Coughlan (2016), simply means the welcoming in of the spectre that stimulates individuals/characters to reconfigure new paradigms of

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hospitality based on the relationships between host and guest, the rhetoric of property and possession. Ghostpitality, therefore, is an ethics of unconditional hospitality facing the arrival of the absolute other as the ghost; if the host engages in “filtering, choosing” who they take in and live with, they are essentially “excluding and doing violence” (Derrida 1999, 55). Alluding to GoyBlanquet’s claim that “how a filmmaker deals with his ghosts will provide a key to his reading of the [Shakespearean] play and his interpretation of the world it is set in” (2014, 23), it can be asserted that Bhardwaj employs spectrality in Haider to explore the socio-political repercussions of the Kashmir conundrum. Although there have been earlier adaptations of “Hamlet” in mainstream Hindi films like Sohrab Modi’s Khoon ka Khoon (1935) and Kishore Sahu’s Hamlet (1954), it is Bhardwaj’s Haider that mobilises cinema as the locus of possible change by facilitating the transformative and ethical potential of art to engage with the ethics of hospitality. Extending Derridean concepts of home, host, and the guest, “ghost or Geist or Gas” (Derrida 1999, 111) to contemporary Kashmir, the Kashmiris and their fraught relationship with the nation-state, especially where issues of sovereignty, anticipated reciprocity and hospitality are concerned, not to mention the ubiquitous threat of violence in all its forms (whether within the state or invading from beyond its borders), Haider recreates the nation as the host, the “master at home” and the disappeared Kashmiris who encroach on his prerogatives and ipseity (or sovereign selfhood) as an “undesirable foreigner”, “virtually as an enemy” (Derrida 2000, 53‒55). In Haider, the figures of the ghost, Hilaal Meer and the disappeared Kashmiris, unambiguously verge on Derrida’s and Levinas’s figure of absolute alterity. Since “[t]here would be no hospitality without the chance of spectrality” (Derrida 1999, 111‒12), the visitation of the ghost of the “disappeared” Kashmiri in the film not only makes visible some of the invisible coordinates of Kashmir’s politics, but also sets into motion ghostpitality premised upon political economy of love and recognition. Developing the notion of democratic politics around ethics of ghostpitality, Bhardwaj welcomes the ghost without judgement or presumption and surrenders control and power. Thus, learning to live with ghosts involves unconditional acceptance by the host. Bhardwaj likens Hilaal Meer, Roohdar and the other disappeared Kashmiris to spectres, the absolute other, whose call or injunction is ethico-political and in responding to and “living together” (Derrida 2013, 19) with the ghost and living well this provides not only intersubjective communication with the otherized Kashmiris, but also “a point of departure to interrogate all statutory conventions and all totalizations” (Kumar 2013, 81) in the postcolonial Indian nation. To recognize and offer unconditional hospitality to those who disappear under the auspices of state terror in Kashmir is to contemplate ghosts and haunting as a special way of not only knowing what has happened or is happening but also acknowledging the ethical dimension that is strongly related to responsibility since the return of ghosts through film gives us the opportunity to learn from them about justice.

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Bhardwaj’s vision of offering ethical hospitality to strangers/ghosts in Haider might lead us also to a reconsideration of not only giving voice but also cultural/ political participation to the Kashmiri silenced/disappeared Muslim other. Alluding to Ruben Espinosa’s and David Ruiter’s (2016) reading of Hamlet’s thoughts alongside the views of Jacques Derrida (2000, 25), Emmanuel Levinas (1985, 98), Seyla Benhabib (2004, 48), and Kwame Appiah (2006, 173) on our responsibility towards the other, it can be said that the filmmaker enunciates a certain sense of possibility that the attainment of complete hospitality is still available, if we want to extend justice to the nameless absent Kashmiri others. Bhardwaj also exhorts the viewers to question themselves about ethical issues such as how we are “folded into (im-pli-cated in)” historical and present-day injustices and “events that at first seem beyond our agency as individual subjects” (Rothberg 2019, 1). This motivates us as to remember our obligation to respect the memory of the ghostly others, our obligation to unlock our homes, open our laws, and make ourselves and our identities receptive to their call and visitation. Emphasizing “the position of the implicated subject that allows us to address the different scales and temporalities of injustice” (Rothberg 2019, 2), Bhardwaj offers an ethical mode of reading Kashmir in its real and imagined figurations.

Cryptomimesis: Cinematics of the Crypt and the Forum Haider is a film premised not only upon the return of the repressed, haunting, mourning and the living dead in Kashmir, but also on cryptonymy and phantomatic transmissions, which suggest “new ways of approaching textuality and textual productions in terms of loss and more precisely in terms of the ability to process loss” (Berthin 2010, 7). Hence, it is important for us to unpack not only the spectres that Bhardwaj imag(in)es but also his cryptomimesis. In her book Cryptomimesis (2001), Jodey Castricano extends “cryptomimesis” as Derrida’s “poetics of the crypt” (8) that manifests itself transgenerationally and institutionally, which “gives us insight into the gaps produced in (psycho)analysis by that spectral structure” (10). The term cryptomimesis underscores a form of writing premised upon “encryption: the play of revelation and concealment lodged within parts of individual words” (Castricano 2001, 6). In Haider, Bhardwaj’s framing of Kashmir not only provides a fuller account of contemporary discursive registers of necropolitics and the consequences of living with its regnant influence, but also decrypts Kashmiri (un)conscious. Decryption, as it has been used here, suggests exhuming something from the crypt of everyday language. Understanding the cryptic as coded speech, which requires deciphering, decryption suggests one of the important ways through which a real or truer picture is obtained. The project of decrypting Kashmiri suggested herein avails itself of all these senses of the term in proposing the body and/consciousness as crypt. Decrypting the workings of the economy of “cryptomimesis” to recover occluded meanings, Haider shows the relationship between the Valley

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and the nation as intimately interlocked as that of the crypt, “a secret interior” (Derrida 1977, xiv) and the forum, a kind of “a public square” (Michera 2014, 198). In his architectural model of human subjectivity within the forum, Derrida constructed “a system of partitions, with their inner and outer surfaces” (1977, xiv) using crypt as one of those conceits that envelops “something or someone, which hints at potential traumas or secrets or an unmourned loved one, buried alive. Were it buried dead, it would not haunt, that is there would not be any crypt effects” (Dragon 2005, 260; emphasis in the original). Thus the crypt is where the brutal past is stored, simultaneously palpable and concealed. Expanding the notion of crypt to Abraham and Torok’s theory of trans-generational trauma (1994), it can be asserted that the refusal to mourn results in the creation of a “psychic tomb” (22) in the mode of a secret transmitted from one generation to another that creates the living themselves become more like living dead (16). In the Indian subcontinent, the spectre of postcolonial legacies, both “revenant”, that which returns from the past, and “arrivant”, that which is to come (Derrida 1994b, 168), are transferred to the succeeding generations within the environment of a specific psychopathology of post-Partition Kashmir and they continue to be entombed within “crypts” carved out of the psychic topography of the traumatized and the disappeared Kashmiris. So, if we were to regard attending to the ghost as “psychoanalytical listening” based on interpretations of the film Haider, the task of the spectator would then consist of “an identification of the concealed contents of the story (hidden deeper than its open and easily denoted theme), rendered dialectic by textual representation “ interiorised” in it in such a way as if it were the patient’s memory” (Michera 2014, 197). The relationship between Kashmir, the “cryptopolitical landscape” (crowded with spectres, phantoms, disappeared, funeral processions, as well as graveyard), and the nation as the forum, is oppositional and imbalanced (Kabir 2009, 148). This is manifested in the ubiquity of a matrix of external, inescapable control over the Kashmiri psyche and body. Since language only communicates a dominant discourse and entombs alive or silences other voices, therefore “by decrypting language of voicing and silencing one could disinter the crypt within the Kashmiri psychic topography, the secret other of the nation” (Haider 2021, 42). As Ananya Jahanara Kabir says, the crypt is “the spatial equivalent of censorship. Who speaks in Kashmir, and on whose behalf?” (2009, 137). Furthermore, these questions derive from “the ways in which language is spoken of in Kashmir…a play between the oral, the written, and the unsaid, between the official and the unofficial, that also hides, in its own sound, the presence of the crypt” (Kabir 2009, 137). As the manifestation of the phantom of the crypt, Haider gives a visual, linguistic and material form to the concealed secret of the traumatised son of the disappeared Kashmiri, and the unwanted act he wants to perform is part of the hidden logic of the phantom. In the film, when Haider excitedly asks the people at Lal Chowk (the busiest downtown area in Srinagar), “Hum kya chahta? [What do we want?],” the crowd replies back in unison

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“Aazadi [Freedom]” (Bhardwaj and Peer 2014, 145), a demand that is firmly embedded in the Kashmiri subconscious. At one point in this scene, Haider asks, Hum hain ki hum nahin? Hum hain to kyun hain aur nahin hain to kahan gaye? Kyun hain to kis liye aur kahan gaye to kab? Janab, hum thay bhee kay hum thay naheen? Chutzpah ho gayaa hamarey saath….Besharam, gustaakh jaisey AFSPA. [Do we exist or do we not? If we do then who are we? If we don’t then where are we? Did we exist at all? Or not? Our suffering comes from chutzpah? […] Such audacity, such stupidity, Like AFSPA]. (Bhardwaj and Peer 2014, 145) In this scene, Bhardwaj transforms “the moment of deep introspection on a purely private dilemma” in Hamlet into a comment on the “tragic state of Kashmir—does it even exist, while India and Pakistan “play border border”—and the audacity of AFSPA which Haider says resembles chutzpah in both sound and meaning” (Panja 2017, 107). Chutzpah, “one of the central tropes of the film”, is furthermore, a homophone of not only AFSPA but also the Hindi profanity “‘chutiyapahn’ (bullshit)” that provides “the filmmakers with the ability to get this particular critique of structures of authority past the censor board” (Mookherjee 2016, 9). The chutzpah of AFSPA grants the armed forces immunity from prosecution and allows them to abuse the law with impunity as “fake encounters”, or the rewriting of extra-judicial killings as necessary force for the maintenance of peace, law and order. Haider’s dialogue decrypts “a certain terrain—a crypt” and in Bhardwaj’s script, the crypt functions as a form of poetics behind the filmmaker’s production of “(s) cryptograms” (Castricano 2001, 6). Bhardwaj infuses the reflexive concern at the centre of this politically subversive scene with crypt-ic language rich in satire and ironic inflections. This ludic way of performing a dialogue between the silenced Kashmiri citizen and the state is a non-sublatable dialectic construction graspable only through its links to what is external to the object. The play-drive partakes an overtly political, together with a performative, function evident in Bhardwaj’s framing of the scene as he seeks to enunciate the violence of reality and psychosis in the Kashmiri subject. Haider’s playful language, which is rich in sparkling wit, scathing irony and friendly banter inflected with political undertones, is a continuation of this understanding of language that not only attempts to unite the conscious and unconscious, but also infuses the politically overbearing and at times ghostly seriousness with satiric levity. The humour and “tendentious jokes are especially favoured in order to make aggressiveness or criticism possible against persons in exalted positions who claim to exercise authority” (Freud 1960, 125). The wisecracks then represent a rebellion against that authority, and the fight for self-determination and a separate state are the demands, which are intensely entrenched in the Kashmiri psyche. Haider’s “cryptographic” speech, “an effect of

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impossible or refused mourning” (Derrida 1977, 78) offers a way of understanding trauma’s secret spaces, the crypt, that is “the blocked expression of a memory trace which cannot tell the submerged history of its own [traumatic] origins” (Abraham and Torok 1994, 7). This psychic aphasia suppresses a secret that is ironically both enclosed and revealed in language. The expressive traces of the crypt become visible in Haider’s speech: gaps within utterances and language, the disintegration of meaning and grammar, and in the breakdown of semantic and rhetorical coherence. To understand the existing yet concealed traces of the secret/truth in the text, the method of cryptonymy, developed by Nicholas Abraham and Maria Torok, is vital to disinter the crypt. In this scene of Haider, the crypt operates like a blind spot within the ego, filtering away any words, phrases, representations, or actions that might give away the secret locked in the crypt. Cryptonymy works predominantly as a reading method, contributing to what Nicholas Rand calls “a theory of readability…demonstrating the feasibility of interpretation in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstructions” (1994, 16). Encrypted and encrypting, Haider exhorts the viewers to reflect upon the nature of language and the crypt that, in turn, produces “a radical psychological model of the individual and collective ‘self’ configured in spectral terms of phantoms and haunting” (Castricano 2001, 13). Bhardwaj enunciates and frames the linkages between the personal and collective memories and the inherent melancholia of Kashmiris through Haider’s “cryptographic speech, which plays a transformational objective by piercing the closed boundaries of a crypt or the walls of silence regarding extensive forms of violence such as torture, rape and humiliation wreaked by the draconian legislations” (Haider 2021, 42). Haider describes both the blatant violation of the law and his constant incitement as “chutzpah”, a homophone of AFSPA (Armed Forces Special Powers Act), the draconian legislation in effect since 1990 that bequeathed to the Indian military a powerful role in both suppressing Kashmiri desire for azaadi (freedom from the Indian state) and preserving the notion of Kashmiri as an eternal enemy, the other. The machinery of a repressive state apparatus and an extremely powerful military mobilised an unceasing and violent campaign in order to construct a Kashmiri society of unresponsive somnambulists or ghosts. Any distortion, unfamiliarity, or neglect of this past, “whether institutionalised by the state or practiced by family, is the breeding ground of the phantomatic return of shameful secrets on the level of individuals, families, the community, and possibly even entire nations” (Abraham and Torok 1994, 169). The phantom that comes back to haunt “bears witness to the existence of the dead buried within the other” (Abraham and Torok 1994, 175). The “inexpressible mourning” of the melancholic unravels as the consequence of “a secret tomb inside the subject” that retains the lost object “buried alive in the crypt” as a form of psychic integration (Abraham and Torok 1994, 130). If the source of the trauma is not revealed, the crypt is secure, but when “faced with the danger of seeing the crypt crumble…the ego begins the public display of the

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interminable process of mourning”, which is melancholia (Abraham, and Torok 1994, 136). The word from the crypt arises, too, “from the gray zone between testifying and making oneself and one’s collective identity vulnerable” (Kabir 2009, 158), then makes itself heard above the common noise. This awowal demonstrates Bhardwaj’s enunciation of Haider’s carnivalesque performance that acts not only as an aesthetico-political testimony, but also as an alternative to official history. Thus, essential to Haider’s carnivalesque act and tragi-comic account of the citizenship, democracy and nation there surely lurks a crypt within which his past, present and future enact in absurd play the ironies of Kashmiri subjectivity.

Conclusion: Spectrality of the Postcolonial Nation and Spectral Alterities Haider employs a ghostly narrative to delineate the “spectrality of the postcolonial nation” (Cheah 1999, 227) and its hauntings in the Valley of Kashmir. Framing the link between the Kashmiri as the crypt and the nation as the forum, Bhardwaj establishes the epistemic and reconciliatory possibilities of the film. The film testifies to the transformational effect of screen memories through its cine-philosophical interrogations of transgenerational haunting of terror, suffering, and spectres of violence. Bhardwaj frames the territory of Kashmir as “a graphematic surface, one replete with signs” (Wyschogrod 1998, 110) and the appearances of spectres are precisely ways of attempting to communicate the incommunicable or say the unsayable through which the agency of the past in the present can produce new narratives. Though lacking in ontological presence, the ghost is never simply “absent”. Much like the spectre, the ghost reminds viewers that the past is a revenant brought back to the present by the mediation of filmmaker that unravels “the moment of decision when the story is structured according to a hierarchical ordering that privileges certain possibilities and discounts others (presence/absence, stable/relative, postmodern/traditional)” (Kleinberg 2017, 52). Through this act of (re)mediation of the past in the present, Bhardwaj “unhinges the past from the ‘as it really happened’ and returns it to the realm of possibilities” (Kleinberg 2017, 52). The politics of Bhardwaj’s cine aesthetics produces what Rancière conceptualized as a specific “sensorium” (2006, 174) of vulnerability for counteracting national consensus through the staging of agonism and disagreement. Engaging with cryptographic cinematic techniques which are capable of breaking silence, revealing secrets, and engendering release of morbid melancholia, Bhardwaj undertakes a role that goes well beyond that of historian, psychoanalyst, or detective, as he imag(in)es the occluded past not only to call forth the ghosts but also reply to them. Whether Hilaal Meer’s ghost is a kind of narrative prosthesis for lost subjectivities, which lives inside the consciousness of Haider whom he visits, or it exists on the borders

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of the physical and metaphysical with an ambiguous ontological status, the most significant issue remains that the voice of the spectre presents an inconvenient embarrassing and problematic truth for contemporary exceptionalist historiography. Haider offers a “cinema of mourning” (Armstrong 2012, 10) in which Meer’s spectral voice mourns for a traumatized Kashmir and her disenfranchised citizens. Underscoring the afterlives of the Partition of the Indian subcontinent, Bhardwaj frames two pressing problems: (a) the explosive tensions between state-sanctioned forced disappearances, human rights and the ethic of ghostpitality, and (b) the dilemma of reconciliation and reparation where the violent traumas of history demand forgiveness. The need to learn to live with and offer unconditional hospitality to the ghosts of the disappeared in Kashmir is significant because “this being-with spectres [is] not only but also, a politics of memory, of inheritance, and of generations” past and future (Derrida 1994a, xix). Bhardwaj shows us how important it is to receive the spectres because “the dead can often be more powerful than the living” (Derrida 1994b, 48). The film underscores that living with the spectres of the past may lead to a different way of imagining Kashmir and its future, both ethically and politically. The conflicted relationship between India and Kashmir in the past cannot simply be denied or entombed: the spectre must be received unconditionally as an “Other” from the past so as to set off its spectral agency in the present, and for the future. The responsibility of the state is to recognize the inheritance indicated by the spectre, to learn to communicate with the spectre in order to reconfigure the present and ameliorate the future potentialities.

References Abraham, Nicolas and Maria Torok. 1994. The Shell and the Kernel: Renewals of Psychoanalysis, vol. 1, edited and translated by Nicholas T. Rand. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Agamben, Giorgio. 1998. Homo Sacer: Sovereignty and Bare Life. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Appiah, Kwame A. 2006. Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers. New York: W. W. Norton. Armstrong, Richard. 2012. Mourning Films: A Critical Study of Loss and Grieving in Cinema. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Benhabib, Seyla. 2004. The Rights of Others: Aliens, Residents, and Citizens. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Benjamin, Walter. 1972. Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 1, edited by R. Tiedemann & H. Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Berthin, Christine. 2010. Gothic Hauntings Melancholy Crypts and Textual Ghosts. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Bhan, Mona, Haley Duschinski, and Ather Zia. 2018. “Introduction. ‘Rebels of the Streets’: Violence, Protest, and Freedom in Kashmir.” In Resisting Occupation in Kashmir, edited by Haley Duschinski, Mona Bhan, Ather Zia, and Cynthia Mahmood, 1–41. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

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Bhardwaj, Vishal. 2014. Haider. Mumbai: UTV Motion Pictures. Bhardwaj, Vishal and Basharat Peer. 2014. Haider: The Original Screenplay. Noida: Harper Collins India. Blanco, María del Pilar and Esther Peeren, eds. 2010. Popular Ghosts: The Haunted Spaces of Everyday Culture. New York: Continuum. Blanco, María del Pilar and Esther Peeren. 2013. “Spectropolitics: Ghosts of the Global Contemporary.” In The Spectralities Reader: Ghosts and Haunting in Contemporary Cultural Theory, edited by María del Pilar Blanco and Esther Peeren, 91–130. London: Bloomsbury. Butler, Judith. 2004. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London and New York: Verso. Carlson, Dennis. 2009. “The Border Crossed Us: Education, Hospitality Politics, and the Social Construction of the ‘Illegal Immigrant.’” Educational Theory 59 (3) (August): 259–277. Castricano, Jodey. 2001. Cryptomimesis: The Gothic and Jacques Derrida’s Ghost Writing. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Chatterji, Angana P. and et al. 2009. Buried Evidence: Unknown, Unmarked, and Mass Graves in Indian-administered Kashmir A Preliminary Report. Jammu & Kashmir: IPTK. Cheah, Peng. 1999 “Spectral Nationality: The Living on [sur-vie] of the Postcolonial Nation in Neocolonial Globalization.” boundary 2 26 (3) (Fall): 225–252. http:// www.jstor.org/stable/303746. Coughlan, David. 2016. “Ghostpitality.” In Ghost Writing in Contemporary American Fiction, edited by David Coughlan, 169–173. London: Palgrave Macmillan. doi:10.1057/978-1-137-41024-5_12. Derrida, Jacques. 1994a. “Exordium.” In Spectres of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning and the New International, xvii–xx. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. New York and London: Routledge. Derrida, Jacques. 1994b. Spectres of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, & the New International. Translated by Peggy Kamuf and Introduction by Bernd Magnus and Stephen Cullenberg. New York: Routledge. Derrida, Jacques. 1999. Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas. Translated by Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Derrida, Jacques. 2000. Of Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond. Translated by Rachel Bowlsby. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Derrida, Jacques. 2013. “Avowing—The Impossible: ‘Returns,’ Repentance, and Reconciliation.” In Living Together: Jacques Derrida’s Communities of Violence and Peace, edited by Elisabeth Weber, translated by Gil Anidjar, 18–44. New York: Fordham University Press. Dick, Maria-Daniella and Julian Wolfreys. 2013. The Derrida Wordbook. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Dragon, Zoltán. 2005. “Derrida’s Specter, Abraham’s Phantom: Psychoanalysis as the Uncanny Kernel of Deconstruction.” The AnaChronisT 11: 253–269. Espinosa, Ruben and David Ruiter, eds. 2016. Shakespeare and Immigration. London and New York: Routledge. Felman, Shoshana. 2002. The Juridical Unconscious. Trials and Traumas in the Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press. Freud, Sigmund. 1960. Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious. Translated by James Strachey. New York: W.W. Norton & Co.

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Gordon, Avery F. 2008. Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Goy-Blanquet, Dominique. 2014. “Phantom of the Cinema: Macbeth’s Ghosts in the Flesh.” In Shakespeare on Screen: “Macbeth,” edited by Sarah Hatchuel, Nathalie Vienne-Guerrin, and Victoria BladenMont-Saint-Aigan, 23–38. France: Publications des Universites de Rouen and du Harve. Haider, Nishat. 2021. “Spectrality, Partition and Borders.” South Asian Review 42 (1) (January): 34–47. doi:10.1080/02759527.2020.1765070. Haider, Nishat. 2022. “The Vale of Desire: Framing Kashmir in Vishal Bhardwaj’s Film, Media, and Representation in Postcolonial South Asia: Beyond Partition, edited by Nukhbah Taj Langah and Roshni Sengupta, 31–45. London and New York: Routledge. Kabir, Ananya Jahanara. 2005. “Nipped in the Bud? Pleasures and Politics in the 1960s ‘Kashmir Films.’” South Asian Popular Culture 3 (2) (19 August): 83–100. doi:10.1080/14746680500234512 Kabir, Ananya Jahanara. 2009. Territory of Desire. New Delhi: Permanent Black. Kleinberg, E. 2017. Haunting History: For a Deconstructive Approach to the Past. Redwood City: Stanford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781503603424. Kumar, Priya. 2013. “Beyond Tolerance and Hospitality: Muslims as Strangers and Minor Subjects in Hindu Nationalist and Indian Nationalist Discourse.” In Living Together: Jacques Derrida’s Communities of Violence and Peace, edited by Elisabeth Weber, 80–203. New York: Fordham University Press. Levin, Harry. 1966. “Shakespeare in the Light of Comparative Literature.” In Refractions: Essays in Comparative Literature, 107–127. New York: Oxford University Press. Levinas, Emmanuel. 1985. Ethics and Infinity: Conversations with Philippe Nemo. Translated by R.A. Cohen. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press. Mahn, Churnjeet and Anne Murphy, ed. 2018. Introduction to Partition and the Practice of Memory, 1–16. Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan. Mbembé, Achille. 2003. “Necropolitics.” Public Culture 15 (1) (1 January): 11–40. Mbembé, Achille. 2019. Necropolitics: Theory in Forms. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Michera, Wojciech. 2014. “Image, Crypt, Interpretation.” Konteksty 1 (Special Issue): 197–203. Mookherjee, Taarini. 2016. “Absence and Repetition in Vishal Bhardwaj’s Haider.” Cogent Arts & Humanities 3 (1) (November): 1–11. doi:10.1080/23311983.2016.1260824. Panja, Shormishtha. 2017. “Curfewed Night in Elsinore: Vishal Bhardwaj’s Haider.” In The English Paradigm in India, edited by Shweta Rao Garg and Deepti Gupta, 101–110. Singapore: Palgrave Macmillan. Peterson, Christopher. 2007. Kindred Spectres: Death, Mourning, and American Affinity. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Rancière, Jacques. 2006. Film Fables. Translated by E. Battista. Oxford: Berg. Rand, Nicholas T. 1994. “Introduction: Renewals of Psychoanalysis.” In The Shell and the Kernel: Renewals of Psycho- analysis, edited by Nicholas Abraham and Maria Torok, translated by Nicholas T. Rand, 1–22. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rothberg, Michael. 2019. The Implicated Subject. Redwood City: Stanford University Press. Schwab, Gabriele. 2010. Haunting Legacies: Violent Histories and Transgenerational Trauma. Columbia University Press.

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Weber, Elisabeth. 2012. “Torture was the Essence of National Socialism. Reading Jean Améry Today.” In Speaking About Torture, edited by Julie Carson and Elisabeth Weber and translated by Glenn Patten, 83–98. New York, USA: Fordham University. https://doi.org/10.1515/9780823242276-007. Wyschogrod, E. 1998. An Ethics of Remembering: History, Heterology, and the Nameless Others. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

6 MULTAN Padmini Mongia

In 2005, a trip I had been imagining for years finally materialised. I had always wanted to travel with my mother to Pakistan, the home she had left behind at Partition. I wanted to see Multan, the place where she was born and where her family was from; I wanted to see her school in Lahore where she had locked her books and her diary when she left for India in 1947, imagining return as so many others at that time had done. My sisters and I had grown up hearing of places and things that sounded impossibly exotic to us, places like Taxila and Sialkot; fruits called falsa and sarda, the recollection of which brought yearning to my parents’ faces every hot Delhi summer as they regretted that we would never taste what they tried to describe to us. For almost all of my sixty-years before I went to Pakistan, it had been a place to dream of, not to see, since travel to Pakistan for ordinary Indian citizens was almost impossible. Periodically, in our then sixty-year history as separated nations, visas had sometimes been easier to obtain, so by the time I went to Pakistan, citizens’ groups from both countries had made trips to the other side. Nevertheless, Pakistan remained a fabled place, a place of mysterious names and unlikely fruits, a place almost unreal. Even though I had met many Pakistanis in the US by the time I went to Pakistan, I still could not imagine it. I could more easily imagine Patagonia. With my mother in the late 1980s, I had seen the popular Pakistani serial, Dhoop Kinarey. At that time, she and her friends had been so excited to be given glimpses of the country that was their home and that they could no longer visit. Along with them, we children marvelled at what Pakistan looked like, its features of “development” as opposed to our “underdevelopment”. Their cars were better, their roads wider, their hospitals cleaner, and their love stories more charming than ours! And yet, despite these and other visual glimpses, Pakistan still retained a fabled remoteness. Part of this remoteness was historically produced since travel to it was not easily possible, and part of it, I think, speaks to a desire, a wish not to see. As I try to understand why I, and even my parents’ generation who lived the Partition, may have wanted or preferred to be unable to see a contemporary Pakistan of which we also inevitably caught glimpses, I think there must have been a comfort, even a necessity, in leaving Pakistan as the place of the past. DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-7

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In that past, Pakistan, or my parents’ home which was what Pakistan meant to my family, remained the place of childhood, of children with parents, of communities where Hindu and Muslim festivals were celebrated in each other’s houses with comfort or, at any rate, not only discomfort. It meant that the later family stories, which I plunder now with some unease, could be forgotten, so we no longer had to think of the specifics of who came across the border and when, who stole the family jewels meant for another, and who may or may not have used violence to protect themselves. As children, my sisters and I waited for the stories my grandparents and parents told of Pakistan, knowing without understanding that they could not be prodded for sharing more than they chose to reveal at any given time. Instinctively, we knew that with Partition stories, one could never tell what ugliness, what pain could emerge. Although I had heard about Multan all my life, I had never sought any information about it. I am puzzled by this lack of initiative, especially since I am curious about so many random things far less significant in my life. Even accounting for the pre-internet years, when places and images were not a mere click away, there is something peculiar about the almost stolid refusal to locate the place my maternal side of the family called home. It was as if I did not want to make the place real, as if we all—the elders who knew it and the children who didn’t—preferred to leave the place as it had been in the past for one generation and a place to construct for the other. It was as if we all tacitly agreed Multan could only be known in the way my grandparents and mother and aunts and uncles chose to let us see it. The other possible explanation for my lack of probing is the conviction—which my parents and their generation shared for so many years after Partition—that neither they, nor their children, would ever see Pakistan, would ever return home again. My parents spoke of the fruits we would not taste as one of the sad facts of real life, which had to be accepted and which there was no way around. Perhaps since Pakistan was not a place my parents or we could ever visit, it was best to let it go, to leave it in the past. So, I had let Multan be the place the older people in my family created: the place my maternal grandparents left behind and spoke of with pain because it was a place they had to forget, although they could not forget it. My grandmother talked of her mother’s house, of the silver thalis and katoris left in the kitchen when the family fled at Partition. My grandparents’ stories of Multan clearly evoked lives and commitments abruptly stemmed in midstream, as if along with the kitchen utensils a pot of rice had been left bubbling on the choola in the kitchen even though it was meant for the evening meal. My Nana and Nani sometimes spoke to each other in Multani, a language of which we grandchildren followed every tenth word or less. My grandmother tended to Multani more readily when she was annoyed with her husband and wanted his attention for some practical, household matter that he was trying to ignore. Memories of holidays at my grandparents as a child are punctuated with my grandmother’s voice calling out, “Aji sunvaan”, in Multani as my grandfather readies himself to step out. Before my grandfather listens to my grandmother, she has tried many languages and failed, until she finally resorts to

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Multani, a language my grandfather will not ignore. Her call—Aji sunvaan—is both respectful and cross, the words themselves suggesting respect but her intonation betraying that she is close to the end of her patience. Nobody else I knew spoke Multani, not my uncles and aunts and not my parents. The languages they used were English and Hindi, so that to our childish ears the occasional sounds of Multani, Punjabi, and Sindhi were foreign. Perhaps my grandparents’ friends spoke Multani when they met each other, but it is a sound I only vaguely recall. My father did not speak Multani and my mother had no Punjabi. My family and I, displaced Pakistanis who called Delhi home even though we never lived there during our growing years, were increasingly English-speaking people. Growing up as we did, all over the country, from the northeastern states of Meghalaya, Assam, Nagaland, Arunachal to far away Goa, we were lucky to have exposure to the variety of India but we lost what little route we had to any language that could locate us geographically. By the time I was six or seven, I don’t even think we spoke Hindi comfortably to each other, losing our hold on Hindi too as we moved. The Delhi Punjabi we occasionally heard on our visits to that city was a foreign sound, a sound everyone seemed to have agreed to revile, mourning how poor a relative it was to the sound of Urdu or of the Punjabi people had spoken back in Pakistan. Along with a land that was no longer ours, my family, like so many other Punjabis, lost a common language. My friend, the Ghanaian novelist, Ama Ata Aidoo, with whom I became friendly in the late 1980s when we both taught at the University of Richmond, always spoke of the irreparable damage done to the African-American population of the US by their experience of losing connection to a known geographical base. She maintained that if people did not know how to locate and name the ground from which they came, there was inevitably an unmoored quality to their lives. For Aidoo, whether or not one went or could go home, it was important to be able to name home, to know which piece of earth had birthed you. People literally needed nameable, recognisable ground, whether or not it lay beneath their feet. I was struck by this notion then, and have thought of it often since. For the displaced of Partition, though the land one belonged to was nameable, that it could not be returned to felt an impossible loss even for those, like people of my generation, who were not born in Pakistan. Only after I travelled to Multan with my mother did that pull towards a land and a region recede for me. Why didn’t I feel such a pull towards my father’s hometown of Lyallpur? I’m not sure. My paternal grandparents died years before my maternal ones did, and that might explain why I heard less about Lyallpur than Multan during my childhood. The other reason could be that for my father’s sisters, who were in Pakistan with their father in the months before Partition, the migration to India bore traces of more difficult stress than the experiences of my mother and her siblings. My mother’s parents were already living in India at Partition, my grandfather a civil engineer posted in Roorkee. My mother and her siblings who were studying in Lahore had their lives interrupted, of course, but they had a home and parents to whom to come. For my father’s sisters, there was no welcoming home this side of the border. My father was in the army at the time, a new recruit of twenty, and not

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in a position to receive his sisters. They had to live with their mother’s sister in Delhi, in a house full of refugees, and they felt the pain of knowing they were regarded as hungry mouths at a time of scarcity. They always spoke of this experience with pain, even though the years had passed and many other griefs and losses had since been lived. My paternal grandfather stayed in Pakistan till just months before Partition, unwilling to leave behind a flourishing practice as a doctor. In the way the story was told to us, by all but his children, he had been irresponsible not to recognise he had young daughters who needed to be placed safely across the border. My aunts never blamed their father, understanding that he would not want to leave his practice or the place he associated with the young wife, their mother, whom he had lost just a few years earlier. In any case, the story of Partition for my father’s side of the family is a different story. And perhaps it is not even the story of my aunts who lived with their masi but did not feel welcomed there. Perhaps it is not the story of their stitching salwars at night so they could earn a little money to buy the food they cooked separately, as I just learnt for the first time only in 2016. No, it is not the story of these young girls fending for themselves in a close relative’s house. The story of Partition for my father’s family is of my grandfather’s brother’s son, a boy who saw his parents killed before his eyes, and of a boy who was first taken by a Muslim family to raise as their own because he was fair and beautiful. The boy was eventually located, brought to India, and placed in an orphanage. My grandfather neither raised nor educated him as a part of his family. When I asked my only surviving aunt in 2016 why my grandfather did not adopt his brother’s child, my bua said in bewilderment: “But how could he? Imagine how traumatised he must have been, having lost his wife, his home, his profession, and his income.” I have never thought of my grandfather’s trauma, unable to get past wondering how my grandfather could not adopt his brother’s child, a child of five. Did my aunts, my father’s sisters, also have such questions, unvoiced and hardly even known to themselves? Is that why, when they spoke of Partition, it was only about their aunt, their mother’s sister, and never about their young cousin who saw his parents killed? These aunts rarely spoke of their home back in Pakistan. Only very recently, on my probing, did I find out details of their family life as they lived it when they were children. So, their stories were not the ones with which I grew up, not the stories that kindled my imagination into curiosity about where my family came from and impelled a visit to that place. Besides, my father was long gone, and to make the trip to his hometown without him would have had a poignancy beyond what I wanted to live. When my mother and I made our trip to Pakistan, we flew to Lahore, where we were met and looked after by a friend my mother had made on a previous visit when she had travelled to Pakistan with students who had studied in or graduated from Lahore’s famous Kinnaird College. Although my mother had been too young to attend Kinnaird herself and instead graduated with the first batch of Delhi’s Miranda House College, Kinnaird is the college she would have attended had she stayed in Lahore. The Delhi Kinnairdites had made her an honorary member of their group when they made their first visit to Pakistan in the mid 1990s. These

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women, from both sides of the border, hosted each other in their homes and invited each other into their families. My mother was much loved by many of the members of this group, and Afroz was one of my mother’s adopted daughters. When I expressed my desire to visit Multan, the first person my mother thought to inform was Afroz. She arranged our trip and made for me a special concession: instead of flying from Lahore to Multan we drove, so we could stop in Harappa. For me to go to Pakistan without seeing either Mohenjo-Daro or Harappa would have meant an incomplete trip. Like so many other cities in Pakistan, these two were also fabled ones, but they were places made more real for me through the history books we read during our school years than the cities of which my parents spoke. Somehow textbooks in India had found a way to claim Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro as Indian, despite their location in Pakistan postIndependence. As a result, they were easier for me to claim because they had remained ours—Indian—even as they were Pakistani in a way different from the many other cities that exerted their exotic pull on me. My mother and I went to Pakistan in August, not the recommended time for a trip to the plains of the Punjab, but the time that worked out given various schedules. After a brief stay in Lahore, we did the long drive to Harappa, past mango orchards laden with the chaunsa for which Multan is famous. At the site of the ruins, dusty brick and crumbling low walls stretched on for what seemed like acres of space. Here and there, startlingly bright trees—tight orange flowers on thorny branches—bloomed in an otherwise parched landscape. We wandered through these ruins in the searing sun while Afroz told us that all the government funding went towards Mohenjo-Daro rather than Harappa, the former being closer to Karachi and the more visited site. Visiting Harappa felt very satisfying. I understood this in terms of the thrill of having seen one of the oldest civilizations in the world and one, no matter how distant, from which I came. It made me think of the reactions my sister and her friends had when they first visited Pakistan, some seven years or so before I did. It was their first trip, and they came back from Pakistan radiant with the joy of having visited it. I remember a conversation with my sister and another friend, and both said that for them going to Pakistan was like coming home. Both felt a comfort, a painful one, of course, but nevertheless a comfort that they had been able to come home. I had been puzzled by this description they’d shared, doubting I would feel any such thing if and when I visited Pakistan. But my deep pleasure in seeing the brown, barren stretches of the ruins of the Indus Valley made me wonder if my feeling was akin to some such sense of home. Seeing Harappa brought to me a kind of closure. We arrived in Multan later that night and checked into our hotel rooms but not to rest. Multan is a sacred place, the birthplace of Sufism, and the site of several significant tombs, so Afroz had places to visit that night herself. Interestingly, nobody in my mother’s family had ever mentioned this dimension of Multan, whereas to Afroz visiting Multan was akin to a pilgrimage. We quickly prepared ourselves to go to the dargah of Shah Rukn-e-Alam. My memories of that visit are hazy, because it was already late in the evening and the dargah was crowded. A chaperone, arranged by Afroz’s husband, shepherded us from site to

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site at the dargah as we offered a chadar and prayers. It was the next day that I really saw Multan, the city, in its colour and monumentality. Two features of Multan provoked a reaction that seems noteworthy to me now. The first was the range of blue tile-work all over the ancient monuments. Whether it was the dargah or the walls of the fort, they were decorated with spectacular blue and green tiles in a variety that was breathtaking (See Figure 6.1). All of old

FIGURE 6.1 Inside the tomb of Shah Rukn-e-Alam Photo Courtesy Padmini Mongia

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Multan seemed to me bathed in lapis, in peacock blue, in viridian green. Even on the walls of the old fort, made of red brick, thin bands of blue ran as a trim along the towers of the fort (See Figure 6.2).

FIGURE 6.2 Multan Fort Photo Courtesy Padmini Mongia

The second was that the roundedness of the buildings—the towers and domes—had a different roundedness than any I had seen before. Examples of pre-Mughal architecture, these buildings in Multan brought to mind buildings of Central Asia; they had an Uzbeg flavour. Suddenly for me, an earth that had in my imagination dropped away at Pakistan or maybe Afghanistan stretched away to further places, all part of this mass of Asia to which India also belonged. Those rounded yet slightly squat domes with their blue tiles made me recognise—with the shock of recognition even though I was learning nothing new—that people had flowed from the west and north down to the place we knew as India and brought with them their shapes and colours and allowed us to call them Indian (See Figure 6.3).

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FIGURE 6.3 Tomb of Shah Rukn-e-Alam Photo Courtesy Padmini Mongia

On that first full day in Multan, my mother and I also set off to the old city, to the section where the Hindu houses used to be, to search for her family house. My uncle, her older brother, had told me the house faced a park and was on the outer street of the ilaka. He feared the house might have been pulled down, so the facing park was a helpful marker to locate where the house might have stood. Afroz did not accompany us on this search, but she sent with us a young local man as our guide to help us navigate the city and streets we did not know. Within minutes of arriving in the old city, we gathered a small following of people who took on our search as theirs. There was an older man with red hair, an ironmonger, who joined us for the whole morning. There was no shaking him off. We wandered down different streets, looking at the houses. Many houses still had their Hindu names written above. One such said “Khanna Mansion, 1935”. Initially I was surprised that nobody had bothered erasing such names, but then I thought it also made sense that nobody had bothered. The people who had moved into these houses had to build new lives, so erasing names may not have been a significant priority. The houses no longer seemed to be single-family homes, but were broken down into smaller units to house many people in each one. There was a mess of electric wires, posters, and painted

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doors reminiscent of the houses one would see in Karol Bagh or Rajinder Nagar in Delhi, but less congested (See Figure 6.4).

Old City, Multan Photo Courtesy Padmini Mongia

FIGURE 6.4

At some point, we were ushered into somebody’s house, the house of another person who had joined our search. Chilled fizzy drinks appeared out of nowhere, and there was no question of our paying for them or not drinking them. We tried repeatedly to suggest we could manage our search fine on our own, especially since we did have a local with us, but our protests were useless. The people who had joined us stayed with us through that hot, August morning. They questioned my mother about what may have been around her house, what size it was, what colour it was, or any other distinguishing feature to help us identify it. She could name none. Besides the park in front of the house, which my uncle had told us about, we had no other information. But the park my uncle had mentioned turned out not to be the most precise of aids, since several parks dotted the area (See Figure 6.5).

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Old City, Multan Photo Courtesy Padmini Mongia

FIGURE 6.5

The locals who had joined us were getting rather restless. With no markers to identify the house, how would we find it? They were keen to be given clues to follow so they could successfully show my mother her childhood home. Embarrassed to be so vague I asked my mother rather sharply: “Don’t you remember anything? Doesn’t anything here make you remember something?” Testily, she replied, “No, I don’t remember anything. After all, I didn’t live here. I left Multan when I was less than a year old.” To say I was stunned by my mother’s reply does not remotely capture the speechless wonder her answer produced. But I could not, there in the middle of old Multan and surrounded by an audience of well-wishers, ask her what she meant by this startling revelation. As I slowly realised we would never find my mother’s house, I determinedly re-focused on the park my uncle had mentioned and suggested to the people around me that we use it to identify where the house might have stood. I wanted, and I wanted those who had helped us so generously, to leave with some sense of accomplishment that although we hadn’t actually found my mother’s house, we had more or less identified where it must have stood. And that is what we did. It took a journey to Multan for me to learn that my mother had never lived there, not beyond the first year of her life. In fact, neither had my grandparents

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lived there with their children. My grandfather had left Multan to study engineering at Banaras Hindu University (BHU) as early as 1916, and thereafter he only visited Multan. My grandfather’s family house, also in the old city, was one shared by many, a joint family house, whereas my maternal grandmother’s mother and father built their own house, complete as the story goes, with an inbuilt safe for their valuables. In this house, my mother and three of her brothers and sisters were born. Occasionally, as children, my mother and her siblings visited their maternal grandmother, and it is her house they recalled when they spoke of the house left behind at Partition. While I had thought we were searching for the house in which my mother and her family had lived, we were, in fact, searching for my maternal great grandmother’s house. My mother was born in 1932. Although another three of her siblings were also born in Multan, they were educated in other places. After my grandfather finished his degree at BHU, he had started working with the Engineering Department of the United Provinces and his career unfolded on the Indian side of the border. My mother and her family lived in Roorkee, in Simla, in Moradabad, in Delhi. Through our growing years as children, though, and for all the years after, my mother and her siblings and their parents called Multan home. Home was not Lahore, not Simla, not Moradabad, not Delhi. Of Roorkee, where my grandfather spent several years, they spoke often, but it was always clear that’s not where they were from. They were from Multan. Despite the fact that my grandparents did not live as adults in Multan or raise any of their six children there, Multan offered them the foods they preferred, the music that was familiar. Multan was the place from which they came. Movement shaped the lives of my mother and her siblings, and it also took from them their language. They did not speak Multani because they hadn’t grown up in an environment where Multani was spoken. The older ones, like my mother, had to be sent to boarding school to afford continuity in their education as their father was transferred from place to place. They spoke English and Urdu or English and Hindi. My grandparents had Multani, but my mother and her siblings only had a rudimentary Punjabi. After Partition, they increasingly lost the Urdu they had acquired as children and spoke mostly English and Hindi. Just as for the generation that came after—my sisters and me—English became the language more easily resorted to as my mother’s family, like ours, moved around a country with its myriad unrelated languages. When I think of my trip to Multan, what puzzles me most is how I did not know, before I made that journey, that my mother had not lived in and known Multan. How had this not come up in the 45 years I’d lived before we went there? Why did it not occur to her or to my uncles, with whom we had several excited discussions before our journey, to mention this? I don’t know. The only way I can make sense of this elision is that Multan offered such a

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fixed sense of home to my mother and her siblings that they didn’t need to have lived there to call it home and feel they knew it. In a way I suppose they did know Multan. Perhaps for my mother and her siblings their longing for Multan was fed by their parents’ longing and had become inseparable from it. Perhaps the sense of loss associated with home was circulated and shared so that we children, two generations later, inherited that loss and associated it with a place we did not know but could name. Multan was already for my mother’s generation the city her parents knew. It was not my mother’s city, which was Delhi. She barely knew Multan any better than I did, though her attachment to it was incomparably stronger than mine, strong enough that we made a journey to it and searched for a house she could not remember. Perhaps this was that geographical belonging of which Aidoo spoke, the groundedness afforded by knowing from which part of this earth you sprang. Home, fixed and unshaken, remained Multan. Even if my mother and her siblings did not know their home, they knew where they came from. My mother and I left the Old City with objects gifted to us, generously and spontaneously, by strangers. I have a clay glass that the matka wala insisted on giving us when my mother told him she had been born in Multan. The lohe wala with the red hair who had joined us on our search gifted me a spatula from his shop. I use it when flipping rotis or paranthas on a tava. Its handle is made with a raw, unfinished, pale wood, which has been coloured in red and green bands. The wood is so porous the paint has seeped into it and left only a pale colour on the handle. Later in our trip, at a small museum shop in Multan, we saw blue pottery, just like the blue pottery of Rajasthan. Surprised, I asked whether the blue pottery shown here was local. I was told it was. Again, my world suddenly altered geographically, and the regions I knew as Rajasthan and Gujarat shifted their physical boundaries to grow larger and flatter and become connected parts of the solid earth beneath my feet. Their doing so made me recognise how firmly I had accepted the border that had been placed between our countries, even as I knew the border was arbitrary, unresponsive to the lived realities of peoples, languages, foods, and customs on the ground. I knew my family was an example of the rupture created by that border. And yet, it took an experience such as the one where I encountered pottery I thought of as typical to a region of India to recognise that that region spread beyond the limits ascribed to it by national boundaries. This feeling of inner dislocation made the fabled, remote quality of Multan recede and replaced it with more prosaic, geographical connections to places such as Rajasthan, to places such as India. At the time my mother and I made our trip to Multan, I had only been painting for five years. I did not plan to paint Multan, and yet the first paintings I made when I returned to Philadelphia evoked all those blues and greens with which I must have been suffused. Multan Fort was the first of the

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pieces I completed (See Figure 6.6). Multani Chunni evoked the fine embroidered gossamer chunnis we bought in the market there (See Figure 6.7). The most vivid of these pieces, though, is the one I call Inner Town, Multan. At the time I painted it, it was the largest painting I had made. Without planning to do so, I had used the colours of the doorways of Multan, a pastel green colour, which a friend from Moradabad told me was called in UP “Mussalman rang”. I have seen so many shutters in old cities in the north in India

FIGURE 6.6

Padmini Mongia; Multan Fort; 16 x 6 inches; Acrylic on Canvas, 2006

FIGURE 6.7

Padmini Mongia; Multani Chunni; Acrylic on Canvas; 20 x 20 inches, 2007

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painted with this colour. I suspect that the unusual chalkiness of the colour comes from the mixing of lime in the paint to help keep away insects. When I made the painting, I had been experimenting with coconut fibre brushes from Kerala and grass ones from other parts of India, usually used for whitewashing houses. These materials and colours found their way into this painting (See Figure 6.8).

FIGURE 6.8

Padmini Mongia; Inner Town, Multan; Acrylic on Canvas; 40.5 x 40.5 inches, 2006

Most moving was the fact that my mother, who I did not think would respond to abstract art, loved the painting and said she wanted to keep it. It became the focal point of her drawing room and held the whole room together. A round Murano glass pot—a matka she had bought years ago—had the same vivid blues and greens as my painting did. Perhaps the colour of Multan had seeped into her consciousness too through the long years of hearing about the place from her parents, and she had instinctively chosen the colours and shapes associated with their home. Before we left Multan, I tasted falsa. It made my mouth pucker. Never a big fan of melons, I chose not to try the sarda. But the mangoes there were the best I had ever eaten. My mother and I returned from Multan with cases

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of these chaunsa mangoes, which we sent to the many aunts and uncles in Delhi. I had expected them to be delighted to receive fruit from the place that was once their home, but they accepted the mangoes somewhat hesitantly, almost suspiciously. Was it perhaps too intimate to taste food from a place made forcibly foreign, a place now forbidden to these elderly people but where, as children, they must have climbed the very trees that produced this fruit? Was it a similar discomfort that made them resist going to Multan themselves, as I encouraged them to do after my own trip, even promising to accompany them? I do not know. Like so much else in the stories of families, silences faithfully accompany speech, even when nobody means to withhold.

7 SITES OF MEMORY Popular Sufi Shrines in Post-Partition Punjab Yogesh Snehi

The Partition of Punjab in 1947 dramatically transformed the demographic composition of the region. Indian/East Punjab was reduced to a Hindu/Sikh dominated province which was further reorganised into Sikh (Punjabi) and Hindu (Hindi/Pahari) regions in 1966. One of the most important consequences of this transformation was the abandonment of sacred shrines by the migrating Punjabi Muslim population in the period from 1947 to at least 1964, the year in which the Central Wakf Council was established. Many of these sacred spaces, which consisted of mosques, dargahs, khanqahs, takiyas or graveyards, remained desolate or were encroached upon and put to alternative use. However, it is curious to note that ritual practices at dargahs, khanqahs, and takiyas associated with major Sufi mystics or local saints of Punjab were either restored within the early decades post-Partition, or were gradually rejuvenated through the agency of some individuals or local practitioners of Sufi saint veneration. Memory played a significant role in the articulation of this process. It will thus be significant to chart this process and understand the reasons for which Sufi shrines continue to reverberate in the popular landscapes of East Punjab, despite an almost negligible presence of Punjabi Muslims across the province, except a major concentration in Malerkotla or sparse distribution around Ropar. While some local Muslim communities and pre-Partition networks played a role in reinstituting shrine practices, a majority of these involved the agency of non-Muslims. This chapter intends to understand this process through some case studies of popular Sufi shrines in contemporary Punjab. Unlike major Sufi shrines in South Asia, which have been the focus of scholars for a very long time, popular Sufi shrines have remained outside historical exploration. These shrines have mostly been explored by anthropologists as a realm of faith, healing, miracle, and rituals. Historians have rarely trodden DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-8

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this realm and have often reduced them to the status of fake or fictitious shrines. The post-Partition scenario complicates this milieu further since several major shrines were also denuded of their history and space. What do we make of these shrines? The fact that they continued to survive requires an objective framework to make sense of their existence. Memory plays an important role in this enterprise. These shrines have served as what Pierre Nora calls lieux de mémoire (sites of memory).

Memory Studies and Popular Sufi Shrines Memory plays a crucial role in the social space of saint veneration, particularly with the Partition of the province in 1947 that permanently reordered the sacred landscapes of migrants. This abrupt transformation didn’t leave much scope for the coming back of the migrating population and revisiting the familiar spaces and neighbourhood that were left behind as borders became almost permanent with each subsequent decade (Ahmed 2013).1 The continued veneration of shrines dedicated to Pirs is therefore a “quest for memory” that rekindles the “search for one’s history”, a sphere where history and memory intersects (Nora 1989, 13). Pierre Nora laments how memory and history have been pitted against each other. The professionalization of history in the nineteenth century rendered memories dubious as a source for the verification of historical facts. Written documents seemed less amenable to distortion and thus preferable to memories. We can also imagine their suspicions of memory as part of a painful effort by academics to separate history as a secular practice from a background of cultural religiosity. (Klein 2000, 130) Further, memories that are “considered localised and tied to specific [physical] places”…serve as “critiques of history…History, on the other hand, tends to receive its power from the ubiquitous locales of the state and is often the domain of the archive, the repository of historical memory” (Novetzke 2008, 27). Memory is treated as subjective, selective, and uncritical while history is seen to be objective, scientific, and subject to empirical scrutiny (Johnson 2005, 166–7). But, as Friedrich Nietzsche contended, this neat separation was never complete, and the “return of memory discourse suggests that at least some of us have lost interest in maintaining the separation” (cited in Klein 2000, 130). Also, “memory as re-membering, re-collection, and re-presentation is crucial in the mapping of historical moments and in the articulation of identity” (Johnson 2005, 166). As Jonathan Boyarin has put it, “memory is neither something pre-existent and dormant in the past nor a projection from the present, but a potential for creative collaboration between the present consciousness and the experience or expression of the past” (cited in Johnson 2005, 166). The

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articulation of this identity is a crucial trope in the recovery of the continuities of historical identity, a kind of therapeutic alternative to the historical narrative which comes to the fore in the age of historiographic crisis (Klein 2000, 145). Thus “memories shaped by trauma are most likely to subvert totalizing varieties of historicism” (Klein 2000, 138) that rupture the silences imposed on historical narratives since the Partition of Punjab. Thus, any open ended historical narrative on Punjab that draws from individual memory (Cubitt 2007, 16) will help to recreate a viable resource of “social memory” with significant threads of continuities and ruptures, dreams and memories. This memory is “essentially social…not a property of individual minds, but a diverse and shifting collection of material artefacts and social practices” (Klein 2000, 130). As Johnson states, “By thinking of memory as the dialectic of history, in constant dialogue with the past, we [thus] begin to see how the separation of history from memory becomes more problematic” (2005, 170). Memory has now become a key term in the lexicon of historical study, an almost obligatory concept for the validation of new modes of historical enquiry and for the revamping of old ones and, as Kerwin Lee Klein argues, it has become a “metahistorical category” that subsumes folk, myth, popular or oral history (2000, 128). In turning to memory, historians have turned towards “new ways of organizing and labelling and describing their objects of study, and new ways of conceptualizing the nature of their own discipline and the knowledge it is geared to producing” (Cubitt 2007, 2).2 Treating memory as a legitimate form of historical understanding opens new avenues of research where subjective renderings of the past “become embedded in the processes of interpretation and are not seen as merely counterpoints to objective facts” (Johnson 2005, 171). Johnson adds a significant political dimension to popular memory that can be a “vehicle through which dominant, official renditions of the past can be resisted…by maintaining oppositional group identity embedded in subaltern memories. The deployment of local and oral histories in the formation of group identities can be a powerful antidote to both state and academic narratives of the past, especially where marginalized groups are concerned” (Samuel cited in Johnson 2005, 168). In history’s turn to memory, historians have gained an entry into the interdisciplinary arena (Cubitt 2007, 2). Memory thus ruptures the unitary discourse of conventional historiography, giving space to continuities as well as transformations. Memory is also “spatially constituted” (Johnson 2005, 171). Peter Burke suggests that historians should be concerned with memory as a historical phenomenon, what he calls the “social history of remembering” by identifying the “principles of selection and to note how they vary from place to place or from one group to another and how they change over time” (2011, 189). Maurice Halbwachs argues that “every collective memory requires the support of a group delimited in space and time” (2011, 145). Burke cautions that in order to understand the “workings of the social memory it may be worth investigating the social organization of forgetting, the

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rules of exclusion, suppression or repression, and the question of who wants whom to forget what, and why” (2011, 191). Aleida Assmann adds that on the level of cultural memory too, “the continuous process of forgetting is a part of social normality” (2011, 334). Paul Connerton finds a significant connection between memory and spatiality through the performance of “commemorative ceremonies”. This highly representational “performative memory” is expressed bodily. Therefore, there is a neglected aspect of social memory, that is, “bodily social memory” (2011, 338). However, Geoffrey Cubitt does not consider “social memory” and “collective memory” as synonymous terms (2007, 18). He argues that social memory consists of a host of interlocking practices, many of them continuous or repetitive, some of them subtly transformative of people’s sense of identity. Some of these practices are premised on, or geared specifically to promoting, concepts of collective identity or corporate continuity that foster the fiction of collective memory; others are geared to more mundane social purposes. (Cubitt 2007, 19) Thus, “what is remembered is always reconfigured, and thus implicitly reinterpreted” (Cubitt 2007, 70–71), “never merely resuscitated or reproduced” (Cubitt 2007, 79). Thus, quoting Maurice Halbwachs, Nora suggests that “there are as many memories as there are groups, that memory is by nature multiple and yet specific; collective, plural, and yet individual” (cited in Nora 1989, 8–9). Thus, popular shrines as lieux de mémoire are sites of double excess (Nora 1989, 23–24).

Urs and “Memory Making” After the Partition of Punjab, a large number of shrines that were earlier under the control of Muslim caretakers remained desolate and even when taken over by a new set of caretakers, the restoration of ritual practices took a longer time. During Partition, several of these shrines were looted, plundered and mosques converted into private residences. The restoration of ritual practices was a longdrawn process and involved the absorption of the shrine into the transformed demographic milieu as their old patrons had left for Pakistan. Some of these shrines were major centres of veneration in the pre-Partition milieu. There was no clarity on the status of these shrines and the state perceived them as “enemy” properties. However, for the people who were forced to leave their familiar spaces in Pakistan, the location of these shrines, at least partially, substituted predisplacement lived landscapes. For instance, in the case of Panj Pir dargah at Abohar, it was the Kamboj family who had migrated from Montgomery that helped rejuvenate the shrine by instituting langar and ritual practices on Thursdays as well as the annual fair. However, in the case of the

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shrine of Haji Rattan, Partition induced an end to the dargah’s relationship with Naths who used to come for Baba Rattan’s urs and participated in the wrestling tournaments (kushti) (Bouillier and Khan 2009, 568). One of the most fascinating aspects of this rejuvenation was the emergence of urs celebrations at Sufi shrines (Figure 7.1). The urs has been a predominant occasion of celebration at most Chishti, Qadiri and Suhrawardi shrines and is particularly associated with the performance of sama and qawwali. Frembgen reports kafi singing and trance rhythms during the urs at the shrine of Imam Gul in Pakistan—“the songs of the wandering dervishes, and above all the ecstatic love poetry of the qawwali singers, [which] are a genuine component of celebrations of Muslim saints throughout the subcontinent” (Frembgen 2012, 43).3 He further elaborates the contemporary scenario of urs celebration in Pakistan. Just as drummers usually precede a wedding procession, here too at the ‘urs festival of Imam Gul they introduce the musical programme. On the day commemorating the death of a saint everywhere in Muslim South Asia, his ‘urs—his “wedding”—is celebrated, understood as the mystical wedding of the believers with Allah, the Beloved. Soon a trumpeter joins the dhol-wallahs. This is Jana, the “Miles Davis of Lahore”, a very modest musician who plays Indian ragas on his instrument. In the course of the raga, the tones become increasingly powerful, increasingly energetic. Spontaneously, several young boys leap onto the stage and dance dhamaal ecstatically. Over the tent bats fly frantically, diving up and down as if following the cascade of sounds. (Frembgen 2012, 27)

FIGURE 7.1 Darbari qawwals from Kaliyar Sharif performing at Amritsar in 2010 Photo Courtesy Yogesh Snehi

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Unlike the processions of Muharram which are usually marked by ritual mourning, the urs is an overcoming of physical death, a testimony of life after life and its meaning consists not in the mourning for the saint but in the joy from contact with his baraka. Where does the quote end? “That is why near a tomb you will see neither tears nor hear sorrowful moans – here you will come across altogether different sounds” (Suvorova 2004, 33). Since the pir’s tomb is present on an earthly plane, he is accessible to ordinary believers. Also, precisely “because the pir has achieved his “urs (union with his beloved, the ultimate goal of Sufi gnostic experience), he is in far closer communion with Allah than a living person could ever hope to be. Hence his capacity to act as an intercessor” (Ballard 2006, 164). Roger Ballard narrates his observation on Sufi shrines of Doab. Although virtually all the indigenous Muslim population of the Doab fled west to Pakistan over half a century ago, careful inspection revealed that a significant number of rural shrines were those of pirs, since the shrouds covering such well-tended tombs and the flags which flew over them were green – the colour of Islam. The largest of these shrines became hives of activity on each juma”raat (the evening preceding the Islamic day of prayer on Friday) and positively burst with energy at their annual “urs of the saintly pir entombed within it – even though the local Muslim population had long since disappeared. It follows that virtually all those making use of the shrine belonged to local Hindu or Sikh families” (Ballard 2006, 165). Yousuf Saeed gives a conventional argument regarding the popularity of pilgrimages to popular Sufi shrines among Muslims by arguing that “since a sizeable number of Indian Muslims are unable to travel to Mecca for Hajj, local shrines and folklore play an important role in their religious lives.” He adds that the “devotees from smaller towns embark on many lesser pilgrimages, covering in a trip many tombs of saints” such as Nizamuddin Auliya at Delhi or Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti at Ajmer, especially during their urs celebrations (Saeed 2007, 78). These teleological arguments limit the spatial dynamics of saint veneration and do not explain the participation of non-Muslims particularly during the annual urs. 4 This line of argument is particularly extant in the western academia and has recently been critiqued by Irfan Ahmad who argues against the use of problematic conceptual categories. [I]s “cult” analytically useful to describe Muslim practices? …I also disagree with the description of Muharram as “carnival”—indeed the

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“carnival of Muharram” as he [Nile Green 2011] puts it…and the explanation that the ʿurs “tapped into the same demand for entertainment that funded the expansion of music halls in Bombay and…cinemas as well”.” (Ahmad 2013, 498) Among the significant transformations of the sacred landscapes of Punjab is the emergence of urs celebrations at several public places organized by neighbourhood communities (Figure 7.2). Several such festivals are organized at Amritsar, a city that is particularly popular for the veneration of popular saints like Baba Lakhdata (Lalanwala Pir Nigaha), Gugga Pir (also known as Zahir Pir) and Khwaja Khizr (locally venerated as Jhule Lal). Amritsar also has a substantial influence of the Chishti Sabari silsila through the shrine of Kaliyar Sharif that plays an important role in the circulation of literature and mystic ideology (via ritual intermediaries and musicians) and is associated with a network of shrines from Amritsar, Batala to Patiala. One such urs has been annually organized by Sai Baba Gope Shah “Chishti Faridi Sabri” in the walled city for the past 18 years.5 In the year 2007, the practice of organizing a qawwali darbar was also started. Since then, Daman Sabri, the darbari qawwals of Kaliyar Sharif perform at the occasion for the

A Musical Concert at the Shrine of Data Gulami Shah (Banga) during the Annual Mela in 2010 Photo Courtesy Yogesh Snehi FIGURE 7.2

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entire night (Figure 7.1). On the occasion of the annual urs organized in 2010, Sufi Rashid Mian (Delhi), Sai Baba Mehshi Shah “Chishti Faridi Sabri” (Batala Sharif) and Baba Gope Shah (Amritsar) were present. The fair is attended dominantly by a non-Muslim (except for migrant Kashmiri Muslims artisans)6 audience and is organized under the banner of Anjuman Ghulame Chishtiya Sabiriya, an umbrella organization of Chishti Sabri followers in Punjab founded by Baba Ghulam Jilani of Kaliyar Sharif that includes Hindus and Sikhs from several castes. The president of the organization is Dr. Kittu Grewal (Jalandhar). The organization consists of Hindus (Brahmans, Khatris, Mahajans and Valmikis), Christians and Sikhs. The branch at Amritsar does not consist of Muslims. The urs is popularized through banners and posters and it is pertinent to examine the posters of parent, sister and adjacent shrines that circulate at various shrines in Punjab, Haryana, Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh. Some of them are congratulatory banners giving details of the organizing committee or individuals, special guests, the affiliation of the shrine with other centres (Figure 7.3). Others are printed posters that give a detailed programme of events and rituals organized during the urs. Usually, these festivals last for two to three days and the posters give a detailed description of the patron

A Flex Banner Displayed at Manakpur Sharif (Ropar) Congratulating the Pilgrims at the Annual Urs of Sheikh Hafiz Musa held in 2010 Photo Courtesy Yogesh Snehi FIGURE 7.3

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saint in whose memory the urs is being organized, ranging from the mystics of the Chishti, Qadiri, Suhrawardi, Chishti Sabiri orders. Frembgen gives details of such banners in Pakistan Punjab and Sindh. Unlike urs posters in the Punjab which give detailed information on the rituals and ceremonies taking place at the saints’ festivals, Lahori pilgrimage placards advertise and publicize the event as such. Thus, they usually provide basic data about the date of the festival, the departure of the qa- fila qalandrı- from Lahore railway station and the place (qiya- m) in Sehwan Sharif, sometimes also about the langar. The latter is found in a - at the bottom of the placard. Sham-e small section entitled program Qalandar placards, on the contrary, focus more on different ritual events, such as the actual Qalandar-night, mehnd-ı and dastar-band-ı ceremonies as well as the departure of the qafila to Sehwan (No. 3). The programme - khwanı - -, chadar-o-dhamma- l peron placard No. 18 starts with qur’an formed after evening prayers, followed on the next day by mehfil-e sama’ mentioning the names of the qawwalı singers and pehlı dhammal qadım-ı. - Qalandar mehfil-e sama’ is ended by rasm sehra, - the The Lal Shahbaz ceremony of the binding of garlands. (Frembgen 2010, 7–8)

Everyone’s Baba, Multiple Shrines Some important mystics and popular pirs in Punjab assumed the distinction of being shared not just in the sense of being common sources of veneration but also as an inspiration for the dedication of multiple shrines. While most Sufi shrines are shared, some communities construct exclusive shrines dedicated to them. This aspect has earlier been discussed elsewhere in the context of Pirkhanas (Snehi 2019). Here I will explore shrines, iconography or popular literature related to Baba Farid and Baba Haji Rattan. Baba Farid Shakarganj (d. 1265) is among the most popular Chishti saints of the region. Venerated by Sikhs and Hindus because of his significant verses that were compiled in the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sufi mystic is also popularly identified as a “Sikh” saint. Several urs/melas in Punjab are dedicated to his memory. Richard Eaton gives a detailed historical account of the religious and political authority, rituals7 as well as local perceptions about his shrine at Ajodhan, which later came to be known as Pakpattan (the holy ferry) in Farid’s memory (2000, 230–48). Baba Farid, a disciple of Khwaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki (d. 1232), settled in Pakpattan in 1236 where he stayed on until he breathed his last in 1265. Baba Farid’s 130 devotional salok (verses) are enshrined in the Guru Granth Sahib. Guru Nanak is said to have collected them from Shaikh Ibrahim, a direct descendant of Baba Farid (Ahmad 2009, 198). A popular recension of his poetry is narrated by Baba Mehshi Shah of Batala Sharif. He maintains that

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Guru Granth Sahib was conceived by Baba Farid, and enriched both by the Sikh Gurus and the Bhagat poets.8 This popular perception of the saints and their poetry as “connected” is widely extant in Punjab and ruptures the linear narratives of the historical tradition. After the Partition of Punjab, Hindus and Sikhs were severed of their association with the shrine of Baba Farid. However, Farid’s visit to Faridkot continues to resurrect him in the popular memory, which remembers his celebrated visit to the town. According to the legend, when Baba Farid visited the town (then known as Mokhalpur) after performing a solitary chilla (40 day meditative retreat), the construction of the main fort complex was in progress. The construction officials forced the saint to work on the site but when a basket full of clay was placed on his head, it started floating above Baba’s head. When this incident was reported to the King, he apologised to the saint and sought his pardon. Before the arrival of Baba Farid at Mokhalpur, several attempts to settle the city had failed. Subsequently, the city prospered with the blessings of the saint and was renamed as Faridkot. This narrative appropriation and incorporation of Baba Farid into the “landscape, personal lives, and oral traditions of the largely Sikh population” is facilitated “through stories of the origins of the

A Poster Representing a Popular Story of Shaikh Farid’s Visit to Faridkot Photo Courtesy Yogesh Snehi

FIGURE 7.4

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shrines, accounts of miracles past and present, and the strategic performance of poetic works attributed to the saint” (Bigelow 2012, 34). Anna Bigelow (2012), who has also studied this town, notes the presence of two shrines in the area. The first, Tilla Baba Farid, consisting of three structures—a relic shrine, a gurdwara, and a mosque—provides ritual spaces for all of Baba Farid’s devotees. These sites memorialise the saint’s encounter with a Hindu king who became his devotee but did not convert. This encounter set a local precedent for non-Muslims who can now participate in the worship of a Muslim holy man without abandoning their own religious identities. (Bigelow 2012, 34) The other site is a memorial called the Godhri Sahib Gurdwara constructed at a site just outside the town where Baba Farid is believed to have performed his meditational chilla. The Gurdwara is located within the premises of the relic shrine and shares a common wall with a mosque in the name of the saint that is under the management of “Muslim” caretakers. Gurdwara Tilla Sahib is managed by a trust called the Tilla Baba Farid Religious and Charitable Society presided over by Inderjit Singh Khalsa, an advocate and a prominent Punjabi figure of the region. The trust also runs several educational institutions.

A Popular Poster of Saint Shaikh Farid in Contemplative Mood Photo Courtesy Yogesh Snehi

FIGURE 7.5

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During the annual festivities celebrating the arrival of the saint (Shaikh Farid agamparb), several flex banners commemorating the saint’s arrival are put up throughout the city by various political parties. Subhash Parihar notes that although there is hardly any Muslim population in the city, the number of daily Hindu and Sikh visitors to the local shrine of the saint and particularly of those who visit it on every Thursday is far greater than the number of the visitors to any local Hindu temple or Sikh Gurudiwarah [gurdwara]. (2001, 115) There is a popular legend about Baba Farid conversing with a crow and uttering the following couplet. The crows have searched my skeleton, and eaten all my flesh. But please do not touch these eyes; I hope to see my Lord. The couplet, visualized in the image below (Fig.7.5), represents an elderly, almost bald Baba Farid with a long white beard. He is bare-chested, wears a blue dhoti (waistcloth) and a necklace of multicoloured beads. His body has been injured in several places, particularly on the feet, by the crow and the saint is depicted as beseeching him to spare his eyes because he yearns for vision of the beloved. The background represents a dense forest located far away from the city featuring two white langurs in a playful mood. The saint is comfortably lying on a blue sheet along with a pot of water on his left. Embedded in the local landscape, this particular image can be located in several popular shrines in Punjab, painted on walls occasionally along with the couplet. In a neighbouring town called Bathinda, the shrines of Baba Haji Rattan also encapsulate the multiple narratives of belonging as well as legitimacy for respective identities—“Hindus”, “Muslims” and “Sikhs” who claim Baba Haji Rattan to be their own. According to one legend, the Baba was a companion of the Prophet Muhammad and was blessed to live for over 700 years. The first references to Haji Rattan in Islamic literature date back to the 12th century.9 The shrine of Baba Haji Rattan is associated with popular legends about the visits of “Sikh” Gurus; Guru Nanak, Guru Hargobind and Guru Gobind Singh.10 There are multiple narratives around Baba Rattan. Some accounts ascribe him a Nath identity and portray him as the son of Raja Mankiya Parikshak of Dang town in Nepal where he became a disciple of Gorakhnath and established a temple (Sikand 2003, 202). Bouillier and Khan (2009) give a detailed account of the multiple identities of Haji/Baba Rattan. He is one of the very few saints who has been noticed, documented and contested by writers and chroniclers from South Asia, Central and West

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Asia, Spain and Syria. A major reason for the attention he has received is because of a narrative claim of his being associated with Prophet Muhammad who prophesied his birth at Mecca in Arabia to which he travelled (Haj, and therefore the surname Haji) before finally settling down in Bathinda after his reported conversion to Islam (Sikand 2003, 196–214). Subhash Parihar structurally situates the tomb of Haji Rattan in the thirteenth century; it has been subsequently repaired by both Hindu and Muslim officials of the area since the medieval times (2001, 109). He also notes the splendour of the fair held at the dargah pre-Partition through a poem of Babu Rajab Ali (1894–1947) who migrated to Pakistan post-Partition. I have spent eighteen years bearing sharp spears on my heart. Separation is killing [me]. Yearning for the native land I always have. Bungalows of Canal [colonies] and festival of Rat[t]an I do not forget. The sand dunes of [Haji] Rat[t]an where singing concerts were held, haunt me. (cited in Parihar 2001, 119) The Partition had a profound impact on the dargah. Before Partition, the dargah owned a vast landed property that was subsequently taken over and reserved for public buildings or public spaces such as the vegetable and grain market. A part was given to a nearby Sikh gurdwara which also had the charge of the dargah administration between 1947 and 1960. In 1960, the dargah administration was taken back from the Sikhs and returned to the Muslims and to the Bhatinda branch of the Punjab Waqf Board, which had its headquarters in a small modern building, inside the dargah compound (Bouillier and Khan 2009, 566). The official narrative related to the “Sikh” association with Baba Rattan is displayed on a large board inside the gurdwara. Shri Guru Gobind Singh ji passing through village Bhucho and Bhagu reached Bathinda on 21 June 1706. He called upon Baba Haji Rattan and gave discourses to him and liberated him from the cycle of birth and death. A gurdwara is enshrined on this spot. When the sangatan (people) of Bathinda came to know about the visit of Guru Gobind Singh to Baba Haji Rattan, they came to the place to have a darshan (glimpse) of the Guru. The sangat was overwhelmed listening to the discourse of Guru. Later they requested him to come to the Qila (fort) rather than staying in this desolate place. The Guru then asked the disciples if they had any worries. They narrated that they had long been troubled by a one-eyed deo (devil) who lived in the fort and kept destroying the living spaces of the people. They sought the Guru’s blessings for redemption from the devil. The Guru called upon the devil and asked him the reason for his mischiefs. The devil said that he had been hungry for a long time and pleaded to the Guru for redemption from hunger, as a result of which he

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Dargah of Haji Rattan (Left) and the Newly Constructed Mosque (Right) with the Gurdwara in the Background (Centre) in 2015 Photo Courtesy Yogesh Snehi FIGURE 7.6

would leave the fort forever. Guru Gobind then had an epiphany and said that there lived a bull commonly shared by ten villages in a nearby village called Nat Banger. People had been very troubled by this bull. The Guru asked Bhai Mailagar Singh to lead the Singhs and fetch the bull. They fetched the bull and the Guru asked Bhai to sacrifice the bull and offer the same to the devil to satiate his hunger. The devil was then instructed to proceed to Sirhind where his services were required and never to return. The people then requested the Guru to take droughts from Malwa along with him to the Deccan and he kept his word. (recorded by the author on 13 February 2015) This version is met with some scepticism by the people at the dargah. While everyone concurs on the visit paid by Guru Gobind Singh, according to the Maulvi, the dargah was already in existence at that time. Gobind Singh was fed and taken care of. Then he declared that a gurdwara should also be constructed on the spot in order to give shelter to pilgrims. Pir Chand Shah, the sajjada nashin at that time, gave him ten bighas of land. Subsequently, the name of Hajji Rattan was added to that of Guru Gobind Singh on the gurdwara (Bouillier and Khan 2009, 568).

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A Member of the Muslim Human Welfare Society that Manages the dargah in 2010 Photo Courtesy Yogesh Snehi

FIGURE 7.7

Despite the Waqf Board being the formal custodian of the dargah, a Muslim Human Welfare Society has been running the affairs of the dargah. “Hussain” narrated to Yoginder Sikand how some local Muslims were forced to set up their own committee due to the notoriety of the Board. Besides, the “Waqf board people are mostly Deobandis, who have no faith in the Baba… and have displayed little interest in the proper running of the Baba’s shrine” (2003, 206). “Akbar”, who is an official of the Waqf Board, was not pleased by Sikand’s conversation with Hussain and wanted to know “what those grave-worshipping Barelwis” had said. Akbar contested the story around Baba Rattan and “proclaimed…[that he] was a scheming imposter and a pathetic liar who had falsely claimed to be a companion of the Prophet” (210), corroborating the polemic around the identity of Baba Rattan. These narratives attest to the complexities around the reception of Hajji Rattan and how the mainstream “Sikh” tradition as well as reformed “Islam” looks upon the tradition of saint veneration in contemporary spatial contexts. The Partition also brought the dargah’s relationship with the Naths, who used to come for Baba Rattan’s urs and to participate in the kusti (wrestling tournaments) from a nearby village Nathana (some 20 km from Bhatinda), to an end. In the middle of the village stands the temple of Kalunath or the Kalunath Mandir, which had formerly close relationships with Rattan’s dargah (Bouillier and Khan 2009, 568). However, the legends of Baba Haji

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Rattan’s “Nath” as well as “Brahmin/ruling class” antecedents are still extant in popular narratives. As Bouillier and Khan argue, [the] inclusive nature of this tradition, its historical developments, and the fact that it has multiple connections and ramifications should warn us against any simplistic classification. Some medieval texts see even the “Jogis” as belonging to a religious category distinct from “Hindu” and “Muslim”, making the Nath Yogi sect a successful medium for expressing the close relationship between Hinduism and Islam. (Bouillier and Khan 2009, 593)

Sites of Memory It needs to be underlined that Sufi shrines continued to exist after 1947 and, after a brief period of lull, many of these were taken over by new caretakers who reconfigured the shrines’ relationship with the new demographic transformation in the wake of the Partition. There were such minor shrines which were never recorded in dominant historical narratives and the new caretakers reconfigured their relationship with the existing Sufi Silsila of India. In the case studies stated above, this relationship was reconfigured in a complex way. The Punjab Wakf Board’s management of the Haji Rattan shrine has ensured the existence of two parallel narratives around the saint, one that is expressed through the “reformed” global language of Islam and the other through local narratives that hold on to a dimension of his “Sufi” and “Islamic” inheritance but has chosen to forget his “Nath” antecedents. This selective remembering has also been inscribed through the “Sikh” narrative which peripheralizes the Sufi saint and chooses to foreground yet another popular belief about Guru Gobind Singh liberating Haji Rattan and chastising a deo. Contrary to this, at Faridkot, it is the Sufi saint Baba Farid who occupies centerstage among the other narratives about the city. Similarly, at Amritsar, the Sabiri communities in and around the walled city have chosen to find a sense of identity and social mobility in the veneration of Baba Farid and Baba Lakhdata. The selective invocation of memory in several such narratives raises a fundamental question about the function and purpose of memory in reconstructing the social history of social and religious communities. Significantly, this social formation has remained unrepresented in the colonial and post-Partition historiography of Punjab. Current trends of historiography continue to focus on the conflict between Sikhism, Hinduism and Islam and deny any possibilities of looking at social processes as sites of negotiation with the past and the present, an organic relationship between religious traditions and their practitioners. In the early twentieth century, Rose had mentioned that Guru Gobind Singh was bitterly opposed to Islam without looking at the lived experience of the social landscape of Punjab (Rose 1919, 695). Memorial practices suggest a different narrative strategy,

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one that needs to find its due place in the history of religious traditions. This chapter, therefore, attempts to critique communalized and reformist representations of the historiography of Punjab, as well as critically evaluate secularized narratives of past in the present. The invocation of urs practices provides a fascinating entry point for investigating how saint worship and pilgrimage to Sufi shrines continues to be a vibrant tradition in east Punjab. Though networks of Sabiri shrines existed in several places from Kaliyar to Lahore pre-Partition, Kaliyar Sharif (Roorkee) has more recently emerged as the most significant guiding shrine for the absorption of unknown shrines with a new set of lineages and networks of Chishti pilgrimage, linking them with other major shrines at Ajmer, Panipat and Delhi. Amritsar and Batala, for instance, which were known for their Qadiri links with Lahore owing to Hazrat Mian Mir, is now known for its intimate relationship with the Chishti Sabiri silsila. This new relationship is mediated through the organization of urs in the walled city throughout the year where qawwals from Kaliyar perform. Kaliyar helps in legitimising Punjab’s relationship with Shaikh Farid and Baba Lakhdata. Sabir Pak was a murid and khalifa of Baba Farid. This new relationship is further mediated through the popular “Sabiri” identity. Posters pertaining to urs at shrines in Uttar Pradesh can be located at several places in Punjab, and are crucial in circulation of images in the regional, sub-regional and local context. Posters related to various shrines in Punjab were found in associated shrines in the region which were again crucial in building a network of shrines and pilgrimages in the region. Tracts and pamphlets in the regional Punjabi, Hindi and Urdu medium are also in circulation at popular Sufi shrines in east Punjab and play a significant role in the circulation of history, legends and narratives about a local saint or his shrine. These bookcovers and illustrations continue to be a relevant resource for the circulation of images and narrative hagiographies of popular Sufis and their shrines which get translated into audio-visual productions. The absence of textual narratives complicates the task of the exploration of popular Sufi shrines in post-Partition Punjab. In the contours of Indian historiography, such shrines have long been peripheralized as a residue that lacked hagiographical accounts or any other major documented history of their existence. Yet they stood, sometimes lonely, often silent and perhaps the only extant witness to the partition of Punjab in 1947. At the same time, shrine spaces are imbued with the memory of decades, sometimes centuries, of visitation, veneration and association—both as a quotidian observer as well as guide to a long stream of pilgrims and disciples. In the contours of post-Partition contemporary (Indian) Punjab, popular Sufi shrines stand as the only testimony to the social contours of the pre-Partition space. Religious radicals have made several violent attempts to erase these remnants of the past, facilitating the electoral politics post-Partition—a process of othering that has been very anxiously utilized to sustain the fragile nation-states in contemporary South Asia. However,

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21st century Indian Punjab has not only witnessed the continued existence but also the emergence of a new set of Sufi shrines that have been established and sustained by “non-Muslims”. This fascinating feature of contemporary Punjab, exciting silently but significantly, had to be documented. Existing tools of “modern” historical scholarship, particularly methods to understand religious practices, were inapt to chart the process of the continued existence and also the emergence of a new set of popular Sufi shrines. This work therefore ventured into some fascinating debates on dreams, memory, spatiality, and circulation, and argued that the academic territorialization of religious practices hinders any objective exploration of the complexity of popular shrine spaces. Thus, the focus on “practice” involved decoding the rituals, semiotics, and narratives around popular Sufi shrines. Significantly, despite their local embeddedness, these narratives were vibrantly connected to notions of power and sovereignty embedded in the shrines and were kept alive through pilgrimage and circulation. Increasingly, the circulation of visuals has assumed a dominant form due to the shrinking possibilities of pilgrimage to sacred spaces in Pakistan. Circulation was also mediated through the agency of dreams, visions, and memories of saints and veneration which often played a major role in setting up of a new shrine or practices like the urs, amidst the impossibility of boundary crossing. In the historical landscape of Punjab, divided and sustained by heavily guarded borders, popular Sufi shrines emerged as significant “sites of memory”, particularly for Partition migrants to the Indian Punjab. As a witness to the lived lives of Punjabis, they are like a critical historical connection to the pre-Partition social space. The centrality of popular Sufi shrines in this project has been foundational in the broadening of historical discourse and method, one that centres its engagement with such sacred spaces that exist on the margins of “modernist” religious discourses. I have attempted to invert the process of understanding Punjabi landscapes by foregrounding practice and quotidian milieus in extant historical discourses of religion—which are predominantly informed by the reformist debates of the late-nineteenth and early twentieth century. This spatialization of shrines and rituals plays a significant role in the construction of an organic historical narrative informed as much by continuity as by change—thereby enriching the “practice” of history.

Notes 1 See Ishtiaq Ahmed for narratives of Partition in which migrants memorialize prePartition Punjab. Also refer to Figure 1.2 for several fairs held in district Ferozepur in the 1960s which were carried as a memorial tradition by Partition migrants and reinstituted in new landscapes (2013). 2 Raphael Samuel persuasively argues that the links between memory and history are significant (1994, 17, cited in Johnson 2005, 170). 3 Virinder Kalra (2014) has recently published a book on music tradition in Pakistan.

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4 Moini explores the devotional linkages of Punjab with the Chishti shrine at Ajmer - - (Moini 2009, 378–401). through vika-latnamas 5 11th Urs Mubarak in the memory of Lakhdata Sakhi Sarwar Sultan was held on 20 January 2010 at Chowk Telephone Exchange, Amritsar. It was organized by Mahatma Ashwini Sabri, Babbi Sabiri, Bagga Sabiri, Jimmy Sabiri, Prince Sabiri, Pamma Pehalwan Sabiri, Gurdip Pahelwan Sabiri, Bau Ram Sabri, Rocky Sabri, Vikas Sabiri, Sham Lal Sabiri, Manjit Singh Sabiri, Tinku Sabiri, Jivan Sabiri, Billa Sabiri, Vijay Sabiri, Ashwini Sabiri, Gulshan Sabiri and D.K. Sabiri. Interview with [Prince] (Bharadwaj) Sabiri (40 years), government parking contractor, and Pamma Pahelwan (Valmiki) Sabiri (39 years), ASI Punjab Police, 20 January 2010, Chowk Telephone Exchange. 6 After the Partition of Punjab province in 1947, the entire population of Punjabi Muslims of Amritsar migrated to Pakistan. Thus, the Muslim population at Amritsar is either comprised of Kashmiri entrepreneurs and largely artisans engaged with the woollen industry of the city, and carpet weaving and wooden carving, or migrant labourers from the Gangetic plains. 7 The ritual complex instituted at the shrine of Baba Farid included spiritual initiation, dastar-bandi, urs, qawwali, Bihishti mela and langar khana (Eaton 2000, 206–07). 8 Interview conducted with Baba Mehshi Shah on 7 February 2010 at Batala Sharif, Batala. 9 For a detailed account of Haji Rattan and his shrine, see Parihar (2001, 105–132). 10 Rose mentions several other versions of the tradition of Baba Haji Rattan (2008, 551–52).

References Ahmad, Irfan. 2013. “Anthropology of Islam: History, Culture, Power.” Indian Economic and Social History Review 51, no. 4: 495–509. Ahmad, Saeed. 2009. “Baba Farid: The Pioneer of Punjab Sufi Poetry.” Sufism in Punjab: Mystics, Literature and Shrines, edited by Surinder Singh and Ishwar Dayal Gaur, 196–213. New Delhi: Aakar. Ahmed, Ishtiaq. 2013. The Punjab Blooded Partitioned and Cleansed. Delhi: Rupa. Assmann, Aleida. 2011. “Canon and Archive.” The Collective Memory Reader, edited by Jeffrey K.Olick, Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Daniel Levy, 334–337. New York: Oxford University Press. Ballard, Roger. 2006. “Popular Islam in Northern Pakistan and its Reconstruction in Urban Britain.” Sufism in the West, edited by Jamal Malik and John Hinnells, 160–186. London: Routledge. Bigelow, Anna. 2012. “Everybody”s Baba: Making Space for the Other.” Sharing the Sacra: The Politics and Pragmatics of Intercommunal Relations around Holy Places, edited by Glenn Bowman, 25–43. New York: Berghahn Books. Bouillier, Véronique and Dominique-Sila Khan. 2009. “Ha-jji Ratan or Ba-ba- Ratan”s Multiple Identities.” Journal of Indian Philosophy 37, no. 6: 559–595. Boyarin, Jonathan. 1994. Remapping Memory: The Politics of Timespace. London: University of Minnesota Press. Burke, Peter. 2011. “History as Social Memory.” The Collective Memory Reader, edited by Jeffrey K. Olick, Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Daniel Levy, 188–192. New York: Oxford University Press. Connerton, Paul. 2011. “How Societies Remember.” The Collective Memory Reader, edited by Jeffrey K. Olick, Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Daniel Levy, 338–342. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Cubitt, Geoffrey. 2007. History and Memory. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Eaton, Richard M. 2000. Essays on Islam and Indian History. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim. 2010. “From Popular Devotion to Mass Event: Placards advertising the Pilgrimage to the Sufi Saint Lal Shahbaz Qalandar in Sehwan Sharif (Sindh/ Pakistan).” http://tasveergharindia.net/cmsdesk/userfiles/file/workshop/From%20Popular %20Devotion_%20LSQ_%20placards.doc (accessed on 19 November 2010): 1–9. Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim. 2012. “The Horse of Imam Hoseyn: Notes on the Iconography of Shi”i Devotional Posters from Pakistan and India.” The Art and Material Culture of Iranian Shi’ism: Iconography and Religious Devotion in Shi’ism, edited by Pedram Khosronejad, 179–194. London: I.B. Tauris. Green, Nile. 2011. Bombay Islam: The Religious Economy of the West Indian Ocean, 1840–1915. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Halbwachs, Maurice. 2011. “The Collective Memory.” The Collective Memory Reader, edited by Jeffrey K. Olick, Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Daniel Levy, 139–149. New York: Oxford University Press. Johnson, Nuala C. 2005. “Locating Memory: Tracing the Trajectories of Remembrance.” Historical Geography 33: 165–179. Kalra, Virinder S. 2014. Sacred and the Secular Musics: A Postcolonial Approach. London: Bloomsbury. Klein, Kerwin Lee. 2000. “On the Emergence of Memory in Historical Discourse.” Representations 69: 127–150. Moini, Syed Liyaqat Hussain. 2009. “Devotional Linkages of Punjab with the Chishti Shrine at Ajmer: Gleanings from the Vikalatnamas.” Sufism in Punjab: Mystics, Literature and Shrines, edited by Surinder Singh and Ishwar Dayal Gaur, 378–401. New Delhi: Aakar. Nora, Pierre. 1989. “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire.” Representations 26: 7–24. Novetzke, Christian Lee. 2008. Religion and Public Memory: A Cultural History of Saint Namdev in India. New York: Columbia University Press. Parihar, Subhash. 2001. “The Dargah of Baba Haji Ratan at Bhatinda.” Islamic Studies 40, no. 1: 105–132. Rose, H.A. 2008 [1919]. A Glossary of Tribes and Castes of the Punjab and North-west Frontier Province (Vol. 1). Lahore: Superintendent, Government Printing, Punjab. Saeed, Yousuf. 2007. “Mecca versus the Local Shrine: The Dilemma of Orientation in the Popular Religious Art of Indian Muslims.” India’s Popular Culture: Iconic Spaces and Fluid Images, edited by Jyotindra Jain, 76–89. Mumbai: Marg Publications. Samuel, Raphael. 1994. Theatres of Memory, Vol. 1. London: Verso. Sikand, Yoginder. 2003. Sacred Spaces: Exploring Traditions of Shared Faith in India. New Delhi: Penguin Books. Snehi, Yogesh. 2019. Spatializing Popular Sufi Shrines in Punjab: Dreams, Memories, Territoriality. New Delhi: Routledge. Suvorova, Anna. 2004. Muslim Saints of South Asia: The Eleventh to Fifteenth Centuries. London: Routledge.

8 SINDHI SIKHS Their Histories and Memories Himadri Banerjee

Forced migration and displacement of people from Punjab and Bengal occupy centre stage in the Indo-Pakistan Partition narratives of 1947. Since Sindh, unlike Bengal and Punjab, was not divided but the entire region became a part of the new state of Pakistan, Sindhi immigrants’ memories, compared to wide-ranging refugee experiences from these two disjointed regions, do not figure adequately in these narratives. Sindhis are portrayed as the ‘missing people’, ‘forgotten folk’ with an ‘unrepresented voice’ and a ‘vanished homeland’, but their ‘mobility’ as a community in the history of Sindh is also appreciated by scholars (Aggarwal 2017). This chapter argues that Sindhi refugees’ numerical insignificance, less tumultuous exit from their homeland, dispersed Indian entry points and scattered resettlement sites distributed across north-western urban centres like Ajmer, Bhavnagar, Jaipur, Jodhpur, Mumbai, Pimpri, and Ulhasnagar explain their marginalization in Partition Studies. This complicates the process of reconstructing any separate account of Sindhi Sikh migrants. Although Sindhi Sikh1 Partition memories were not immediately available in the public domain, they were passed on in hushed tones in the family space by elders who were reluctant to share their tales of displacement with anyone other than their closest kin. Their silence was sometimes deepened by other socio-political developments of the decades following the Independence of the country. Non-recognition of Sindhi language in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution until 1967 reduced their opportunity for representation in ‘mainstream’ Partition Studies and widened their estrangement from their non-Sindhi neighbours. In the absence of concentrated refugee settlement sites like those of East Punjab and West Bengal, Sindhi Sikhs had to negotiate with other disadvantages. Unlike Bengali Hindus’ large-scale enlistment in the Left politics in Kolkata or Sikh mobilization for a Punjabi Suba, refugees DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-9

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from Sindh could not evolve any such focused rallying point. However, Sindhi Sikhs’ religious identity has been regarded with suspicion time and again owing to their sharing the Sindhi culture, civilization, the Perso-Arabic script, and Sufi mysticism with Sindhi Muslims. Their counterparts from Punjab, particularly Akalis, engaged in the morchas (protest marches) for the Punjabi Suba since the 1950s, questioned Sindhi Sikhs’ claims to be a pacca (true) Sikh. In the course of the last three decades, there have been significant attempts to retrieve Sindhi Hindu refugee memories and reinstate them in the domain of Partition narratives largely by a new generation of Sindhis who grew up listening to their elders’ pangs of Partition. Important works by Upendra K. Thakur (1959), Kewalram R. Malkani (1984), Subhadra Anand (1996), Advani (1970), Rita Kothari (2007; 2009), Rita Kothari and Jasbirkaur Thadhani (2016), Nandita Bhavnani (2014), and Saaz Aggarwal (2016, 2017), transformed Sindhi Partition narratives into a subject of scholarly debate. Research undertaken by non-Sindhi scholars like Claude Markovits (2000), Steven W. Ramey (2004), Matthew A. Cook (2010), Manfred Hutter (2012), and Hardip S. Syan (2017) focussed not only on the emerging frontiers of Sindhi diaspora but examined how these ‘Partition-fleeing’ people struggled to be successful again in India and beyond. Two Sindhi academies, one in Adipur-Gandhidham (1989) and the other in Delhi (1994), which were set up recently, not only welcome readers to their libraries but arrange seminars to bring out publications celebrating the distinctiveness of Sindhi culture. Such initiatives have stimulated fresh investigations into the Sindhi Sikh past. This chapter recovers the narratives of a group of refugees from Sindh, known as the Sindhi Sikhs, in the Sindhi rehabilitation town of Ulhasnagar to trace their journey in search of a new home that facilitated the redefining of their identity within radical socio-economic changes in Ulhasnagar during the decades following the Partition. The chapter is divided into three subsections beginning with an introduction to the pre-Partitioned undivided Hindu Sikh space that provides insights into their present-day relationship. It refers to the arrival of Sikhism in Sindh during the medieval period through diverse channels, reviews its conversation with other faiths in the region and examines whether Sikhism in Sindh differed from that in Punjab under colonial rule. It argues that Sindhi Sikhs were never a homogenous religious group and surveys Sindhi Sikh refugees’ ordeals and dissimilar channels of exit from Sindh precipitated by the Partition. It records memories of their India-ward journeys and varied experiences as they struggled to rehabilitate themselves in dispersed settlement sites. It concludes by inquiring if the trauma of displacement is reflected in Sindhi Sikhs’ anxiety to unify their widely dispersed religious institutions under the banner of Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar and institutionalise them through a chain of relationships. The chapter is based on readily available secondary materials in English such as writings by Anglo-British officials like William Napier (1851) and Richard F. Burton (1851) who had served in the province for short periods,

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different editions of Sindh gazetteers beginning with A.W. Hughes ([1876] 1996) and E.H. Aitkin (1907), the decennial census reports, as well as recent scholarly works. This is supplemented with data collected during field trips to the important Sindhi Sikh refugee rehabilitation location in Ulhasnagar near Mumbai.2

Sikhism in Sindh Sindhi Hindus have long respected the teachings of Guru Nanak, who arrived in Sindh from Punjab as early as the 17th century through a trans-regional Sindhi commercial network that stretched across south-western districts of Punjab (Aggarwal 2017). Called Nanakpanthis and largely engaged in trade, they were predominantly from the Arora caste but also included Khatris. Unlike the Khalsa Sikhs, they were not opinionated about not cutting their hair, wearing the five Ks or adhering to the Khalsa (code of social conduct). Nanakpanthis represented the largest section of Sikhs in Sindh, who could communicate in a number of languages, adapt themselves to changing local conditions, as well as respect the first Sikh Guru’s notion of nirankar (formless God). Their sacred space was generally called thikana not gurdwara where the Guru Granth Sahib (Sikh sacred text) was preserved for regular reading. A few Udasi sacred spaces, like the Sadh Bela linked with Guru Nanak’s udasis (imagined travels) that accommodated ascetics engaged in otherworldly practices not approved by householder Khalsa Sikhs of Punjab, were also founded here (Singh 2018). In 18th-century Punjab, Mughal persecutions, repeated foreign invasions, and the Khalsa’s march in search of political power led to a fresh displacement of Hindu/Sikh traders and other categories of armed personnel, many of whom migrated to Sindh. Largely consisting of sahajdhari (clean shaven) Sikhs, these migrants included a few Bandais (followers of Banda Bahadur, a disciple of Guru Gobind Singh) known for their distinct form of salutation (Fateh Darshan). Sikhs of Sindh were often subdivided into other territorial groups such as Nawabshahi and Naichi, who were scattered in distant parts of the province. By the end of the 19th century, a handful of Khalsa Sikhs became visible in urban centres, though they were not numerically significant in the ranks of the local Sikh community. Thus, Sikhism in Sindh witnessed some interesting trajectories. It popularised a number of dissimilar forms of sacred space, rituals, and beliefs distinct from those of its counterparts in Punjab. Most experiences of Sindhi Sikhs were not replications of the construction of Sikhism in Punjab. The contemporary British Punjab’s Singh Sabha narrative of a monolithic Sikh identity (Oberoi 1994), enthusiasm towards military recruitment in the British-Indian Army and commitment to the Ham Hindu Nahin (We are not Hindus) ideology were not observable on either side of Sindh’s downward stream. Instead, Sikhism here witnessed interfacing with what is popularly

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called “folk Islam” and accommodated dialogue with Hindu religious beliefs and practices (Advani 1970). In addition to their conversation with the Sindhi culture that gave birth to Jhulelal, a benevolent river deity who bestowed the Indus floods with a certain mystic power of blessing and curse, Sindhi Hindus not only respected the Hindu pantheon and wore tilak on their foreheads but also visited the dargahs of different pirs widely venerated for their magical power of healing and curing diseases. Being predominantly sanatanis (traditionalists), they respected dehdhari gurus (living gurus), hung portraits of Guru Nanak and others of the Hindu pantheon on the walls, sidestepped the rahit of Khalsa, and were not invariably ready to legitimise marriages through the Anand Marriage Act (1909), which was gaining wider currency among the Sikhs of Punjab. Sikhism in Sindh was not, however, altogether free from social hierarchies and accommodated marginal social groups like landless Lubana labourers. The Hindu Sikh dividing line was, therefore, neither fixed nor clearly demarcated in pre-Partition Sindh. If it was drawn on certain occasions, it was more often than not honoured through its transgression. Local mores allowed Sindhi Sikhs sufficient autonomy to be able to maintain overarching links with their Hindu neighbours. They made space for Sindhi Hindus to recite lines from the Japji and Sukhmani as part of their nitnem (daily prayer), which were translated into Hindi by the Singh Sabha, Sukkur. Although there were trade rivalries and social competition between the two groups, these aspects did not sour their relationships. While the spread of the Rashtriya Swayam Sevak ideology and its popularity in Sindh since the 1930s undoubtedly brought Hindus and Sikhs on a common platform in the 1940s, there was a long history of exchange between them. Their intimate dialogue did not invariably coerce them to any large-scale bloody politics. On the other hand, Punjabi Sikhs’ coming out to fight almost single handedly in north-western Punjab following the announcement of Partition complicates the task of the historian engaged in reconstructing the history of Sindhi Sikhs. Sindhi Sikhs’ long encounters with the message of Sindh’s cultural syncretism introduce fresh perspectives to the study of Sikhism in locations away from its birthplace and raise doubts about whether Sindhi Sikhs were ever a homogenous community with a distinct identity during the pre-Partition era. The debate continues even today.

Exodus from Sindh It is difficult to differentiate Sindhi Sikhs’ India-ward journeys from those of their Hindu counterparts owing to their insignificant number and paucity of information. Besides, their changing definitions in successive colonial census returns stand in the way of estimating the exact number of those who emigrated from Sindh during the period of Partition. Again, the linguistic and religious dimensions of Sindhi Sikhs’ identity that has often made them

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“more Sindhi at times, and more Sikh at others” restricts the scope of tracing any distinct Sindhi Sikh voice in the ongoing Partition narratives from Sindh. Their India-ward journeys have neither figured in any study on diverse hyphenated Sikh territorial groups scattered across India from Jammu and Kashmir to Manipur nor in the writings of any Sindhi Sikh authors. It may be also due to the fact that like Punjab, Sindh did not witness such ethnic violence. As a result, many Sindhi Sikhs possibly imagined that they did not have enough material for writing about their exodus from Sindh. An extended field trip to Ulhasnagar, conversations with a number of octogenarian Sindhi Sikh Partition survivors and the first generation born in India in the 1950s introduced me to some of their untapped Partition memories. These provide an entry point in comprehending how they were forced to leave Sindh in the midst of deep anxiety and widespread despondency through two distinctly dissimilar channels of exit. If some of these materials are read with other textual sources authored by Sindhi Hindus, the investigator would be able to gauge the extent of fear among Sindhi Sikhs who were forced to travel not only by ship from Karachi but also by trains from Hyderabad (Sindh) and other locations to distant towns in Rajasthan. The four extracts quoted below are culled from a variety of sources to depict how their memories of departure and different routes can add a fresh perspective to Partition Studies, which differ significantly from those of their counterparts in Punjab almost during the same period. The first one was from a certain Himmat Singh Advani of Hyderabad (Sindh), presently residing in Mumbai. He is 85 years old and I reached him through one of my friends living in Bengaluru. Our telephonic conversation brought out his experience of a railway journey nearly 75 years ago. Singh was ten years old and was accompanied by his uncle Dewan Chuhar Singh who planned to leave Sindh by the Jodhpur–Bikaner Railway, a state owned organisation, running between Rajasthan and Sindh. A few of his family members were already in Rajasthan and it was decided that their Rajasthanward passage in August 1947 would be comparatively safer. Himmat Singh thus continued: Train was fully packed. All its windows were closed. There were no lights or fans inside the compartment. We (children) were bundled under the seats as our baggage was looted at the Hyderabad Station yard. Police was silent spectator. Cash too was seized. Train was jam-packed. Luckily, we were in the coach but many found refuge above the bogey. We travelled empty handed. Up to Khokrapar (a border station and four hours journey from Hyderabad), not a drop of water was available. Thereafter we were in Indian territory. People came in large number and served meals, water, etc at each of the stations. Generosity prevailed. We five children moved towards Jodhpur….At Jodhpur we were received by Father’s old Marwari employee. There our uncle left for Alwar. (Himmat Singh Advani, telephonic interview, 3 October 2021)

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Unlike Himmat Singh Advani, Charan Singh, another octogenarian Sindhi Sikh, then residing in Mumbai, left Sindh via Karachi. I came to know him during my Ulhasnagar field visit. He was physically and mentally fit to be able to complete typing his autobiography that is in the possession of his maternal nephew Trilochan Singh. During one of our telephonic conversations, Charan Singh expressed his inability to talk on grounds of old age but Trilochan Singh kindly agreed to hand over all his unpublished life experiences typed in a volume, made readily available for his near and dear ones. As soon as I [Charan Singh] came to know that…communal riots had become a common occurrence, I began to make plans to get out of Sindh. It was in the first week of September 1947 when the situation was growing from bad to worse, Hindus and Sikhs were abandoning their homes. There were different escape routes from Karachi – refugees mostly left by sea while a few did by air. My family…immediately decided to leave Sindh by ship packed up whatever essential we could carry and… rapidly came by train [from our native place] to the Karachi port by train. There was no ship going to Bombay, but a ship called “Dwarka” was ready to leave for Okha, a small port in Gujarat. We were scared of living in Karachi any longer; so we boarded it. We were all accommodated in the lower deck of the ship. The ship started sailing in the evening….It was our first journey by a ship and not used to it. So, we got vomiting and dizziness due to the ship swinging up and down. After sailing the whole night, we reached Okha port on the next morning….We knew no one there and were looking here and there like strangers. (Charan Singh, an unpublished autobiography, read through the courtesy of Trilochan Singh, his nephew, March 2019) The third one is a translation of a few paragraphs from a larger Hindi text published by the Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar of Ulhasnagar. In 1948 the Collector of Sukkur, Mr Bunn called me in his office and said: “You [Sardar Suraj Singh] must go out of Sindh in the evening of today….In this regard, I do not want to hear anything from your side….I would provide you two Police Inspectors as your security guards (one Hindu and one Muslim) so that you can reach Karachi safely. I have already telephoned Mr Prakash, the Indian High Commissioner in Karachi, so that you can stay safely there till you board a ship. On that evening, accordingly I boarded a Karachi-bound train in the guise of a Muslim….On the next day, when I had reached Karachi, I changed my dress to become a Khalsa Sikh again….These were the days of extreme communal tensions and inhuman slaughtering There was a group of alems (graduates in Muslim theology) who were watching my change of attire, who began to shout that the Khalsa Sikh should not be allowed to

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go unscarred….I immediately brought out some bullets from one of my pockets to load my revolver and became ready to face any attack from them…After consultation with his Hindu colleague the Muslim Inspector firmly told those alems that both of them would do their best to resist any attack upon me. It was a stroke of good luck that a taxi was readily available which took us all to the Karachi port. Thanks to the intervention of the Indian High Commissioner, I could board the ship in which many injured Sindhi Sikhs who were brought from different parts of northern Sindh were already present.3 (Sant Baba Thariya Singh Sahibji (Sainjan) (Kadhran, Sind) ka Jivan-Charit: Ek Sarl Jivan. Translated into Hindi by Swa. Pro. Jibatram Setpal 2012) The last one is a recorded interview of a first-generation Sindhi Sikh born in Ulhasnagar in the early 1950s. I had heard from my father that he had initially no intention of leaving Sindh. But the growing lawlessness and frequent attacks on Sikhs deeply alarmed him. These generated a deep fear in his mind and forced him to leave Sindh in October 1947 with family. All of them came by ship but my father could not remember the name of the ship which carried them to Bombay. During his brief journey, my father met a few male Sindhi Sikhs whose bodies were bruised by bloody encounters with muhajirs. On our arrival, we were accommodated in the Akbar camp. It was situated in the eastern part of the Thane district. But the place was already overcrowded and an epidemic had broken out. It prompted camp officials to close it. They shifted camp inmates to different nearby camps. My father was sent to Ulhasnagar. With his family, he travelled to Bhittalvadi station by train. After disembarking, they took a walk of a few miles to reach Camp Four of Ulhasnagar. I was born there. (Balvinder Singh Tola Singh Chandani, oral testimony)4 Some of these distressing experiences of 1947–48 underlined that Sindhi Sikhs were particularly targeted and these cumulative unfortunate experiences precipitated their exit from Sindh. A few wealthy Sindhi Sikh families, particularly some of their women folk, availed the costlier air passage to reach Mumbai quickly where they were able to find accommodation through their families’ business contacts. I had a telephonic conversation with a 70-year-old female member from one of these affluent families that provided me an opportunity to listen to a “woman’s voice”. Unlike many others, the lady had no “initial reluctance” about sharing some childhood memories of pre-Partition Karachi, but went silent later on. In her perception, Partition was initially a brief period of celebration because it gave her an opportunity for flying by air and going to a new place,

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but was soon to bring many family ruptures. As the lady was elaborating her narrative, she talked about the loss of her old friends in Sindh and the separation from one of her elder brothers who had to leave the country for his higher studies. She also underwent some cultural shocks because her mother grew extremely busy with the arrival of a stream of relatives from Sindh, which made their domestic space more crowded, forcing her anxious father to look for another residential space in the locality. During the later stages of our dialogue, she went silent and refused to respond to my telephonic calls for unknown reasons. It is difficult to provide any definite reason for her going silent. Did she try to “bury the difference” or reasoned that there was no “use in raising” some of her “old” sources of “trauma and pain”? Some of these reflect unexplained life cycle areas (Butalia 1998; Menon 2004). It is evident from these varied experiences that Sindhi Sikhs’ journeys to India were largely determined by the physical distance between the port of embarkation (Karachi) and their dispersed settlement sites in Sindh. Most of them either undertook journeys by sea from the port of Karachi to reach a few select destinations in western Indian harbours or travelled by trains, which carried them to Rajasthan. A handful of rich people flew by air. But there was no mention of any human columns moving from Sindh to India which were so common in narratives from Punjab and Bengal. Absence of such journeys in the case of Sindh possibly adds a new direction to the history of the crossing of the Indo-Pakistan borders during 1947–48. As refugee settlements grew in spaces distant from the residential sites of local population or in the empty houses vacated by Muslims who had already left for Pakistan, other narratives from non-Sindhi neighbourhoods began to emerge. Their non-Sindhi neighbours, who perceived them as outsiders, regarded the arrival of Sindhi refugees from distant locations and their resettlement in these buildings as evil signs which would bring bad luck upon the locals. Immigrants were not only despised for their inability to communicate in the local speech with the right accent but also for keeping unclean and unfurnished houses. Refugees were viewed as unwelcome guests who could be excluded from social networks. They were widely criticised for being stingey and money-minded because of the stereotype about their concern with making money rather than being culturally refined. Emerging refugee settlement sites were viewed as obnoxious ghettos and were segregated from other spaces as much as possible.5

Ulhasnagar: Then and Now In contrast to detailed narratives of refugee camp life available in regional Indian writing, few accounts of the experiences of Sindhi Sikhs are available. A visit to Ulhasnagar, the largest of all Sindhi refugee settlements from the 1950s, situated around 58 kms away from Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Railway Terminus, introduces one to a cross section of the local

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Sindhi Sikh population. Interactions with some of their long-time residents provide illuminating glimpses into Sindhi Sikhs’ memories of their early days in the Ulhasnagar camp. These residents included Nihal Singh Ailsinghani, a Naichi Sikh who almost single-handedly maintains a modest collection of old Sindhi books and journals for the circulation of his community, Bhaisahib Trilochan Singh, a senior member of Guru Nanak Darbar, situated in Camp Number Four, Manohar Singh Jethra, Honorary Joint Secretary, Global Sindhi Sikh Panchayat, Dada Dayal Singh Chandani, an erstwhile President of Sri Guru Nanak Sikh Sabha, presently residing at Pimpri near Pune and Deep Singh Khalsa and Vishn Singh, a Bandai Sikh who is a successful architectural engineer.6 If these oral narratives are examined with reference to available textual sources by a few Sindhi Hindus authors, it would facilitate the historian’s task of decoding how a minuscule group of Sindhi Sikh refugees resettled in an unknown territorial location “with unfamiliar food, language and customs” and engaged in a struggle to rebuild lives in a new country. Such Sindhi Sikh initiatives offer researchers many interesting opportunities of appreciating how their channels of resettlement carry forward their homeland memories for rejuvenating them in Ulhasnagar. For a better understanding of these “field” experiences, researchers would have to leave behind their fixed “desk” of a library situated away from the “field” to share many scattered memories of the Sindhi refugee population of Ulhasnagar. In the different stages of “field” investigations, Ulhasnagar would not be physically set aside from the “desk”. On the contrary, there would be many invisible links between the “field” and the “desk” which would facilitate a regular flow of information to researchers through postal communications, telephonic contacts, exchange of emails and other forms of electronic devices, which were almost inconceivable to many of their predecessors a century ago. Some of these transformations in communicational network would not only enrich researchers’ understanding of how Sindhi Sikhs of Ulhasnagar remembered their past during the last several decades of settlement but continue to struggle to relocate their imagined undifferentiated Hindu Sikh pre-Partitioned religious space in postPartitioned India. A review of existing secondary sources explaining why Ulhasnagar was selected as one of the major sites of Sindhi refugee settlement (1948) by the government may serve as a convenient entry point for understanding the Sindhi experience of resettlement. The location was then a quiet and isolated place surrounded by woods. Its natural surroundings of rice fields and the leisurely curves of the Valdhooni and Ulhas rivers added fresh lustre to the place. Availability of around 1,175 vacant military barracks of World War II and its closeness to the Mumbai–Kalyan railway network offering refugees’ comparatively quick access to some of the busiest markets of the region stimulated Ulhasnagar’s selection. Circulation of such information by word of mouth prompted other social groups to move to that location. Availability of

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electricity, natural resources like water and timber and a skilled workforce in the adjoining region facilitated rapid transformation of the locality into an over-crowded refugee settlement. In spite of sporadic tensions over shortage of residential accommodation and absence of privacy in the refugees’ domestic space, its residents were engaged “headlong into making a new life and showed a rare spirit of economic aggressiveness”.7 Within a quarter of a century, a significant number of refugees were found bouncing back to life, as they were able to identify fresh opportunities for business and manufacturing activities in the neighbourhood. Some of these important factors stimulated Ulhasnagar’s transformation from an underdeveloped refugee location to a “prosperous industrial township” with 550 small-scale industrial centres, manufacturing hosiery, soap, steel, trunks, jeans, buckets, plastic, rayon, chemicals, etc. Such locally manufactured items carried the success story of the town to distant markets of Maharashtra and beyond. As its varied industrial products received appreciation in faraway markets, there was a growing need for more hands to run these establishments; it stimulated a rapid rise in the number of immigrants and turned the space cosmopolitan.

Pre-Partition Spaces in Ulhasnagar: Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar With these important developments in Ulhasnagar’s human resources, Sindhi Sikhs also looked forward to accommodating some of these experiences in reestablishing social relationships with their neighbours, many of whom were, like them, refugees from Sindh who shared their syncretic beliefs and practices. Despite great variations in their economic status, they managed to sidestep caste hierarchies as much as possible to widen their web of social networking among people with a common regional background. Such social interventions not only stimulated a sense of accommodation but also encouraged them to become bilingual, which intensified their integration with the population living beyond Ulhasnagar. An interesting outcome of Ulhasnagar’s economic step forward was reflected in resurrecting pre-Partition Sindhi memories, which were temporarily dislocated by Sindhi refugees’ traumatic departure from Sindh. One such interesting initiative came from Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar originally founded in Kandharan village in the province of Sindh. Its early history in Sindh was intimately associated with the life and mission of Thariya Singh (1826–1926), a man of saintly disposition. After his baptism to Sikhism in the 1870s, he devoted nearly his entire life in disseminating Guru Nanak’s message among Hindu Sindhs who widely respected the life and teachings on Guru Nanak. According to the same Darbar sources, he was well-versed in different Sikh sacred sources and freely quoted them in his religious discourses. Besides, the saintly man travelled extensively to spread the message of Sikhism and visited some of the dargahs of Sufi mystics that earned him the appellation of Saijan.

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In spite of being a baptised Sikh, Thariya Singh adhered to Sindh’s message of religious syncretism that made him a popular figure among sehajdhari Hindus of the locality. Thus, singing of devotional music, emphasis on langar, appreciation of certain ascetic practices of Udasis, congregational dancing like Sufi mystics, reading of extracts from different sacred Hindu texts went hand in hand with honouring of holy men of different religious orders, celebration of different gurpurabs and holding regular sessions of kirtan darbar during amritbela (ambrosial time). He played a significant role in baptising the eldest male sons of many Hindu Sindhi trading families to become Sikhs of the gurudino (giving to the gurus)8 tradition which was popular in Sindh, Baluchistan and Punjab for many centuries (Jagtiani 2017; Nanda 2018). In this sense, Thariya Singh’s life and mission may be portrayed as an interesting blending of different religious traditions popular among Sindhis of the prePartition era. It is told that doors of his sacred space were generally kept open to all without discriminating against the “folk” Islam of the region. There is evidence emphasising that Thariya Singh’s memory was not erased even after his passing away but continued to be revered in post-Partition Sindh. His disciples claim that it is still in circulation among a significant number of his followers who continue to celebrate it in Thariya Singh’s native village Kandharan where his sacred space provides an important rallying point for certain annual festivals every year.9 After Partition, Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar was not only relocated by the descendants of Thariya Singh in Camp Four of Ulhasnagar but also in other urban centres of the country where Sindhi Sikhs had managed to develop a few mini urban pockets of settlements. It led to the foundation of a chain of religious institutions scattered from Hardwar (Uttarakhand) to Indore (Madhya Pradesh) by some of the descendants of Thariya Singh who tried to resurrect their predecessor’s memory of pre-Partition Sindh. Each of these sacred spaces was headed by one of the male members from the family of Thariya Singh who were aware of the need to maintain an overarching link among them. These were reinforced by periodic visits and exchange of gifts among them on different festivities and celebrations. In spite of autonomy on all matters of day to day administration, each of these centres generally recognises Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar of Ulhasnagar’s prime position due to its presence in the midst of most populous and resourceful Sindhi refugee settlement.

Reclaiming Syncretic Religious Identities The exalted position of Guru Nanak Darbar in Ulhasnagar, however, faced periodic challenges from a section of Punjabi Sikhs who began to arrive there from the mid-1950s in significant numbers. The spectre of impending Punjabi Sikhs’ interventions galvanised a significant number of Sindhi Hindus and Sikhs to rally under the banner of Darbar run by the descendants of Thariya Singh.

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The Darbar responded to these challenges on its own terms and conditions. Instead of listening to the sermons of Punjabi Sikhs, it continued to respect its traditional loyalties to dehdhari gurus, which had long been an integral part of the community’s religious creed and identity since the days of Thariya Singh. They occupied an exalted position in the Darbar’s religious beliefs and ritual practices and reinforced the Sindhi Sikhs’ link with the larger number of Hindu Sindhi neighbours who were traditionally sehajdharis/sanatanis and provided the bulk of the collection of golak (treasury of a sacred space). In spite of Punjabi Sikhs’ denunciation of the Darbar as a dera (private property) of Thariya Singh’s family and not as a gurdwara (where the sacred text of Sikhs is respected as a living guru), the Darbar remained respectful to its prePartition Sindhi roots. Thus, Sindhi Sikhs’ Sikhism of Ulhasnagar was not a replica of Punjab’s version of Sikhism but was recreated in accordance with the pre-Partition religious milieu of Sindh syncretism. Sindhi Sikhs kept their religious institutions sufficiently inclusive to ensure Sindhi Hindus’ uninterrupted participation in their different religious festivities of Ulhasnagar. It underlined the Darbar’s enthusiasm to continue the message of Sindhi toleration of different religious traditions in its new location and serve as a major rallying point during the process of their transplantation in their new home. In their eyes, the presence of Darbar in Camp Four of Ulhasnagar served as a living representation of their precious memories of their homes and lives pre-Partition Sindh, which kept them close to the tradition evolved by their predecessors in the past. Thus, the memories of Thariya Singh’s religious mission served as an important centre of reviving many of their undifferentiated prePartition memories, which provided Sindhi Sikhs solace and courage to withstand other sufferings. As members of a minority community, numbering around 300, who were again subdivided into a few subgroups, their strategy of drawing support from sehajdhari Hindu devotees was a move towards building human bridges carved out of Sindhiness (Deepsingh Khalsa, written communication, 3 June 2019). Their affiliation to the life and mission of Thariya Singh, regular visits to his sacred space, daily reading of some five banis from the Sikh sacred texts in the morning or remembering the lines of kirtan sohila at bed time conveyed the message of their rebuilding their lives in a new location. By virtue of the composite form of the Hindu Sikh religious space, such banis were remembered not only within the public space of the Darbar but also in the domestic space where the sacred text (Sri Guru Granth Sahib) is revered. It went hand in hand with Sindhi Sikhs’ adherences towards a dehdhari guru that had made them a group of Sikhs distinct from their counterparts of Punjab. One is not sure whether the bringing out of a printed Directory, seeking to include all of their members’ names and surnames with those of their fathers, was dictated by any attempt to bring the Darbar’s members closer to each other. It also facilitated the Darbar’s social networking on the occasions of

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birth, marriage and death in a family or sending special invitations for participation in the Nagar kirtan during the celebration of annual gurpurab of Guru Nanak. The Directory of Sindhi Sikhs of Ulhasnagar was first published in the year 1988 and revised and enlarged in the subsequent years of 1992, 1998, 2001–02, and 2009 by including many fresh names of members who were earlier left out and live in different distant locations away from Ulhasnagar as far as Indore. It facilitated the elevation of Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar of Ulhasnagar to one of the most important religious institutions of Sindhi Sikhs where thousands of devotees would throng on the occasion of gurpurab of Guru Nanak to get a glimpse of its festive mood. Such a largescale human gathering initially involves a significant amount of financial investment from the side of the Darbar which its disciples are accustomed to repaying through varied forms of donations and subscriptions. The Darbar also took the initiative of celebrating the annual varshi of Bhai Meharvan Singh (father of Jaspirat Singh, the present head of the Darbar) who had struggled to lay the foundation of the Darbar during the early years following the Partition. It is held on the 5th of October and continues to add to the coffer of the Darbar. Like other sacred space management bodies of folk Islam and Hinduism, the Darbar not only bestows a talisman called kaladhaga (black thread) to its devotees to protect them from any evil influence of black magic, witchcraft, and so on, for a token payment but other forms of gift exchanges take place here twice every year on the occasion of Ichhapuran Diwas (Day of wish fulfilment), accompanied by an uninterrupted reading of Sikh sacred texts extended over 40 days. Through such dissimilar channels of reciprocation, the head of the Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar continues to reach out to its disciples through exchange of gifts that not only increases its income but ensures intimate human interactions with a cross section of Sindhi pilgrims assembled on each of these occasions.

Conclusion It is still too early to predict the long-term consequences of these developments. In spite of a quick rise in the popularity of different gurdwaras run by immigrant Sikhs of different linguistic and territorial background, it does not altogether marginalise the importance of Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar in the eyes of the Sindhi Sikhs of Ulhasnagar. The Darbar’s recent attempt to set up an expensive and spacious Gaushala (cowshed) of its own, like many of other religious establishments of the township, indirectly points to its attempt at forging a fresh link with Sindhi Hindus. Besides, the presence of other smaller Sindhi Sikh religious spaces in Ulhasnagar underlines that these institutions engage in a variety of competition and dialogue without ignoring the overarching link between Hindus’ sehajdhari and Guru Nanak Darbar thereby respecting the message of religious syncretism from pre-Partition Sindh in post-Partition decades.

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Notes 1 Besides their being less numerous, it is difficult to define a Sikh in Sindh. The decennial censuses had differences of view in this regard (Census of India, 1911. Bombay, vol. 3 (i), Part IA. & Census of India, 1941. Bombay, Part IA.) 2 I visited Ulhasnagar in January–February 2017 and I am still in communication with my Sindhi friends of the place till my writing of the chapter. 3 I could procure its copy from Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar, Ulhasnagar. 4 He must be above 70 and regularly visits Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar and other sacred shrines of Ulhasnagar. 5 My interactions with Gurcharan Singh, a widely respected senior 84-year-old Sindhi Sikh who had been a one time resident of Ulhasnagar, confirmed that he could very well remember how local people were not happy with the arrival of Sindhi refugees in Ulhasnagar (Also see Barnouw 1954 and 1966). 6 Interview with Nihal Singh Anil Singhani, January 28, 2017. Interview with Bhaisahib Trilochan Singh February 2, 2017 Interview with Manohar Singh Jethra, May 28, 2018. Interview with Dada Dayal Singh Chandani, February 11, 2017 Interview with Deep Singh Khalsa Vishn Singh, July 2, 2017 They represent the different socio-economic shades of Sindhi Sikhs residing in Ulhasnagar over a long period of time. 7 According to one estimate, it had just 80,000 population in 1948 which rose to 506,098 people in 2011 (Anand 1996, 135–75). 8 These Sikhs were popularly known as gurudino (literally given to Guru). 9 Telephonic interview with Arati Surinder Manglani, Kolhapur, 15 June, 2019. Her family is a long devotee of Thariya Singh since the pre-Partition days and played a key role in translating the biography of Thariya Singh into Hindi. It was first published in Sindhi written in Arabic script and authored by Gurumukh Singh (1952).

References Advani, Kalyan Bhulchand. 1970. Shah Latif. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi. Aggarwal, Saaz. 2016. Sindh: Stories from a Vanquished Homeland. Pune: Black & White Fountain. Aggarwal, Saaz. 2017. “After Partition, Sindhis Turned Displacement into Determination and Enterprise.” The Wire, August 11. https://thewire.in/politics/after-partitiondisplacement-of-sindhis-turned-into-determination-and-enterprise. Anand, Subhadra. 1996. National Integration of Sindhis. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Aitkin, E.H. 1907. Gazetteer of the Province of Sindh. Karachi: Mercantile Steam Engine. Bhavnani, Nandita. 2014. The Making of Exile: Sindhi Hindus and the Partition of India. Chennai: Tranquebar Press. Barnouw, Victor. 1954. “The Social Structure of a Sindhi Refugee Community.” Oxford Journals and Social Forces, 33(2): 142–152. Barnouw, Victor. 1966. “The Sindhis, Mercantile Refugees in India.” Pylon, 27(1): 4–49. Burton, Richard F. 1851. Sindh, and the Races that Inhabit the Valley of the Indus Sindh, and the Races that Inhabit the Valley of the Indus. London: Wm. H. Allen & Co. Butalia, Urvashi. 1998. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India, New Delhi: Penguin Books. Census of India. 1911. Bombay, vol. 3 (i), Part IA. 46 and 60. Census of India. 1941. Bombay, Part IA. 21, 25 and 27.

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Cook, Mathew A. 2010 “Getting Ahead or Keeping Your Head? The Sindhi Migration in Eighteenth Century India,” In Interpreting the Sindhi World: Essays on Society and History, edited by Michel Boivin and Mathew A. Cook. 133–149. Karachi: Oxford University Press. Hughes, A.W. [1876]1996. Gazetteer of the Province of Sind. Karachi: Indus Publications. Hutter, Manfred. 2012. “‘Half Mandir and Half Gurdwara’: Three Local Hindu Communities of Manila, Jakarta, and Cologne.” Numen, 52: 344–365. Jagtiani, Harish Jethmal. 2017. “Family History of Himmatsing Khemsing Advani: Khutabandi Amils of Sindh.” Unpublished Manuscript. Kothari, Rita. 2007. The Burden of Refuge: Partition Experiences of the Sindhis of Gujarat. Bengaluru: Orient Longman. Kothari, Rita. 2009. Unbordered Memories: Sindhi Short Stories of Partition. Gurgaon: Penguin Books. Kothari, Rita and Jasbirkaur Thadhani, 2016. “Sindhi Sikhs: in India: The Missing People.” South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, 39(4): 1–16. Manglani, Arati Surinder. Telephonic Communication. Himadri Banerjee, Kolhapur. 15 June. 2019. Markovits, Claude. 2000. The Global World of Indian Merchants, 1750–1947: Traders of Sindh from Bukhara to Panama. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Menon, Ritu. 2004. No Women’s Land: Women of Pakistan, India & Bangladesh Write on the Partition of India. New Delhi: Women Unlimited. Nanda, Reena. 2018. From Quetta to Delhi: A Partition Story. New Delhi: Bloomsbury India. Napier, William. 1851. Administration of Scinde and Campaign in the Cutchee Hills. London: Chapman and Hall. Oberoi, Harjot. 1994. The Construction of Religious Boundaries:Culture, Identity and Diversity in the Diversity in Sikh Tradition. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Setpal, Jivanram (trs.). 2012. Sant Baba Thariya Singh Sahibji (Sainjan) (Kadhran, Sindh) ka Jivan-Charit: Ek Sarl Jivan (Hindi). Kolhapur: Subhas Mall. Singh, Amardeep. 2018. The Quest Continues: Lost Heritage: The Sikh Legacy in Pakistan, Texts and Photographs. Delhi: Himalayan Books. Syan, Hardip Singh. 2017. “Khatris and Aroras.” In Brill’s Encyclopaedia of Sikhism, Vol. 1, History Literature Society Beyond Punjab, edited by Knut K. Jacobsen, Gurinder Singh Mann, Kristina Myrvold and Eleanor Nesbitt. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Thakur, Upendra T. 1959. Sindhi Culture. Bombay: University of Bombay. Malkani, Kewalram Ratanmal. 1984. The Sindhi Story. Bombay: Allied Publishers. Ramey, Steven Wesley. 2004. “Defying Borders: Contemporary Sindhi Hindu Construction of Practices and Identifications.” PhD. Dissertation, University of North Carolina.

9 PARTITIONED SUBJECTS Women in Mainland “Permanent Liability” Camps and Andaman’s Archipelagic Settlements Raka Banerjee

Feminist historiography of the Partition has enabled the movement of many stories of the Partition from the private to the public. Yet, the lifeworlds of Partition—displaced women across caste—class identities and geographic locations of settlement continue to inhabit only a marginally represented space in the existing discourse on India’s Partition. This chapter reflects on the narratives of the overlooked “other subjects” of the Partition—the “permanent liability”1 (PL) women in West Bengal’s camps and the “settler women”2 in Andaman Islands—to highlight the entanglements of gender and rehabilitation, as well as gendered rehabilitation. This juxtaposition of narratives of “peripheral” subjects in the discursive centre, that is, West Bengal and particularly, Calcutta, with the narratives from the geographic as well as discursive “periphery”, that is, the Andaman Islands, brings out the textured reality of gendered rehabilitation across geographic and social locations. Finally, the chapter demonstrates the interchangeability of categories assigned to women migrants and refugees by the state, wherein PL and “attached”3 settler women were not fixed categories. In so doing, this chapter complicates scholarship that tends to use a single refugee experience to represent diverse populations of migrants (Roy 2012, 184; Sen 2015, 103) and effaces all region-specific distinctions amongst refugees (Sinha-Kerkhoff 2000; Bagchi and Dasgupta 2003; Sen 2018). The chapter is structured into two broad sections. The first section will reflect on the incomplete nature of rehabilitation of the PL women in West Bengal. It engages narratives of PL women living in four camps4—namely, Bansberia PL Home and Women’s Camp (Hooghly), Habra PL Camp-II (North 24-Parganas), Chandmari PL Camp-I (Nadia), and Ranaghat Women’s Home (Nadia)—in districts of West Bengal. The second section offers narratives of the settler women5 residing in settlements of Herbertabad, DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-10

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Tushnabad, Manglutan, and Neil Island (Shaheed Dweep) in South Andaman, to reflect on the politics of dispersal on the lives of the namasudra 6 “attached” women in Andaman Islands. The narratives discussed in this chapter were gathered through extensive qualitative fieldwork in West Bengal and the Andaman Islands between 2017 and 2019. All narratives were gathered during qualitative interviewing, with informed consent of participants, and the aim of recording their lived experiences of negotiating the rehabilitation regime and a gendered telling of the women’s role in it. The chapter will conclude by demonstrating the circumlocutory nature of the state’s treatment of its female refugees and migrants, revealing their precarious position in the deeply gendered regime of rehabilitation.

Survival and Subversion: Unfinished Rehabilitation of the Partition’s “Permanent Liabilities” The “permanent liability” in its original conception included six types of persons (Ghosh and Dutta 2009, 200), but for the purpose of this chapter, the discussion will be restricted to “unattached” women and their dependents. Living under close supervision as wards of the state, the PL women’s lives were dictated by state-imposed gendered restrictions. Camp residents were to follow timetables set by the Camp Commandant. They could leave the camp for specified hours and for activities (vocational training and employment) approved by the Commandant. Attendance would be taken twice a day to restrict unauthorised movement. In the absence of the male guardian the state-assigned Camp Commandant performed the protectionist role of the patriarchal heteronormative family by imposing these corporeal restrictions on the women’s movement. The underlying assumption being the women simply did not know better and needed the patronage of men to steer the course of their lives. Most stringent restrictions were imposed upon girl children and younger women whose lives revolved around state institutions for childcare, vocational education, and employment. As the women grew older and were no longer considered sexually active and reproductively productive to patriarchy, the stringency of these restrictions eased and with it changed the PL camp’s character. While the gendered PL identity is produced and shaped by the machinations of the patriarchal state, the PL women’s narratives bring out negotiations, subversions and survival in a system characterised by the overarching presence of the state in their everyday lives. The narratives shared by the women living in PL camps in West Bengal highlight key aspects— state’s intervention in the lives of PL women, the women’s negotiations with the state, and finally, the contemporary contestations in the PL spaces—which will be discussed in this section. At the time of interviewing in 2017, having spent her entire life in a series of institutions under the guardianship of the state, Malaya Bairagi, in her late-50s, was living in Bansberia PL Home and Women’s Camp, as a

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permanent liability of the state. The Bansberia PL Home was set up in November 1951. It initially operated as a Women’s Camp and later, people with auditory and visual impairments residing in the Kartikpur wing were brought into the fold of the Bansberia camp (interview with Camp Superintendent, 2017). The camp buildings are a combination of World War II-era military barracks on one side of the camp compound and a series of single storey two-room houses on the other side overlooking the river Hooghly. The grounds were covered in thick undergrowth and most of the buildings, particularly the dome-shaped military barracks, were in a state of dilapidation. It was Malaya Bairagi’s mother who was originally a resident of the camp. After the death of her father in Uttarpara camp, her mother was left with three young boys and Malaya. Her earnings from the stitching unit were insufficient to support the family, so the authorities transferred Malaya to Tollygunj Shishu Bhawan (Tollygunj Children’s Home). She recalls being 10–15 years of age when she was transferred to the children’s home and lived there till she turned 28. For a year she was a domestic worker at the Superintendent’s residence on the second floor of the same building. Thereafter, she was allowed to live with her mother at the Bansberia PL Home and Women’s Camp and continues to reside there after the passing of her mother many years ago. As the restrictions on employment and residents’ movement eased, the camp staff helped Malaya find domestic work in the neighbourhood, in addition to making paper-bags for a local contractor with her mother. Another second-generation resident of the same camp, who wished to remain anonymous, worked at a local private school on a monthly salary of 3,080 rupees—a fact she wanted to keep from the other camp residents—as she also received a dole by virtue of being a camp resident. She used to live in the camp with her mother but would be away for short periods of time as she was undertaking nursing training in Burdwan. Once when her mother went to collect their ration, the camp-superintendent instructed that her daughter must collect her share herself. Another inmate had informed the office that she was training for a nursing job which was in violation of the camp regulations. As a result, their ration was withheld for three months, until she quit the training mid-way and returned to the camp. She, too, started helping her mother make paper-bags until she found the current job. The strictness regarding employment has lessened over time. The current Superintendent knows that I work elsewhere—he doesn’t know how much I make from it—but he never intervenes, because everyone knows how impossible it is to make do with just a thousand rupees.7 Along with the easing of restrictions, the quality of services available to residents has also worsened. They must make do with meagre dole amounts and inferior quality of food items, and the camp offices are slow to make repair-work or send requisitions for new clothing. Two elderly residents (who

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wished to remain anonymous) informed, the food-grain given in ration is of extremely inferior quality—often infested with insects and too coarse for consumption. So, the residents sell off their ration to a local e-rickshaw driver, in exchange for money or better-quality rice at a higher price. The women, however, were opposed to his proposition of receiving leftover food from a local catering business: “Sarkar amader dekhe, khete dae; amra keno or dewa khawar khabo? Amra ogulo khai na”8 (the state looks after us, feeds us; why would we eat off him? We won’t eat all that!). For the PL women, it is the state that stepped in to fulfil the obligations of the family patriarch and this understanding creates a sense of allegiance to the state and its institutions. Nayantara Pal of Habra PL Camp-II was only six months old when her father passed away in the violent Noakhali riots. Along with her mother Joba, they arrived at Sealdah station and were taken to the “anath camp” (orphans’ camp) in Kartikpur. Joba worked on “Gandhiji’s charka”, meaning she was employed at the industrial centre operating the hand-charka, the foot-charka, sewing, and weaving. After about 14 years, they were taken to Titagarh, where Nayantara too began working. They were later transferred to Habra. Though they have retained the residence allotted to Joba, she now lives with her daughter at her Ultadanga house after the passing of her son-in-law. Established in 1953, Habra PL Camp I and Camp II, which are under the jurisdiction of the same camp office, houses 16 families with a total of 19 individuals. Of these, only two are multi-unit (families) and the rest are single individuals (interview with Camp Superintendent, 2017). Many of the deserted residences have now been taken over by squatters and that has engendered hostility among residents and non-residents, with both laying claim to the same statist resources. Asserting her “authentic” refugee identity, octogenarian Joba mentioned they were brought to India after Partition by Jawaharlal Nehru himself. Another resident of the same camp, who lives with her elder sister and their 90-year-old mother, claimed that political parties only visit before election season and have never helped the elderly women. Their political allegiance, however, remains firmly planted on the memories of their resettlement in the new nation: “We live in houses allotted by Congress; Congress has given us food, shelter and safety, so we vote only for Congress.”9 For a group that closely identifies their personal trajectories of resettlement with the inception of the Indian nation-state and the Indian National Congress party, the present condition of electoral apathy and their waning significance as key political actors is difficult to reconcile with their prevailing political allegiances. The camp regulations dictated every aspect of the inmates’ lives including, and perhaps most significantly, their intimate relationships. A resident of Chandmari PL Camp-I, who chose to remain anonymous, has been awaiting rehabilitation for the last 27 years and what could jeopardise that possibility is disclosing her marital status to the administrators. At the age of 46, she decided to get married as she was getting lonelier with time:

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living alone, after a certain age, has its own set of problems. I would fall sick and have no one to look after me or even talk to me. So, I ended up living with him. He doesn’t have a job and mostly stays home, but at least I have someone to talk to or be around when I am not doing well.10 However, she did not update her marital status at the camp office as it would disqualify her for rehabilitation, since a “permanent liability” is only considered a “liability” of the state as long as they do not have an adult male guardian. When he started living with her the neighbours complained to the office. The camp in-charge, however, was sympathetic to her situation and provided a solution; he asked her not to have any signs of marriage on her person while visiting the camp office. Further, she had to give a written undertaking to the Sub-Divisional Officer declaring herself unmarried. Awaiting rehabilitation for almost three decades, her “institutionalised” living condition in the PL camp has rendered her not only “home”-less, but also wanting for human connection: “I am waiting to be rehabilitated. Frankly, I don’t want dole or ration or cash compensation. Shara jibon toh camp’ei thaklam, nijeshwo bari-ghor r thaklo na; amader dekhar moto r keu nei.”11 (I have spent my whole life in the camp, so I have no home to call my own; neither do I have anyone to look after me.) In a similar vein, Malaya Bairagi’s neighbour had quipped: “Kono atwiyo-swajan na thakle biye debe keda?” (Who will get her married if there are no relations and kin?), upon asking why she never married. At present the permanent liability camps have become the backdrop for violence and illegal occupation, and those without political support stand to lose more than just their possibility of rehabilitation. While conducting interviews in Ranaghat Women’s Home,12 I was warned by a camp resident— “jaiga kintu bhalo na, tai jene bujhe jatayat koro” (this place is not good, be careful while you are about)—to be careful while making my way around the camp, navigating narrow mud tracks through the thick overgrowth of monsoon shrubbery. At Habra PL Camp-II, “legitimate” camp residents claimed there are only 19 PL women living in the two camp-units, while 1,500 squatters had taken over the remaining vacant housing quarters. In their opinion, such hooliganism could not have gained ground under the Congress regime. The camp officials are allegedly scared to act against these illegal residents. Further, the PL women’s requests for allotment of quarters in the same cluster were rejected. The squatters regularly provoke the old women by various means—–throwing stones at them, littering around their quarters—–and if they retaliate the squatters take to physical violence. In one such incident over 20 years ago, one of the interviewed women got brutally injured leaving her blind in one eye. A resident of Ranaghat Women’s Home and PL Camp was also a victim of such targeted violence. Three goons entered her hut late in the night, tied her hands and feet, threw a blanket over her to keep her from seeing, and parted with whatever little possession she had. She believes that the camp superintendent is in alliance with these negative elements to deprive

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the old PL women of their land. To her, “the ‘bhanga kathals’ (cracked-open jackfruits, meaning leftovers) have been left out of the process of rehabilitation and are still counting their days as refugees in a country where they are, in effect, citizens without land and home”.13 The different treatment of the women exposed the state’s internal dissonances in categorising and dealing with them and exposed its inherently paternalistic and patriarchal character (Menon and Bhasin 1998, 160; Sen 2011a, 8–9). The state rarely dealt with women as individuals and their identity was subsumed under the guardianship of the male “head of the family”. But the altered circumstances forced the state to acknowledge women as singular individual agents seeking statist benefits (Menon and Bhasin 1998; Butalia 1998, 2015; Menon 2004). In the case of the PL women, the gendered subject is visible because of their “misfortune” of being “unattached”, justifying institutional disciplining imposed on them. As a result of institutional regulation, their private lives entered the purview of state’s governance. The underpinning logic is that in the absence of male kin the state is liable to act on its behalf to exert its patriarchal control on women’s sexuality and bodies in order to retain the “purity” of the family, community, and the larger nation. Regulating women’s sexuality by censoring their interpersonal relationships is by no means limited to PL women, as the “attached” settler women’s trajectories, too, as the chapter will demonstrate, depended on such statist control. Further, as the state’s control over the PL women’s bodies loosened, the camp itself changed from a space of militaristic regimentation to one with potential for real estate development, leading to illegal occupation by non-residents and violent contestation over the space. The presented narratives remind us of the interlinked nature of subversion and survival and demonstrate how the women elect degrees of patronage they seek from the state and how they defy the conditions imposed on them. However, under the present conditions prevailing in many of the camps in the districts of West Bengal, the PL women—now old and fragile—call upon the state to extend its familial patronage on the surviving residents against threats of violence, eviction, and once again, the risk of dispossession.

Dispersal, Displacement(s) and Transportation: Rebuilding Home and Identity at the Margins of Nation If the state’s paternalism towards the “unattached” PL women was designed to reserve the performance of full citizenship as a male prerogative (Sen 2018, 20), even after granting the “attached” women “full citizenship” it continued to treat them as non-actors in the scheme of rehabilitation. Dispersed to the “peripheries” of the nation, the “attached” women laboured not only to reestablish their households and therefore new settlements, but also the new nation. The “untouchable” (Mallick 1999, 106) migrants were disposed of through the aid of neighbouring states of Assam, Bihar, Orissa, to camps at

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uninhabitable places, of which the Dandakaranya and the Andaman projects were the most ambitious (Chakrabarti 1999; Chatterji 2007; Roy 2003; Bandyopadhyay 2014; Chakrabarti et al. 2015). The Island’s post-colonial schemes of settlement aimed at the creation of a certain “male” subject wherein women occupied only a secondary position (Sen 2000; Vaidik 2010). Such partial telling effaces the women’s central role and exemplary resilience in overcoming the combined adversities of violence, displacement, poverty, and trauma, in new settlements (Bagchi and Dasgupta 2003, 6). Further, this process refashioned their identity into “settler women”, rooted in the specificities of location and phase of settlement. Taking from narratives of the settler women in South Andamans (Herbertabad, Tushnabad and Manglutan) and Neil Island (Shaheed Dweep), this section will bring out a gendered telling of the rehabilitation regime, the women’s contribution to it, and their transforming identity in the Islands. The narratives highlight the context of the settler women’s transportation to and settlement in the Islands and offer insights into the changing understandings of gender norms within the Island society as a result of this movement. Mrinalini and Alok Chandra Biswas of Herbertabad were one of the earliest settlers to arrive on the Islands, and their very lives are a testimony to the extreme hardship the early settlers had to endure to establish the flourishing settlements of today. According to them, the state “simply needed people, they needed baits to catch tigers and we were the baits”.14 Threat of camp closure and cash doles being stopped, coupled with lack of control over future course of dislocation and dispersal, led several refugees to “opt” for the Andaman scheme (Lorea 2017, 4). Such “choice”, while constrained by several factors, offered a solution to their perpetual dislocation and ignominious lives spent in the state’s refugee camps (Sen 2017, 162). By projecting the Islands as a vast reserve of under-utilised land that could provide an outlet for agriculturists from mainland India, the Indian state sought to find a solution for both the refugee issue and address the agenda of national development (Sen 2017, 23). Settlement took place in the Islands in three phases under two broad schemes: settlements in South Andaman (1949–52) and in Middle and North Andaman (1953–60), under West Bengal government’s “colonisation scheme”; and settlements in Neil Island, Little Andaman and Betapur (1965–80) under the central Ministry of Rehabilitation’s “rehabilitation scheme”. In combination with the colonisation and rehabilitation schemes, a total of 3,695 Bengali refugee families were settled in the Islands (Chakraborty 2012, 15). Mrinalini Biswas was too young to remember her journey to Andaman. Her natal family belonged to Khulna in East Pakistan. She recalls, upon reaching Port Blair by ship they were taken to Ross hill and given breakfast. Later, they were put on LCT (light cargo transport) boats and 40 families, including theirs, were sent off to Havelock Island (Swaraj Dweep). Her uncle’s brother-in-law, who lived in a settlement in Herbertabad, played matchmaker and within a year or two she was married off to Alok Chandra Biswas of

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Herbertabad, South Andaman. Boat service between these two places was available only once a week; it would come on a Tuesday and go back the next Tuesday. Her father made necessary purchases—clothes, utensils, flowers, and so on—within that time. On the subsequent week’s boat service her father-in-law reached Havelock and the wedding took place. Nowadays she visits Havelock to see her aunt. She often makes this journey alone and at other times with her grandson. The women who arrived in the initial years, she asserts, did not know their way around and would rarely go out, but now women have become smart and don’t hesitate going to the nearby market or even as far as Hut Bay (Little Andaman) alone. Since she came to the Islands at a young age, she feels she is different from the women in “Bangladesh”—“the women in Bangladesh need to be accompanied by men all the time, here, no such system exists”.15 She adds, even to this day the women there cover their head and face with the sari. Many were apprehensive about surviving the journey; for instance, Mrinalini’s grandmother did not travel to the Islands as she believed the ship would dive underwater from the jetty in Calcutta and would only come up to the surface once it reached the jetty in Andaman. The settlers’ adaptation to their changed circumstances ranged from the everyday to the exceptional. Mrinalini recalled how their food habits changed over time and the family started consuming pork and crab meat, which was unthinkable for them in East Pakistan. “Us namasudras have never reared or consumed poultry in Bangladesh. If someone was seen breaking this rule, they would be promptly excommunicated. Even after coming to this desh my mother-in-law would not eat these food items, be it egg, chicken, duck, pig, deer, or anything else.”16 Both Mrinalini and her husband, however, maintain that the “sarkar” had been nothing but attentive and sympathetic to their needs—“they would give us everything that a household needs to run itself—mosquito nets, clothes, sickle, scissors, shovel, utensils, lanterns and whatnot…even cooked meals, and construction material—like tin and all—in order for us to build our houses.”17 However, the settlers’ initial hardships coupled with later services assured to the Union Territory (reservation benefits in education, employment and subsidised healthcare) helped the settler population establish themselves in a manner unlike the dispersed refugee population in mainland India. As a result, early settlers like Mrinalini and Alok Chandra, liken the Congress government’s approach to that of a parental figure and attribute the refugees’ allegiance to the party to their humane treatment of the refugee population. This narrative of successful settlement supported the state’s nationalist propaganda, as well as, the settlers’ new identity marked by “agency and selfhood” (Mazumdar 2016, 175), rooted in the geography of the Islands (Sen 2011; Mazumdar 2016; Sen 2017; Zehmisch 2018), removed from their history of dislocation and subjugation (Zehmisch 2018, 65). “Forgotten” (Sen 2017) by the mainland, the settlers have built their sense of place, home and dwelling in the Island by “turning their backs on the Indian mainland” (Anderson, Mazumdar and Pandya 2016, 21). Recent success of the tourism

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industry, particularly in Neil and Havelock Islands, has led to significant upward mobility, class transformation, and a changing social dynamic owing to inter-marriages, political clout and changes in aspirations of the younger generations (Zehmisch 2018, 77–79). These intergenerational distinctions are primarily articulated by the older settler women in terms of the negative influence of “mainland culture” on the Island’s culture. Archana Ghosh and her husband Bikash Ghosh of Sitapur, Neil Island (Shaheed Dweep), are later settlers who were brought to the Island in the late 1960s under the rehabilitation scheme. Their family is prominently placed in the Matua18 faith network due to their active involvement in hosting large-scale festivals and Hari Thakur’s kirtans with participation from across the Islands. Neil Island is also a significant tourist destination in the archipelago, which has led to the development of a thriving economy around tourism and allied livelihoods. The Ghosh family runs a tourist lodge in a portion of the homestead plot received in lieu of rehabilitation. In the course of my conversation with Archana, I inquired whether the women in the Island observe the same gender norms and purdah as they did in East Pakistan. “Everyone used to work but still they would maintain their honour and dignity, the women would cover their heads and act like women, maintaining caution, but now that has changed, and everyone has become unruly.”19 Archana appeared critical of the changes in gender norms and attributed these negative influences to the impact of television programmes being broadcasted from the mainland. If she finds the mainland Bengali visitors, particularly married women, not wearing the traditional conch-shell bangles (shakha) or vermillion (shidoor) on the parting of their hair, she reprimands them for “forgetting the Bengali way of life”. She is also critical of her granddaughter, who lives in Delhi, for her choice of clothes, especially short pants around her maternal uncles when she visits Neil Island. While she is unable to change how the visitors or her granddaughter dress, Archana has strictly instructed her daughters-in-law against wearing anything other than sarees. She is particularly irked by women wearing maxis (a loose garment like a nightdress) and has requested her daughters-in-law to not wear one during the daytime. She stressed their compliance with her dress-code along with their willingness to offer daily evening prayers to the deity, to indicate the younger women’s subservience in the family. Along with her daughters-in-law and other family members, Archana visits Thakurnagar (seat of Matua religion in West Bengal) frequently. Her discomfort with the changing role of women and gender norms in settler society and mainland Indian society at large is not an isolated phenomena and is broadly reflected in narratives of settler women of the early generations. These island–mainland differences, moreover, are indicative not only of gendered understandings of honour and respectability, but more significantly, of the conception of culture—tied closely to the notion of home and homeland—which the early settler women have had to preserve and replicate in their post-displacement homes in the Islands.

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Caste, displacement(s) and religion intimately interacted in reformulating the settlers’ conception of homeland. While they “claimed affective belonging to their putative homelands” (Sen 2018, 6) by migrating from East Pakistan and into West Bengal, the namasudra refugees and migrants who formed the bulk of the transported population came to realise the “cultural divide” between them and the bhadralok (Jalais 2005, 1758). In the Bengali bhadralok’s reckoning, Bengal was a quintessentially Hindu bhadralok province in terms of culture and history (Pandey 1997, 2268), and the “home” in this homeland was essentially imagined as a Hindu home (Chakrabarty 1996, 2150). Mandal (2008, 79) analyses such “mythology of origin” as stemming from a privileged caste-Hindu class position and privileging Bengali bhadralok’s “traumatic and nostalgic memories of a lost homeland in East Bengal” (Rahman and van Schendel 2003, 555; Sen 2015). Unlike the case of West Bengal, particularly Kolkata, where Matua refugees and migrants were kept away from the metropolis by tactics of dispersal, in the Andaman Islands they form most of the Bengali settler population. In the absence of a hegemonic “high Hindu bhadralok culture” (Lorea 2017, 4), the settlers were free to reorient their cultural identities, wherein Matua religion played a determining, if not dominant, role (Sen 2017, 161). Matua religious performative expression has emerged as a way of negotiating with the separation between one’s utopian home and the inhabited space (Mazumdar 2016, 172; Lorea 2017, 5), and establishing a transnational network of faith and solidarity (Lorea 2020). The settler women’s narratives demonstrate a complex interplay of “intentional forgetting” and “painful remembering” (Kabir 2013, 23), simultaneously privileging their current locations and engaging in nostalgic remembrance, while recollecting their mainland pasts. Alo Saha of Manglutan, South Andaman, asserted, “we are not convicts, we were brought by the government”.20 While this accords her with legitimate rights over the island settlement, she wondered what happened to the coconuts their family could not find the time to sell and had buried underground, before leaving overnight. Anita Pal of Lakshmanpur, Neil Island, who is much younger than Alo and arrived to the Islands as a young child, remembers her girlhood home in “Bangladesh” vividly. She spoke at length about their kitchen garden wondering how the chilis must now be dangling from the plant and reminiscing how she would dig through the soil to pull out potatoes. As a child she would hear older settlers complain that they couldn’t eat anything in the Islands as nothing tasted good or felt satiating due to the saline soil—“nona jol’er desh, shanti lage na khaye”—and how “Bangladesh” was better as everything tasted good there. In a manner of confiding she shared, “ekhono mone porle ichha kore” (I still feel like going to Bangladesh), “chokhe bhashe ghor-duar guli” (even to this day I can picture our house).21 However, she carefully balances this apparently clandestine desire with the peculiarities of Neil that make it an ideal settlement location for their family. During the devastating tsunami of 2004, Neil remained largely unimpacted and while the earth

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developed massive cracks—one of which came right up to Anita Pal’s courtyard—it stopped at the threshold of her house in front of the prayer room. She considers this divine act an indication of Neil’s uniqueness as “all other desh (meaning homeland; in this case, other Islands of the Andaman and Nicobar archipelago) had been affected by the tsunami, but Neil was spared”.22 By simultaneously remembering their past mainland locations and privileging their current island locations, the women prioritise settler narratives of reconstruction of both “home” and self. Remembering is always simultaneous with forgetting as recollection is an act of reconstruction, and certain events are actively forgotten to make the construction of a new identity possible. The settler women’s caste, religion, gender identity and location intersect in unique ways to engender a distinct refugee memory and settler identity. Experiences of caste oppression in East Bengal shaped their distinctive pattern of recollection in the Islands (Sen 2017, 173) and contributed to their “weakening nostalgia” hand-in-hand with an island-centric belonging promoted by “hegemonic state narrative of Mini-India” (Zehmisch 2018, 80–81). This finds expression not only in a reluctance to identify East Bengal as the idyllic land of plenty, but also in a near-rejection of the upper-class uppercaste Bengali Hindu ethos dictating dominant “Bengali identity” in the mainland. Gendered settler narratives, therefore, hold the potential to disrupt the very lenses and concepts we use to understand gender, rehabilitation and nation-building in the context of eastern Partition.

Gendered Subjects and Circuitous Trajectories “As her husband has gone away, I don’t see the point in her remaining here. She will only get into trouble and increase the number of illegitimate children here and may therefore be allowed to go.” In response the Chief Commissioner writes against the memo: “Let her go. She will be a good riddance.” However, the official response reads: “The Chief Commissioner is pleased to order that Srimati Jyotirmoyee may be allowed to go back. Full particulars may please be furnished for communication to the Government of West Bengal.”23

The above excerpt from a letter addressed to the Chief Commissioner by the Deputy Commissioner, recommending repatriation of a settler woman from the Andaman Islands to Calcutta, provides an illuminating example of the circuitous trajectories the refugee and migrant women had to undertake as “attached” gendered subjects. The account is of one Smt. Jyotirmoyee, whose husband absconded from the island on the pretext of purchasing goods from the mainland for his tailoring business. After her husband fled the island, her brother-in-law requested for his family to be repatriated to the mainland as they were faced with extreme financial hardship. Since Jyotirmoyee’s husband fled without repaying his colonisation loans, the administration ordered for

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her repatriation with her brother-in-law’s family. The administration neither trusted the female settler to stay on as rightful owner of the rehabilitation land, nor did it allow them to be repatriated to the mainland without a male guardian. The correspondence brings out the statist ascription of categories upon the female subjects and the patriarchal biases informing said category. As demonstrated above, archival evidence indicates the “unattached” PL women and the rehabilitated “settler” women were not necessarily mutually exclusive categories and women could be reverted back and forth into these categories without any “choice” or “agency” of their own. The rehabilitation scheme revolved around the exclusive need for adult men capable of performing hard labour. As a result, when “unfit” men found their way to the Island and were unable to cope with the conditions of settlement, there was no space for such people in the Island. Since the Island administration was preoccupied with recovery of colonisation loans, once the male head of the family was deemed unfit for labour the whole family unit would be shipped back and arrangements made for new settlers. They were labelled “destitute” by the administration and sent back to the mainland as “permanent liabilities” of the state. The “unattached” status of the women deemed “permanent liabilities” forced the state to confront the single female subject as a recipient of rehabilitation benefits. The “attached” women turned “settlers”, however, swiftly disappear from the state’s archives once the focus shifts from the jarring event of Partition to the lengthy process of rehabilitation (Sen 2018, 201), and the precarity of their “attached” status is never revealed in the statist understanding of rehabilitation. In the case of the women who were left behind in the Island, by condition of not having a male guardian the women simply did not “belong” (Menon and Bhasin 1998, 251). Sans men they were “destitutes”, who would “get into trouble” of a particularly sexual nature which would result in the birth of “illegitimate children”, creating difficulties for the administration. Hence, transporting such women to the mainland was a “good riddance” for the Island administration. Notions of sexual purity and morality dictated the legitimacy of settler families in the Island. In that regard, at the core of the issue is the ideological production of the family unit, which was also the labouring unit, that dictated the post-colonial criterion for settlement. The settler women were responsible for both the sexual and reproductive labour, in addition to social reproduction and everyday domestic labour. By invisibilising the range of rehabilitation services performed by them, the administration pushed the industrious settler women into the private role of “attached” women—present in the settlement simply by virtue of being attached to their male guardian, devoid of any role, agency and subjectivity. Moreover, the very logic informing the creation of these categories highlights the gendered nature of the rehabilitation mechanism within which female subjects were only accorded marginal claims. The chapter introduces the lifeworlds of the camp-dwelling permanent liability women and the settler

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women in two locations—West Bengal and Andaman Islands—and the modalities of their rehabilitation. In doing so, the chapter demonstrates not only the peculiarities of the categories and the politics of their creation, but also the fluidity of categories assigned to the women. It reveals their circumscribed agency in claiming belonging to family, land and nation as citizens, and highlights the evolution of both nation and its female subjects through these negotiations.

Notes 1 “Unattached” women (widowed women, unmarried women, and women without any male guardian), infirm men and children, were ineligible for rehabilitation, and the state took over the responsibility of looking after these groups in the absence of a heteronormative family unit. 2 Female members of the refugee families which were given settlement in the Andaman Islands by the state. 3 Female refugees and migrants of the Partition who had male guardians and “belonged” to family units with a male “head of the household” who would be eligible to receive rehabilitation benefits from the state. 4 All interviews were conducted in 2017, with relation to a research project on the gender-caste-class dimension of the Partition narratives in India’s eastern border. Pseudonyms have been used throughout, except in case of participants who did not wish to be named at all. I would like to thank (late) Professor Ilina Sen for granting me permission to use some of the interviews for the purpose of this chapter, and to the Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai and Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group, Kolkata for facilitating the research project. 5 All interviews were conducted in 2018 and 2019 for my doctoral research. Pseudonyms have been used throughout. 6 Socially marginalised, previously “untouchable” caste groups in Bengal who were the worst affected of the Partition refugees and had little or no resources to start over their lives in India. 7 Interview with Bansberia PL Home and Women’s Camp resident, 17 May 2017. 8 Interview with Bansberia PL Home and Women’s Camp resident, 17 May 2017. 9 Interview with Habra PL Camp II residents, 5 May 2017. 10 Interview with Chandmari PL Camp I resident, 10 May 2017. 11 Interview with Chandmari PL Camp I resident, 10 May 2017. 12 The Cooper’s Transit Camp was established in 1952. The PL Home, at present, houses the “left-overs” from this refugee era, who could not be rehabilitated elsewhere. The population residing in the Ranaghat Women’s Home and the Cooper’s PL Home was earlier an RG (Rehabilitation Group), who refused rehabilitation and has been converted into the PL category. The PL Home has 18 families with 24 units and the Women’s Camp has 12 families with 14 units in total (from interviews with the Camp Superintendent and the Relief and Rehabilitation Department in-Charge, Ranaghat Subdivision, 2017). 13 Interview with Ranaghat Women’s Home and PL Camp resident, 8 March 2017. 14 Interview with Mrinalini Biswas and Alok Chandra Biswas, Herbertabad, South Andaman, 21 January 2019. 15 Interview with Mrinalini Biswas and Alok Chandra Biswas, Herbertabad, South Andaman, 21 January 2019. 16 Interview with Mrinalini Biswas and Alok Chandra Biswas, Herbertabad, South Andaman, 21 January 2019.

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17 Interview with Mrinalini Biswas and Alok Chandra Biswas, Herbertabad, South Andaman, 21 January 2019. 18 A heterodox religious movement which began in nineteenth-century East Bengal and acted as a strong socio-political force in reforming and collectivising the lower-caste, primarily agriculturalist, population against Brahmanical domination and oppression. 19 Interview with Archana Ghosh and Bikash Ghosh, Sitapur, Neil Island (Shaheed Dweep), 25 January 2019. 20 Interview with Alo Saha, Manglutan, South Andaman, 11 January 2019. 21 Interview with Anita Pal, Lakshmanpur, Neil Island (Shaheed Dweep), 24 January 2019. 22 Interview with Anita Pal, Lakshmanpur, Neil Island (Shaheed Dweep), 24 January 2019. 23 File No. 10–16/49–52(A), Subject: Repatriation of refugee settlers at their own request and at their own expenses; Judicial/Revenue Section, Andaman and Nicobar Archives, Secretariat, Port Blair.

References Anderson, Clare, Madhumita Mazumdar and Vishvajit Pandya. 2016. “Introduction”. In New Histories of the Andaman Islands: Landscape, Place and Identity in the Bay of Bengal, 1790–2012, edited by Clare Anderson, Madhumita Mazumdar and Vishvajit Pandya, 1–25. Delhi: Cambridge University Press. Bagchi, Jasodhara and Subhoranjan Dasgupta. 2003. “Introduction”. In The Trauma and the Triumph: Gender and Partition in Eastern India, Volume 1, edited by Jasodhara Bagchi and Subhoranjan Dasgupta, 1–14. Kolkata: Stree. Bandyopadhyay, Hiranmay. 2014. Udbastu (in Bangla). Kolkata: Deep Prakashan. Banerjee, Sudeshna. 2003. “Displacement within Displacement: The Crisis of Old Age in the Refugee Colonies of Calcutta”. Studies in History 19 (2): 199–220. Butalia, Urvashi. 1998. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India. New Delhi: Penguin Books. Reprinted, New Delhi: Penguin Random House India. Butalia, Urvashi. 2015. Partition: The Long Shadow. New Delhi: Zubaan and Penguin Books India, Heinrich Boll Foundation, Delhi. Chakrabarti, Prafulla K. 1999. The Marginal Men. Calcutta: Naya Udyog. Chakrabarti, Tridib, Nirupama Ray Mandal, and Paulami Ghoshal. 2015. Dhvangsao-Nirman: Bangiya Udvastu Samajer Svakathita Bibaran. Kolkata: School of Cultural Texts and Records, Jadavpur University and Seriban. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. 1996. “Remembered Villages: Representation of Hindu-Bengali Memories in the Aftermath of the Partition”. Economic and Political Weekly 31 (32): 2143–2145+2147–2151 (https://www.jstor.org/stable/4404497). Chakraborty, Bikash. 2012. Andamane Punarbasan: Ek Bangal Officerer Diary (in Bangla). Kolkata: Gangchil. Chatterji, Joya. 2007. “‘Dispersal’ and the Failure of Rehabilitation: Refugee Campdwellers and Squatters in West Bengal”. Modern Asian Studies 41 (5): 995–1032. Ghosh, Subhasri and Debjani Dutta. 2009. “Forgotten Voices from the P.L. Camps”. In The Trauma and the Triumph: Gender and Partition in Eastern India, Volume 2, edited by Jasodhara Bagchi and Subhoranjan Dasgupta with Subhasri Ghosh, 199–222. Kolkata: Stree. Jalais, Annu. 2005. “Dwelling on Morichjhanpi: When Tigers Became ‘Citizens’, Refugees ‘Tiger-Food’”. Economic and Political Weekly 40 (17): 1757–1762.

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Kabir, Ananya Jahanara. 2013. Partition’s Post-Amnesias: 1947, 1971 and Contemporary South Asia. New Delhi: Women Unlimited. Lorea, Carola Erika. 2017. “Bengali Settlers in the Andaman Islands: The Performance of Homeland”. IIAS The Newsletter 77 (Summer): 4–5. Lorea, Carola Erika. 2020. “Religion, Caste, and Displacement: The Matua Community”. Oxford Research Encyclopaedia of Asian History. (Religion, Caste, and Displacement: The Matua Community, Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Asian History). Mallick, Ross. 1999. “Refugee Resettlement in Forest Reserves: West Bengal Policy Reversal and the Marichjhapi Massacre”. The Journal of Asian Studies 58 (1): 104–125. Mandal, Somdatta. 2008. “Constructing Post-Partition Bengali Cultural Identity Through Films”. In Partitioned Lives: Narratives of Home, Displacement, and Resettlement, edited by Anjali Gera Roy and Nandi Bhatia, 65–81. New Delhi: Pearson Longman. Mazumdar, Madhumita. 2016. “Dwelling in Fluid Spaces: The Matuas of the Andaman Islands”. In New Histories of the Andaman Islands: Landscape, Place and Identity in the Bay of Bengal, 1790–2012, edited by Clare Anderson, Madhumita Mazumdar and Vishvajit Pandya, 170–200. Delhi: Cambridge University Press. Menon, Ritu. 2004. “No Woman’s Land”. In No Woman’s Land: Women from Pakistan, India & Bangladesh Write on the Partition of India, edited by Ritu Menon, 1–11. 70th Anniversary Edition. Reprint, New Delhi: Women Unlimited. Menon, Ritu and Kamla Bhasin. 1998. Borders & Boundaries: Women in India’s Partition. 70th Anniversary Edition. New Delhi: Kali for Women. Reprint, New Delhi: Women Unlimited. Pandey, Gyanendra. 1997. “Partition and Independence in Delhi: 1947–48”. Economicand Political Weekly 32 (36):2261–2272 (https://www.jstor.org/stable/4405816). Rahman, Mahbubar and Willem van Schendel. 2003. “‘I Am Not a Refugee’: Rethinking Partition Migration”. Modern Asian Studies 37 (3): 551–584 (https:// www.jstor.org/stable/3876610). Roy, Haimanti. 2012. Partitioned Lives: Migrants, Refugees, Citizens in India and Pakistan, 1947–1965. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Roy, Renuka. 2003. “And Still They Come”. In The Trauma and the Triumph: Gender and Partition in Eastern India, Volume 1, edited by Jasodhara Bagchi and Subhoranjan Dasgupta, 80–97. Kolkata: Stree. Sinha-Kerkhoff, Kathinka. 2000. “Futurising the Past: Partition Memory, Refugee Identity and the Social Struggle in Champaran, Bihar”. SARWATCH 2 (2): 74–92. Sen, Jhuma. 2015. “Reconstructing Marichjhapi: From Margins and Memories of Migrant Lives”. In Partition: The Long Shadow, edited by Urvashi Butalia, 102–127. New Delhi: Zubaan and Penguin Books India, Heinrich Boll Foundation, Delhi. Sen, Satadru. 2000. Disciplining Punishment: Colonialism and Convict Society in theAndaman Islands. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sen, Uditi. 2011. “Dissident Memories: Exploring Bengali Refugee Narratives in the Andaman Islands”. In Refugees and the End of Empire: Imperial Collapse and Forced Migration during the Twentieth Century, edited by Panikos Panayi and Pippa Virdee, 219–244. New York: Palgrave MacMillan. Sen, Uditi. 2011a. “Spinster, Prostitute or Pioneer? Images of Refugee Women in PostPartition Calcutta”. EUI Working Papers 34, Max Weber Programme, 1–19. Sen, Uditi. 2017. “Memories of Partition’s ‘Forgotten Episode’: Refugee Resettlement in the Andaman Islands”. Südasien-Chronik/South Asia Chronicle 7, 147–178. Sen, Uditi. 2018. Citizen Refugee: Forging the Indian Nation after Partition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Vaidik, Aparna. 2010. Imperial Andamans: Colonial Encounter and Island History. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan UK. Zehmisch, Philipp. 2018. “Between Mini-India and Sonar Bangla: The Memorialisation and Place-Making Practices of East Bengal Hindu Refugees in the Andaman Islands”. In Partition and the Practice of Memory, edited by Churnjeet Mahn and Anne Murphy, 63–88. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan.

10 CAUGHT IN A TIME WARP The Fate of the West Pakistan Refugees in Jammu and Kashmir Javaid Iqbal Bhat and Iftikhar Hussain Bhat

Introduction The West Pakistan Refugees (WPR) are conspicuous by their absence in the discourse on Partition refugees. This chapter examines the status of WPR, presently residing in the Jammu province of Jammu and Kashmir.1 While the term West Pakistan exists only in archival documents and has become redundant in the rest of the sub-continent and the world in general due to the independence of East Pakistan (which later became Bangladesh), it continues to resonate in Jammu and Kashmir as a significant marker of both the political stasis into which the former princely state of Jammu and Kashmir has descended ever since the Partition of the sub-continent and is an indication of the national and global indifference towards a variegated list of migrations within the conflict zone of Kashmir. As the status of the WPR, who are mostly Scheduled Caste Hindus, remains an unresolved question, there is no light at the end of the tunnel for these migrants from various regions of West Pakistan who largely settled in the Hindu-majority Jammu province. This chapter argues that the change in the status quo concerning the WPR is connected with the unresolved problem of Jammu and Kashmir. Their claims on a number of constitutional rights are stalled by vociferous demands and counterclaims of inter-related stakeholders of the Kashmir problem. We use the term “dispute refugees” for the WPR as they do not fit into any other category proposed by refugee theorists.

Who are the WPR (West Pakistan Refugees)? Before 1971, Pakistan was made of two geographically isolated but constitutionally united entities, East and West Pakistan. In 1971, East Pakistan DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-11

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became a new country and came to be known as Bangladesh, and West Pakistan became the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. However, the anachronistic appendage of West Pakistan remains connected to a particular mass of people. According to the 183rd Report: “Problems Being Faced by Refugees and Displaced Persons in J & K, presented to the Rajya Sabha on 22 Dec. 2014 and Laid on the Table of the Lok Sabha on the same day”, the number of West-Pakistan refugee families which came to the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir in 1947 is 5,764 (One Hundred Thirty-Eighth Report). The WPR are not like the Partition refugees; the latter have received sustained attention from various theoretical and legal-juridical angles (Das 1995; Naqvi 2007; Zamindar 2007; Virdee 2009) and through documentation of personal experiences of those contesting the national histories of India and Pakistan (Butalia 1998; Menon and Bhasin 1998; Tan & Kudaisya 2002; Pandey 2001; Kaul 2001; Kamra 2002). The legal, political, and social status of the Partition refugees is also distinct from the refugees within the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir. There is no “hierarchy of post-colonial citizenship” among the WPR, as observed in the case of others (Kaur 2009, 430). The refugees within the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir, across the Ceasefire Line, had a different legal-juridical status from that of British colonial subjects. The politico-geographical division of the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir was supposed to be temporary until a referendum could be carried out by plebiscite (Robinson 2012). Today, the number of WPR families is about 19,960 (Kandhari 2017). These families migrated during the Partition turmoil when millions of people crossed borders in the subcontinent (Schechtman 1951). In retrospect, 70 years after that cataclysmic event in the history of the world, when a “great human convulsion of history” (Butalia 1998, 3) was caused, it appears that the WPR chose a wrong track and certainly a counterproductive habitation for their settlement, and their existence has calcified into a mass of people without the modern right to citizenship, with its attendant constitutional guarantees. It has been rightly said that whatever the specific motivations and ideological compulsions of the main actors of the Partition, “the dislocations and disruptions of the Partition were ultimately borne by ordinary and mostly innocent men, women, and children” (Raj 2019, 100). The WPRs mirror those dislocations and disruptions of the Partition. The WPR families are Hindu in religious denomination, and most are Scheduled Castes. The latter detail is significant as will be explained later in this chapter. The WPR entered the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir from Pakistani Punjab areas like Dalowali, Nandpur, Rangpur Jattan, Salehpur, and so on, and settled in and around the present Jammu district of Jammu and Kashmir. The WPR are different from the other displaced persons who arrived in the state of Jammu and Kashmir after 1947, such as PoJK Refugees of 1947, Chhamb Displaced Persons of 1965, Chhamb Displaced

154 Javaid Iqbal Bhat and Iftikhar Hussain Bhat

S. No.

Tehsil

District

No. of Families

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. Total

Akhnoor Jammu R S Pura Bishnah Samba Hiranagar Kathua 19,916 Families

Jammu Jammu Jammu Jammu Samba Tehsil Kathua Kathua

2,271 7,309 3,348 2,061 1,632 1,096 2,199

Families Families Families Families Families Families Families

FIGURE 10.1 Strength of the Refugees at Tehsil Level

*Source: West Pakistan Refugee Action Committee.

Scheduled Castes OBC Sikhs Others

70 % 10% 10% 10%

FIGURE 10.2 Composition of the WPR

Persons of 1971 (Camp), Chhamb Displaced Persons of 1971 (NonCamp), JK Displaced Persons after the rise of armed insurgency in Pakistan Administered Kashmir (PAK), JK Displaced Persons (Hindus from Kashmir) after the rise of militancy. The number of people in these groups varies and the immediate causes of their displacement are also diverse. However, there is a clear differentiating mark between the above categories and the WPR. The WPR came from outside the domain of the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir and settled in the territorial boundaries of the princely state. Before discussing the peculiar political position of these refugees, we will take a slight detour to comprehend the legal framework which has cast a shadow on the future of the WPR.

A Controversial One Page Document In December 2016, the Government of Jammu and Kashmir issued a form titled “Identity Certificate for West Pakistan Refugees Residing in the State of Jammu and Kashmir” to be filled out and submitted by the WPR, which turned out to be a tinderbox. The form ignited the ire of the people, especially in the Kashmir valley and the Muslim majority areas of the Jammu province. The form generated opposition, and the separatists, as well as the mainstream parties, used this as a means of rallying against what they considered to be a conspiracy to change the demography of Jammu and Kashmir. Pakistan, considering itself to be a

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party to the dispute of Jammu and Kashmir, sent its Chargé d’Affaires to the United Nations on the advice of the Advisor to the Prime Minister of Pakistan to register protest against the move (United Nations Security Council). The underlying idea behind these protests was that the status of Jammu and Kashmir is yet to be permanently decided and that the WPR are not State Subjects. Informing their ideology was the political belief that the question of Kashmir would be settled through a plebiscite. It was apprehended that if the WPR refugees were given the identity certificate, granting them a State Subject status would only be a matter of time. However, when the pressure mounted on the Government, it was clarified that the certificate was meant only for using their personal and residential details for recruitment in select Central Services like the paramilitary forces. But the question remained that the same information could have been accessed through the mandatory Aadhar Card. Where was the need for a new certificate? The suspicion about this document was linked to previous ideas floated by the Central Government for the creation of separate colonies for Kashmiri Hindus who had migrated to different parts of India, and the colonies for ex-servicemen of the armed forces (Ashiq 2016). All of this was perceived as mal-intentioned, a policy on the pattern of Israel in the Occupied Territories to change the demography so that eventually even if a referendum does occur, the decision would go in favour of India. The referendum is a far cry but the apprehensions never die, and conspiracies are rife. OFFICE OF THE NAIB TEHSILDAR Photograph

IDENTITY CERTIFICATE FOR WEST PAKISTANI REFUGEE RESIDING IN THE STATE OF JAMMU AND KASHMIR This is to certify that Shri/Ms./Smt_____________________.S/o,D/o,W/o Shri_________________, formerly a resident of Village_______________. Tehsil___________. District________________, of undivided India (now Pakistan) presently residing at H. No._____________Street/Lane No. ______________ Mohalla._____________ Village______________ Tehsil _______________District ______________ is a West Pakistani Refugee after having migrated from Pakistan during the Indo-Pak Conflict of 1947. Naib Tehsildar FIGURE 10.3 Identity Certificate Form issued by the Govt. of Jammu and Kashmir

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On their part, the WPR saw this form as an opportunity. They interpreted the form in a different light; that probably the Hindu right BJP-led government at the centre and as a coalition partner in the state was becoming serious about their final status and settlement, as had been suggested during and after the parliamentary election campaign by none other than the current Prime Minister, Narendra Damodar Modi (Manhotra 2015). As of now, 70 years after the independence of India and Pakistan, the WPR are deprived of many basic rights that are obtained naturally by other citizens of the country. The WPR can vote in Lok Sabha polls, the lower house of the Indian Parliament, but not in Assembly polls, cannot own immovable property in the state, be employed by the State Government, become a member of a village Panchayat and get a bank loan, have no right to scholarships and such other forms of aid as the State Government may provide and are not entitled to benefits for Scheduled Castes. There is an unambiguously antagonistic connection between the WPR being mostly Scheduled Castes (SCs), and the last point mentioned above. The WPR are not entitled to the benefits of Scheduled Castes because they cannot be obtained without having a State Subject Certificate. It is important to remember that the SCs faced discrimination both in India and Pakistan even during the time of Partition. Pakistan was unwilling to send many SCs under the Essential Services Act because most of the menial jobs across the border were performed by the SCs. In India, the SCs faced problems because they were not considered full Hindus. This was the matter raised by Ambedkar with Nehru when even shelter was refused to them in India (Butalia 1998). The WPR, while bearing the ancestral cross of the SC tag, are not entitled to the benefits of SCs under the reservation system. Lately, they have begun to avail of these benefits in the Central Government but not in the state of Jammu and Kashmir. Despite the promises made by the current ruling dispensation, the status of the WPR remains as it was primarily because they are not “State Subjects” and that they do not possess the “Permanent Resident Certificate”. The problem is way too deep for the WPR. When, in November 2017, the WPR of Uttam Colony in Jammu complained that officers of the Consumer Affairs and Public Distribution refused to retain their names in the beneficiaries list because they did not possess the State Subject certificate, the Deputy Chief Minister, Nirmal Singh had to intervene into the matter. This illustrates that even a basic document such as the ration card can be stopped or threatened to be stopped because of the peculiar status of the people, and it takes one of the highest officers of the state, like Nirmal Singh, to intervene to get the deleted names reinstated in the list (PTI 2017). Many circumstantial changes have occurred in the lives of the WPR. Ever since they came from former West Pakistan, their dress has changed, their language has acquired the local accent, and they no longer rely on agriculture as they did in the past. Most of them are employed as part-time workers in

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different sectors of the Jammu economy. Largely employed as private guards, conductors, drivers, plumbers, labourers, mechanics, sweepers, shopkeepers and in similar activities, they are not part of the professional service sector. The second and third generations of WPR have more or less assimilated into local cultural mores and only get to learn about their ancestors in West Pakistan from the memories of their elders. While it is easy for the WPR to get their daughters married to the local young men of Jammu, it is not easy to get their sons married to the women of Jammu. The reason is the uncertainty prevailing over their State Subjecthood. Since they do not hold the State Subject certificate, families are unwilling to marry their daughters to men from the WPR community. Since it is not clear what decision would be made about them the following day or month by the government of the day, the marriage of a State Subject female with a non-State Subject male is fraught with risk. Since children inherit the domicile of the father, if a daughter is married to a WPR man, the children out of this wedlock would have to bear the albatross of being WPRs around their necks. What happens as a result of this is that marriage takes place within the community, with all the attendant biological problems of such marriages.2 The general life of the WPR has changed after displacement: nuclear families are growing, women are taking part in decision making in households; there are more pacca houses as compared to kaccha houses before displacement. Yet the basic insecurity remains, which is manifested in the marriages within the community, 94%, because of the unwillingness of WPR to enter into a marital relationship with a community whose members do not possess the Permanent Resident Certificate.

State Subject and Permanent Resident For a clear understanding of the State Subject certificate, it is important to check the legal framework governing its genesis. Section 6 of the Constitution of Jammu and Kashmir dealing with the definition of “permanent residents” of the State runs as follows: Permanent residents.—(1) Every person who is, or is deemed to be a citizen of India under the provisions of the Constitution of India shall be a permanent resident of the State, if on the fourteenth day of May 1954— (a) he was a State Subject of Class I or Class II; or (b) having lawfully acquired immovable property in the State, he has been ordinarily resident in the State for not less than ten years prior to that date. (2) Any person who before the fourteenth day of May, 1954 was a State Subject of Class I or of Class II and who having migrated after the first day of March, 1947 to the territory now included in Pakistan, returns to the State under a permit for resettlement in the State or for permanent

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return issued by or under the authority of any law made by the State Legislature shall on such return be a permanent resident of the State. (3) In this section, the expression ‘State Subject of Class I or of Class II’ shall have the same meaning as in State Notification No. 1-L/84 dated twentieth April, 1927, read with State Notification No. 13/L dated twenty seventh June, 1932. (Constitution of Jammu and Kashmir) Sections 8, 9, and 10 deal with the Permanent Resident category of Jammu and Kashmir. While Section 8 of the State Constitution empowers the State Legislature to define permanent residents, Section 9 of the Constitution of Jammu and Kashmir deals with special provision for Bills relating to permanent residents. A Bill is deemed to be passed by either House of the legislature only if it is passed by a majority of not less than 2/3rds of the total membership of that House. Section 10 of the State Constitution guarantees to the permanent residents of the State all the rights guaranteed to them under the Constitution of India. What does it mean to be a State Subject of Class I or Class II? These classes of subjects go back to the reign of the Dogra Maharajas. The residents of the Jammu and Kashmir were apprehensive about the influx of people from Punjab during the early part of the 20th century. The natives feared the loss of economic opportunities with the arrival of bettereducated people from outside the princely domain. The local Hindu elite perceived a threat to their economic and political clout. The step was also intended to thwart the imperial British penchant for picturesque landscapes. The category of the hereditary State Subject came into existence because of two notifications. The two notifications are: Notification dated 20th April, 1927 No. 1-L/84.—The following definition of the term “State Subject” has been sanctioned by His Highness the Maharaja Bahadur (vide Private Secretary’s Letter No. 2354 dated 31st January, 1927 to the Revenue Member of the Council) and is hereby promulgated for general information. The term “State Subject” means and includes— Class I.—All persons born and residing within the State before the commencement of the reign of His Highness the late Maharaja Gulab Singh Sahib Bahadur, and also persons who settled therein before the commencement of samvat year 1942 and have since been permanently residing therein. Class II.—All persons other than those belonging to Class I who settled within the State before the close of samvat year 1968 and have since permanently resided and acquired immovable property therein. (State Subject Rules 1927)

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These definitions of State Subject and the Permanent Resident Certificate continued to be in force even after the Independence of India and the “provisional” accession of Jammu and Kashmir with the dominion of India. The Constitution of India under Articles 35 A and 370 guaranteed the continuation of these definitions of the State Subject. Hence the Hereditary State Subject became the “primary category of political identity” (Robinson 2013, 33) as well as a distinct social category. After the accession to the Indian union, the category of the State Subject became an emotional category which demanded the imposition of limits on the invasive measures aimed at altering the demography. The WPR who came from outside the political sovereignty of the princely state naturally did not possess this document and are thus barred from all the privileges which accrue due to this document. Even today the land that is with the WPR carries the title “Maalik Sarkar”−literally translated as “The Owner is Government”. The ownership of their “property” is with the Government of Jammu and Kashmir. These refugees found themselves in a quandary. Generally, the refugees of the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir were kept outside the national Resettlement and Rehabilitation projects. However, these refugees were

FIGURE 10.4

Document Facsimile of a Hereditary State Subject Certificate (issued by the Princely state of Jammu and Kashmir in 1929)

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neither owned by the Government of India nor by the Government of Jammu and Kashmir. Unlike other parts of India, where the Partition refugees have been by and large integrated into host populations and gained social, economic and even political mobility, the WPR cannot dream beyond getting a Class IV job in the Government sector, and continue to remain azad desh ke ghulam log (Slave People of a Free Country) (Desai 2010). Just two instances should clarify the contrast between Partition refugees and WPR: Lal Krishan Advani, a Partition refugee, became the Deputy Prime Minister of India and General Pervez Musharraf, from a Partition refugee family, became the Army Chief and then the President of Pakistan. The two prominent political figures underscore the status and sharp contrast of Partition refugees elsewhere in the sub-continent and the position of the same refugees in J & K. The WPR are ab initio disabled from aspiring for these positions.

What Type of Refugees are the WPR? The refugees from Indian Administered Kashmir to Pakistan Administered Kashmir and vice versa, and those who migrated from Kashmir to different parts of India are known as Internally Displaced People because the status of Jammu and Kashmir is only a peculiar political unit within India. Therefore, it is hard to characterise them as either “outsiders”, “foreigners” or “refugees” according to the classification of refugees proposed by T. K. Oommen. “Outsiders” in the formulation of Oommen are people from within the same nation-state in other regions, “foreigners” are people who leave their nationstates in pursuit of better economic opportunities, and “refugees” are people who flee their nation-states because of violence or discrimination inflicted upon them (Oommen 1982). Even though the “outsider” category comes close to the description of the WPR community, the similarity is superficial. Although Jammu and Kashmir is a political unit within India, it is also a unit on the UN mandate as a disputed territory, which makes its position as a unit within the larger nation-state of India problematic and places the WPR outside of the “outsider” definition. Neither do the WPR fit in with Victor Turner’s tripartite division of pre-liminal, liminal and post-liminal refugees. The latter presupposes change and transformation, which is however not the case with the WPR, for they are caught in a time warp without any chance of change in their status unless the fundamental character of J&K as a political and administrative unit undergoes some kind of alteration. Similarly, Hannah Arendt’s proposition of statelessness (Beltran 2009) initially fore-grounded in the context of Jews, also does not resonate with the WPR. They are not entirely stateless, because they do enjoy certain privileges as accorded to the citizens of the nation-state. Although WPR do share features with some of the categories proposed above, their future is imbricated with the larger question of the unresolved status of Jammu and Kashmir. For clarity on their status, it would be

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appropriate to categorise them as “dispute refugees”. Their status as refugees is mainly due to the dispute of Jammu and Kashmir. The principal objection, mainly from the Kashmir province of Indian Administered Kashmir, stems from the hope that the “dispute” in Kashmir will be resolved under the United Nations referendum. The results of that referendum will be undermined by giving Permanent Resident status to the WPR. A similar observation was provided in case of the female hereditary State Subjects marrying non-State Subjects. The State Subject provision has also been accused of gender discrimination in the case of a female marrying a nonState Subject (Ganai 2018). In other words, the marital connection made her and her progeny almost like a WPR. After opposition from women’s rights groups and petitions in the High Court, the clause was modified to women married to non-State Subjects getting property rights (Maqbool 2012). However, the existing law, while upholding the proprietary rights of a married female, still prohibits the progeny of the married woman from owning property while being the domicile of another state. There is no doubt that there are some serious chinks in the argument of the stakeholders from the Kashmir province. There is barely any voice of opposition from the separatist camp on the incorporation of non-State Subjects in Pakistan Administered Kashmir. It is reported that “settlers” from other provinces of Pakistan have taken residence in Kashmir on the other side of the Line of Control (Singh 2015). While there is a calculated silence about the demographic change on the other side of the Ceasefire Line, the WPR continue to suffer; the stories of two siblings from the WPR community will illustrate the contours of their everyday life.3

WPR Siblings and their Woes Yogesh Chandra is a fourth-generation member of a West Pakistan Refugee family. His great grandfather Anant Ram lived in Marwal near Sialkot before the Partition. Anant Ram was married to a woman from Pallanwalla, Tehsil Khur, District Jammu, as the border did not exist at that time. Therefore, his wife owned a Permanent Residence Certificate (PRC) but he did not as he lived outside the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir. At Marwal, he earned his living as a labourer, tilling the land of other people. At the time of Partition, he came to live with his in-laws at Pallanwalla. After living for some time at Pallanwalla, he shifted to Chohani Chak, Tehsil Marh, and continued to earn a living by rearing cattle. He also got a little land to build a temporary shelter for his family. Anant Ram had six children, out of which one became a labourer, one a tailor, three joined the Army and two were daughters. One of these sons was Bihari Lal, Yogesh’s grandfather. Bihari Lal had four children, three sons, Jagdish, Kamal Kumar, Sukhdev, and one daughter. Jagdish Chandra, Yogesh’s father, was one of the first matriculates in the family who joined the army, and now receives a pension from the Central

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Government. All through these years, the family did not have a piece of land which they could call their own, on which their name exists as owners. After completing his graduation in Arts, Yogesh could not apply for the postgraduate programme of the University of Jammu because he needed to submit a Permanent Resident Certificate or State Subject certificate which is mandatory for gaining admission there. He had the option of completing his postgraduation from the Central University, Jammu but he did not get selected. He has qualified in the written examination for an Air Force job and is now stationed in Delhi and preparing for the viva. He was worried about his sister’s admission. Moreover, the family is financially drained. His brother is studying engineering at a private college in Maharashtra, which takes away a lot of money from his father’s pension. His elder sister Shallu, born on 1 December 1993, did her graduation from Degree College Palora, Jammu. After completing her graduation, she enrolled in the Post Graduate program at Central University Jammu. Right now, she is in Uttarakhand doing an internship. Meanwhile, she has qualified in the written entrance examination for the MPhil program in the Social Work Department at Jawaharlal Nehru University and is preparing her research proposal for her interview. But she informed Javaid that after her 12th class examination she wanted to become an engineer for which she had to qualify in the Jammu and Kashmir Common Entrance Test (JKCET). She was very eager to qualify in that examination but was shocked when her form was rejected because she could not submit the Permanent Residence Certificate. So, she had to drop the idea of qualifying for the JKCET. Both Yogesh and Shaalu told Javaid that they could not avail of scholarships because, again, for that they had to submit the Permanent Resident Certificate. In addition to routine problems faced by the WPR like voting rights, scholarships, marital problems and lack of jobs in state services, Yogesh told Javaid that the tag of being Pakistanis is often attached to their community due to the non-possession of requisite documents. Yogesh told Javaid that with the Identity Certificate issued to them after their filling out of the Form in 2016, their life has become a little easier. Yogesh told Javaid that the form and the Identity Certificate thereof was quite beneficial because the revenue Department did not have a systematic record before this form and the certificate. When the Central Government issued that form, the local revenue Department was compelled to systematise the records. While other official documents were generic, this one was specific to the WPR. Shallu told Javaid that the house that they live in is registered in the name of a relative. So, there is a constant threat of losing the same if the relationship sours. Although it has not happened, such ownership without actually owning the house not only puts a strain on the day-to-day life of the dwellers of the house but the feeling of being at home is also lost because there is no sense of real ownership.

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The Future of the WPR There is an easy but almost impossible solution to the problem, which is to grant the Permanent Resident Certificate to the WPR. However, this is easier said than done. To aid in their acquisition of the PRC, it is important to work on the constitutional provisions which have strengthened the State Subject clause. To that end, there is a clutch of petitions in the Supreme Court of India challenging Article 35 A which was set to be heard in February 2018.4 The hearing on these petitions has been indefinitely postponed, without any conclusive judgement. According to experts in constitutional law like Rajiv Dhawan, BA Khan and Shanti Bhushan, it is virtually impossible to alter something which was incorporated by the Constituent Assembly (Satish 2014). To reconstitute the Constituent Assembly is almost impossible. Article 35 A is connected with Article 370, which is considered to be a “bridge” between the state of Jammu and Kashmir and the Union of India (Swami 2014). Moreover, if PRC is granted to the WPR, it would logically open a Pandora’s box with the clamour for the same status from other people who have been living in Jammu and Kashmir, for example, the latest entrants of Rohingya Muslims in the Jammu region or the 200 Valmiki families who came to Jammu from neighbouring Punjab and are employed as “Safaikarmcharis”.5 Then, of course, there are Gorkhas from Nepal who came to serve in the Maharaja’s army during the Dogra rule (Gupta 2017).6 The political parties make them promises of a permanent settlement with due legal protection, and woo them from time to time. It is in this line that packages for the refugees are announced from time to time, which is, of course, a genuine need, but how they are announced and the credit taken makes it amply clear that the refugees are used as a milch cow for election. This year the RSS-affiliated Jammu and Kashmir Study Centre organised the Sapt-Sindhu Jammu Kashmir Ladakh Mahotsav in March (Manhotra 2018) in which a two-member delegation of the WPR also participated. The event aimed to highlight the problems caused to the WPR by Article 35 A of the Indian constitution. The WPR call this article a “constitutional fraud” against the refugees and endorse its removal. The second option before the WPR is to move out of the state as was threatened by Labha Ram Gandhi, President of the West Pakistan Refugees Association.7 He met with the latest emissary of Delhi, Dineshwar Sharma, and demanded the constitutional rights as granted to other people of J & K, and India. He even went to the extent of threatening to take up arms against the state (Irfan 2017). The WPR have been living in Jammu province for the last seven decades and are connected to its land and culture, however thin the linkage. The period when they arrived in Jammu was the occasion when they should have been discouraged to settle in the province. On the contrary, according to some of these people, they were promised to be vested with PRCs by none other than the then Prime Minister of Jammu and Kashmir, Sheikh Muhammad Abdullah. This view has been challenged (Zargar 2017).

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Moreover, there is no legal support for the verbal assurance given seven decades ago. However, it is an indisputable fact that their hope was kept alive by electoral politics. A welcome and sustainable but far more difficult option is the resolution of the Kashmir problem. Otherwise, all options considered, it is safe to say that the status quo will prevail. Partition for the WPR is a living reality, and the history which unfolded the forces of division, mass population transfers, and massacres is a living force. While refugees from other places have moved on with time and settled in various social and political moorings, the WPR continue to suffer. It is not sustainable to argue that the WPR phenomenon is treated as a free-standing phenomenon (Tremblay 2016) and insulated from the larger politics of the disputed state. Ayesha Jalal has rightly pointed out that Partition continues to influence how the peoples and states of postcolonial South Asia envisage their past, present, and future (2013, 4). As it stands, the WPR are rendered “invisible against the high-profile background of the conflict between India and Pakistan” (Tremblay 2016, 1). Since 1947, they have been living on either the evacuee property or state land without any ownership rights and have become the “Slave people of Free India” (Desai 2010). A detailed study has revealed the precarious condition of the WPR, even as other refugees like Manmohan Singh, the former Prime Minister of India (twice) have moved on to the higher echelons of the political system (Manchanda 2016). Outside the purview of the South Asian Refugee regime, away from the attention of international concern, caught in the asymmetric relationship between Jammu and Kashmir and the rest of India, the WPR find themselves in a predicament. While the resolution of the dispute of Jammu and Kashmir is not immediate, it is only reasonable to demand an improvement in the general circumstances of WPR so that the dense cloud of uncertainty looming over their present and future can be parted for a few rays of hope to shine on their rented accommodations.

Coda The Home Minister of India, Amit Shah, introduced a Bill in the Parliament on 5 August 2019 called the Jammu and Kashmir Reorganisation Bill under which the former state of Jammu and Kashmir was divided into two union territories, namely, Ladakh, and Jammu and Kashmir. It was later enacted after the signature by the President, Ram Nath Kovind. The Bill was preceded by a Presidential Order which scrapped Article 370 of the Indian Constitution. The State Subject law of Jammu and Kashmir flowed from Article 370. After its scrapping, the WPRs heaved a sigh of relief. A new Domicile Law has replaced the previous State Subject. After the institution of the Domicile Law, the WPR appear to be optimistic that they could finally exercise rights, like other citizens of Jammu and Kashmir and India, under a single Indian constitution. Recently, in a telephonic conversation with Javaid,

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Labha Ram Gandhi, President of the West Pakistan Refugees Action Committee, informed Javaid that the problems of the WPR are over now. The latter can apply for jobs, have voting rights, avail of central schemes and have access to education. However, many petitions have been filed in the Supreme Court of India against the abrogation of Article 370. It remains to be seen what the outcome of those petitions will be, as the SC is yet to hear those petitions.

Notes 1 Interviews were conducted for this chapter by Javaid Iqbal Bhat with Labha Ram Gandhi, Yogesh Chandra and Shallu on 15 June 2019. 2 The findings of Deepti Manchanda in her doctoral thesis based on a sample of 200 households, 50 each from Samba, Akhnoor, Bishna, and Jammu Tehsil, substantiate the above. 3 Interviews with Yogesh Chandra and Shallu were conducted on 20 June 2019. 4 One of the petitioners against the Article 35 A of the Indian Constitution in the Supreme Court of India is Labha Ram Gandhi, President of the West Pakistan Refugees Action Committee. Gandhi’s grandfather, belonging to the OBC category, migrated from Rajian, near Baffarwal in Tehsil Pasroor, District Sialkot (now in the vicinity of Samba district of Jammu) in 1947. Although his family had traditionally engaged in masonry in Sialkot, a profession that they continued after crossing over, Gandhi joined the Indian Army after completing high school and receives a pension.“See, I have filed that writ in the Supreme Court, on the ground that we were born here in Jammu, so we should be given citizenship. The international law says that a person who stays in a place for five years, he/she is eligible for citizenship in that place. And we have been here for over seventy years, and both the Government of India and Jammu and Kashmir are signatories to the international law” (Gandhi 2019). Telephonic Interview in Hindi/Urdu with Labha Ram Gandhi, 15 June 2019. 5 “The Valmikis were compelled to come to Jammu when a lot of mess and dirt was created here. So why should they be denied the right after getting their help? This is totally wrong. No one should go against them” (Gandhi 2019). 6 “Then there are Gorkhas. They came here before 1947 when they came as dowry. They are saying those before 1954 will get citizenship so Gorkhas should get it because they came before 1947” (Gandhi 2019). 7 “Actually, I had met the Honourable Prime Minister and told him that Jammu and Kashmir Government does not consider us Indians. Then as an Indian, it is your responsibility to move us somewhere else in India. That is what I had told the Prime Minister” (Gandhi 2019).

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Constitution of Jammu and Kashmir: Relevant Extracts. http://ceojammukashmir.nic. in/PDF/Extracts%20from%20the%20Constitution%20of%20Jammu%20and%20Ka shmir.pdf (accessed on 5 Feb. 2020). Das, Veena. 1995. “National Honor and Practical Kinship: Unwanted Women and Children.” In Conceiving the New World Order: The Global Politics of Reproduction, edited by Faye D. Ginsburg and Rayna Rapp. Berkeley: University of California Press. Desai, Rami. 2010. Azad Desh Ke Ghulam Log: Slave People of Free India. New Delhi: India Foundation. Ganai, Naseer A. 2018. “No Woman Loses Property Right in J&K if She Marries a Non-State Subject.” Outlook 7 Aug. (outlookindia.com). (accessed on 18 July 2021). Gupta, Anil. 2017. “A Sad Tale of West Pakistan Refugees and Others.” Daily Excelsior 25 Jan. http://www.dailyexcelsior.com/sad-tale-west-pakistan-refugees-others/ (accessed on 18 Jan. 2018). Irfan, Hakeem. 2017. “West Pakistan Refugees may Take Up Arms if not Given PRC in J&K: Labha Ram Gandhi.” The Economic Times 16 Jan. https://economictimes.india times.com/news/politics-and-nation/west-pakistan-refugees-may-take-up-arms-if-not-gi ven-prc-in-jk-labha-ram-gandhi/articleshow/56588175.cms (accessed on 18 Jan. 2018). Jalal, Ayesha. 2013. The Pity of Partition: Manto’s Life, Times, and Work Across the India-Pakistan Divide. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kamra, Sukeshi. 2002. Bearing Witness: Partition, Independence, and the End of the Raj. Calgary: University of Calgary Press. Kandhari, Mohit. 2017. “Ready to Move Out of J & K: West Pakistan Refugee Panel.” The Pioneer 11 November. http://www.dailypioneer.com/nation/ready-to-m ove-out-of-jandk-west-pakistan-refugee-panel.html. Kaul, Suvir. 2001. Partitions of Memory. Delhi: Permanent Black. Kaur, Ravinder. 2009. “Distinctive Citizenship: Refugees, Subjects and Post-colonial State in India’s Partition.” Cultural and Social History 6(4): 429–446. Manchanda, Deepti. 2016. Conflict, Displacement and Violation of Human Rights: A Study of West Pakistan ‘Refugees’ in Jammu and Kashmir. Unpublished PhD Thesis, Department of Sociology, University of Jammu. Manhotra, Dinesh. 2015. “PM Promises to Solve West Pak Refugee Issue.” The Tribune 8 May. http://www.tribuneindia.com/news/jammu-kashmir/community/pmpromises-to-solve-west-pak-refugee-issue/77571.html (accessed on 18 Jan. 2018). Manhotra, Dinesh. 2018. “West Pakistan Refugees Invited to RSS Conclave.” The Tribune 16 March. https://www.tribuneindia.com/news/jammu-kashmir/west-pakista n-refugees-invited-to-rss-conclave/558376.html (accessed on 5 June 2018). Maqbool, Umer. 2012. “Govt. Dumps Permanent Resident Women Disqualification Bill.” Greater Kashmir 17 June. http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/news/govt-dumps-p ermanent-resident-women-disqualification-bill/123336.html. (accessed on 18 Jan. 2018). Menon, Ritu and Kamla Bhasin. 1998. Border and Boundaries: Women in India’s Partition. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Naqvi, Tahir Hasnain. 2007. “The Politics of Commensuration: The Violence of Partition and the Making of the Pakistani State.” Journal of Historical Sociology 20: 44–71. One Hundred Thirty Eight Report. 2014. “Problems Being Faced by Refugees and Displaced Persons” in J & K Rajya Sabha Secretariat, New Delhi December, 2014/ Agrahayana, 1936 (Saka). http://164.100.47.5/newcommittee/reports/EnglishComm ittees/Committee%20on%20Home%20Affairs/183.pdf (accessed on 19 Jan. 2018). Oommen, T. K. 1982. “Foreigners, Refugees and Outsiders in the Indian Context.” Sociological Bulletin 31(1): 41–64.

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Pandey, Gyanendra. 2001. Remembering Partition: Violence, Nationalism, and History in India. New York: Cambridge University Press. PTI (Press Trust of India). “JK Dy CM Assures Help to West Pakistan Refugees in Ration List.” 2017. India Today 20 Nov. https://www.indiatoday.in/pti-feed/story/jk-dy-cmassures-help-to-west-pakistan-refugees-in-ration-list-1090679-2017-11-20 (accessed on 5 June 2018). Raj, Nanzi Antony. 2019. “Revisiting the Trauma of Partition in Manto’s Life and Work: A Socio-Historico-Political Perspective.” International Journal of English Language, Literature and Humanities 7(4): 98–109. Robinson, Cabeiri deBergh. 2012. “Too much Nationality: Kashmiri Refugees, the South Asian Refugee Regime, and Refugee State, 1947–1974.” Journal of Refugee Studies 25(3): 344–365. Robinson, Cabeiri deBergh. 2013. “Between War and Refuge in Jammu and Kashmir: Displacement, Borders, and the Boundaries of Political Belonging.” In Body of Victim, Body of Warrior: Refugee Families and the Making of Kashmiri Jihadists. California: University of California Press. Satish, D. P. 2014. “Abrogation of Article 370 a Complex Affair, Say Legal Experts.” News18.com. 28 May. https://www.news18.com/amp/news/india/abrogation-of-article370-a-very-complex-affair-say-legal-experts-690866.html (accessed on 5 June 2018). Schechtman, Joseph B. 1951. “Evacuee Property in India and Pakistan.” Pacific Affairs 24(4): 406–413. Singh, Jaibans. 2015. “Pakistan Occupied Kashmir and Gilgit-Baltistan.” Indian Defence Review 15 Nov. http://www.indiandefencereview.com/spotlights/pakistan-occupiedkashmir-and-gilgit-baltistan/2/ (accessed on 19 Jan. 2018). State Subject Rules. 1927. Available at https://www.satp.org/satporgtp/countries/india/sta tes/jandk/documents/actsandordinances/State_Subject_Rules.htm (accessed on 20 Feb. 2020). Swami, Praveen. 2014. “Revoking Article 370 Means Burning the Bridge between J&K and India.” The Hindu 8 May. http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/revo king-article-370-means-burning-the-bridge-between-jk-and-india/article5986640.ece (accessed on 18 Jan. 2018). Tan, Tai Yong. and Kudaisya, Gyanesh. 2002. The Aftermath of Partition in South Asia. New York: Routledge. Tremblay, Reeta Chowdhari. 2016. “Protracted Displacement in Conflict Zones: Refugees and Internally Displaced People in Jammu and Kashmir.” Migration, Mobility, & Displacement 2(2): 91–109. United Nations Security Council. 19 May 2017. http://www.mofa.gov.pk/documents/ related/Security-Council.pdf (accessed on 31 May 2018). Virdee, Pippa. 2009. “Negotiating the Past: Journey through Muslim Women’s Experience of Partition and Resettlement in Pakistan.” Cultural and Social History 6: 467–483. Zamindar, Vazira Fazila. 2007. The Long Partition and the Making of Modern South Asia: Refugees, Boundaries, Histories. New York: Columbia University Press. Zargar, Abdul Majid. 2017. “The Politics on West Pakistan Refugees.” Countercurrents 12 January. https://countercurrents.org/2017/01/the-politics-on-west-pakistanrefugees(accessed on 20 Feb. 2020).

11 LIVING OFF THE GRID Surviving the Stateless Era in India–Bangladesh Chhitmahals (Enclaves) Md Rashedul Alam

Introduction The midnights in stateless chhitmahals were dark and quiet; the monsoon nights were even more lifeless. But the eve of the first day of August 2015 was different. Hundreds of cheerful people crowded the muddy roads, teastalls, and other community spaces of the village on that rainy night. As the crowds moved forward to the hub of their village, they started to dance, chant, and scream patriotic slogans. At one minute past midnight, leaving behind 68 years of stateless darkness, the enthusiastic crowd lit 68 candles to embrace the light of citizenship (see also Hindustan Times 2015; Hasan & Das 2015). The next morning, and in the following days, national and global media broke the news of the historic land-swap agreement between Bangladesh and India that abolished the anomalous chhitmahals and granted citizenship to their residents. This chapter analyzes the agony and hardship of a stateless era that lasted for 68 years in India–Bangladesh chhitmahals. Chhitmahals are widely translated as “enclaves”, which indicate the sovereign fragments that belong to one state but are completely surrounded by the territorial boundary of another state (van Schendel 2002, 116; Cons 2016, 5). The colonial process of partitioning India in 1947 created nearly 200 enclaves across the new border between India and East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). Neither country could administer and provide necessities to the enclaves because of their non-contiguous locations. Despite being sovereign territories, a regular, legitimized presence of state government was absent. As a result, the residents of these chhitmahals involuntarily embraced an effectively stateless life without identity documents, citizenship rights, legal protections, and public development programs. DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-12

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Based on ethnographic fieldwork in two (former) Indian chhitmahals in Bangladesh, this chapter analyzes (a) the impacts of statelessness on people’s livelihood and identity; (b) the informal relations with non-state actors that improved the quality of stateless life; and (c) local subsistence and governance arts crafted by the residents to make their chhitmahals better functioning and organized. The chapter argues that the chhitbashi (residents of chhitmahals) had shown collective creativity and “almost” survived without any state system. It was not their failure that they could not achieve selfsufficiency; instead, the sovereign institutions of Bangladesh and India failed to stop the invasions of powerful citizen-neighbors inside the chhitmahals, which made citizenship the only option for the chhitbashi to have a life with stability and legal protection.

Chhitmahals: The Anomalous Borderlands Historically, the chhitmahals were outlying territories of Cooch Behar which was a princely state until the partition of India in 1947. Cooch Behar was ruled by a Maharaja (king) and had outliers outside the boundary of the kingdom. It was possible because, in that period, sovereignty was expressed through tax flow, not territorial contiguity (van Schendel 2002, 119). By the end of the 17th century, the Mughal rule in India stretched to northern Bengal, but the empire could not occupy the kingdom of Cooch Behar. The Maharaja and the powerful landlords of Cooch Behar halted the Mughal invasion either by resisting the soldiers or by building a tributary alliance with them (Hunter 1876 as cited in van Schendel 2002, 119). The Mughals eventually were able to occupy some of the outliers of Cooch Behar and annexed them to the Mughal territory. In addition, during the wars, a few Mughal soldiers successfully occupied some areas inside the princely state (Whyte 2002, 30–31). Finally, in 1713, a peace treaty was signed, which confirmed the tributary authority of the Mughal Empire over the occupied outliers in exchange for peace inside Cooch Behar. These outliers remained discontinuous fragments of Cooch Behar but enclaved inside the Mughal territory. On the other hand, the Maharaja could not uproot the Mughal soldiers who meanwhile had occupied small territories inside Cooch Behar. These territories were disconnected from the boundary of the Mughal Empire and enclaved inside Cooch Behar. These enclaves pledged political allegiance to one regime but paid tribute to the other (Majumdar 1977 and Roy Pradhan 1995 as cited in Whyte 2002, 31–32). In 1757, the British officially brought an end to the Mughal Empire. They allowed the sovereign control of Maharaja in Cooch Behar on the condition of paying tribute. As a result, both the Maharaja and Britishoccupied India now had enclaves in each other’s territory (Whyte 2002, 41–47; Hunter 1876 and Majumdar 1977 as cited in van Schendel 2002,

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FIGURE 11.1 Chhitmahals across the India–Bangladesh Border Map by Brendan R. Whyte 2002, 475

119). After almost 200 years of colonization, cornered by fierce nationalist movements, the British Raj partitioned India in 1947 into two independent dominions: India and Pakistan. Pakistan was further divided between noncontiguous East and West Pakistan. The new border went through Cooch Behar and placed its enclaves in both East Pakistan and India. In 1949, the Maharaja of Cooch Behar merged his kingdom with India (van Schendel 2002, 119). The Partition and the Maharaja’s merger with India transformed the Cooch Behar outliers into international enclaves. As Willem van Schendel sums up: The Mughal outliers in Cooch Behar had become [non-contiguous] part of British India and then part of [East] Pakistan, whereas the Cooch Behar outliers in Mughal territory had become part of the Princely State and then part of India. (2002, 120) In 1971, East Pakistan seceded as Bangladesh, and since then, the enclaves became the focus of a border dispute between Bangladesh and India. India’s assistance in Bangladesh’s independence war initially developed a positive diplomatic relation between these two countries, which resulted in signing the historic Land Boundary Agreement (LBA) in 1974 to resolve the border disputes including the swap of chhitmahals.

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However, nationalistic politics rigorously opposed any possible land loss as a result of the LBA articles were implemented and made it impossible to exercise sovereignty in chhitmahals (Whyte 2002, 127–31, 186–90). This bilateral failure transformed the chhitbashi into stateless persons without any state-services. In 2008, the desperate chhitbashi formed the India–Bangladesh Enclave Exchange Coordination Committee (IBEECC) to press their demand for the swap. Through peaceful rallies and hunger strikes, this committee began to pressure both governments to comply (Basu 2011, 67; Shewly 2015, 20–21). After seven years of movement and demonstrations, on 1 August 2015, Bangladesh and India officially swapped more than 160 chhitmahals with each other. A total of 51 Bangladeshi chhitmahals in India were merged with Indian territory and 111 Indian chhitmahals in Bangladesh were merged with Bangladeshi territory. More than 50,000 people also swapped their legal status (BBC 2015; Government of India 2015; Younus 2013, 16; Rabbani 2017, 104). I conducted ethnographic fieldwork, from 2016 to 2018, in two (former) Indian chhitmahals in Bangladesh: Balapara Khagrabari and Dasiar Chhara. As a chhitmahal, they were under the jurisdiction of Haldibari and Dinhata subdivisions in Cooch Behar district of India respectively. Following the swap, the government of Bangladesh merged the former with Debiganj subdistrict of Panchagarh and the latter with Fulbari subdistrict in Kurigram. In 2011, the state officials of Bangladesh and India jointly conducted a headcount in chhitmahals, which estimated that a total of 11,578 people were living in these two chhitmahals (Younus 2013, 137, 147). The local people, however, believed the actual population size would be nearly 25,000.

A Chaotic Limbo The presence of state administration inside the chhitmahals in the pre-swap era was messy and illegitimate but was quite official and systematic in the beginning. In 1950, as the anomalous situation of chhitmahals had evolved, both countries signed an agreement to allow each other to access their outlier territories. The state officials of the home country were required to send a 15-day advance notice to the host country to visit its chhitmahals to provide minimal policing service, collect tax, and transfer necessary goods (e.g., clothes, sugar, oil, medicine) (van Schendel 2002, 123–24). However, applications to enter chhitmahals soon started to get rejected. State officials were harassed and arrested by the border guards of the host country. The introduction of a passport and visa system by India and Pakistan in 1952 built the final barrier since state officials now needed a visa to enter chhitmahals. These obstacles and recurring diplomatic tensions pushed both countries to

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give up on any effort to govern the chhitmahals by the mid-1950s (van Schendel 2002, 124–25). The institutions and offices of the Indian government were physically absent in both chhitmahals that I studied, but the state administration intermittently provided some public services. Land registration was the primary state service connecting the chhitmahal residents and India. However, to register a piece of land, the chhitbashi had to cross the border illicitly to enter India, which posed risks of detention and torture. Therefore, the chhitbashi urged the home state India to allow them to enter Cooch Behar to complete the paperwork of land registration. The chhitmahal council negotiated with the BSF (Border Security Force, India) to accept a councilauthorized identity document to let people cross the border and enter India (Rabbani 2007, 44). The document in the council’s letterhead was locally known as chhit visa or chhit passport and included the individual’s information, the signature of the council chairman, and the validity period assigned by the border guards on the check-post. The Indian authority initially used to authorize the chhit visa, valid for two to three days, to let the chhitbashi register land in India, but people had used it to carry on cross-border kinship and economic relations. The list of irregular but formal and legitimate state interventions that benefitted the collective public stops here. Despite being sovereign territories of the nation, the non-contiguous chhitmahals were left effectively stateless, without any public infrastructures and services. In the absence of formal Indian administration in Balapara Khagrabari and Dasiar Chhara, Bangladesh often violated the sovereign norms and entered both chhitmahals numerous times to respond to the health and legal crises that affected the mainland of the country. For example, Bangladeshi border guards invaded Dasiar Chhara to destroy the cultivation of cannabis (Mustafa 2010 as cited in Shewly 2013, 26). Indian officials also had a history of unauthorized interventions in Bangladeshi chhitmahals. For example, Indian state officials entered Bangladeshi chhitmahal Poaturkuthi to contain the contamination of bird flu (Shengupta 2009 as cited in Shewly 2013, 26). Still, instead of rare occasions of unauthorized interventions of the surrounding state, the invasions1 of its citizens more significantly damaged the sociopolitical stability of the chhitmahals, which interfered with internal politics, food sufficiency, and worsened safety and security. The chhitmahals had a demarcated boundary with the host country, but there was no effective arrangement there to guard it. Similar to the normalized access of Indian chhitbashi into Bangladesh, Bangladeshi citizens also had unrestricted access to the Indian chhitmahals. Building socioeconomic networks with the Bangladeshi neighbors enabled the chhitbashi to evade the sovereign restrictions and manipulate state-services in their favor. But the unrestricted admittance of the citizen-neighbors in many cases adversely affected the chhitmahal community.

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FIGURE 11.2 A Chhit Passport authorized by the Balapara Khagrabari Council Photo Courtesy Md. Rashedul Alam

I encountered many experiences of non-state invasions; some were sensational. In one event, an influential Bangladeshi citizen affiliated with the ruling political party and local government had stolen some 70 cows in the dark of the night from the barn of my mentor Babul Ullah.2 This loss had paralyzed Babul’s livelihood, and it took years for him to recover. He claimed that everyone knew who was behind such a massive theft but feared to demand justice, anticipating even more violent repercussions. His pal Monir Ahmed narrated another widely discussed event where an unidentified corpse was dumped at night in front of his house. The young Monir, who later

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became the secretary of the Balapara Khagrabari chhitmahal council, and his fellow neighbors eventually had to bury the corpse. He claimed that there were rumors all over the locality that pointed fingers at a particular Bangladeshi individual behind the murder and disposing of the body. Still, the police were never involved since the corpse was found in Balapara Khagrabari, which was beyond the legal jurisdiction of both Bangladesh and Indian lawenforcement agencies. I was shown the grave multiple times where the unidentified body was buried as an example of the illegitimate inclusion of Indian chhitmahals in the criminal endeavors of Bangladeshi citizens. Besides scattered criminal activities, the Bangladeshi citizens entered chhitmahals for two primary purposes. First, they went there to purchase land. In a few cases, the ordinary chhitbashi had to sell their only material possession, land, to fight impoverishment. But, in most of the cases, they were too “weak” to prevent forced sales. Second, the local Bangladeshi neighbors often visited chhitmahals to collect the chhit visa from the council members. Instead of going through the formal passport-visa procedures, they would manage a council-approved chhit visa to travel to India, which they also used to access civic facilities across the border. When the BSF realized that they validated the chhit visa to more people than the actual estimated number of chhitbashi, they suspended all border-crossings using the special pass. The influx of refugees and displaced persons also came along with unrestricted access. Two groups of refugees today dominate the chhitmahal demographic. The Partition-refugees were locally known as bodlees (bodol means exchange) as they came from India and resettled in chhitmahals by exchanging land with the departing Hindu refugees following the communal riots of 1947. The bhatiyas, on the other hand, came from bhati (downstream) areas to resettle in chhitmahals after losing their homesteads to riverbank erosion. The criminal escapees also used chhitmahals as hideouts to avoid prosecution (see also van Schendel 2002, 132). Being a sanctuary of criminals earned chhitmahals some notoriety in the borderland, which adversely affected the decisions of local Bangladeshi neighbors in pursuing work, business, and marital relations with the chhitbashi. The wholesale criminalization further deprived them of legal justice. This migration of Bangladeshi citizens to the chhitmahals complicated the collective sense of belonging. Geographically living in one country but politically and legally belonging to another did not nurture a fixed concept of national identity and sovereignty among the chhitbashi (Shewly 2013, 23). To consider themselves “theoretical” citizens3 of their home country would have detached them from their neighbors in the host country. To opt for “proxy citizenship” of the host country could have weakened community-making with their fellow chhitbashi. This dilemma encouraged them to develop an anational identity: the citizens of chhitmahals or the more popular vernacular expressions chhitbashi, chhitmahalbashi; a unique group of the population without any state or nation (van Schendel 2002, 134, 144, 145).

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My mentor Babul Ullah, however, said such expressions of a collective chhitmahal identity were a materialistic political project; they did not entirely give up their historic national belonging. He and his fellows firmly identified themselves as Indians based on their ancestral belonging and used this identity to get the chhit visa and land registration services in Cooch Behar. But, to meet more mundane needs, they forged Bangladeshi documents and identified as Bangladeshis (see also van Schendel 2002, 134). Since neither country provided all their material demands, and a bias to one of the two identities involved risk of losing the advantages from the other, the enclave residents pragmatically developed a public identity of being merely chhitbashi. Babul suggested that the fluidity of identity included a subtle hint of reproach to the home country for failing to satisfy their civic demands. Bangladesh and India treated the chhitbashi as not-quite citizens; their citizenship was not suspended, but rights were abandoned. During the calm days of politics, the borders were comparatively tolerant; the chhitbashi could enter Bangladesh or India and safely return to their chhitmahals. However, tensions between both countries could easily revoke this fluidity (Shewly 2015, 20). This malleable citizenship drove the chhitbashi to build a community with the Bangladeshi neighbors to explore informal livelihood options. To do so, both parties ignored the sovereign restrictions of Bangladesh and India.

Embracing a Horizontal Community, Evading the Sovereignties A border on a map appears as only the “representation” of political reality, not the reality itself. But the moment a border is drawn, it turns all the human beings of a nation, not just the state institutions, into the agents of implementing that reality (Winichakul 1994, 129–30). In fact, border studies show that ordinary people living in borderland communities contribute more to borderwork than the border guards (e.g., Rumford 2013). Nonetheless, even the most sophisticated border control cannot ensure that the borderland communities will follow the state-prescribed territorial model if it disrupts their regular life (Abraham & van Schendel 2005, 25; van Schendel 2005, 56–57). They do not passively wait for a stable situation. Instead, burdened with the agency, they adopt strategies to rebuild a meaningful life. To do so, they correspond with illicit actors to access services and protections by violating the legal codes of sovereign powers (Dunn and Cons 2014). In surviving the stateless era, the chhitbashi normalized an informal life; the entire community participated in it. Every action and strategy in this informal lifestyle evaded the legal standards of Bangladesh and India. The failure of both governments in upholding their civil rights led chhitbashi to rationalize their collective abandonment of the formal vertical relation between the state and the people4 and encouraged the adoption of informal horizontal community-making with non-state actors. Both the chhitbashi and the surrounding Bangladeshi citizens engaged in informal relations that ensured a coherent life

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in chhitmahals. These mundane activities, however, were not a part of organized crime, and the participants did not see themselves as criminals (see also van Schendel 2006). Instead, they considered themselves as the victims of sovereign politics that left them behind with only two options: obey the legal codes and stay hungry and destitute or reject state-rules and restore a normal, ordinary life. They preferred the latter. In the midst of chaotic statelessness, sharecropping practices brought food to the plates of ordinary chhitbashi, but simultaneously created an exploitative land hierarchy. The landlords earned tremendous profit from their multiple landholdings, which they invested in growing their estate. In the heyday of council-era, the last chairman of Balapara Khagrabari council possessed approximately 400 acres of land. Based on their vast land estate, these landlords-turned-leaders expanded their networks beyond chhitmahals and lived a decent “normal” life. In contrast, most sharecroppers struggled for subsistence on only a few acres of land. The high production costs and low return because of the legal restrictions on accessing markets and purchasing means of production made it difficult to accumulate any surplus for them to buy their own land. To make a living by sharecropping required the chhitbashi to circumvent several legal rules. They were not allowed to purchase and use motorized tube-wells for irrigation, neither could they buy or sell livestock in neighboring bazaars without permission (Rabbani 2007, 32–33; Rahman, Murshed, and Sultana 2013, 73–75). Still, the chhitbashi bought production inputs from the Bangladeshi bazaars, hired Bangladeshi wage laborers, rented irrigation facilities, used Bangladeshi currency in transactions, and sold their crops to the Bangladeshi wholesalers. The participation of the entire community eventually normalized such informal engagement between the chhitbashi and Bangladeshi neighbors. In addition to sharecropping, a small number of chhitbashi made livelihoods from working as day laborers and shopkeepers, driving passenger vans, and running small businesses (e.g., tea-stall, grocery stores) in chhitmahals and neighboring Bangladeshi villages (see also Rahman, Murshed, and Sultana 2013, 74). This work did not require any identity documents; a verbal contract was enough. In Dasiar Chhara, a trend of traveling to India illicitly to work in brick kilns was dominant among its residents that proliferated through kinship networks and attractive promises of human traffickers. The chhitbashi knew that these livelihood activities did not comply with legal protocols. Still, the community deemed these subsistence strategies essential for their survival that did not threaten the sovereignty of Bangladesh or India on a large scale. However, a good number of chhitbashi earned a fortune from various illicit actions that were considered immoral by the community. Some chhitbashi used their houses as safehouses for illegal drugs (e.g., cannabis, phensedyl) and other contraband (e.g., sugar, clothes, medicine) smuggled from India. As my local collaborator Ameer Uddin witnessed, hundreds of motorcycles would enter the chhitmahal from surrounding

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Bangladeshi villages at midnight to collect goods for personal consumption and commercial purposes. The majority of the chhitbashi did not participate in such illicit activities; they considered them contradictory to their values and extreme abuses of the absence of a lawful administration that did not bring any good to the community. Bangladeshi citizen-neighbors were an integral part of this informal economy that provided subsistence to the chhitbashi. The growing mutual communications expanded the scope of illicit practices to secure other avenues of a normal life, not just for food. My wealthy landlord in Balapara Khagrabari married a girl from Bangladesh, and, using his father-in-law’s address and influence, he built a business and two houses in a neighboring Bangladeshi village. Babul Ullah’s relatives in the subdistrict town let him use their address and other credentials to purchase properties to build a house. My bhatiya mentor Mannan Hussain helped a local chhitmahal teacher with getting Bangladeshi documents; in return, the teacher helped his kids with school enrolment. This list goes on and on. The relatives and the partners in the informal economy let the chhitbashi use their name, address, and influence to forge identity documents to send their kids to school, receive health treatments, get a job, buy land, access NGO loans, or register marriages (see also van Schendel 2002, 134). However, there were exploitative neighbors too who knew that the chhitbashi were helpless and dependent on Bangladesh and its infrastructures, public goods, and citizens to survive. So, they took advantage. They plundered chhitmahal crops (Shewly 2015, 19), occupied land (Daily Star 2015), assaulted women (Basu 2011, 61), looted household assets, and abused the religious minority. Some snitched on them to the government representative to expose their forged identity. The chhitbashi did not have many options to retaliate, but they were creative. For example, some farmers deliberately partnered with their Bangladeshi friends who would pretend to be the crop owner in dealing with the customers. After the sale, the proxy seller would get an additional percentage of profit for investing their national identity in the deal (Shewly 2015, 19). These diverse strategies of informal economy and lifestyle suggest that the chhitbashi were more connected with the host state of Bangladesh than their parent state India. They crossed an international boundary every day to enter Bangladesh to fulfill basic survival demands. The legal rules of sovereignty assess their unauthorized presence in Bangladesh as illegal. Despite risking criminality, the chhitbashi normalized such border-crossing (Ferdoush 2014, 112). Nonetheless, India remained an essential part of stateless chhitbashis’ struggle to survive. Without an Indian passport and visa, they adopted different methods in crossing the border. For example, Ameer once infiltrated a group of pastoralists authorized to graze their animals in the no man’s land across the border. Monir Ahmed, the former secretary of the Balapara Khagrabari council, paid smugglers to help him cross the border to register his land. Similarly, they used to choose between national identities depending on their material objectives. In the chhit passport, the chhitbashi were non-contiguous

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residents of India, which they utilized in registering chhitmahal landholdings. But, when the BSF refused to accept the chhit visa as a valid travel document, a collective desire to be the citizens of Bangladesh found momentum among the chhitbashi. While staying in Indian chhitmahals, they raised the flag of Bangladesh to display their intention for Bangladeshi citizenship and express national solidarity (see also Basu 2011, 67). The flag was also a signal to display their decision to give up the stateless life being non-contiguous nationals of India and adopt the official membership of Bangladesh.

The Enclave People Committee In the early 1970s, the chhitmahals became lawless territories that fostered violence, crime, fear, insecurity, and exploitation. This extreme chaos and anxiety of lawlessness ended to some extent with the liberation of Bangladesh in 1971. Encouraged by a friendly political atmosphere between India and newly liberated Bangladesh, the chhitmahal residents formed their administrative council following the structure of Bangladeshi union parishads that included a chairperson and several members representing different neighborhoods. The council was officially known as the Enclave People Committee (Chhitmahal Nagorik Shomiti in Bangla). The first council was formed in 1972; the larger chhitmahals shortly adopted similar governing practices. The smaller, less populated chhitmahals could not create self-sufficient separate councils; instead, two to three chhitmahals jointly developed a common council (van Schendel 2002, 132–33; Rabbani 2007, 44). It was around the late 1980s when the residents of Balapara Khagrabari and Dasiar Chhara formed their first council. Both chhitmahals had almost the same area and population size, but they took different strategies in building the council. Balapara Khagrabari leadership was governed by selected influential personnel, whereas the chhitbashi of Dasiar Chhara elected their council members. Nonetheless, both committees featured the chhitmahal elites. Irrespective of their differences in formation and member-size, the councils performed similar duties. They acted as the social leadership to resolve village conflicts, mediate land exchanges, build narrow muddy roads and bamboo bridges, make essential community decisions, establish alliances with fellow chhitbashi, and represent the interests of chhitmahals to the outsiders. The council initiated crucial development works through public donation and corvée labor. The income from common property resources (e.g., selling fish, leasing wetlands, collecting navigation tolls, extracting sand and stones) also funded the council projects (see also Rabbani 2007, 46; Jones 2009, 373; van Schendel 2002, 134). Among a wide range of activities, my interlocutors highlighted three roles of chhitmahal councils that brought a feeling of stability and security in the stateless communities. First, the chaos and risks of lawlessness kept the people floating between Bangladesh/India and chhitmahals. The residents hardly considered the anomalous territories as their homes. Those who could afford it illicitly built

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a second home in Bangladeshi villages to live. The council leaders organized the community, came up with informal security guards, and introduced a justice system. In Dasiar Chhara, the council had its courtroom, where plaintiff and defendant had the opportunity to present their cases. Respected community figures represented them as their attorneys. The council chairman performed the roles of the judge. A group of guards used to ensure the presence of the defendant before the court. This justice system established order and improved the security of lives and crops; the chhitbashi that had fled elsewhere to escape violence before the council era started to come back. Second, the enclave councils successfully negotiated with the Indian border guards and politicians to accept the chhit passport as a valid border-crossing document. Although the BSF canceled the chhit passport system in 1997 based on corruption allegations (Rabbani 2007, 45), this council-authorized document worked as the documentation of identity of the chhitbashi until the swap. Third, in the stateless era, the chhitbashi had to risk criminalization and detention while crossing the border to enter India to register any land exchange because they could not do that in Bangladesh. Such illicit border crossing became extremely dangerous following the abolition of chhit visa system. Therefore, the council started its own land registration system by keeping a central ledger book (see also van Schendel 2002, 129). In Balapara Khagrabri, secretary Monir Ahmed used to collect Indian land stamp paper from the smugglers and filled the details of landholding, buyer, and seller with three witnesses. The council chairman authorized the deed by putting his signature on it. The council kept records of all such land sales. This registration process did not have any validity in either Bangladesh or India, but it comparatively improved the value of chhitmahal land because council’s paperwork offered the landowners some sort of documentation of ownership instead of verbal claims over their land. Despite such unprecedented and ground-breaking works, the council members were often accused of land grabs, corruption, bribery, and abuse of power. A position in the council was not all about noble and charity community works; it also promised materialistic gains. Let us take the last Balapara Khagrabari council as an example. Masud Mollah, who was a Bangladeshi citizen, became one of the wealthiest landlords in the chhitmahal after he was selected as the chairman. The family of vice-chairman Enam Khasru was notorious for grabbing the properties of Hindu families, which eventually forced them to migrate to India. Several respondents confirmed to me that his key income came from the bribery by the defendants to manipulate council verdicts in their favor. Secretary Monir Ahmed oversaw the land registration process, and, utilizing his position, monopolized the making of land deeds. He charged almost five times higher for writing a deed than the rate of Indian registry office because only he knew how to write a land deed and the chhitbashi had no other option.

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Another common allegation against the council members was that they made a profit on issuing fake chhit passports to the Bangladeshi citizens that eventually forced the Indian government to suspend the facility. Former council members did not deny that there was corruption in issuing chhit passports. They argued that the chhitbashi were hopelessly dependent on the mercy of these influential citizen-neighbors to enter Bangladesh illicitly in everyday life. In that sense, they merely reciprocated the favor. Despite these shortcomings, there was a public consensus in chhitmahals that the councils formalized their identity,5 gave them a livable homeland, increased their livelihood security, and organized them as a “normal” community.

Conclusion: The Swap and a Renewed Anxiety Carolyn Nordstrom argues that people tend to violate all repressive legal bindings “by hook, by genius, by hard work or by crook” (2007, 73) to secure a basic subsistence. Even if the borderland communities accept an inconvenient state border, they do it by manipulating the boundary itself. This manipulation restores a “normal” life that was disrupted by the sovereignty measures and reduces subsistence unpredictability (Dunn and Cons 2014, 98–100). In surviving a distressful period augmented by the absence of the Indian government and an unauthorized presence of Bangladeshi citizens, the chhitbashi came up with a form of life lived within a triangular field of relations. Through the chhit visa/passport, one side connected them with India to register their land. In another side, the local council oversaw the local administration, social leadership, development works, and documentation inside the chhitmahals. The final side stretched to a horizontal community with Bangladeshi neighbors that opened the access to profitable agriculture, education, health care, and market facilities beyond the boundaries of the chhitmahals. Collective illicitness was the overarching theme in this triangle; almost every action defied the sovereign codes of either Bangladesh or India or both. It was an equilateral triangle; had the extent of any side fallen short, the chhitbashi could not survive. Unfortunately, that was what had happened when the Indian government suspended the facilities of the chhit visa because of corruption allegations. The council members turned into abusive and exploitative giants, and more “bad” started to pour in from the horizontal community-making with the Bangladeshi neighbors than “good”. The failure of two nations not only to serve basic needs but to uphold the sovereignty of chhitmahals suffocated the life of chhitbashi. As their triangular framework broke down, they boosted their demand for the swap of chhitmahals and citizenship of Bangladesh. A group of exploitative, opportunistic, and abusive chhitbashi saw a massive loss of income, power, and control in the swap. They preferred the chhitmahals to remain lawless non-contiguous territories of India. However, the massive public support assisted the chhitmahal councils in organizing a powerful pro-swap

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campaign in both Bangladesh and India, which eventually succeeded in 2015 when both nations agreed to swap their non-contiguous chhitmahals with each other. As they were stepping into citizenship, the people of chhitmahals had hoped for freedom, affluence, empowerment, employment, political representation, administrative order, and a clear sense of belonging. Words of hope also guided the speeches of the government heads. After signing the swap treaty, Indian prime minister Narendra Modi compared the swap of chhitmahals to the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. He said, “We’ve resolved a question that has lingered since independence [in 1947]. Our two nations [now] have a settled boundary. It will make our borders more secure and people’s lives more stable” (Aljazeera 2015). The swap and new citizenship status resolved many crises of the stateless era and included the chhitbashi in public development programs and state administration. This relief from “stateless paranoia”, however, came with the cost of a known but unanticipated “citizenship anxiety”: that citizenship’s benefits tampered with the traditional structure and functioning of the chhitmahal community. In Balapara Khagrabari, for example, the construction of roads and schools introduced clientelist politics that monopolized social power for a specific group of individuals. The merger of Dasiar Chhara with Bangladesh, on the other hand, partitioned the territorial integrity of the chhitmahal and damaged its collective spirit. National political parties entered and replaced the traditional leadership, which has diminished unity among the chhitbashi. Easy access to global communication networks modified the utilization of time and assets. Moreover, constant exposure to the national and global culture amplified the desire for modern and affluent life. In addition to the structural ruptures that affected the collective sphere of chhitmahals, the requirement of bureaucratic literacy to access government services and increasing demand for material resources to keep up with the citizenship lifestyle fed a renewed anxiety. There is no doubt that post-swap infrastructure and bureaucratic projects strengthened economic networks, introduced stable administration, and ensured fundamental human rights. Despite these changes, however, ordinary people failed to achieve anticipated material progress. These projects also led to the introduction of a new form of party politics that replaced accustomed leadership hierarchies and codes of ethics. Power and authority shifted from one set of elites to a new one, and transactional politics deepened and sometimes shifted local inequalities. Differences of generation and gender were also prominent: young people’s use of new media extended their horizons and reach beyond paved roads and paperwork; women’s progress was slow but also remarkable. The emerging significance of these factors enabled citizenship’s cultural and political effects to gradually overshadow its legal meaning. Citizenship has become a malleable concept in former chhitmahals and the consequences of the swap have gone far beyond the original goals of normalization.

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Acknowledgement: This research was a component of my Ph.D. program in Anthropology at the University of Western Ontario (Canada) and was originally included in the doctoral dissertation titled “From Stateless People to Citizens: The Reformulation of Territory and Identity in India–Bangladesh Border Enclaves” accepted by the School of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies. The Ph.D. project was supervised by Dr. Dan Jorgensen. The dissertation can be accessed at https://ir.lib.uwo.ca/etd/7666.

Notes 1 Without any direct involvement of state administration. 2 All the names of individuals in the chapter are pseudonyms, but I have used real names of the places. 3 Bangladesh and India recognized its non-contiguous chhitmahals but did not provide the residents any citizenship documents. Whyte (2002) called this arrangement theoretical citizenship (190). 4 Referring to the African politics, James Ferguson (2006) discusses a vertical topography of power where the state holds the top position and the grassroots communities stay at the bottom. 5 In many cases, the chhitbashi identified themselves as members of a specific chhitmahal council and displayed the chhit passport as the proof (see also van Schendel 2002, 133).

References Abraham, Itty and Willem van Schendel. 2005. “Introduction: The Making of Illicitness”. In Illicit Flows and Criminal Things: States, Borders, and the Other Side of Globalization, edited by Willem van Schendel, and Itty Abraham, 1–37. Bloomington: Indiana University. Aljazeera. 2015. “India and Bangladesh Seal Land-Swap Deal”. Border Disputes. Updated June 06, 2015. https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2015/06/India–Bangla desh-seal-land-swap-deal-150606012711866.html. Basu, Partha Pratim. 2011. “The Indo-Bangla ‘Enclaves’ and a Disinherited People”. Jadavpur Journal of International Relations 15 (1): 55–70. BBC. 2015. “Enclaves Swapped in Landmark India–Bangladesh Border Deal”. Updated July 31, 2015. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-33733911. Cons, Jason. 2016. Sensitive Space: Fragmented Territory at the India–Bangladesh Border. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Daily Star. 2015. “Land Grabbing in Former Enclave”. Editorial. Updated August 04, 2015. https://www.thedailystar.net/editorial/land-grabbing-former-enclave-121189. Dunn, Elizabeth Cullen, and Jason Cons. 2014. “Aleatory Sovereignty and the Rule of Sensitive Spaces: Aleatory Sovereignty”. Antipode 46 (1): 92–109. Ferdoush, Md Azmeary. 2014. “Rethinking Border Crossing Narratives: A Comparison between Bangladesh–India Enclaves”. Journal of South Asian Studies 2 (2): 107–113. Ferguson, James. 2006. Global Shadows: Africa in the Neoliberal World Order. Durham: Duke University Press. Government of India. 2015. “Exchange of enclaves between India and Bangladesh”. Ministry of External Affairs Press Release. Updated November 20, 2015. https://www. mea.gov.in/press-releases.htm?dtl/26048/Exchange+of+enclaves+between+India+and+

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Bangladeshhttps://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/india-and-bangladesh-swap-territorycitizens-landmark-enclave-exchange. Hasan, Mubashar, and Suvra Kanti Das. 2015. “The Indo-Bangladesh Enclave Exchange: Revealing Conceptions of the State”. London School of Economics Blog. August 28, 2015. https://blogs.lse.ac.uk/southasia/2015/08/28/the-indo-bangla desh-enclave-exchange-revealing-conceptions-of-the-state/. Hindustan Times. 2015. “We’ve Finally Seen Light: Crowds Cheer India–Bangladesh Land Swap”. India News. Updated August 01, 2015. https://www.hindustantimes. com/india/we-ve-finally-seen-light-crowds-cheer-India–Bangladesh-land-swap/storyCYR2YnIwbv63TKq7fILKXO.html. Jones, Reece. 2009. “Sovereignty and Statelessness in the Border Enclaves of India and Bangladesh”. Political Geography 28 (6): 373–381. Nordstrom, Carolyn. 2007. Global Outlaws: Crime, Money, and Power in the Contemporary World. Berkeley: University of California Press. Rabbani, Mohammad Golam. 2007. “Stateless in South Asia: Living in Bangladesh– India Enclaves”. Theoretical Perspectives: A Journal of Social Sciences and Arts 12 & 13 (2005–2006). University of Dhaka: Centre of Alternatives. Rabbani, Mohammad Golam. 2017. . [Bangladesh–India Enclaves: 68 years of confinement]. Dhaka: Prothoma Prokashan. Rahman, M. Atiqur, Md Mahbub Murshed, and Nahid Sultana. 2013. “Lives Outside the Map: The Case of Angorpota-Dohogram Enclave, Bangladesh”. IOSR Journal of Humanities and Social Science 9 (1): 71–76. Rashedul Alam, Md. 2021. From Stateless People to Citizens: The Reformulation of Territory and Identity in India–Bangladesh Border Enclaves. PhD Diss., University of Western Ontario. https://ir.lib.uwo.ca/etd/7666. Rumford, Chris. 2013. “Towards a Vernacularized Border Studies: The Case of Citizen Borderwork”. Journal of Borderlands Studies 28 (2): 169–180. Shewly, Hosna J. 2013. “Abandoned Spaces and Bare Life in the Enclaves of the India–Bangladesh Border”. Political Geography 32 (1): 23–31. Shewly, Hosna J. 2015. “Citizenship, Abandonment and Resistance in the India– Bangladesh Borderland”. Geoforum 67: 14–23. van Schendel, Willem. 2002. “Stateless in South Asia: The Making of the India– Bangladesh Enclaves”. The Journal of Asian Studies 61 (1): 115–147. van Schendel, Willem. 2005. “Spaces of Engagement: How Borderlands, Illicit Flows, and Territorial States Interlock”. In Illicit Flows and Criminal Things: States, Borders, and the Other Side of Globalization, edited by Willem van Schendel, and Itty Abraham, 38–68. Bloomington: Indiana University. van Schendel, Willem. 2006. “The Borderlands of Illegality”. IIAS Newsletter, Autumn, volume 42. Winichakul Thongchai. 1994. Siam Mapped: A History of the Geo-Body of a Nation. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Whyte, Brendan R. 2002. Waiting for the Esquimo: an historical and documentary study of the Cooch Behar enclaves of India and Bangladesh. PhD Diss., University of Melbourne. https://search-proquest-com.proxy1.lib.uwo.ca/docview/305416437?pqorigsite=primo. Younus, A.S.M. 2013. . [Confinement of Chhitmahals by the Barbed Fence]. Dhaka: Annesha Prokashon.

12 HISTORIES, TERRITORIES, PARTITIONS, AND MEMORIES AMONG THE ZO HNAHTHLAK AND THE CHAKMA IN THE STATE OF MIZORAM Anup Shekhar Chakraborty

Let’s Make History Chinua Achebe, the Nigerian poet, metaphorically described the contestation over history and historical narrative by quoting an African proverb: “until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter” (Achebe 1994, 244). History writing, its interpretation, and its conception of any event as history are markedly selective and involve “political” choices and decisions. The methodology infused into the engagement and resource collection and documentation is strongly marked by attempts at familiarising and de-familiarising select events whereby the event is perceived through what Foucault calls the gaze. In many senses, the gaze of history, which fills our knowledge/information, is marked by the statist enterprise of governance and governmentality. In short, history is a political engagement not only because of the selection of what is to be highlighted as historical and what relegated to oblivion but also because of the pedagogical enterprise of what is to be taught, rehearsed, and classified as memory (state and public memory). With respect to the Partition of the subcontinent, what is to be taught as history and what is to be remembered and what is to be forgotten is, therefore, very much political in intonation. With this understanding, the chapter attempts to glean multiple versions of histories, claims and counterclaims to territories, experiences of multiple Partitions and memories of the lost past and lost autonomies operative among the Zo hnahthlak and the Chakma in the state of Mizoram and overriding versions (“official”) of the Indian state. It shows that the national borders or the elaborately created new geographical entities post-1947, symbolised by the “Radcliffe Line” (1950), remained merely “cartographic and political divisions” or “the Shadow Lines” for the Chakmas, like for many of the Partition refugees DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-13

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(Kumar 1999). The discussions in this chapter will deal with concepts of history writing in operation (in the field) in parts followed by a brief overview of the politics, contests and claims over history and territories and overlaps through tracing the narrative versions of the Zo and the Chakma in contemporary Mizoram.

The History “in-between”: Conflations in Memory—Remembering and Forgetting The Partition of the subcontinent aggravated the geopolitical isolation of the North-East, propelled the emergence of an ethno-cultural consciousness and the resurgence of divergent claims over the land and its resources. These opened the floodgates of issues like “Who came first? Who is an immigrant? Who is a native? Who is an insider?” which reverberates at the macro and micro levels, that is, the North-East versus India (mainland/heartland) level and the North-East versus the North-East itself. This is because the category “North-East” is not a monolithic construct and consists of multiple contestations (Chakraborty 2021, 3–25) whereas, at large, Assam is passed off as representing the rest of “little cultures”. The ethnographic mapping of these movements is of considerable interest, and their geopolitical fallout remains a fact of daily lives in the North-East (Chaube et al.1975, 40–66). The primary anxiety of the tribal people of the North-East as elsewhere has been “how to preserve their culture and racial identity?” As I show later in the chapter, the North-East required political readjustments because of the setting up of boundaries and the creation of states. Boundary lines by the British had been drawn keeping the British administrative conveniences in view. Herein lies the main problem of drawing boundaries on traditional game lands, which have always been the bone of contention among the different tribes and peoples of the region. The discussion in this subsection attempts to provide an overview of Partition in South Asia. Partition, as the largest recorded human movement in world history, has become a “topic of much myth-making, intense polemics, and considerable serious historical research” (Schendel 2003, 55–90). The “Partition Refugees” across South Asia provide different readings in Partition experiences; indeed, the experience in the case of India can be categorised as Northern Indian (Schechtman 1963; Chimni 2000; Butalia 2000, 178–207) and Eastern Indian (Samaddar 1999; Guhathakurta & Begum 2005, 175–212). Again, internal demarcations revealing multifold layers within such constructs lie within the homogenous construct of Northern and Eastern Partition Refugees (Chakrabarty 2004; Saha 2003). The category of North-Eastern Partition Refugees ranges from Bengali Hindu to Bengali Muslim or Sylheti to Chakma to Reang refugees and many others conveniently clubbed under the category of trans-border tribes. Following the series of Partitions of the eastern borderlands beginning with the Bengal Eastern Frontier Regulations (BEFR 1873), the Chin

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Lushai Hills Regulations (CLHR 1896) and the Partitions of 1905 and 1947, the gateway to the Lushai Districts via Chittagong was sealed off and indigenous communities like the Zo/Mizo found themselves abruptly separated from their kinsmen in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT, Bangladesh) as well as in the Chin Hills of Burma (Myanmar) (Verghese & Thanzawna 1997). The experiences of the Partition in contemporary South Asia reflect the inability to achieve healing, reconciliation, and closure. The lasting effects of the Partition on the peoples of the region also show how complicated nationalist visions are at two levels: first, how do societies remember? And what causes societies to forget? (Connerton 1995). The politics of memory retaining, commemoration, and re-living events in historically contested narrations forms an intrinsic part of inventing the vexed time, space and history and the three are prefixed with the highly coveted, exclusivist word “our”. This enterprise of rewriting, revisiting, reinventing, re-narration is supposedly closer to the concerned community and presented as “the authentic, the emic”. The following sub-sections unfold this aphoristic enterprise of memory-making and retention among the Zo hnahthlak.

The Memory of the Lost Territories, Lost Space and the Discovery of a “New One” The identity between people, heritage, territory, and state is brought out by the use of botanical metaphors “that suggest that each nation is a grand genealogical tree, rooted in the soil that nourishes it” (Malkki 1990, 24–44). The Zo/Mizo or Zomi also use the metaphor of the tree to link their rooted-ness in the claimed territory; the Zo/Mizo claim that their folksongs and folklores speak of a grand tree planted by their forefathers before they migrated from Zopui, a village west of the Tiau valley. For instance, the Kuki-Chin-Zo-Mizo Folklore suggests that their “family tree” is at Khampat Bungpui and that when the ariel roots of the great Bung (Banyan tree) touch the ground, the children of Zo will return to the mother village Zopui and the dispersed Zo clans willbe re-united (Zamawia 2007, 12–13). The memory of the ever-blessed village Zopui, symbolic of the grandeur of Zo history, serves the purpose of providing a unifying thread for the large collection of ethnic tribes living in and around present-day Mizoram, the CHT, the Chin Hills in Burma to the areas around Tripura, Cachar (Assam) and Manipur. The memory of the lost village and lost territory drives the urgency to reclaim the lost land and re-establish the lost Zo heritage and “honour” of the once brave and powerful, head-hunting, Pasaltha (lit., brave Hero) who rode through the hills and valleys of the region of Zoram. The metaphor of a grand genealogical tree limits the membership of the shared memory to the Zo people alone and, by the same logic, serves to de-limit the membership or proximity to the other tribal groups in the region. “Myth-making”/“Myth-building” forms an integral part of the ethnic-national identity building process as evident from the several theories of the origins and history of Zo/Mizo tribes.

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The above metaphors, like a map, also configure the nation as sovereign, limited in its membership and continuous time. Maps are critical for conceptualising the state as “a compulsory organisation with a territorial basis”, as “the stable centre…of [national] societies and spaces” (Paasi 1996, 76). The Partition of the Zo territory and the memory and mythification of Zoram/ Zopui became embedded in the collective imagination, systematically entering the debates and discourses of nation-building, identity, statecraft, insider– outsider, inclusion–exclusion, migration/trans-border movement and the entire process of “othering”. The issue of a territory, a boundary thus remain highly contested (Paasi 1996, 76). The spatial matrix materialised in the operation of the state system shapes the imagining of personhood as well as place. The bounding of the nation as a collective subject, as a super-organism with a unique biological-cultural essence, replicates the enclosure of national territory. Tropes of territorialised space are articulated to tropes of substance in imagining collective and individual national bodies. The botanical metaphor that is the “family tree” becomes symbolic of the group’s cohesiveness, its imagined commonness and lived-in memory. It raises questions about how the identity of a place and its people get shaped and reaffirmed amid the growing encapsulating homogeneity and the fragmentation of space; how the concreteness of the territory and its visual markers is secured through material forms in everyday life and language and scholarship; and what really makes the Zo/Mizo construction of a “memory of the lost territory, lost space” even more interesting is the convenient hybridisation of the “memory of Zopui and Chhinlung” with that of the Lost Tribes of Israel (Chakraborty 2013, 174).

Negotiating Partitions, Correcting History: The Zo Story The Zo hnahthlak, as a community, has been meticulously engaged with “re-writing histories” and “correcting History” in the process. Like the multitudes of peoples in the region and across the international border, the Zos are avenging their past and claiming lost pristine autonomies, land, honours, connectedness, etc. Though many writers argue that the histories of the region (that is the North-East of India) do not fit easily into the official/institutional history of India, it is also true that the links between Bengal, and contemporary North-East India existed even before the colonial intervention and that a parallel conversation between and among peoples predated the “making of the Raj”. The origins and history of the Zo/Mizo remain shrouded in mystery due to lack of written evidence (Reid 1942, 25–28). The generally accepted view speaks of a great Mongoloid wave of migration from China into their present habitat in India (Soppitt 1976). The Zo tribes migrated from the nearby Chin Hills between 1750 and 1850 to India. The earliest batch of the Zo tribes who migrated to India were known as the “Old Kukis”, and the second batch of

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immigrants were called the “New Kukis” (Soppitt 1976; Waddell 1901, 50). The Lushais were the last of the Mizo tribes to migrate to the contemporary hills and plains of Mizoram and Manipur in India. The history of the Zo/Mizo in the 18th and 19th centuries was marked by many instances of tribal raids (Elly 1893, 6–8) and retaliatory expeditions undertaken for the security of the British tea plantations in the North-East of India (Barpujari 1980, 242). The occupation of Cachar by the British in 1832 inaugurated the Lushai-Chin-Kuki colonial encounter. The 19th century brought the East India Company into direct contact/confrontation with the wild tribes of the North-East Frontier region. The tribes of Mizoram, who had so long remained unaffected by foreign political influence, began to feel the push and pull of the British annexation of Assam post the Treaty of Yandaboo in 1826 and the series of colonial boundary making exercises under the Bengal Eastern Frontier Regulations of 1873 and the Chin Lushai Hills Regulations of 1896. The mushrooming of identities based on ethnic lines in the contemporary Zo Hills has to be understood against the backdrop of the process of the “Partition” of the territory of the Zo hnahthlak (Zo people).1 Although the Partition was received very differently by contending indigenous people, there was a consensus that the “land” was split into multiple parts. The same people on either side of the same mountain ranges came to be known differently as Lushais (later Mizo) and the Chin on the borders between Myanmar and Mizoram; and Kukis and Chins through the lines across Manipur. The memory of the lost villages of Khampat Bungpui, Zopui and others entered the intergenerational and intergenerational social/collective memory of the Zo hnahthlak, resulting in the continuous production of histories among the Zo sub-tribes (Chakraborty 2013, 169–93). The post-Partition (1947) politics, such as the formation of the Lushai Hills District, offered an opportunity for contact between the region’s different subtribes, especially the Zo/Mizo and the Chakma. The hill districts developed a special kind of identity, which remained crucial for subsequent political developments in the region and the trauma of the village regrouping during the insurgency. Mizoram witnessed a clash between ethnocentric affiliations strengthened by primordial attachments and the broader generalised commitment to the nation (India) with its plural characteristics. The northern tribes, the Lushais (later Mizo), began to assert their localness and, therefore, their “sons of the soil” status and hence their claim to indigeneity as the rightful owners of the hills of the region and began to subdue and subsume the southern tribes who had also been provided with similar institutional autonomies. The program to claim ownership over the territory can be seen in the name change movement during the 1950s. Mizo gained widespread acceptance in the Lushai Hills as a standard nomenclature for the entire Zo descent. Consequently, the name of Lushai Hills was changed into Mizo Hills. When it

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attained the status of a Union Territory and later a state, it became Mizoram, a land of the Mizo or Zo people. This was the first time in Zo history that the land or territory was named after the Mizos’ own given name. It may be pertinent to mention here that nomenclatures like Chinand Kuki are derogatory ascriptions given to the Zo people by outsiders, whereas Zo is a dignified, honourable and all-embracing self-ascription. It now virtually stands as the collective name of the entire Zo descent. Furthermore, Mizoram can claim pride of place as a land where every Zo descent is fully integrated into the Mizo. The identity formation around the generic identity Mizo successfully replaced the hegemonic and constitutionally imposed identity Lushai from the mid-1950s. However, the insatiability of histories is such that even the generic identity has invited micro-national responses of myriad hues. The generic identity created ripples of micro-national responses from the three prominent southern tribes, namely the Mara, the Laiand the Chakma. The Chhim lam mi/khawthlang mi (lit., southern identities, Mizo terms to denote the Lai, Mara, Chakma), challenged the generic Mizo identity. These local marginal identities preferred to be recognised by their clannish sub-tribal identities rather than a generic identity. This also fuelled an aspiration to claim a historical space and churn contested versions of the grand-historical narratives of the majoritarian Zo people and the statist history. Deeply defensive of their “history(ies)” and nationalist intonations, doubled with a proselytised zeal of creating and thereby defending an Ideal Christian State of Mizoram, the Zo hnahthlak are constantly guarding their “national history(ies)” and their national heroes (men and women). So much so that they have connected their myths and lore with biblical tales and stories of the “Lost tribes of Israel” and connected themselves to the “part myths-part-histories” of West Asia (Chakraborty 2013, 172–73, 176–78).This is one more instance of interweaving chauvinistic history writing that claims a place of prominence for the Zo people amidst the galaxy of histories of West Asia and the Christendom hinged to the two “Holy lands”—one in the west (Israel) and the other in the east (Mizoram) (Chakraborty 2016, 50–53). This enmeshing of faith and identity along with an encrypted evangelical zeal can be best summed up in the strong emphasis on the goodness of “being believers” as reflected in the ever reverberating musical composition by Roliana Chhangte (1979) Mitdel kanawmtohlo Jerusalem thar ah (lit., there are “no blind persons” that is, non-believers who fail to see the Glory of Christ in the “new Jerusalem” (referring to the Zo hills) (Chakraborty 2016, 53). Such manoeuvrings reflect the specific discomforts and comforts in the process of engagements in proselytisation and simultaneously “being Zo” among the Zo hnahthlak. What is to be retained and displayed, or showcased as hybrid, and what is to be forgotten and quarantined in this engagement is not an unconscious enterprise but an intensely loaded choice-making enterprise driven by the Nexus of Patriarchy.

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Appropriating Zo History: The Case of Khuangchera The translation of Laltluangliana Khiangte’s Pasaltha Khuangchera (1997, in Mizo) to Shoorvir Khuangchera (in Hindi) by C. Kamlova has generated uncomfortable historical rumblings. The book was declared the Book of the Year by the Mizo Academy of Letters and subsequently translated into English. The author equated Khuangchera with Subhas Chandra Bose and Bhagat Singh and mooted the idea of a posthumous Bharat Ratna. The author maintained that Khuangchera was the first Mizo freedom fighter to resist British imperialism in the Lushai Hills (Zo region). The Pasaltha (lit., brave Hero) was killed trying to resist advancing British troops in the Chin-Lushai expedition of 1889–90, along with a lesser-known Mizo warrior, Ngurbawnga, at Changsil near Aizawl. The Khuangchera Memorial Committee commemorated the site of Khuangchera’s death with a stone slab. Here comes the problem that I intend to unweave. The author and the Mizo Academy of Letters showed keenness in promoting Khuangchera as a pan-national hero of India. The Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP, the largest Mizo students’ body), the most prominent students union, and the Nexus of Patriarchy were uncomfortable sharing the Zo national icon with the others (rest of India). The local political parties neatly sided with the churches and their nexus and accused the BJP led Central Government of claiming Khuangchera. The local apprehension was that the Modi government, in the attempt to write newer histories linking the North East to the more extensive history of South Asia, was crossing the lines of appropriation of local accounts that had their independent narrative with comprehensive records. Here we come to the complex realities of respecting freedom fighters and identifying who is to be commemorated as an “icon”. Similarly, generating a list of nationalist icons becomes more challenging in regions where the idea of “India” or “an India consciousness” might or might not have existed. The post-colonial history of resistance in Lushai Hills is highly selective, and records tend to occlude the roles of women and sub-tribes. Though the enemy for the more significant part of the colonised world was the same, namely the white/ colonial master, the national heroes or icons were definitely different. The Mizo chiefs and their widows were forced to negotiate their existence with the colonial government and often became fence-sitters or the other/the enemy within. During this critical time, many women chiefs, including Ropuiliani, emerged in the colonial archives. Very few women find mention in the official accounts of the region. In contrast to the chieftain Ropuiliani who became an ethnic idol of patriotism, other women who struggled against colonialism, like Buki, Lalhlupuii, Rothangpuii, Vanhnuaithangi, Laltheri, Darbilhi, Neihpuithangi, Pawibawia Nu, Dari, Thangpuii, Pakuma Rani, Zawlchuaii and others, remain comparatively less-known. In this exercise of naming and elevating a local hero to the status of a national one, at one level, we can see the institutional drive to claim selectively parts of the Zo local histories. At another level, we witness the

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disconnect in collective memory engagement through commemoration and the unease that such engagements in memories often result in. The oppositions and the voices in the public sphere at Aizawl can be construed to reflect the resistance histories.

Occluding History: The Chakma Story The backdrop of the discussion in this subsection is one of the southern tribes, namely the Chakma who traditionally held the riparian territories of the Karnaphuli, the CHT2 and the Arakans. The administrative lines carved by the colonial administration created differences in identity among the northerners and the southerners. The group of tribes in the present-day Aizawl circle commonly referred to as the Lusei-Mizo group believe that they are the genuine/authentic/pure Mizo and therefore the original settlers/the first to arrive/the “sons of the soil” and expect other peripheral and southern tribes and western tribes to accept and subsume themselves into the generic Mizo identity. They also expect the marginal tribes to speak the Duhlian dialect (Mizo), which has been elevated to the position of the lingua franca of the state of Mizoram. The notion of citizenship or recognition as people in the state of Mizoram has undergone the unique experience of a “regulated citizenship” filtered through a process of inclusions and exclusions based steeply on an exclusive knowledge system of Mizo (Duhlian) (Chakraborty 2009). Tracing the statebuilding process in Mizoram brings to the fore the dictated pattern of the politics of inclusions and exclusions projected by the Nexus of Patriarchy building an Ideal Zo Christian State (Chakraborty 2007; Chakraborty 2009; Chakraborty and Nepal 2012). Though officially treated as one of the tribes of Mizoram, the Chakma are classified as overstaying guests. The Chakma feel neglected and deprived of economic benefits due to their being non-Christians.3 The issues of the distinctness of the Chakma from the Zo/Mizo have been exploited by both the dominant stakeholders within the state and outside to either assimilate or eliminate the minority Chakma tribes (Chakraborty 2011, 274–85). The Chakma Autonomous District Council (CADC), with its headquarters now at Chawngte (earlier known as Kamalanagar), continues to be a public irritant in Zo/Mizo politics. The Chakmas’ Buddhist culture, pidgin Bengali language, Bengali medium high school, along with distinct cultural markers, make them a permanent pariah in a state that openly declares itself to be an Ideal Zo Christian State. The Zo hnahthlak have time and again publicly expressed that the Chakma have no historical claims to the present territories where they are now located in Mizoram. The “Chakmas do not belong to Mizoram”, “they are from the CHT”, “they are foreigners”, or, very recently, “overstaying guests” are the social imaginaries that run deep among the northerners. The perceived

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foreignness of the Chakma among the Zo hnahthlak feeds the collective urge to deny them any historicity. The collective anxiety towards the Chakma results in an organised program by the agents of the Nexus of Patriarchy to erase Chakma history and cleanse the land of the believers from the filth of the pagans. For instance, the Zo/Mizo tribes from the north have craftily attempted to take charge of the Chakma territory by unleashing a wave of proselytisation and a politics of name change and border fencing. The generic identity politics in Mizoram, as a movement from the north, attempts at enveloping the other minority ethnic communities in the south, such as the Chakma. Another instance of Zo predominance over the southerners like the Chakma can be seen in attempting to change the demography of the traditional Chakma territory. From the 1980s onwards, there has been a steady rise in settlement of the Zo/Mizo population in the Chakma region through the post-Peace Accord Government of Mizoram initiatives of rehabilitation of the MNF returnees. There is a constant drive to outnumber the Chakma in their traditional riparian territory and overwrite history favouring the “hilly” Zo/Mizo. The rehabilitation programme of the Zo/Mizo (MNF returnees) in the Chakma areas has not been easy. It involved the distribution of incentives such as cheap supply or rewards of power-tillers, costly agricultural equipment and others to the Zo/Mizo who agreed to settle in the warm, humid Chakma territory. One more instance to substantiate the underlying politics of exclusions operating at multiple levels is renaming the traditional Chakma names of places with Mizo names such as Chawngte (Mizo) for Kamalanagar, Tlabung (Mizo) for Demagiri, etc. This politics of renaming of Chakma areas and townships is a blatant attempt at erasing the Chakma story. The change in terminology (the Mizoisation of place names) and proselytisation through evangelical and missionary engagement in the Chakma region is a concerted exercise in overwriting the history and historical rootedness of the Chakma people in the Zo spaces. Such historical overwriting erases historical truths substantiated through disparate sources such as the role of the only Chakma Queen—Rani Kalindi (alias Kalabi), one of the three wives of the Chakma Raja Dharam Bux Khan. These historical erasures also occlude the close connections between the Chakma and the Zo people through trade, inter-marriages, politics and intermittent conflicts, skirmishes, taking of the Chakma as bonds (Boi/ Bawi system) and peace-building in these borderlands and frontier spaces of the Raj throughout the 19th century. The Chakma chiefs were tributaries to the Mughal rulers with whom they had a close relationship. The Chakma chiefs adopted the suffix Khan, in the16th century as a mark of respect to the Mughals (Qanungo 1998, 24).When the Mughals granted the Diwani of Bengal to the British East India Company (BEIC), their domain over the Chakma was established after a protracted struggle that ultimately confined Chakma settlements to the Chittagong Hills, apparently tribalising a community that had previously incorporated many statelike attributes (Qanungo 1998). From 1790 to the eventual annexation of their

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territory as a colony in 1860, the Chakma were tributaries to the Raj. They resisted persistent attempts to exert direct control over the region’s economy. The Raj transformed the hill societies to something more closely resembling a feudal peasantry. Much like the Mutiny times in 1857 when the Chakma Rani captured rebel sepoys and handed them to the British, Rani Kalindi joined hands with the British during the Lushai Expeditions in 1871 to suppress the Lushai chiefs and supplied 500 coolies to the British army who were waging their military expeditions from the CHT. This enabled the Rani to secure a small tract of land from the CHT and its inhabitants to be made a part of the Lushai Hills district after merging the North and South Lushai Hills districts under one administration in 1900 (Talukdar 1988; Singh 1994). The Chakma Rani’s taking sides and assisting the British expeditions to suppress the Lushais compounded the collective Zo anger towards the Chakma. Another instance of discomfort among the Zo people was the entry of the Chakma into Lushai Hills under the Labour Transport Corps during World War II with a large number staying back without returning to the CHT (Prakash 2008; Mey 2009). Apart from this, the settlement of the Chakma based on temporary residential permission given by the British fuelled the Zo collective anger. For instance, one Chakma chief named Debicharan was given temporary permission in 1933 by the British to set up a village with 15 households vide Government order No 4 of 1933–34. Thus, the Chakma were not foreign migrants, but they came with the land and its resources. At the same time, the colonial administration adopted policies that distinguished the indigene from the foreigner/settler. For instance, while the Lushai and their kin tribes were levied Rs 2 as hill house tax, the Chakma were levied Rs 5, the same as that for foreigners. These differences in tax regimes drove a line between indigenous and non-indigenous communities. These tribal societies evolved into a regionally specific form of indirect rule that threw exclusionary legal and territorial borders around hill territories and peoples and prohibited external interference in community affairs except the default powers vested in colonial authorities (Chowdhury 2016). The name change politics carried out in the region has been steeped in emotional and political content as it symbolises the authority of the northern tribes—the Lusei-Mizo groups over the tribes of the southern areas.4 The overwriting of the histories of the margins results in erasures of historical truths and their replacement by distorted historical narratives that serve the agendas of the majoritarian tribes and those in positions of power.5 The invention of the foreignness of the Chakma in these borderlands is the outcome of this manufactured history as written and interpreted from the north by the Zo hnahthlak, The Chakma resistance to the Zo historical narrative results in their non-assimilation into the generic identity Mizo and Christianity. The Chakma have clung to their ethnic exclusiveness and distinct past to gather a historical narrative, which contests the Zo narrative that positions

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the Chakma as a distinctive ethnic tribe in southwestern Mizoram. Though the Chakma have been placed under the Chakma Autonomous District Council (CADC) for better administration and control, the irony is that more than half of the Chakma population in Mizoram lives outside the demarcated territory of the CADC.6 The northerners posted in the Chakma areas term it as a punishment posting, resulting from their failure or inability to channel their networks at the right points in Aizawl or to differences with those having the right connections and political linkages in the north.7 The absence of a visible infrastructure and civic amenities feeds the abhorrence among the northerners posted in the Chakma region. The Chakma area is affected by out-migration of its local potential human resource to elsewhere. Seldom do we see a Chakma educated in the north making a reverse journey back to serve his/her local community in the Chakma areas. There is a strong tendency to absorb oneself in the metropolitan cities such as Delhi, Guwahati or Kolkata, move abroad or at least cling to the resource affluent regions of Mizoram. The medical dystopia and public outburst between June 2017 and October 2017 (Karmakar 2017) of the Zo “Youth” led by the MZP, MSU.8 the CYMA9 and so on, in Mizoram against the Chakma needs to be understood against the aforementioned backdrop of traditional animosity, threat perception, and claims to being the first settlers (and therefore “sons of the soil” and putting to rest the question of indigeneity) in the territory now named Mizoram. Along with the historical issues, one needs to glove-in the “current discriminations” based on ethnicity and language in Mizoram as reflected in the various official Recruitment Rules (RR) notified by the government of Mizoram, which prevent the linguistic minorities from availing jobs (Chakraborty 2011). Seen from this genealogical account of “the Quota” and outburst against the outsiders, we can agreeably note that the current imbroglio is another added chapter to that history and politics as operative in Mizoram that entitles the benefits of reservations only for the Zo hnahthlak. The amnesia dispelled by the Zo hnahthlak towards the history of the Chakma in contemporary Mizoram feeds into the larger social imaginaries of the “Chakma foreigner” and the compilation of a collective social memory treating the Chakma as “the problem people” swaying between “foreigners” and the institutional category of the North-Eastern Partition Refugees. In either category, the Chakma remain an eyesore for the Zo hnahthlak.

Some Closing Observations The North-eastern experience of Partitions showcases two distinct phases, namely the Partition of Bengal in 1905 and the Partition in 1947 and the spectre of preceding boundary demarcations as outlined by the Bengal Eastern Frontier Regulations of 1873 and the Chin Lushai Hills Regulations of 1896. The Partition, then, was a very different phenomenon in North-eastern

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India. In other words, the experience of the same event in history produced customised outputs in terms of coping with realities of life, adjusting to new situations, retaining and erasing memories for survival, response of the state in terms of providing shelter or refuge or rehabilitation, ethics and care. The spectre of the Partition and lived intergenerational memories continues to loom large over the construction of the collective victimhood and pain/hurt in South Asia. The Partition bifurcated identities in the subcontinent and thus, as an event, came to be known and portrayed as a compromise solution aimed at appeasing both sides and imposing order in dystopia. Numerous studies have acknowledged that the experience of the Partition could never have been the same for all people in the subcontinent and that the associated markers transported temporally and spatially would invariably result in a multiversal competing meaning-making project. A little over 75 years, the spectre of Partition continues to uncalm the collective intergenerational memories of South Asia.

Notes 1 Before 1898, the head of the Lushai District was called a Political Officer. At first, there were two political officers—one for the South Lushai Hills and another for the North Lushai Hills. After the amalgamation of the two districts, the designation of the head of the district was changed to Superintendent. Shakespear was the first Superintendent of the Lushai District.The Superintendent enjoyed tremendous powers. For instance, he regulated the successor to the chieftainship, appointed guardians to the minor chiefs, partitioned the existing villages, formed new villages, appointed new chiefs, determined the chiefs occupy the boundaries of the villages and areas, etc. (Rao 1978, 215–32). 2 The Chittagong Hill Tracts were known as the Kapas Mahal (Cotton Country), and the Lakher Hills was an extension of the natural cotton reserve. The northern tribes (Lushai/Lusei tribes) in Mizoram use the Lushai term Lakher to denote one of the southern tribes, which translates as “those who extract cotton” (Chowdhury 2016, 183–24). 3 Interview with Prati Ranjan Chakma, Aizawl, 26 March 2010. 4 Interview with Prati Ranjan Chakma, Aizawl, 26 March 2010; Interview with Onish Moy Chakma, Aizawl, 26 March 2010 5 Interview with Jackson Chakma, Aizawl, 26 March 2010. 6 Interview with Prati Ranjan Chakma, Aizawl, 26 March 2010; Interview with Durjya Dhan Chakma, Aizawl, 26 March 2010. 7 Interview with Elizabeth Mannou, Aizawl, 10 March 2010; Interview with R. Laldingliani, Aizawl, 10 & 11 March 2010. 8 The MSU is a faction organisation of the MZP. They have emerged as the “other” students association. The gradual rise of the MSU taking pertinent issues of Mizoram and problematising them during 2010–2017 shows that the “students” are fractioned along various lines and that the solitary MZP does not quench their aspirations. 9 Originally established on 15 June 1935 as the Young Lushai Association (YLA), it was later renamed the Young Mizo Association on 7 October 1947. It was initiated by the Welsh Christian missionaries who understood the need for cultural conservation of the Mizo tribe under pressure from political and social modernisations. Every Mizo is a member of the YMA, and life revolves around this “philanthropic” institution. A central committee administers the YMA (Central YMA (CYMA)),

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headquartered at Aizawl, under which there are five sub-headquarters, 47 groups, and 772 branches. However, the picture-perfect public face of the institution has a hidden side masked in the “ask of Hegemony” and all-pervasive control of everyday life, both public and private, among the Zo hnahthlak.

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Verghese, Brig, Cheruvallil George and L. Thanzawna Ralte. 1997. A History of the Mizos. Vols. I and II. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Waddell, Laurence Austine. 1901. The Tribes of the Brahmaputra Valley: A Contribution on their Physical Types and Affinities. Delhi: SanskaranPrakashak. Reprint 1975. Zamawia, Ralte. 2007. “Then Khatna, Bung-2, “Kan ThlaltuteThlangtlak Dan.” (Chapter 1, Section 2 “A Genealogy of the Zo people”). Zofate Zinkawngah: Zalenna Mei a Mit Tur a Ni Lo (Freedom’s Fame must not Blow off in the Zo People’s Journey), 12–13. Aizawl: Lengchhawn Press.

13 THE MECHANICS OF PARTITION Gopa Sabharwal

Introduction This chapter examines news reports in The Times of India (ToI) from 3 June 1947, when the grand plan on independence was endorsed by Indian leaders, until 15 August 1947, when India was Partitioned into two nations. As it proclaimed above its masthead, by 1947, the Times of India (ToI), Bombay, had the “largest Net sales of any daily newspaper printed in Northern, Southern, Central or Western India” (ToI, 2 June 1947, page 1). And, as Barns noted, it supported “the policy followed by the Indian liberals and on foreign affairs” and upheld “the viewpoint of the British Government” (1940, 270). I analyse the role that the newspaper played in spotlighting the process of decolonisation and the transfer of power—what Mountbatten called “the mechanics of partition” (ToI, 26 July 1947, page 1). By downplaying the breakdown of law and order, communicating messages of communal harmony, giving greater coverage to Punjab as opposed to other regions such as Bengal, and highlighting the colonial master narrative about great planning, the newspaper, I argue, inadvertently contributed to the narrative of peaceful and orderly transfer of power despite evidence to the contrary. On 4 June a banner headline declared in capital letters “WAY OUT OF INDIAN DEADLOCK”, with the subheading reiterating that this was “Britain’s Plan for Smooth Transfer of Power” (ToI, 2 June 1947, page 1). It was one of those rare times when every single item on page one focused on different aspects of the same news. Also on the front page were individual pictures of Mountbatten, Nehru and Attlee and a group picture of the three leaders of the Muslim League before they went into the meeting on 3 June. Full texts of the radio broadcasts by the Viceroy, Nehru, Jinnah and Baldev Singh were reproduced. This included the Viceroy’s personal message to the DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-14

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people of India, which he read out before the Plan. All of the speakers appealed for peace and cooperation and hoped this Plan would finally halt the lawlessness that pervaded many parts of the country. Each speaker also assured their followers that they had secured the best deal they could in the given situation. This public endorsement of the plan by the Indian National Congress, Muslim League and Sikh leadership created not only a positive perception of the government and Mountbatten, it also put forth a carefully calibrated master narrative of a peaceful transfer of power which exonerated the British from the consequences of its roll out (Kaul 2014, 182). The newspaper reiterated the theme in its headlines using the words “smooth” for transfer of power, and “acceptable” and “only practical method” for the procedure plan (ToI, 26 July 1947, page 1). To make it easier to follow events in the days ahead, all the tasks that needed to be accomplished for India to gain independence are summarised in Table 13.1. Foremost among these were the Provinces of Bengal, Punjab, Sindh, and British Baluchistan deciding whether to accept the Constitution currently being framed or opting for another Constitution framed by a new and separate Constituent Assembly (CA). A vote against the current CA would mean partition and a boundary commission would be set up to divide the province based on Hindu and Muslim majority areas. The North-West Frontier Province (NWFP), even though two of its three members had joined the existing CA, was, “in view of its geographical situation and other considerations”, given an “opportunity to reconsider its position” via a referendum (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 5). In the event of a decision to partition Bengal, a referendum would also be conducted in the predominantly Muslim district of Sylhet (in Assam province). The Plan ended with the announcement that with the lapse of paramountcy, the Indian States were free to choose to be either independent sovereign states or to join either one of the two CAs that were likely to emerge for Hindustan or Pakistan. It was hoped—naively as we know now—that “the partition of India, if decided upon, may involve as little loss and suffering as possible” (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 5). The Plan, as reproduced in the paper, mandated that all the processes listed be “completed as quickly as possible”, so that successor authorities could prepare themselves to take over (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 5, column 6). Further, establishing the theme of speed, it declared that since all “major political parties have repeatedly emphasised their desire that there should be the earliest possible transfer of power in India…His Majesty’s Government are…willing to anticipate the date of June 1948 for the handing over of power by setting up of an independent Indian Government or Governments at an even earlier date” (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 5). This statement shifted the responsibility for a probable change in the earlier declared date of independence to the desire of Indian politicians. The Plan also announced that the India Office in London would no longer be the nodal point for India affairs, which would henceforth be directed by the Governor-General. By eliminating any over-sight by the India Office, Mountbatten had, in a masterstroke, secured complete power to govern India.

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MAIN TASK

PROCESS

1. Punjab and Bengal Assemblies to decide whether to stay united or be partitioned.

If any member of either Provincial Assembly demands, the full Assembly will meet (excluding European members), to vote on which CA the Province will join. If there is a division then the Provincial Assemblies will meet in two parts(excluding European members), one representing the Muslim majority districts and the other the rest of the Province as set out in the Appendix of the Plan. They will vote whether or not the Province should be partitioned. If a simple majority in either half opts for partition then arrangements will be made accordingly. Fresh Elections will be held to choose representatives as per the formula in the Cabinet Mission’s Plan 1946. Boundary Commission to be set up by the Governor-General: Terms of reference to be settled in consultation with those concerned . They will involve demarcation of boundaries on the basis of ascertaining the contiguous majority areas of Muslims and non-Muslims plus instructions to take into account other factors. The Legislative Assembly will decide (excluding European Members) which CA to join. Given its location, a referendum to be conducted to choose which CA they wish to join. Has one elected member who has not joined the existing CA. The Assembly will be given an opportunity to reconsider its position. The Governor-General will determine how best to do this. In the event of a decision to partition Bengal, a referendum will be conducted in the predominantly Muslim district of Sylhet to determine whether Sylhet stays with Assam or joins the new Province of East Bengal. Boundary Commission to be set up by the Governor-General

2. If the decision is for a partition.

3. Sind 4. NWFP 5. British Baluchistan 6. Assam

7. If Sylhet decides to join East Bengal 8. In the event of any partition

9. The Indian States 10. The British Government

Negotiations will be initiated on administrative consequences a) Between the representative successor authorities about all subjects nowdealt with by the Central Government including Defence, Finance and Communications. b) Between different successor authorities and HMG for treaties in regard to matters arising out of the transfer of power. c) In the case of Provinces that may be partitioned as to administration of all provincial subjects such as the division of assets and liabilities, the police and other services, the High Courts, provincial institutions etc. d) Agreements with tribes of the NWFP will have to be negotiated by the appropriate successor authority. Paramountcy will return to the Indian States. They are free to enter into agreements with the new nation(s). Will introduce legislative measures in Parliament to enable the Transfer of Power

FIGURE 13.1 HMGs Plan, 3 June 1947 : Key Tasks

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The Sikh community came in for special mention in the Viceroy’s speech since they were so widespread over the Punjab. Mountbatten said he was very sorry to think that the partition of the Punjab, which they themselves desire, cannot avoid splitting them to a greater or lesser extent. The exact degree of the split was left to the Boundary Commission on which they would of course be represented. (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 4, column 7) This was a clear indication that the future of the Sikhs was a key area of concern left unresolved by the Plan. The newspaper did not question the inconsistent procedure adopted for different Provinces, with elected representatives in Punjab, Bengal and Sindh making the decision for their province while in NWFP and Sylhet the issue would be decided by public vote. No procedure was specified for British Baluchistan whose sole elected representative had not joined the CA. The province was given a chance to reconsider its position, with the GovernorGeneral “examining how this can most appropriately be done” (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 4, column 7). The thrust of the Viceroy’s speech that “the people of India themselves should decide the question of partition” as per procedure spelt out in the Plan (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 4, column 7) was repeated in the opening sentence of the ToI editorial. The newspaper lauded the above-mentioned inconsistencies saying, “The ultimate authority to decide the issue will be in some cases the people themselves, and in others their elected representatives. For that reason, the British Government’s proposals are democratic and fundamentally just” (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 6, column 1). The editorial reiterated that Mountbatten’s plan met the Indian demand for a rapid transfer of power, and…avoid[s] leaving the country to chaos…India as a whole, or its two main component parts, will therefore achieve complete self-government as Dominions before the end of this year. (ToI, 4 June 1947, page 6, column 1) Further clarifications emerged at Mountbatten’s Press Conference on 4 June. Refusing to take ownership of the plan, the Governor-General said he had done what he could to enable Indian leaders to find common ground. He referred to himself as the “mechanic that made the car run but did not occupy the driving seat” (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 1, column 5). Despite this, the Press conference was an exercise in portraying Mountbatten as the man in charge. The ToI gushed: “Mountbatten scored another personal triumph today when he met the Indian and foreign correspondents” and he “delivered an extempore lucid exposition of the British Government’s procedure…and literally stood up to a barrage of over a hundred questions” (ToI, 5 June 1947,

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page 1, column 5). Mountbatten did literally stand throughout the two-hour conference and “captured the hearts of over 200 hardboiled cynical newspaper men” (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 1, column 5). He repeated once again that it was not the Plan that would effect a partition of India—that would be a decision of the Indian people themselves—there would be no dictation or interference from any British official. In a coup de grace, he rendered the Partition an Indian and not a British act. The reportage established Mountbatten’s clout with Prime Minister Attlee who had been persuaded to frame the necessary Act and get legislation passed in two months rather than six or seven months which was the earlier time frame. While the Act could not be framed until the Indian people had decided their future as envisaged in the Plan, but once this was known, Mountbatten wanted legislation to be rushed through. Then came the biggest surprise of this Press conference, Mountbatten’s declaration that he expected all of this to happen by 15 August—the first mention of 15 August as a probable date for independence. The newspaper did not lead with this news or even put it in any headline. They simply slid it in at the end of a paragraph in the story on page one. The machinery to set in motion Britain’s first and largest decolonisation operation had been set in motion. It seemed to be entirely conceptualised and orchestrated by Mountbatten. Mountbatten, the first Viceroy ever to have a public relations team and a press attaché, wanted the main theme of the coverage of the transfer of power in the British press to be that of an orderly, planned, and peaceful handover (Kaul 2014, 173). Mountbatten clarified at the self-same press conference that despite many decisions and procedures yet to be carried out, he was going ahead with the plan because he felt it was the right thing to do. “I have taken, if you like, a risk in doing so. But I have spent the last five years in what we call taking calculated risks” (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 5, column 4). Drawing on Mountbatten’s record during World War II, the president of the Delhi Press Association said in his vote of thanks that the “daring manner in which he was handling the Indian problem…reminded him…of the days when Lord Mountbatten commanded the South-East Asia theatre” (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 5, column 5). While there was no editorial comment on the press conference, the column titled Indian Political Notes by “Candidus” described the plan as a master plan, which succeeded in doing the impossible—namely earning praise from both Nehru and Jinnah (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 6, column 3–4). The writer attributed acceptance of the plan to the “compulsion of events…too much blood has flowed…Indians themselves have become tired of quarrelling. They would submit to any plan which has the semblance of impartiality” (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 6, columns 3–4). Candidus wrote that given the impossibility of a settlement between the League and the Congress “the settlement has had to come from London, however reluctant Whitehall might have been to deliver a verdict” (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 6, columns 3–4). Candidus accepted

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that the plan was full of compromises, first between self-determination and united India. Jinnah had not got his six provinces and Congress while it had managed to save parts of Bengal, and Punjab had lost united India. Whether a division would bring the two sides closer or widen the gulf was a question no one could answer.

The Plan in Operation Going forward, Mountbatten ensured that speed became the operative word and work began on the administrative consequences of partition as though it were already decided (ToI, 6 June 1947, page 1, column 2). Speed also became a byword for purported efficiency. The Governors of provinces were instructed to start preliminary work on separation and the referendum. Despite the enormity of the task, 30 June was set as the deadline for the completion of the preliminaries, including a notional division of the Punjab and Bengal and the conclusion of elections to the two CAs, so that by the middle of July the Pakistan CA could start functioning. The two referendums were however unlikely to be completed by that date (ToI, 6 June 1947, page 1, column 2). The seven signatories to the plan were kept engaged in meetings discussing the administrative consequences of partition.1 Things were moving at such a rapid pace that the paper reported, “Never has the red-tape ridden New Delhi Secretariat witnessed such tempo of work and feverish activity” (ToI, 6 June 1947, page 1, column 3). The same frenetic pace was to be followed also in the British Parliament regarding the passing of legislation concerning India, leading to the comment that “it looks as though the most fateful legislation in India’s modern history may pass through the British Parliament more unobtrusively than any previous Act”.2 Standstill orders were issued to all heads of department of the Government of India, “instructing them to refrain from making new appointments and decisions of policy” (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 1, column 1). In the Punjab too, a Partition commission was appointed before the decision on Partition was taken. With Mountbatten having announced a proposed date, there were less than 70 days to complete the “task of dividing the Punjab, politically, administratively, economically and physically” (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 5, column 3). ToI wrote that about five million non-Muslims in the western district and four million Muslims in the eastern district of Punjab were anxious and apprehensive about their future and were feeling “bewildered by the suddenness and speed with which partition is going to take place” (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 5, column 3). It also reported that while there “may be no large scale migration to and fro, the well-to-do on either side were already on the move in quest of security” (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 5, column 3). Mountbatten, when asked about mass transfer of population at his Press Conference, stated as follows:

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Personally, I don’t see it…Some measure of transfer will come about in a natural way…I have a feeling that people who have just crossed the boundary will transfer themselves. Perhaps Governments will take steps to transfer populations…this is a matter not so much for the main parties as for the local authorities living in the border areas to decide. (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 5, column 3) The endorsement of the plan by the All India Muslim League (June 9) and the All-India Congress Committee (AICC) (June 15) were reported in detail. The League Council empowered Jinnah to take all decisions relating to the plan (ToI, 10 June 1947, page 1, column 4) and the AICC hoped “that when present passions have subsided…the false doctrine of two nations in India will be discredited and discarded by all” (ToI, 14 June 1947, page 1, column 1), an idea repeated also by Gandhi. There was no reportage of Sikh endorsement, but an editorial mentioned that the Sikh leadership in Lahore had accepted the plan, with the proviso that Sikhs would reject the plan if the terms of reference of the boundary commission were unsatisfactory (ToI, 11 June 1947, page 4). Meanwhile, in a move that was to have strong ramifications on both sides of the yet to emerge border, the Nizam’s Government in Hyderabad and Travancore State both declared on June 12 that they would declare independence from August 15. The Nizam termed the division of India communal and said he did not intend to “take sides by joining either of the two proposed units of a divided India” (ToI, 13 June 1947, page 7, column 1). Travancore declared itself “to be the saviour of South India and to protect her from calamities arising from the partition of India” (ToI, 13 June 1947, page 10, column 1). The Viceroy had advised the States to “throw in their lot” with one or other of the proposed Dominions, since after the lapse of Paramountcy they would have to fend for themselves (ToI, 5 June 1947, pages 1, 5). The Nawab of Bhopal resigned from the Chancellorship of the Chamber of Princes also hinting that his state would assume independent status. The Congress declared that it “cannot admit the right of any State in India to declare its independence and to live in isolation from the rest of India” (ToI, 16 June 1947, page 1, column 1). Despite pronouncements to the contrary, Balkanisation of India seemed to be taking place. The Standing Committee of the All-India States Peoples’ Conference decreed that any ruler “declaring his State independent will thereby express his hostility, not only to the Indian Union but to his own people. Such an act will have to be resisted” (ToI, 13 June 1947, page 10, column 3). Jinnah however reiterated the right of Indian States to adopt any course they liked including declaring themselves independent (ToI, 18 June 1947, page 1, column 3). Clearly, the road to separation was not to be marked with deeds of trust and goodwill as the Viceroy and the newspaper were advocating. On 12 June, the high-powered Separation Committee chaired by the Viceroy began its task (ToI, 13 June 1947, page 1, column 4). It formulated the

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broad principles of partition and fixed terms of reference for nine sub-committees. Since space does not permit a discussion of these issues, they have been arranged in Table 13.2 to highlight some of the key issues that were up for discussion/division. Similar Partition Committees began work in the Punjab focused on Financial Assets and Liabilities; Physical Assets and Liabilities (including hydro-electricity, irrigation, roads, bridges etc.); Technical Institutions and Installations and Services and Records (ToI, 12 June 1947, page 7, column 4). Meanwhile, in the tradition of the old imperialists, Mountbatten proceeded to holiday in Simla, and on his return the Separation Committee discussed the division and the nationalisation of the Indian armed forces (ToI, 17 June 1947, page 1, column 1). As a Naval officer, this was his area of purported expertise. The task was complex, both because of the huge size and complexity of the armed forces and the prevailing civil unrest, amid indications that the police and local level administration in many areas had already been communalised. It was decided that the basis for the division of the armed forces would be territorial, knowing however, that in the Indian Army the territorial and communal bases coincided (ToI, 17 June 1947, page 1, column 1). Thus, two weeks into the Plan, the “hustler” Viceroy, as ToI calls him, has already set the wheels of separation moving (ToI, 17 June 1947, page 1). Hustler is a strong word for a newspaper to use in reference to the Viceroy and Governor General who, to the utter bewilderment of everyone trying to keep pace with this frenetic pace of work, opened new fronts every day.

COMMITTEE Separation Committee (of Interim Cabinet) oversaw the work of the Partition Council which oversaw the work of the following Expert Committees 1. Organization, Records and Personnel 2. Assets and Liabilities Sub-Committee: Railways 3. Central Revenue 4. Currency, Coinage and Exchange 5. Budget and Accounts 6. Economic Relations (Controls) 7. Economic Relations (Trade) 8. Domicile 9. Foreign Relations Army Reconstitution Committee Sub-Committees: Army Air Force Navy FIGURE 13.2 Partition Committees (ToI, 26 June 1947, page 1, column 2)

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Whether it is because they were busy in meetings, or because there was nothing more to say, Indian political leaders were largely absent in the Press after 4 June, barring Gandhi—an independent voice. It was Gandhi who advised people (4 June) not to rebel against the Congress because it had been forced to accept the plan. It is he who hoped that in future the two parts of India could unite in an agreement independent of the British (ToI, 5 June 1947, page 1, column 3); an idea that ToI endorsed, hoping that the need for economic unity would triumph over communal considerations (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 6). And it was Gandhi again who reacted to India being referred to in the media and elsewhere as Hindustan since 3 June, on the assumption that two successor states that emerged out of India would be referred to as Pakistan and Hindustan. Gandhi categorically said that while Muslim majority areas might call themselves Pakistan, the rest of India need not call itself Hindustan which would mean the abode of the Hindus (ToI, 13 June 1947, page 1, column 6), a point Nehru too, reiterated (ToI, 16 June 1947, page 11, column 3). The first formal step that would determine whether India would be partitioned took place on 19 June when elected representatives in the Bengal Assembly met to vote on Partition. This last joint session of the Bengal Assembly lasted only 15 minutes. The news that Bengal was to be partitioned occupied only one small box in the second column on page one, fitted within a larger lead piece on the draft Bill for independence (ToI, 21 June 1947, page 1, column 2). A longer more detailed piece on page eight gave all the details including the fact that no visitors were allowed in the Assembly. The newspaper did say however that the meetings “lacked the excitement that usually marks such occasions” (ToI, 21 June 1947, page 8, column 3–4). The Editorial page chose to discuss the proposed independence of Ceylon and the problems concerning the referendum in the North-west Frontier Province (ToI, 20 June 1947, page 6, columns 1–2). Punjab followed suit, a few days later (June 23) in an almost identical “secret…silent…‘in camera’ session” (ToI, 17 June 1947, page 5, column 7). This time the news did not make the first page. That space was taken up by news on U.S. Economic Aid for Europe, British Loses in Burma, French Workers Boo Premier and news from London regarding Anxiety In Commons About India Government’s Staff (ToI, 24 June 1947, page 1). The only news from India was a reply by Travancore to its criticism in the Press (ToI, 24 June 1947, page 1). The Punjab news on page five, had the matter of fact Heading: Punjab M.L.A.s Vote for Partition of Province with the subheading reading New Elections to Constituent Assemblies on July 4 (ToI, 24 June 1947, page 5, columns 1–2). All roads to the Assembly were barricaded and there was heavy deployment of police. Once again, the process was peaceful, quick and speedy—no emotions, just modern categories of governance bringing order between competing publics (Roy 2009). The newspaper chose once again to not make any editorial comment on this significant news. Instead,

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the editorial piece focused on Russia’s acceptance for talks on the Marshall Plan and the return of Indian troops from Japan (ToI, 24 June 1947, page 6, columns 1–2). It is stunning that news of the division of two provinces that were at the heart of the rioting and bloodshed in India for many months was reported in the Press in the most matter-of-fact way, with no other accompanying items conveying the situation at ground level, how people had reacted, what leaders were feeling or so forth. It is worth noting that there were Ordinances in place that forbade reporting of inflammatory speeches and events specially in the Punjab and newspapers were constrained by these rules. What was reported instead was the orderly accomplishment of every task listed in the plan and the fact that it was not the British who effected the partition of India but Indian people. However, despite the fiction of the master narrative of great planning, the referendum in the Frontier began to go off track. The Viceroy asked Gandhi and Jinnah to intervene and prevent violence (ToI, 18 June 1947, page 1, column 1). To make matters worse, the Governor of NWFP proceeded on leave following charges of partiality, a charge he was absolved of, but a new Governor nevertheless had to be appointed. Derailing the script further, Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan of the Congress announced a boycott of the referendum, demanding that the choice be not between India and Pakistan but between forming a free Pathan State—Pathanistan or Pakistan, since the majority of the Pathans favoured a free state (ToI, 26 June 1947, page 3, column 3). ToI reacted strongly to any alternative proposals other than those in the 3 June Plan. It backed Jinnah’s response that the referendum was part of an agreed transfer plan which could not be breached (ToI, 30 June 1947, page 6, column 1). Furthermore, it disapproved of the Akali proposal for the creation of a separate Sikh State and concluded that “the Sikhs were loud in their demand for partition and cannot at this stage complain of its effects” (ToI, 27 June 1947, page 6, columns 1–2). The paper was also critical of speeches by Congressmen as being contrary to the spirit of the Plan and put the onus on political parties to ensure that nothing derails the Plan (ToI, 30 June 1947, page 6, column 1). Mr Jinnah and Pakistan finally gained their first complete province when the Sind Assembly voted to join the new CA (ToI, 27 June 1947, page 7, column 3). This item too, was not reported on page one but on page seven. It was reported that Baluchistan too had decided to join Pakistan, but no details of the process followed were reported (ToI, 30 June 1947, page 6, column 1).3 Taking stock at the end of June, ToI noted that the Partition of India was making “rapid progress” (ToI, 30 June 1947, page 6, column 1). The two referendums still had to be conducted but Punjab, Bengal, Sind and Baluchistan had completed their tasks. It regreted the partition of Punjab with its unique history and provincial patriotism where people were “Punjabis first and members of a religious denomination afterwards” (ToI, 30 June 1947, page 6, column 1). Urging readers to consider the future, the editorial said

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that Partition “does not mean the end of the intermingling of communities” there will continue to be Hindu interests in Pakistan and Muslim interests in India (ToI, 30 June 1947, page 6, column 1). The newspaper reiterated Gandhi’s message for communal harmony and fair and friendly treatment of minorities. This was not the first reference to Gandhi in editorial columns in June. Gandhi’s views on Partition being the outcome of Indian politics and not a creation of the British and his vote for the sincerity of the Viceroy had been quoted with approval (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 6, column 2). There was also a rare insight from the ToI that “restraint, both compulsory and voluntary, exercised by the press” in reporting disorders has “undoubtedly given an incomplete picture…to the people outside the affected areas” (ToI, 9 June 1947, page 6, column 2). Under-reporting communal violence to halt its spread, had not worked. The newspaper carried daily reports of violence from various parts of the country throughout this period—proof that the Plan had not ended civil unrest.

The Home Stretch As July dawned, the India Independence Bill was presented in the House of Commons (4 July) (ToI, 5 July 1947, page 1). The Bill empowered the Governor-General to make any provisions he thought fit for “bringing the provisions of the Act into effective operation” and to divide the armed forces and execute the award of the Boundary Commissions (ToI, 5 July 1947, page 1). In the history of the British Parliament, it seemed that there was hardly any other instance of a Bill expected to be passed at the speed of this Bill (ToI, 7 July 1947, page 8, column 3). Simultaneously in India, two Boundary Commissions were announced (ToI, 7 July 1947, page 6, column 2) and Sir Cyril Radcliffe was named as Chairman of both (ToI, 5 July 1947, page 1, column 2). En route to New Delhi Radcliffe however reportedly said in an interview that he thought the Commission would complete its task in “a little more than two months” (ToI, 12 July 1947, page 9, column 1). As July dawned “fresh divisions consequent on the partition of India were announced almost daily” (ToI, 3 July 1947, page 6, column 1). On the division of the armed forces, it was clear that what could best be achieved by August 15, would be a “rough and ready” division at best. Other pending divisions included division of the Cabinet in Bengal and of all administrative records, assets, and personnel for all central and provincial services (ToI, 12 July 1947, page 1, column 2). British civil servants, officers and soldiers wanting to continue serving in India would need rules enacted for each field of service (ToI, 22 July 1947, page 7, column 2). This decision to partition all services of the Government of India at the same time as the provinces were being partitioned, clearly added to the confusion, and distracted employees from the work at hand to personal issues, but somehow that is overlooked in the reportage.

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ToI nevertheless commended the fast pace of work, assuring its readers that they were heading to a peaceful Partition (ToI, 7 July 1947, page 1, columns 1–2). It further said in bold lettering that the “man on the street…welcomes the speed at which the Partition Express is moving to its destination—in the driver’s seat is India’s ‘hustler’ Viceroy, Lord Mountbatten” (ToI, 7 July 1947, page 1, columns 1–2). The Imperial Secretariat was working twelve-hour days for the completion of its own partition. Inventories were made of all property “from wireless transmitters to railway wagons to typewriters, furniture and wastepaper baskets” and hundreds of files were being duplicated and copied (ToI, 7 July 1947, page 1, columns 1–2). The paper then contradicted its bold assertions and said: …it can however by no means be said that the work of partition is going on smoothly, but at least it is going on speedily. Rumours are afloat of petty squabbles…over the sharing…of typewriters and carpets…Though goodwill may be lacking, there is…give and take prompted by the realisation of the urgency of the situation…By August 15 the stage will be prepared for the launching of the two States of India and Pakistan—a peaceful orderly revolution, unparalleled in the world’s history. (ToI, 7 July 1947, page 1, columns 1–2) The virtues of speed apart, the paper recognised that while the separation of Burma took over two years, the 200-year-old integrated political economy of India was being dismantled and reconstructed afresh in about two months. It accepted that “inevitably there will be many a loose end left to be tied long after August 15” but chose to keep with the master narrative that “on that date the reparation will be an accomplished task, which will be a miracle of achievement” (ToI, 7 July 1947, page 1, columns 1–2). The narrative of bewildering pace is constantly being supplemented by the need to pronounce that everything is peaceful despite evidence to the contrary within the corridors of administration and on the streets. The rushing through of the Indian Independence Bill in the British parliament was highlighted as the big achievement. Attlee was quoted as explaining the need for the Bill (which was itself far from perfect, having been prepared in a rush), by saying that once Indians had decided to separate into two Dominions, it became difficult to run a Government (ToI, 11 July 1947, page 3, column 3). Attlee attributed the decision on the date and timing entirely to Mountbatten. Thus, the most crucial decision in the life of the Indian subcontinent—a task of great complexity on innumerable fronts, was the one decision that the British Government took in unseemly haste—on the advice of a Viceroy who had only been in the country for a couple of months. Parliament was not given any reasons that required the British to scoot from India when there was much actual work to be done and the lives of millions of Indians were to be altered in very fundamental ways. At best an undertone of breakdown in

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law and order could be read in the statements on the impossibility of governing people who wanted to separate. ToI did well to report this exchange but took the safe route and brushed aside any criticism as “mainly confined to doubts regarding the rapidity with which so sweeping a change was being introduced, and to misgivings about the future. But these were undertones” (ToI, 19 July 1947, page 6, column 1). Completing the last of the tasks in HMG’s plan, Sylhet voted to join East Bengal (ToI, 12 July 1947, page 1, column 2) and the NWFP referendum resulted in a vote for joining Pakistan (ToI, 21 July 1947, page 1, column 2). Sylhet and NWFP had far greater first page coverage than the partition of Bengal and Punjab. Administrative changes accompanied these decisions, and the Separation Committee was reconstituted as the Partition Council (ToI, 28 June 1947, column 4). Further proof that countries cannot be carved out in 70 days emerged, when “standstill” agreements, lasting until March 1948, had to be negotiated on various issues (ToI, 19 July 1947, page 1, column 6). These included permission for residents of both nations to move to and fro without passports and visas, a common currency since Pakistan couldn’t print notes and mint coins and attempt to ensure a free flow of trade. Railways would run as before, and letters would travel at present cost. Insistence on both sides for their own armed forces before 15 August resulted in a rough and ready separation, allotting regiments composed largely of Muslim soldiers to Pakistan (ToI, 12 July 1947, page 1, column 1). While the leaders were pledging peace, their followers continued, “endangering” the all-India settlement. The Sikhs including Baldev Singh himself continued to set conditions for their acceptance of the boundary award (ToI, 10 July 1947, page 5, column 5). In late July, the All-Punjab Sikh Conference resolved not to accept any award which did not satisfy the “just interests of the Sikhs” (ToI, 28 July 1947, page 1, column 1). The Punjab Governor banned the publishing of any news relating to this meeting for 15 days (July 28) (ToI, 29 July 1947, page 7, column 1) and imposed pre-censorship for 21 days on all statements by any individual, association or organisation pertaining to the proposed Boundary award. ToI too called for an end to this undesirable campaign and for an end to the continued violence in both Bengal and Punjab. As the Boundary Commission hearings progressed, a ban was imposed in the Punjab on the publication of any non-official news or map or photographs (ToI, 21 July 1947, page 9, column 3). To pre-empt emotional and violent reactions when the Award was announced, the members of the Partition Council on behalf of both India and Pakistan pledged to “accept the awards of the Boundary Commissions, whatever they may be” and to “enforce them impartially and at once” (ToI, 26 July 1947, page 7, column 5). This included Baldev Singh representing the Sikhs. ToI said this move removed “the last and potentially the most dangerous obstacle to the implementation of the Indian independence plan” (ToI, 26 July 1947, page 6).

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Punjab and Bengal passed Ordinances empowering law enforcement agencies to deal with violence (ToI, 6 August 1947, page 1, column 7; ToI, 6 August 1947, page 6, column 6). Lahore witnessed incidents of trains being held up by placing boulders on the tracks. Armed police guards were deployed to protect passenger trains and patrol the area between train stations (ToI, 24 July 1947, page 7, column 4). In Howrah bombs were thrown at a passenger train, while in Amritsar a bomb in the Sessions Court compound injured 48 (ToI, 29 July 1947, page 7, column 1). On 7 August, Jinnah finally left India, talking of burying the past and starting “afresh as two independent sovereign States of Hindustan and Pakistan” (ToI, 8 August 1947, page 7, column 7). Things were in such a flux that even Jinnah’s official home was only vacated that very morning (ToI, 8 August 1947, page 1, column 6). It was hoped that a train a day would move personnel and records to Pakistan for a month and a half starting 30 July (ToI, 30 July 1947, page 1, column 4). It was later revealed that Jinnah sold his Delhi residence to Ramkrishna Dalmia, owner of ToI before he left (ToI, 9 August 1947, page 1, column 4). As India entered “Liberty Week”, the ToI listed three main unfinished tasks: the accession of Indian States; the delineation of frontiers of the two nations and the division of assets and liabilities (ToI, 11 August 1947, page 6, column 1). All of these remained unfinished on 15 August. Most states played the waiting game until a meeting with Mountbatten, who had been busy addressing “the mechanics of partition”, finally convinced them (including Travancore) to join the Indian Union (ToI, 26 July 1947, page 1, column 1). Twenty-five smaller states in Gujarat were being wooed by Pakistan (ToI, 2 August 1947, page 7, column 1), and Junagadh decided to join Pakistan (August 12) (ToI, 12 August 1947, page 1, column 2). Jammu and Kashmir asked for standstill agreements on all matters on which these existed with the outgoing British Indian Government (ToI, 14 August 1947, page 1, column 3). Hyderabad and Bhopal continued to hold out. This tug and pull of separate states made it seem that things could combust. The division of assets proved so acrimonious that Arbitration Tribunals were established in the province and the centre, to deal with claims (ToI, 13 August 1947, page 1, column 4; ToI, 7 August 1947, page 1, column 4). The Nagas too declared independence, which was not an event foreseen by any plan (ToI, 30 August 1947, page 1, column 6). The focus shifted only briefly to the celebratory aspects concerning transfer of power and the details of ceremonies in both Dominions were made public (ToI, 10 August 1947, page 9, column 1). In the absence of the Boundary award, both nations achieved independence but not Partition on 15 August. This was probably in contravention of the India Independence Bill, countries coming into being without their territories being defined, as was mandated in the Act. The Boundary Award was finally announced on 17 August. It had been “deliberately postponed…to create a more favourable atmosphere” for its reception (ToI, 19

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August 1947, page 8, column 1). The paper henceforth recorded the resultant violence on a scale hitherto unseen and unknown by the subcontinent. Both Governments were “overwhelmed” and completely unprepared for the violence, arson, loot, mob-rule, and the mass transfer of population. The insistence that Partition could be accomplished as a routine everyday activity, in the normal course of events, using organised categories of maps, districts, boundaries and administrative machinery was clearly unfounded. Even though the United Provinces had already recorded 70,000 refugees at the beginning of July, (ToI, 4 July 1947, page 6) the Partition Council termed refugees a “by-product of Partition” and formulated a framework that would immediately encourage refugees to return home and become normal citizens of the State from which they fled, “lest the malady should become chronic” (ToI, 8 August 1947, page 6, column 2). It became as history bears witness, much more than that. Was the haste necessary? Could independence and Partition have been broken into smaller manageable tasks handled in a systematic manner? Hindsight is both perfect but also unfair to those who lived through events and took difficult decisions. These are issues that have been endlessly debated in the past 75 years without a consensus emerging on any one explanation. In the interim, the world has seen other separations, the easiest among which should have been Brexit but which took almost four years. As for the newspaper, could it have done more than just record and transmit information and opinion to alert those in charge that they were missing both the big picture and small, while focusing on speed to the exclusion of all other issues? What is very clear is that neither those who were creating, reporting or consuming the “news” were in any way aware of their own specific roles in the epoch-making times.

Notes 1 Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel and Acharya J.B.Kripalani (representing the Indian National Congress); Mr. Mohammed Ali Jinnah, Mr. Liaqat Ali Khan and Sardar Abdur Rab Nishtar (representing the Muslim League), and Sardar Baldev Singh (representing the Sikhs) were the signatories to the Plan. 2 The British Parliament was expected to rise for the summer on August 9, and all indications were that the Government would complete the legislation pertaining to India before then. 3 V.P. Menon says that the Viceroy summoned the Shahi jirga and the non-official members of Quetta Municipality to determine their views. The meeting was boycotted by the seven Hindu and Parsi members (Menon 1957, 388).

References Barns, Margarita. 1940. The Indian Press. A History of the Growth of Public Opinion in India. Liverpool: George Allen and Unwin. Jeffrey, Robin. 1994. “Monitoring Newspapers and Understanding the Indian State.” Asian Survey, 34 (8) (August): 748–763.

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Kaul, Chandrika. 2014. “‘Operation Seduction’ Mountbatten, the Media and Decolonisation in 1947.” Communications, Media and the Imperial Experience, edited by Chandrika Kaul, London: Palgrave Macmillan, 172–218. Menon, V.P. 1957. Transfer of Power in India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Roy, Haimanti. 2009. “A Partition of Contingency? Public Discourse in Bengal, 1946–1947.” Modern Asian Studies, 43 (6) (November): 1355–1384.

14 VICISSITUDES OF LISTENING Witness as the Archive of Pain Sadan Jha

Introduction Listening, a largely ignored area of scholarship, has attracted attention in the fields of oral history, musicology, aurality, phonology and other disciplines that anchor upon conversations in one form or the other and in which the said, the uttered, the murmured, the whispered, and even the silences, demand attention (Butalia 1998, 12). Listening is a necessary precondition of documenting oral testimonies. In the scholarship on Partition violence, the figure of the speaker, the one who remembers and recounts, has been privileged and little attention paid to the listener, the act of listening or to the relationship between violence, memory, and language from the perspective of the listener. An acknowledgement of listening and the listener is imperative since a large part of the Partition discourse is an archive of pain and suffering, which is centred upon oral testimonies jointly authored by the victim of Partition violence and the researcher, by the one who experienced violence and the one who recorded, by the one who spoke, and the one who listened. A listener, from this perspective, becomes the co-creator of this archive. Does that mean, by default, that a listener also co-owns the pain and the suffering? A shift of emphasis from the speaker to the listener in the course of exploring the speech act can help us get a different perspective on the dynamics of the sharing of the burden of violence, and on the way in which the memory of violence occupies the field of the production of knowledge. This chapter attempts to highlight listening as a pre-requisite to the production of oral testimonies and argues that listening is the precondition for the trauma to surface as a narrative and foundational to witnessing a traumatic experience. Through exploring the possibility of the transformation of a listener into a witness, it also shows that listening can potentially lead to another neglected figure in the discourse on the Partition, namely that of the witness. DOI: 10.4324/9781003278498-15

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Listening At a broader level (outside the Partition discourse but also having some tacit implications on the scholarship on the Partition), listening has been approached at two levels. In the first category, we have writings that are primarily concerned with methodological dimensions, that is prescriptive aspects (care and diligence and ethical dimensions of authenticity/truth claims in the process of listening, and documenting voices) (Laub 1992; Freud 1953; Norkunas 2011; Hass 1996). As a corollary to this, listening is often used as a metaphor to assure readers of the empathy of the author with the subject of her study and an exercise in listening gets framed under rubrics like the affective and the sensorial. At this level, writing in the context of bearing witness to Holocaust survivor testimonies, psychoanalyst Dori Laub points towards the listener as “a party to the creation of knowledge de novo” (Laub 1992, 57). At the second level, scholarship on listening takes us into the structure of the language and knowledge itself suggesting that history has silenced the space assigned to listening over the centuries (Fiumara 1995; Heidegger 1984). At this level, a discourse exists that revolves around the term logos. While there is no consensus on what logos means (ranging from reason, thinking, wisdom, saying, and discourse to word), Heidegger emphasises the process of gathering (lessen) and highlights the importance of the ear and hearing by taking this route of gathering (of the uttered and the said). It is here, at this point of hearing and belonging, that Gadamer makes listening central not only to the knowledge building project but also to the possibility of belonging together. He writes that “anyone who listens is fundamentally open. Without such openness to one another there is no genuine human bond. Belonging together always also means being able to listen to one another” (Gadamer 2004, 354). In Heidegger, the gathering of voices and a sensible response to the speaker complete the circuit of conversation.1 In fact, gathering of both the said and the unsaid, gestures to a wide range of activities and responses within its fold. These include conditions which bring together different constituencies for a conversation to take place, exchange of behavioural energy and traits where one acknowledges the existence of the other, and post conversational stages where the impact of the conversation is felt, analysed, articulated and circulated in myriad ways. If we broaden the field of conversation, we may say that the utterance and its gathering co-constitute the field of language. With such varied concerns, let us return to our core questions: what does listening as a process intend to achieve and what does it mean to pay attention to listening in a knowledge building exercise? One could ask: how does listening to narratives of mass violence affect the listener? Also, how does the state of victimhood get transmitted from the situation (one might even say the body) of the respondent to that of the interviewer? These questions compelled me to try and understand not just the discursive politics of mass violence but also my own evolving self as an interviewer/listener and eventually a re-narrator of accounts

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told by my respondents. The specific case presented here is my personal involvement in an archive building project which aimed to document life stories of the victims of Partition violence.

Researching Partition: “Reconstructing Lives” The fieldwork was carried out for a research project titled “Reconstructing Lives” (2001–2002) at the Centre for the Study of Developing Society, Delhi whose primary objective was building an archive of the life histories of those who had experienced the tragedy of the Partition. The project collected and examined oral histories and memories of survivors of the violence that accompanied the Partition of India in 1947. Armed with a questionnaire, the method was to enter into long conversations with people personally affected during the Partition, to listen to them and to record their lives either in audio files, by filling up a questionnaire or by reconstructing the conversation in a narrative form. The study was conducted with the definite purpose of archive building in which the idea of the archive had an unambiguous agenda to document and preserve. In such an immediate context of the structure determining this exercise, the obvious question was: is the former (the archive of the personal) organised differently and, irrespective of the response, what is its connection with the latter (the idea of the archive which aspires to document and preserve)? Such a questioning comes from a history of the 20th century, in which revisiting of the event and the artefact recalls trauma. It is a moment, an event, which you inhabit, either affectively or through representation. Therefore, is this exercise an attempt at setting up of the archive through the affective by grounding it in field experience? Here, it may be prudent to point out that the archive is no longer merely a repository that stores, orders and preserves. It is, now, increasingly defined in terms of our relationship with knowledge. An act of listening must park itself in this zone of in-between-ness, where knowledge building is no longer merely about the past. It is at this juncture, as a co-constitutive of the knowledge building endeavour, listening or legein can also distance itself from getting accommodated within language as another form of representation. Listening then acquires its own autonomous domain and an engagement with it no longer remains an act of charity for the recovery of the long-forgotten self of language, of the archive and of a partitioned landscape. Thinking in this fashion may help us move away from a few constraints, as discussed above. Yet we shall remain caught in the frames where knowledge is always produced leaving us almost no analytical space for those dimensions where listening has definite experiential moorings and whereas listening, as a co-constituting factor, is an experience of knowledge rather than merely its production. This differentiation between the production and the experience of knowledge is crucial as listening is not merely another exercise in decoding and deconstructing what has been uttered, said and the silences of a conversation.

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It is in this territory of nowhere, sharing pain becomes blabbering. And, from the abyss of the Partition of South Asia between India and Pakistan, “Toba Tek Singh” remains unattended for a very long time in disciplines like history and other social sciences. For the archive, he merely blabbered, aupar di gad gad di aneksh di bedhyaanaa di mung di daal of di laalten (Manto 1993, 192–198). Instead of looking at this example in terms of the incapacity of articulation, I would argue that here the language becomes incapable of witnessing the violence. Language becomes helpless and thus has to strive for transgressing its given structure, its grammar as it is bereft of its listener, logos without legein, Kahankaar without an Ahankaar. The transgression of grammar in the blabbering of Toba Tek Singh is a longing for a listener. Let me narrate the story of a conversation with Shanti Bai, a widow, who once lived in the Malkaganj, a lower middle-class refugee resettlement neighbourhood in north Delhi. This story aspires to unfold the story of the long-forgotten life of Chimni Bai as both I, the interviewer, and the respondent, Shanti Devi, suddenly became aware of the existence of this long-buried self of Chimni Bai.

Shanti Bai/Chimni Bai (Delhi) I do not remember her face any more. Those who know me say that I have a short memory. It has been a long time since I met her. In fact, I have had no reason to meet her. That was my first and only meeting with her and it was complete in every respect. I have not forgotten the image, not even a slice of the moment. The meeting remains a perfect one in my memory. The romance, the warmth, and the pain, nothing has betrayed me. They have all lived up to my expectations. This is why I have never met her again, never thought of meeting her. I was told to meet her and interact more with her in order to learn more and extract more information about her life. I did not have the least inclination to meet her as I had developed a certain kind of fear. Despite the fact that I had myself consciously believed in the need for making at least one more visit, I have been avoiding, even stepping into, the lane where she lives. I cannot simply bear the pain. I knew it at the very moment of my departure on the very day I last met her. I had told her that I would be visiting her shortly and would love to know more about her life in the coming days. She had very innocently welcomed the idea and extended an open invitation saying—“whenever you wish”. It never happened. The second visit has remained suspended. Even on the day when I had finished listening to her, I was excited but I was also in pain. I do not remember how and exactly at which moment I left her. My memory has perhaps not registered my departing gestures. However, I can vividly build the entire sequence of events preceding the interview. The amnesia about the end of the meeting can have its own logic, its own interpretations. I also anticipate a few of these possibilities and I do care about them. But I do not intend to skim

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through them so quickly. I want the romance of the meeting to spill over the violence, the pain and the suffering generated by the meeting itself. It was a perfect interview in its incompleteness. A scene of grief and violence acted and listened to by me in an endless number of ways and times. It is said that writing unbinds memory and its violence. However, to put those sufferings into words is itself a painful process, a violence of another kind. It was a chance meeting. As she began to speak to me, the structured part of the interview schedule “crumbled”. The moment I switched on my recorder and formally prepared myself to listen to her, she began to narrate her story in a balanced tone with the narrative flowing smoothly. The fluctuation in the pitch of the voice was finely in tune with her eagerness to speak about “her life”. It was dead flat. The field of the interview opened up the space to unearth Chimni Bai. But the existence of Chimni Bai was promptly and immediately denied and rejected by Shanti Devi (the current owner of the body) herself. Shanti Devi was born as Chimni Bai. However, Shanti Devi quickly erased the memory of Chimni Bai and the way in which she tried to elide the presence of Chimni Bai was a surprise for me. I, as an interviewer, did not intend to pursue the case of Chimni Bai and returned to Shanti Devi in order not to offend my respondent. The respondent witnessed violence, remained a widow for a brief period of time and the second marriage was almost imposed upon her. What is also crucial is the fact that despite its widespread nature, victimhood is also localised in and around specific events in her life. If there is one such event that brackets the narrative, tries to freeze its flow, it comes at the very beginning of “her story”. This is also how she wishes us to enter into her world of victimhood in her own life story. It is the murder of her first husband and her entire family. She began the interview with: When we left Pakistan…Independence…First, well it so happened that we thought that we would take the clothes off the line, put everything inside and go away; then would return in the night. My man (husband) was there; (his) elder brother was there; sons were there. They were butchered. After they were butchered…They had refused to be converted as Muslims. They had refused…They were butchered, finished (the sense of contemporaneity was remarkably intense when she said the last word of the sentence, finish). All the women who were there, were taken away. We were taken to the jungles (sic). (They) Looted and took our things. O. K., we were taken away to the jungles, few here, few there (no one knew). He was good. We were six–seven women. He had a beautiful (the same word “achcha” is used here and not the literal term, “sundar”) son. He had a son and other relatives with whom he got the women married. And all those who did dirty acts, dirty acts…he had a son. Musalmans used to come to his house for dacoity purposes. He said that I would die but not let you die. He gave shelter to me in his house…in the house…(not

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audible)…in the house…(not audible)…in the house he provided space to everyone. He used to serve beef. I said I have never taken beef, I would die… He said, mother, you eat whatever you like. Muslims used to come to his house to kill him, dacoits used to come, hooligans used to come. “Was he a Musalman?” I asked. O.K., see all Hindus came, Muslims came; all are one. Equal…isn’t it (not audible)? Now, you are here. It is not written on anyone’s forehead. Well, he was a person with sound morals. After this start, she went on to narrate how her saviour had contacted the respondent’s only surviving relative living in the town (her cousin, bua ka ladkaa) on her request and how, after double checking the identity of this relative, escorted them (the respondent and her cousin) to a safe distance. She described her journey to India in graphic detail. However, again what struck me was the absence of any popularly established markers of space and time in this description. She described the paths and water bodies filled with blood and dead bodies. We drank water from puddles, from drains; there was blood all around, the water in the drains was bloodied…there were corpses as well. She also witnessed a man who was axed in front of her during her journey. The interview lasted for merely one and half hours. During the course of the interview, she took very few pauses and answered the questions in a surprisingly spontaneous manner. The only noticeable pause took place after her answering the question, “aapke jiwan main sabase dukh bhare pal kya rahe hain” (What has been the most painful, unhappy moment of your life)? Answering the preceding question about the happiest moment of the life she had said, hame to gum hi gum mila hai (I have found only sorrow). The answer to the next question was just an extension to the previous one. After a pause she said, “sabhi gum hi mila hai” (I have found only sorrow). Then she revisited the slaughter of her husband and the entire family followed by a long and painful silence. She was totally lost in her own self, in the self of victimhood, in the whirlwind of the past. She forgot the moment and the occasion of the interview. The intriguing silence lasted hardly thirty seconds to a minute, even less than that, before she regained the grasp of the occasion, the sense that she was engaged in a dialogue with me. While writing about this interview, I was reminded of the relation between the written and the spoken word, the distinction between the two and their similarities. I realised the mediating role played by violence. There was no escape.

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At one level, one can argue that Shanti Devi had a clear understanding of the source of her victimhood as she began her narrative with the slaughter of her husband and the entire family. During the course of the interview, the sequence of the slaughter came repeatedly. What is also striking is that the sequence of events and the structure of words used to narrate this event remained more or less the same on each occasion. Repeated occurrences of the moments of crisis became ritualised in a very informal manner. Despite the flatness of her tone, she was in a state of mourning. The experience of listening to the lamentation was so intense that a moment came to me threatening to take my own observation power away from the field of the interview. I realised that the sounds of grief, of victimhood and of lamentation were appearing out of the field of interview and disappearing into that same jungle of emotions without losing even a fragment. I had almost lost the field of inquiry. The field began losing its own domain.2 It threatened to act as a transparent domain in the process of lamentation. It was not the first such moment during the course of my 115 interviews. Nor was it the last in the whole process but it remained memorable. At the moment of writing this chapter, I revisit the interview and find that she had broken down. I saw tears rolling down her eyes. Tears came out of her eyes. I realised that teardrops were crystallising at the corner of my own eyes. It made me self-conscious. I had to get a hold over myself. I suddenly became aware of my own position as an interviewer. The demand of the field, the old key— “detached attachment” suddenly became active and that helped. Despite all of my post-structuralist passion to move hand in hand with the flow of the narrative and to be guided by the impulse of the field, I longed for the power to dominate the field of the interview and started regaining strength in the field. Since the day of the interview, I have found myself engaged in a series of some primary methodological research questions. Why did I aspire to control the field in that “moment of crisis”? Was that really a “moment of crisis”? Is it not that in the act of self-questioning I have started glorifying that moment and doing greater harm to the overall textual construction of this interview? Is it not that I am fixing the whole interview within the frame of merely one moment? During the course of the interview, my respondent suddenly asked me, “are you a Hindustani?” And, for the first time during the course of my entire field work, I became aware of my own location. The second marriage in Kurukshetra on this side of the border was described in a very dispassionate manner. When asked what detail she remembered the most about the riots (maar kutai)? She described the beheading of her husband and family and she said, They beheaded him. His clothes were soiled. I said we could not have done anything. We could not have saved him; what could we have done?

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What I noticed was crucial in her narrative of the massacre of her family is that each time the narrative’s order remained the same even though there were changes in intensity. She repeated this particular incident and set of words many times in the course of the interview. In one particular case, the intensity was so high and the words so tragically intoned with emotions of pain and suffering that I saw tears welling in her eyes. It was also so rhythmic that I realised that tears were filling my own eyes… She witnessed and narrated another episode of physical violence. This was brief yet graphic—a description of her journey back among the people she knew after her abduction. She came to India with her only living relative left in the town, her cousin brother (bua ka ladka). Her abductor assumed the responsibility of her security up to the border. She said, “he (abductor/protector) took the gun and escorted us in the night”. He ensured their crossing of the border.3 The sentence used by the respondent was, “usne hamare ko paar karbaya” (he helped us cross the border). I wonder which border she was referring to? Was she referring to the newly erected national border between India and Pakistan or the border, an imaginary line drawn in her own mind between the zone of fear and insecurity and the area where she had started her current life, the life that she inhabits today? Returning to our conversation, Shanti Devi came to “this side”, started living in the camp. The problem of where to go was a difficult one, as she had no idea about Delhi. She said, “humane Delhi dekhi nahi thi, kahan jayen?” (We had not seen Delhi; we did not know where to go?). She first stayed in Panipat and then came to Kurukshetra. She did not wish to marry but she had “to come to terms with life”. Her second husband and their family were known to her. They were also staying in the same camp. Her second husband had lost his fiancée. The girl had died due to cholera. The family of her second husband insisted on the marriage and for this reason she perceives this marriage as imposed by this family and by the crisis of the Partition, which left her so alone and helpless that she had to accept her fate and had to get married. Shanti Devi has three sons and now lives with one of her sons and his family in Delhi. She still remembers her childhood house and even the space, arrangement of rooms, and so on. In her excitement she claims, “abhi lekar chalo, turant pahchan jayenge” (take me there, I would recognise the place immediately). But then fear takes her in its grip. Pakistan becomes a land where the slaughter took place. It appears as a territory she had to cross in order to come to this side. Pakistan becomes an alien land; without violence it was a land full of colours. India is a different case altogether. In Kurukshetra, her new father-in-law opened a tea shop. She was asked to manage the shop counter. It was a terribly unsettling experience for her as the work at the tea shop demanded interaction with strangers. Since the veil was a part of her lifestyle in her village, she could not imagine herself appearing before

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strangers without covering her face. She felt quite uncomfortable coming out of her veil and refused to attend to customers. But her father-in-law insisted that she must and almost forced her to serve in the tea shop. When they moved to Delhi, she was compelled to take up other humiliating domestic work due to her second husband contracting a prolonged illness. The hardship continued. In Pakistan, during the riots, Shanti Devi had witnessed tortured bodies. Her husband was killed before her eyes…“his head was chopped off…clothes became soiled. We said we could not do anything” (I am not sure, here, whether “hum” the Hindustani word used here can be applied singularly or in plural as the word stands for both in popular uses). In India hardship led to her having to expose her own body to the gaze of strangers. The account of the massacre of her family before her eyes and her abduction was repeated several times. Each time, the words, the order of the words remained the same. However, the variation in intensity was noticeable. She mentioned honour killings and even referred to a man who had killed his daughters and thrown them into the well and himself jumped into it only to be recovered next morning by the police who arrested him and sent him to jail. A passerby, an old lady, curiously asked about the interview, she replied, “yahi puchhe hain Pakistan ki baat” (he is asking about the tale of Pakistan). During her narration, she completely elided the phase of her life after she moved to India. The violence that took place in the aftermath of the Partition, the sufferings that remain negated by her own self were elided. When I had introduced myself, I did not present myself desiring to hear the story of her life in Pakistan but had merely requested her to speak about her life as I wanted to know about her entire life. However, she chose to narrate only the Pakistan part of her story. In her imagination, she had narrated “her entire life”, which was her life in Pakistan. Her factual memory was terribly weak. She failed to remember her childhood friends, her neighbourhood or even her age. The only way I came to know her age was through her mention of her first marriage. She had said she got married a month before the massacre and that she was 15 years old at the time of her marriage. Only in two cases, she provided an exact numerical memory. When did you get married? Her reply was “15 saal main.” For how long were you married when all this began? She said, “ek mahina” (a month). She was non-literate. She did not remember the name of the district of the place of her birth. She was born in a village called Bal Batta and married in Maula di Basti. When asked whether the place was a village or a town, she stated that it was neither a village nor a town but that it was in the vicinity of Multan. This aspect is significant because I realised that her first encounter with the city was only after she came to this side or when she reached Kurukshetra. In fact, the unfolding of urban life came out in a very prominent manner in her account. In her narrative, this encounter with the city had a close relation with her

224 Sadan Jha

experience of unveiling, shopkeeping (forced) and her tough life in the post Partition years in Delhi. The respondent got thoroughly confused when she was asked about her caste. Her spontaneous response was “hum kamare hain” (We are Kamaras). When I repeated this caste name that I was not aware of twice or thrice, she said something else which I did not take note of. She said Nagpal; she said “jaat to kabhi nahi badalti” (caste never changes). I think at this point her social self was divided between her father’s caste, her first husband’s caste and her second husband’s caste. References to the second husband and the current family were very few. She told me about her current family only in a question/answer format. Her narrative had a definite beginning and a definite end. She started with the moment of violence and ended with her coming to Delhi. This interview is crucial because it does not provide much factual information that is needed to fill a questionnaire. On the other hand, this interview gave me a sense of satisfaction in reaching out to a Partition victim and sharing her pain and suffering. It is crucial also because it disturbed me as a listener.

Listener as a Witness The ear cannot close itself to the world. Steinberg 2011

During this journey of listening to violence, I went through different phases. In the beginning, I felt a peculiar numbness towards the narratives of violence and displacement. With a disciplinary background in modern Indian history, I was exposed to narratives of violence from the dark chapters of the Partition of the Indian subcontinent. The agencies of physical violence were not clearly visible in cases which I came across in the initial phase of my field work. Yet, the terrain of displacement was so vivid and engrossing and the bodies of narratives were sufficiently tortured and violated to keep me occupied and disturbed. In order to listen to and be available on all those terrains, I wanted myself to be fully conscious, not sloppy and inattentive while listening to a narrative. I was resisting my numbness. Very soon it took a toll and I developed symptoms of a cough and allergy. The symptoms got prolonged and I realised that I began to cough at the very mention of violence and pain in the course of interviews. Each time respondents started narrating their trauma and tragedies, I would begin to cough and feel restless. Incomplete interviews, rejections, denials, and half left out interviews would bring me nightmares and sleeplessness. In the course of the field work, I often experienced a strong outburst of emotions directed both against myself as well as against my respondents. I strongly felt that my participation in my dialogue with them was making them subject to violence. Although they did not notice it, it was directed towards them in a number of invisible ways. Each time I got

Vicissitudes of Listening 225

a refusal, in each case of incomplete interviews and during those long hours when respondents began to narrate “boring and unwanted” details of their lives, this violence also sprang up. The violence became more critical as I often failed to understand the nature of my reactions. Somewhere my body was registering the violence but was unable to comprehend and articulate it. Was that a question of language and pain or was that an issue of the epistemology of violence? Abstract questions started fascinating me. I began believing that I was doing a great harm to my own body and my own self. I developed a mindset in which I was both a victim as well as a perpetrator. And, I wanted someone to listen to me. The obvious question that emerges at this level is, whether my yearning qualifies me to become a witness. One may doubt and justifiably so that just because one yearns to be listened to one does not acquire the characteristics of a witness. It may be prudent to argue that the key thread which connects a listener and a witness is the experience of victimhood. Here, Dori Laub is helpful when she remarks, “By extension, the listener to trauma comes to be a participant and a co-owner of the traumatic event: through his very listening, he comes to partially experience trauma himself” (Laub 1992, 27). Thus, the key is the participation, or in other words, the sharing of the grief. Following Wittgenstein, Veena Das suggests that it is quite possible that “pain may reside in another body”. She writes that pain may not destroy communication or marks an exit from one’s existence in language. Instead, it makes a claim asking for acknowledgment…” (Das 1997, 69–70; Das 2006). There is another route to engage with this yearning of the listener, the issue of sharing and acknowledgement of grief. In this route, we need to go back to the testimony not merely as a representation of memory or a repository of a knowledge associated with a tragic episode of life but testimony as an experience. I urge that a conversation or an interview, as in our case mentioned here, be treated as an experience instead of as a location or an entry in the archive. It is in this terrain that we need to pay heed to an analytical journey that the testimony has undergone in the last five to six decades in terms of its primary function. The task of a witness is no longer confined to merely producing and recounting what happened or the traumatic past as a faithful chronicler but also to orient this faith towards the affective and to the transmission of that traumatic experience which remains incomprehensible. Testimony, which had earlier the status of an archival document, is now accorded the primary function of transmission. As Shoshana Felman remarks, it “is no longer to bear witness to inadequately known events, but to keep them before our eyes. Testimony is to be a means of transmission to future generations” (Felman 2002, 394; Hirsch and Spitzer 2010, 393; Arendt 1963; Felman 2002, 106–30). If transmission has acquired such a crucial significance, the obvious corollary would be to invest an analytical focus in the processes and agencies involved in this task of transmission, which leads us to the dynamics of listening and the listener.

226 Sadan Jha

Let me emphasise another key constituent factor—indeterminate location—an incomprehensibility of trauma, the way violence has not yet been fully known and aspects which are not precisely grasped. This indeterminateness has been emphasised by Cathy Caruth who, while extending Freud’s “traumatic neurosis” and his retelling of Tasso’s romantic epic Gerusalemme Liberata, argues that trauma is not locatable in the simple violent or original event in an individual’s past, but rather in the way that its very unassimilated nature— the way it was precisely not known in the first instance—returns to haunt the survivor later on. (Caruth 1996, 4) With the parable of the wound and the voice from this epic, Caruth says that in Freud’s writing, “trauma seems to be much more than a pathology; it is always the story of a wound that cries out, that addresses us in the attempt to tell us of a reality or truth that is not otherwise available” (Caruth 1996, 4). She then asks, “what it means to transmit and to theorise around a crisis that is marked, not by a simple knowledge, but by the ways it simultaneously defies and demands our witness” (Caruth 1996, 5). In this web, witnessing is constituted by three fundamental elements: an encounter with the violent event or the process resulting in the wound; an innate inability to fully comprehend the nature of such an event; and finally, an utterance or a voice which can transmit such an experience. In this article, we are particularly concerned with this third aspect where the wound cries out, where an utterance takes place and where a testimony surfaces. Ears are needed to share this utterance.

Conclusion There are two parts to this chapter: while the first tries to conceptually comprehend listening and asks what the burden of listening is all about, the other part attempts to recover my own experience of listening and asks how to render this experience. One way of looking back at these two components would be to pass a judgement that I have failed in discharging both these responsibilities. I have neither advanced any theory, nor have I succeeded in recovering my own transformative experience as a listener. In that sense, it is a failure. I don’t advance my knowledge of the listening experience. Yet, I realise that listening as an experience and as a process is bound to escape/slip out of any knowledge building exercise precisely in this failure. The failure is a reminder that listening/legein remains hidden. However, if listening as an experience is condemned to invisibility, why should one invest so much analytic energy behind it? It is here that we ought to pay attention to the question of witnessing and the transformational journey from an observer to a witness. Unless we pay attention to listening as an experience, we will not witness.

Vicissitudes of Listening 227

I have argued that only by paying attention to the experiential in the listening, can we gather the implications of ridicule and the fear of being ridiculed that is crucial to the act of sharing pain and sufferings as indicated by a well-known saying of the saint poet Rahim. The fear of ridicule crops up with the possibility that pain and suffering may be voiced but may not be shared, gathered and the experience of the victim (of the person who is uttering) would remain un-transmitted. The un-transmitted here implies voices that remain bereft of any acknowledgement, always striving for the status of knowledge, where what has been communicated has not been experienced. In order to acknowledge the pain and suffering, in its journey from a listener to a witness, the archive or any knowledge building endeavour would have to experience listening and must prepare its ears to belong to this domain of indetermination between the experiential and the known.

Acknowledgement A few examples cited in this paper appeared briefly in Jha, Sadan (2006) “On Listening to Violence: Reflections of a Researcher of the Partition of India” in Sarai Reader 06: Turbulence published by Sarai, CSDS, Delhi in 2006. I am grateful to my respondents and to Ashis Nandy under whom I worked on the project “Reconstructing Lives” at CSDS, Delhi.

Notes 1 There is a beautiful passage in Heidegger where he draws upon the gleaning at harvest time to suggest the centrality of the term gathering (Heidegger 1984, 61). 2 In such moments, the distinction between a victim who is narrating and the listener seems to collapse. Dori Laub points that “The listener, however, is also a separate human being…The listener, therefore, has to be at the same time a witness to the trauma and a witness to himself” (Laub 1992, 58). 3 In the case of the Partition violence, abduction and subsequent recovery of women involved multiple layers of complexities and have been addressed by various scholars (Das 1995; Das 2007; Butalia 1998, 81–129). For a complicated case of abduction, recovery and the tormented selves of a woman see a story titled “Lajwanti” by Rajinder Singh Bedi (1995).

References Arendt, Hannah. 1963. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. New York: Viking Press. Bedi, Rajinder Singh. 1995. “Lajwanti.” Bedi samagra II, 227–237. Delhi: Rajkamal. Butalia, Urvashi. 1998. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India. Delhi: Viking. Caruth, Cathy. 1996. Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative and History. Baltimore: MD and London: John Hopkins University Press.

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Das, Veena. 1995. “National Honour and Practical Kinship: Of Unwanted Women and Children.” Critical Events: An Anthropological Perspective on Contemporary India, 55–83. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Das, Veena. 1997. “Language and Body: Transactions in the Construction of Pain.” Social Suffering, edited by Arthur Kleiman, Veena Das, and Margarent Lock, 69–70. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Das, Veena. 2006. “Act of Witnessing: Violence, Gender, and Subjectivity.” Life and Words: Violence and the Descent into the Ordinary, 59–78. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Das, Veena. 2007. “The Figure of the Abducted Woman: The Citizen as Sexed.” Life and Words: Violence and the Descent into the Ordinary, 18–37. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Felman, Shoshana. 2002. The Juridical Unconscious: Trials and Traumas in Twentieth Century, 106–130. Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press. Fiumara, Gemma Corradi. 1995. The Other Side of Language: A Philosophy of Listening. New York: Routledge. Freud, Sigmund. 1953. “Recommendations to Physicians Practicing Psychoanalysis (1912).” The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud VII (1901–1905), translated from German under the general editorship of James Strachey in collaboration with Anna Freud, 2465–2472. London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis. Gadamer, Hans Georg. 2004. Truth and Method. Translation revised by Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall. London and New York: Continuum. Hass, Aaron. 1996. The Aftermath: Living with the Holocaust. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heidegger, Martin. 1984. “Logos (Heraclitus, Fragment B 50).” Early Greek Thinking, trans. David Farrell and Frank E. Capuzzi, 59–78. New York: Harper San Francisco. Hirsch, Marianne and Spitzer, Leo. 2010. “The Witness in the Archive: Holocaust Studies/Memory Studies.” Memory: Histories, Theories, Debates, edited by Susannah Radstone and Bill Schwarz, 390–405. New York: Fordham University. Jha, Sadan. 2006. “On Listening to Violence: Reflections of a Researcher of The Partition of India.” Sarai Reader 06: Turbulence, edited by Monica Narula, Shuddhabrata Sengupta, Ravi Sundaram, Awadhendra Sharan, Jeebesh Bagchi and Geert Lovink, 467–471. Delhi: Sarai-CSDS. Laub, Dori. 1992. “Bearing Witness or the Vicissitudes of Listening.” Testimony: Crisis of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis and History, edited by Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, 57–74. New York and London: Routledge. Manto, Saadat Hasan. 1993. “Toba Tek Singh.” Dastaavez 2, selected, arranged and introduced by Balraj Menra and Sharad Dutt, 192–198. Delhi: Rajkamal Publication. Norkunas, Martha. 2011. “Teaching to Listen: Listening Exercises and Self-Reflexive.” The Oral History Review 38 (1) (Winter/Spring): 63–108. Ray, Manas. 2001. “Growing Up Refugee: On Memory and Locality.” India International Centre Quarterly 28 (2): 119–137. Steinberg, Michael P. 2011. “A Book Review of Reason and Resonance: A History of Modern Aurality by Veit Erlmann.” The American Historical Review 116 (5) (December): 1441–1442.

INDEX

Page numbers in italics refer to figures. Page numbers in bold refer to tables. Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes. Abdullah, Sheikh Muhammad 163 Abraham, Nicolas 78, 79 Achebe, Chinua 184 Advani, Himmat Singh 125 Advani, Kalyan Bhulchand 122 Advani, Lal Krishan 160 African Chronicle 24–25n20 Aggarwal, Saaz 122 Ahmad, Irfan 106 Ahmed, Ishtiaq 118n1 Aidoo, Ama Ata 88, 96 Ailsinghani, Nihal Singh 129 Aitkin, E. H. 123 Aiwan-e-Ghazal/The Palace of Ghazal (Bano) 7, 42, 43–51, 53n6 Akhtar, Nazia 7 Alam, Rashedul 6 Ali, Syed Mujtaba 30 “Allah Wale”/“People of God” (Musafir) 62 All-India Congress Committee (AICC) 205 All India Muslim League 199, 200, 203, 205 All-India States Peoples’ Conference 205 All-Punjab Sikh Conference 211 Ambedkar, B. R. 156 Amrita Bazar Patrika 15 Amritsar 3, 8, 105, 107, 108, 116, 119n6, 212

Anand, Subhadra 3, 122 Anand Marriage Act (1909) 124 Andamans, settler women in 6, 136–137, 141–146; caste and religion 145; destitutes 147; early settlers 142–143; gender norms 144; intergenerational distinctions 144; nostalgia for homeland 145; repatriation 146–147; settlement 142; sexual purity and morality 147; and tourism 144 “Angoor Puk Gaye”/“The Grapes Have Ripened” (Satyarthi) 66 Anjuman Ghulame Chishtiya Sabiriya 108 Ansari, Sarah 1–2 Appiah, Kwame 77 Arendt, Hannah 160 Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), India 73, 79, 80 Aryan, The 24n17 Asom Jatiya Mahasabha 29 Assam 7, 27–28, 39n3, 39n7, 185; ‘Bangal Kheda’ movement 30; Barak Valley 28, 30; Brahmaputra Valley 30; migration into 29–30; Sylhetis in 29–30 assimilation 63, 157, 191 Assmann, Aleida 104 Attlee, Clement 199, 203, 210 Baba Farid Shakarganj 109–112, 110, 111, 116, 117

230 Index

Baba Ghulam Jilani 108 Baba Gope Shah (Amritsar) 108 Baba Haji Rattan 109, 112–116 Baba Lakhdata (Lalanwala Pir Nigaha) 107, 116, 117 Baba Mehshi Shah of Batala Sharif 109 Babu Rajab Ali 113 Badayuni, Fani 52 Bagchi, Jasodhara 3 Bakshi, Lochan 64 Balapara Khagrabari (chhitmahal) 171, 172, 173–174, 173, 176, 177, 178, 179, 181 Baldwin, Shauna Singh 69n4 Ballard, Roger 106 Baluchistan 202, 208 Bandais 123 Bande Mataram 18, 24n20 Banerjee, Himadri 6 Banerjee, Raka 6 ‘Bangal Kheda’ movement 30 Bangla/Bengali language 30, 34 Bangladesh 6, 145, 153, 170; Bhasa Dibosh (Language Day) 30; char land 37–38; Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) 186, 192, 193, 195n2; Indira-Mujib Treaty 37, 39n12; liberation of 178; women in 143; see also Andamans, settler women in; chhitmahals (India–Bangladesh enclaves) Bano, Jeelani 7, 42, 43–51, 52, 53n6 Bansberia PL Home and Women’s Camp (Hooghly) 137–139 Barak Valley, Assam 28, 30; Krishnachura Utsav 30; linguistic nationalism 30, 34 Barns, Margarita 199 Barua, Jahnu 39n3 Basin, Kamla 61 Bathinda 112 Bedford, Ian 52n4 Bedi, Rajinder Singh 227n3 belonging, sense of 6, 36, 112; of chhitbashi 174–175, 181; geographical belonging 88, 97; and listening 216; of Muslims 42, 51 Bengal Assembly 207 Bengal Eastern Frontier Regulations (BEFR, 1873) 185, 188, 194 Bengalisation 30 Bengal Native Newspaper Report 15 Bengal province 5–6, 202, 212; partition of (1905) 8, 13, 16–20, 21, 194; and Tripura 28–29, 39n3; see also West Bengal

Benhabib, Seyla 77 Benjamin, Walter 74 betrayal 39n4, 67, 71 bhadraloks 145 Bhandari, Mohan 68 Bhardwaj, Vishal 7, 71–72, 73, 75, 76, 77, 79, 80, 81 Bhasa Dibosh (Language Day) 30 Bhasin, Kamla 4–5 Bhat, Iftiqar Hussain 6 Bhat, Javaid 6 Bhatia, Nandi 5 bhatiyas (chhitmahal refugees) 174 Bhattacharya, Bijit K. 39n7 Bhattacharya, Kamala 30 Bhattacharya, Sunanda 7, 28, 34–38 Bhavnani, Nandita 122 Bhopal 205, 212 Bhullar, Gurbachan Singh 66 Bhushan, Shanti 163 Bigelow, Anna 111 biopolitics 74 Biswas, Hemango 30 bodily social memory 104 bodlees (chhitmahal refugees) 174 Bollywood 7, 71, 72; see also Haider (Bhardwaj, 2014) Bombay Times 14 Borah, Abikal 39n3 Borderer Golpo/Border Stories (Bhattacharya) 36–38 borderland communities 175, 180; see also chhitmahals (India–Bangladesh enclaves) Border Security Force (BSF), India 172, 178, 179 Bose, Subhas Chandra 190 Bouillier, Véronique 112, 116 boundary commissions 200, 205, 209, 211 Boyarin, Jonathan 102 Brahmaputra Valley, Assam 30 Brass, Paul 7 Burke, Peter 103 Burton, Richard F. 122 Butalia, Urvashi 4–5, 8, 22n5, 59, 69n3, 69n6, 69n7 Butler, Judith 74 Caruth, Cathy 226 Castricano, Jodey 77 Central Wakf Council (India) 101 Central YMA (CYMA) 194, 195–196n9 Chakma Autonomous District Council (CADC) 191, 194 Chakmas 6, 184, 188, 191–194

Index 231

Chakraborty, Anup Shekhar 6 Chakravarty, Gautum 14 Chanchtolaye Rwod (Bhattacharya) 7, 28, 34 Chandani, Dada Dayal Singh 129 Chandmari PL Camp-I (Nadia) 139–140 Chand Shah, Pir 113 char land 37–38 Chatterji, Joya 3 “Chattoo”/“The Mortar” (Mann) 65 Chattopadhyaya, V. 24n20 Chaudhury, Khaled 30 Chaudhury, Nirmalendu 30 Chawla, Devika 9n6 Chhangte, Roliana 189 Chhim lam mi/khawthlang mi 189 chhitmahals (India–Bangladesh enclaves) 6, 168–171, 170; Bangladeshi neighbours 172–174, 175, 176–177, 180; border crossing 177, 179; criminals 174; Enclave People Committee (Chhitmahal Nagorik Shomiti) 178–180; horizontal community-making with non-state actors 175–177, 180; identity of chhitbashi 174–175; illicit activities 176–177; influx of refugees to 174; justice system 179; land registration 172, 175, 179; land sales 174; new citizenship 181; non-state invasions 172–173; pre-swap era, state administration in 171–172; sharecropping 176; socioeconomic networks 172; swap of 180–181; unauthorized state interventions 172 chhit visa/chhit passport 172, 173, 174, 175, 177–178, 179, 180 children: of abducted women 62; illegitimate 146, 147; violence against 57, 58 Chinand Kuki 189 Chin Hills, Burma 186, 187 Chin Lushai Hills Regulations (CLHR, 1896) 185–186, 188, 194 Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) 186, 192, 193, 195n2 Christian, R. F. 23n15, 24n17 Chunder, Bholanath 22n8 chutzpah 79, 80 citizen refugee 6 citizenship 153, 165n4; of Chakmas 191; of chhitbashi 174, 175, 181; of Muslims 42, 51; of settler women in Andamans 141; theoretical 182n3 Clear Light of Day (Desai) 41

collective memory 7, 43, 55, 103, 104, 188, 191 Colours of Violence (Kakar) 57 commemorative ceremonies 104 communalisation of language 41, 44, 50 communal politics 42, 44–45 “Compulsions to Write” (Singh) 66 confessions 7, 67, 68 Connerton, Paul 104 Constitution of India 200; Article 35A 72, 159, 163, 165n4; Article 370 72, 159, 163, 164; Eighth Schedule of 121 Constitution of Jammu and Kashmir 157–158 conversion, religious 60, 62, 63, 69n7, 113, 219 Cooch Behar 169, 170, 171, 175 Cook, Matthew A. 122 Cooper’s Transit Camp 148n12 corruption 179, 180 Coughlan, David 75 cryptomimesis 71, 77–81 cryptonymy 80 Cubitt, Geoffrey 104 cultural memory 104 cultural nationalism 44 cultural recall 12, 22n3 Dakhni 41 Dalmia, Ramkrishna 212 Daman Sabri 107–108 Darling, Malcolm 69n1 Das, Tarak Nath 13, 16–17, 18–20, 23n13, 23n14, 24–25n20, 25n21 Das, Veena 3, 22n5, 225 Dasgupta, Subhoranjan 3 Dasiar Chhara (chhitmahal) 171, 172, 176, 178, 179, 181 Data Gulami Shah, shrine of 107 Datla, Kavita Saraswathi 52n1 Debicharan (chief) 193 De Certeau, Michel 32 “Defender of Humanity, A ” (Sarna) 67 Dehlavi, Dagh 51 Delhi 3, 7, 64, 88, 89, 97 Derrida, Jacques 71, 75, 77, 78 Desai, Anita 41 Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar of Ulhasnagar 126, 130–133 Dhawan, Rajiv 163 Disturbed Areas Act (DAA), India 73 divide and rule policy 56 Duggal, Kartar Singh 61, 65 Duhlian dialect 191

232 Index

East Pakistan 28–29, 30, 31, 143, 152– 153, 170; see also Bangladesh East Punjab 2, 6, 101–118 Eaton, Richard 109 empire loyalism 14–16, 20 employment restrictions, in permanent liability camps 138 Enclave People Committee (Chhitmahal Nagorik Shomiti) 178–180 enforced disappearances in Jammu and Kashmir 73, 76, 82 erotic ghazals 42, 43, 46–47 Espinosa, Ruben 77 ethnic nationalism 29 expressionless (Benjamin) 74 Faiz, Faiz Ahmad 48 “Family Ties” (Baldwin) 69n4 Faridkot 110–111, 110, 116 “Fattu Marasi”/“A Bard Named Fattu” 66 Felman, Shoshana 225 Ferguson, James 182n4 feudal patriarchy 47 fiction 5, 27, 28, 42; and history 33, 35–36; and honour killings 59–60; short stories 31–32 folk Islam 124, 131 folk songs 33 forced conversion 63 Foucault, Michel 184 Free Hindustan 16–17 Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim 105, 109 Freud, S. 226 Gadamer, Hans Georg 216 Gairola, Rahul 1 Gandhi, Labha Ram 163, 165, 165n4, 208 Gandhi, Mohandas 13, 16, 19–21, 25n22, 25n24, 205, 207, 209 gaze (history) 184 Geetha, V. 25n24 Gera Roy, Anjali 5 ghazals 42, 43, 46–47, 48 ghostification 74 ghostpitality 71, 75–77, 82 Godhri Sahib Gurdwara 111 “Gods on Trial” (Sandhu) 63 Gould, William 1–2 Goy-Blanquet, Dominique 76 Grewal, Kittu 108 Gugga Pir (Zahir Pir) 107 Guha, A. C. 23n12 guilt, sense of 66–67 Gujarat 97, 126, 212

Gupta, Indira 3 Gupta, Swarupa 23n9 Gurmukhi 7, 55 Guru Dhan Nanak Gurdwara (Ulhasnagar) 6 Guru Gobind Singh 112, 113–114, 116 Guru Granth Sahib 109–110, 123 Guru Hargobind 112 Guru Nanak 109, 112, 123, 124, 130 Habra PL Camp-II (North 24-Parganas) 139 Haider (Bhardwaj, 2014) 71–72; chutzpah 79, 80; cryptomimesis 77–81; deathworlds 73; figure of the door 75; ghosting 74–75; ghostpitality 76–77, 82; and Hamlet 72, 73, 76; hospitality 75, 82; language 79, 80; mourning 78, 80, 81, 82; spectrality of the postcolonial nation 81; spectropolitics 72 Haider, Nishat 7 Haji Rattan, dargah of 104, 112–116, 114, 115 Halbwachs, Maurice 103, 104 Hamlet (Shakespeare) 71, 73, 76, 77 Harappa 90 Havelock Island 144 “Hawa”/“The Carnage” (Rupana) 57–58 Hazrat Mian Mir 117 “Heer Mirg”/“My Precious One” (Sarna) 57 Heidegger, Martin 216, 227n1 Hindi–Urdu language conflict 41 Hind Swaraj 20, 25n24 Hindus 1, 3, 56, 101; Assamese 29, 39n4; and Baba Farid Shakarganj 109–110, 111; and Baba Haji Rattan 112–116; Bengali, in Barak Valley 30; Bengali, in Tripura 28, 29, 30, 31, 38; Kashmiri 155; Sindhi 122, 123, 124, 131, 132 Hindustan Association 16 Hirsch, Marianne 4, 22n1 history: Chakmas 191–194; erasures 4, 192, 193; and fiction 33, 35–36; gaze of 184; hidden histories of partition 8; and memory 102–103, 118n2; as a political engagement 184; social history of remembering 103; writing 184; Zo hnahthlak 187–191 homeland: imagination of 7, 31; nostalgia for 66, 145 honour killings 59–60, 223 horizontal community in chhitmahals 175–177, 180

Index 233

hospitality 71, 75–77, 82 House of Commons 209 Howrah 212 Hughes, A. W. 123 Hutter, Manfred 122 Hyderabad (princely state) 41, 51, 205, 212; Aiwan-e-Ghazal/The Palace of Ghazal (Bano) 43–51, 53n6; integration into India 51; Muslims 42, 44, 46, 49, 50, 51, 52n1; Police Action (1948) 49, 50, 53n10; Razakars 44–46, 50–51 Hyderabad State Congress 52n4 Ichhapuran Diwas (Day of wish fulfilment) 133 identity 35, 36; of Baba Haji Rattan 112; of chhitbashi 174–175, 177, 179; community, and violence against women 59; group 103; and Haider (Bhardwaj, 2014) 74, 75; loss of 66; and memory 102–103; religious, of Sindhi Sikhs 122, 124–125, 131–133; of settler women in Andamans 142, 143, 145, 146; of Sylhetis 29; of women in permanent liability camps (West Bengal) 137, 139, 141; of Zo hnahthlak 188, 189 Imam Gul shrine 105 Imperial Secretariat 210 In Custody (Desai) 41 India–Bangladesh Enclave Exchange Coordination Committee (IBEECC) 170 Indian Independence Bill 209, 210, 212 Indian Mutiny and the British Imagination, The (Chakravarty) 14 Indian National Congress 16, 139, 200, 203, 204, 205 Indira-Mujib Treaty 37, 39n12 inherited memories 22n1 Instrument of Accession (Jammu and Kashmir) 72 Internally Displaced People 160 International People’s Tribunal on Human Rights and Justice in Indian-Administered Kashmir 73 “I Say Unto Waris Shah” (Pritam) 56, 58 Islam 106, 115, 116; conversion to 60, 62, 113; folk Islam 124, 131 Ittehad-ul-Muslimeen 44–46, 50–51, 52n4 Iyer, Nalini 1 “Jaandi Vaar diyan Haakan”/“Her Last Cries” (Singh) 62

Jain, Sanjeev 22n5 Jalal, Ayesha 164 Jammu and Kashmir 6, 7, 73, 152, 212; cryptomimesis 77–81; definition of permanent residents 157–158; detention centres 73–74; enforced disappearances in 73, 76, 82; hereditary State Subject 158–159, 161; “Identity Certificate for West Pakistan Refugees Residing in the State of Jammu and Kashmir” form 154–157, 155, 162; insurgency 7, 71, 72, 73; revenant and arrivant 71, 78, 81; special autonomous status of 72; see also Haider (Bhardwaj, 2014); West Pakistani Refugees (WPR) Jammu and Kashmir Reorganisation Bill 164 “Jathedar Mukand Singh” (Sarna) 57 Jeet, Gurmukh Singh 62 Jethra, Manohar Singh 129 Jha, Sadan 5 Jhulelal 124 Jinnah, Muhammad Ali 65, 199, 203, 204, 205, 208, 212 Johnson, Nuala C. 103 Joshi, Mohinder Singh 67 Junagadh 212 Kabir, Ananya Jahanara 78 kafi 105 Kakar, Sudhir 57 kaladhaga (black thread) 133 Kalindi, Rani 192, 193 Kaliyar Sharif shrine 105, 107, 117 Kamlova, C. 190 Kamra, Sukeshi 5, 8 Kanwal, Jaswant Singh 60–61, 63, 65 Kapas Mahal (Cotton Country) see Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) Kaul, Suvir 5 Kaur, Ravinder 3 ‘Kerech Buri Britanto’ (Bhattacharya) 34–36 “Khabal”/“The Resilience of Weeds” (Virk) 62 Khalsa, Deep Singh 129 Khalsa, Inderjit Singh 111 Khalsa Sikhs 123, 126 Khampat Bungpui 186 Khan, B. A. 163 Khan, Dominique-Sila 112, 116 Khan, Khan Abdul Ghaffar 208 Khan, Syed Ahmed 22n8 Khayyam, Omar 47

234 Index

Khiangte, Laltluangliana 190 Khuangchera, Pasaltha 190 “Khuda da Ghar”/“The Abode of God” (Musafir) 60 Khusrau, Amir 51 Khwaja Khizr (Jhule Lal) 107 Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti 106 Khwaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki 109 Kinnaird College 89 Klein, Kerwin Lee 103 Kothari, Rita 122 Kovind, Ram Nath 164 Krishna, Lord 17 Krishnachura Utsav 30 Kudaisya, Gyanesh 65 Kuki-Chin-Zo-Mizo Folklore 186 Lahore 3, 89, 205, 212 Lakher Hills 195n2 Land Boundary Agreement (LBA, 1974) 170 land registration by chhitbashi 172, 175, 179 language 8, 78, 216, 218; Bangla/Bengali 30, 34; communalisation of 41, 44, 50; Hindi–Urdu language conflict 41; movements 30; Multani 87–88, 96; politics 49; Punjabi 55, 88, 117; Sindhi 121; Sylheti 33, 34; Urdu 7, 41, 42, 44, 48, 49, 50, 51–52, 52n1, 88, 96 Laub, Dori 216, 225, 227n2 law of love: Gandhi on 19, 20; Tolstoy on 17–18 “Letter to a Hindu, A” (Tolstoy) 17–18, 19, 20, 23–24n15, 24n18, 24n19 Levinas, Emmanuel 71, 77 lieux de mémoire (sites of memory) 102, 104, 116–118 linguistic nationalism 30, 34 listening 5, 215–217; experience of 217, 226; and gathering 216; in-betweenness of 217; listener as a witness 5, 215, 216, 224–226; as a metaphor 216; prescriptive aspects of 216; production of knowledge 217; “Reconstructing Lives” project 217–218; Shanti Bai/Chimni Bai 218–224 logos 216 loyalty 13, 14–16, 17 Lushai Expedition (1871) 193 Lushai Hills (Mizo Hills) 188–189, 190, 193, 195n1 Lushais 188, 193 “Mainu Jaan-ney?”/“Do You Know Me?” (Virk) 66

Malkani, Kewalram R. 122 Manakpur Sharif (Ropar) 108 Mandal, Somdatta 145 Mankiya Parikshak, Raja 112 Mann, Sukhwant Kaur 64, 65 Manto, Saadat Hasan 41, 52 “Manukh te Pashu”/“Man and Beast” (Singh) 56 marital status of permanent liability women 139–140 Markovits, Claude 122 Matua 145, 149n18 Maude, Aylmer 23n15 memory 5, 8, 9, 101, 184, 186; bodily social 104; collective 7, 43, 55, 103, 104, 188, 191; cultural 104; and history 102–103, 118n2; inherited memories 22n1; lieux de mémoire (sites of memory) 102, 104, 116–118; of lost territories 186–187; as a metahistorical category 103; postmemory 4, 5, 12, 22n1; social 22n4, 103, 104, 188, 194; and spatiality 104; studies 102–104; see also Sindhi Sikhs; Sufi shrines in East Punjab Menon, Ritu 4–5, 61 Menon, V. P. 213n3 Mir, Ali Husain 48, 49 Mir, Raza 48, 49 Mizoram 6, 184; Chakmas 191–194; Recruitment Rules (RR) 194; tribes 188; Zo hnahthlak 187–192, 193–194 Mizo Students’ Union (MSU) 194, 195n8 Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP) 190, 194, 195n8 modernity 24n16 Modi, Narendra Damodar 72, 156, 181, 190 Modi, Sohrab 76 Mohenjo-Daro 90 Moini, Syed Liyaqat Hussain 119n4 ‘Mokkhoda Sundorir Haranoprapti’ (Pandey) 32–34 Mongia, Padmini 7 Mountbatten, Louis 204, 208, 210, 212; partition plan of (3 June 1947) 199–200, 201, 202; press conference 202–203, 204–205; Separation Committee 205–206 mourning 67, 68, 78, 80, 81, 82 “Mud Muddon”/“From the Start Again” (Bakshi) 64 Mufti, Aamir 31 Mughals 123, 169, 170, 192 Muhammad, Prophet 112, 113 Muharram 106–107

Index 235

Multan 7, 86, 87, 90, 96, 99–100; Multan Fort 92, 92; old city 93–94, 94, 95; paintings 97–99, 98; roundedness of buildings 92; Shah Rukn-e-Alam 90–91, 91, 93 Multani (language) 87–88, 96 “Munshi Khan” (Singh) 63 Musafir, Gurmukh Singh 60, 62 mushairas 42, 43, 48, 49 Musharraf, Pervez 160 Muslims 1, 2, 6, 56, 60–61; belonging and citizenship of 42, 51; Bengali, in Barak Valley 30; Bengali, in Tripura 28, 29; Hyderabadi 42, 44, 46, 49, 50, 51, 52n1; Punjabi 101, 119n6, 204; and Urdu 41, 49; see also Sufi shrines in East Punjab “My Precious One” (Sarna) 56 myth-making/myth-building 186 Nagas 212 namasudras 137, 143, 145; see also Andamans, settler women in Nanakpanthis 123 Nandrajog, Hina 7 Napier, William 122 Naths 105, 115–116 national character in post-1905 Bengal partition India 13, 16–20, 21 National Register of Citizens 39n12 Native Newspaper Reports (NNRs) 14, 22n6 Nawab of Bhopal 205 necropower 73 Nehru, Jawaharlal 65, 139, 156, 199, 203, 207 Neil Island 142, 144, 145–146 New Kukis 188 Nexus of Patriarchy 189, 190, 191, 192 Ngurbawnga 190 Nietzsche, Friedrich 102 Nizam of Hyderabad 205 Nizamuddin Auliya 106 nonviolence 14, 17, 20, 21, 52 Nora, Pierre 102, 104 Nordstrom, Carolyn 180 Northeast India 27, 185; Chakmas 191–194; colonial tax regimes in 193; erasure of history 192, 193; genealogy of 27–32, 186, 187; memory of lost territories 186–187; politics of name change 192, 193; proselytisation 189, 192; trans-border tribes 185; tribes of 185, 188; Zo hnahthlak 187–192, 193–194; see also Assam; Mizoram; Tripura

North-West Frontier Province (NWFP) 200, 202, 207, 208, 211 nostalgia for homeland 66, 145 Old Kukis 187 Oommen, T. K. 160 Osmania University 44 Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India, The (Butalia) 59 “Paad”/“Chasm” (Bhandari) 68–69 Pakistan 41, 86–87, 90, 152–153, 170, 208; claim of Jammu and Kashmir 72; remoteness of 86; Scheduled Castes in 156; Sylhet Referendum (1947) 30, 33, 39n3, 200, 211; and Urdu 41; see also Bangladesh; Jammu and Kashmir; Multan; partition of India (1947); Punjabi literature, partition in; Sindhi Sikhs; West Pakistani Refugees (WPR) “Pakistan Hamara Hai”/“Pakistan is Ours” (Duggal) 61 Pandey, Gyanendra 3, 4, 22n5, 52n4, 60 Pandey, Jhumur 7, 28, 32–34 Panj Pir dargah (Abohar) 104 Parel, Anthony 23n7, 24–25n20, 25n23 Parihar, Subhash 112, 113 “Parmeshwari” (Sarna) 59 partition of Bengal (1905) 8, 13, 16–20, 21, 194 partition of India (1947) 1–2, 8–9, 12, 101, 136, 164, 168, 170, 185, 199; accession of states 212; administrative consequences of 204; Arbitration Tribunals 212; Bengal Assembly 207; boundary award 211, 212; boundary commissions 200, 205, 209, 211; divisions 206, 209; and Gandhi 207, 209; and geographical belonging 88, 97; haunting legacies of 72; hidden histories of 8; and independence of states 205; Indian Independence Bill 209, 210, 212; and leadership 65; legislation 203, 204, 209; literary texts on 5, 7; literature on 3–4; mechanics of partition 199; Mountbatten plan (3 June 1947) 199–200, 201, 202–204; and Northeast India 27, 29, 31, 32, 185–186, 194; Partition Committees 206, 206; Partition Council 211, 213; popular narrative of 65; and Punjab 204, 207–208; refugees 212; saving lives of people from other communities 66–67; Separation Committee 205–206, 211; Sind Assembly 208;

236 Index

speed of 204, 207, 210; standstill agreements 211, 212; transfer of population 204–205; see also violence, partition Pasaltha Khuangchera/Shoorvir Khuangchera (Khiangte) 190 passive resistance 16, 19, 20, 21 Patel, Kamlabehn 61 patriarchy 58; feudal 47; and permanent liability camps 137, 141; and settler women in Andamans 147 periodicals 8, 13, 14–16, 20 permanent liability (PL) camps, women in (West Bengal) 136, 137–141; Camp Commandant 137; employment 138; gendered restrictions 137; marital status 139–140; patriarchy 137, 141; political allegiance 139; quality of services 138–139; sexuality 141; violence and illegal occupation 140–141 Permanent Resident Certificate (PRC) to West Pakistani Refugees 156, 157–158, 159, 161, 162, 163 Peterson, Christopher 74 Pinjar/The Skeleton (Pritam) 60 Poaturkuthi (chhitmahal) 172 Police Action (1948), Hyderabad 49, 50, 53n10 political violence 16–20, 38 postmemory 4, 5, 12, 22n1 Pratikar 15 Preetlahri, Gurbaksh Singh 63 Pritam, Amrita 56, 58, 60 problem of minoritization 31 Progressive Writers’ Association (PWA) 47, 48 Progressive Writers’ Movement 42, 49–50, 52 proselytisation 189, 192 prostitution 61–62, 64 Pubduari/Poobduari (Bhattacharya) 7, 28, 36 Punjab 3, 5, 122, 199; East 2, 6, 101–118; Partition Committees 206; and partition of India 204, 207–208, 211–212; Sikhs of 123, 124, 131, 202; see also Sikhs; Sindhi Sikhs Punjabi (language) 55, 88, 117 Punjabi literature, partition in 55, 68–69; conversion/assimilation 63; erasure of women’s agency 58–63; nostalgia for homeland 66; outsiders/other 56; popular narrative 65; refugees 64–65,

66; repentance and mourning 66–68; savagery 57–58 Punjab Waqf Board 113, 115, 116 qawwali 105, 105, 107–108 Radcliffe, Cyril 209 Raha, Ashokbijoy 30 Ramayana 60 Ramey, Steven W. 122 Ranaghat Women’s Home (Nadia) 140–141, 148n12 Rancière, Jacques 81 Rand, Nicholas 80 Ranjan, Amit 3–4, 8–9 Razakars 44–46, 50–51 Razvi, Qasim 44 rebellion of 1857 8, 13, 14–16, 20, 22n6 “Reconstructing Lives” project 217–218 refugees 1, 3, 57, 61, 185, 212, 213; in Assam 29; citizen refugee 6; influx to chhitmahals 174; nostalgia for homeland 66; in Punjabi partition literature 64–65, 66; in Tripura 28–29; see also Andamans, settler women in; permanent liability (PL) camps, women in (West Bengal); Sindhi Sikhs; West Pakistani Refugees (WPR) Ricoeur, Paul 4, 33 Rolland, Romaine 18 Ropuiliani 190 Rose, H. A. 116 Ruiter, David 77 rule of force, and colonial rule 17 Rupana, Gurdev Singh 57 Rushdie, Salman 67 Russian Gazette 18, 24n19 Sabharwal, Gopa 8 Sabir Pak 117 Saeed, Yousuf 106 sahajdhari Sikhs 123 Sahu, Kishore 76 Sai Baba Gope Shah “Chishti Faridi Sabri” 107 Sai Baba Mehshi Shah “Chishti Faridi Sabri” (Batala Sharif) 108 Saint, Tarun 5 sama 105 Samuel, Raphael 118n2 Sandhu, Gulzar Singh 63 “Sapp te Sheher”/“The Serpent and the City” (Mann) 64–65 Sapt-Sindhu Jammu Kashmir Ladakh Mahotsav 163

Index 237

“Sarde Zakham”/“Festering Wounds” (Kanwal) 60–61, 63, 65 Sarin, Alok 22n5 Sarna, Mohinder Singh 56, 57, 59, 67 Satyarthi, Devendra 66 “Savage Harvest” (Sarna) 56 Scheduled Castes (SCs) 156 self-regulation 25n23 self-sacrifice 21 self-suffering 19, 20, 21 Sen, Uditi 6 Seng-krak 29 Sengupta, Debjani 3, 5, 7 Settar, Shadakshari 3 Shah, Amit 164 “Shaheed” (Sandhu) 63 Shah Rukn-e-Alam 90–91, 91, 93 Shaikh Ibrahim 109 Shakespeare, William 71 sharecropping 176 Sharma, Dineshwar 163 Sheikh Hafiz Musa 108 Sherman, Taylor 42, 50, 51, 52n1 Shifman, Alexander 23n13, 24n15, 24n17 Sikand, Yoginder 115 Sikhism: conversion to 63; in Sindh 123–124; udasis 123, 131 Sikhs 1, 56, 68, 101, 202, 205, 211; Akalis 122, 208; and Baba Farid Shakarganj 109–110; and Baba Haji Rattan 112– 116; Bandais 123; creation of separate Sikh State 208; Khalsa 123, 126; Nanakpanthis 123; sahajdhari 123; see also Sindhi Sikhs Sind Assembly 208 Sindhi (language) 121 Sindhi Sikhs 6, 121–123; affluent families 127–128; Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar 126, 130–133; exodus from Sindh 124–128; and non-Sindhi neighbours 128; reclaiming syncretic religious identities 131–133; respect to dehdhari gurus 124, 132; Sikhism in Sindh 123–124; Ulhasnagar 126, 128–133 Singh, Amritjit 1 Singh, Baldev 62, 65, 199, 211 Singh, Bhagat 190 Singh, Bhai Meharvan 133 Singh, Bhaisahib Trilochan 129 Singh, Charan 126 Singh, Joga 63 Singh, Khushwant 66 Singh, Manmohan 164 Singh, Nanak 66–67 Singh, Nirmal 156

Singh, Sujan 56 Singh, Thariya 130–131, 132 Singh, Trilochan 126 Singh, Vishn 129 Snehi, Yogesh 6 social history of remembering 103 social memory 22n4, 103, 104, 188, 194 South Andamans 142–143 spectropolitics 72 statelessness 160, 168–169; see also chhitmahals (India–Bangladesh enclaves) state of exception 74 State Subject Certificate to West Pakistani Refugees 156, 157–159, 161 storytelling 32–38 Sufi Rashid Mian 108 Sufi shrines in East Punjab 6, 101–102; Baba Farid Shakarganj 109–112, 110, 111, 116; banners/posters 108–109, 108, 117; circulation 118; Haji Rattan, dargah of 112–116, 114; memory studies 102–104; sites of memory 116–118; urs 104–109, 115, 117 Suhrid 14–15 Sukh Gacher Golpo (Pandey) 7, 28 Sultanpuri, Majrooh 48 “Sunheri Jild”/“Gilded Cover” (Singh) 66–67 Syan, Hardip S. 122 Sylheti language 33, 34 Sylhetis 29–30, 34, 39n3 Sylhet Referendum (1947) 30, 33, 39n3, 200, 211 Tagore, Rabindranath 39n3 Talbot, Ian 3 Tan, Tai Yong 65 “Tarbaini”/“The Triad of Trees” (Joshi) 67 Tasso, Torquato 226 Telangana People’s Struggle (1946–1951) 47, 50 testimonies 5, 215, 225 Thadhani, Jasbirkaur 122 Thakur, Upendra K. 122 “Thandiyan Kandhan”/“Cold Walls” (Jeet) 62–63 Thapar, Romila 21 theoretical citizenship 182n3 Tilla Baba Farid 111 time 32–33, 34 Times of India, The (ToI) 8, 199–213; see also partition of India (1947) “Toba Tek Singh” (Manto) 218

238 Index

Tolstoy, Leo 13, 16–21, 23–24n15, 23n13, 23n14, 24n16, 24n17, 25n22, 25n23 Torok, Maria 78, 79 torture 73, 74, 223 Train to Pakistan (Singh) 66 trans-generational trauma, theory of 78 Travancore State 205, 207 travel stories 32 Treaty of Yandaboo (1826) 188 Tripura 7, 28, 36–38, 39n3, 39n7; Bangla literature 31; ethnic nationalism in 29; imagination of homeland by Bengali Hindus in 31; indigenous tribes of 28, 29; migration into 28, 29 Tripura Territorial Council 29 “Tu Khaanh”/“Be Damned” (Duggal) 65 Turner, Victor 160 Twentieth Century, The 24n20 Ulhasnagar 6, 122, 125, 126–127, 128–130; Dhan Guru Nanak Darbar of 126, 130–133; Directory of Sindhi Sikhs of 132–133; as a major site of Sindhi refugee settlement 129–130 United Nations (UN) 155, 160, 161 Urdu 7, 41, 42, 44, 50, 51–52, 52n1, 88, 96; communalisation of 41, 44, 50; decline of 48, 49, 50; Hindi–Urdu language conflict 41 urs 104–109, 115, 117 Van Schendel, Willem 170 “Village called Laddewala Varaich, A” (Sarna) 56, 59 violence: bodily 57, 59; honour killings 59–60, 223; in permanent liability camps of West Bangal 140–141; Tolstoy on 17, 18, 24n17 violence, partition 5, 8, 12–13, 89, 208, 209, 211–212; 1857 rebellion in Indian periodical press of 1870s 13, 14–16, 20; Hyderabad 44–45, 49, 50; Jammu and Kashmir 72, 75; listener as witness 224–226; and listening 215; nonengagement with 8; in Northeast India 29; in post-1905 Bengal partition India 13, 16–20, 21; Punjabi literature 56–58; “Reconstructing Lives” project 217–218; Shanti Bai/Chimni Bai (story) 218–224 Virk, Kulwant Singh 62, 66

Vivekananda, Swami 24n16, 24n17 West Bengal 28, 31–32, 39n8, 145; colonisation scheme 142; Cooch Behar 169, 170; permanent liability (PL) women in 136, 137–141; see also Bangladesh West Pakistan see Bangladesh West Pakistani Refugees (WPR) 6, 152–154; characterisation of 160–161; circumstantial changes in live of 156–157; composition of 154; deprivation of rights 156; as dispute refugees 161; future of 163–164; “Identity Certificate for West Pakistan Refugees Residing in the State of Jammu and Kashmir” form 154–157, 155, 162; Permanent Resident Certificate 156, 157–158, 159, 161, 162, 163; proprietary right of female hereditary State Subjects 161; Scheduled Castes benefits for 156; siblings 161–162; State Subject Certificate 156, 157–159, 161; strength of refugees at tehsil level 154 Whyte, Brendan R. 182n3 witness, listener as 5, 224–226 women 5, 46–47, 65, 136; abandonment of 60; abducted, recovery of 60–61, 62; agency, erasure of 58–63; in Bangladesh 143; body of 59; honour killings 59–60; Mizo chieftains 190; in permanent liability camps (West Bengal) 136, 137–141; settler women in Andamans 136–137, 141–147; violence against 55, 57, 59; and West Pakistani Refugees 157, 161 World War II 129, 138, 193, 203 Wybergh, W. J. 21 Wylie, Curzon 19 Young Lushai Association (YLA) 195n9 Young Mizo Association 195n9 “You Shall Always be My World” (Preetlahri) 63 Zamindar, Vazira 2 Zo hnahthlak 6, 184, 186, 187–192, 193–194 Zo/Mizo (Zomi) see Zo hnahthlak Zopui 186, 187