Women and Partition
Sindhi Hindus, being a religious minority living in a highly feudal society, had long harboured anxieties about the possible abduction and conversion of their women, and so ensured that the latter lived restricted lives. As the writer Kavita Daswani describes Hindu women in Sindh, ‘they were, effectively, in the smallest and most insignificant minority: Hindu Sindhi women in a male-dominated, Muslim majority population.’1 As a result, Sindhi Hindu women maintained purdah, one of the many common customs and ways of living that Sindhi Hindus had acquired after living under Muslim rule for centuries.
The bulk of Sindhi Hindu women dressed and lived relatively conservatively. Most adult women had two sets of clothes – ‘Sindhi clothes’, that is suthan-cholo, loose pants and a short tunic, which were worn in the privacy of the home – and other clothes which were donned in public: paros, or large loose skirts, combined with rawos or chadars: These were worn on top of the suthan-cholo. Alternatively, they wore saris. Some Hindu women, when they stepped out of the house, wore a chadar, draping it to cover the entire upper body. In even more conservative situations, the chadar was worn in the akhdi style, that is draped in such a way that only a single eye of the woman was exposed, just enough for her to find her way. Teji Bhojwani relates that when her mother wore her chadar in the akhdi style, Teji and siblings would be able to recognise her only from her distinctive slippers.
However, this was not necessarily true of younger women, especially from the upper classes in the ‘more modern’ cities of Karachi and Hyderabad, who had far greater freedom and mobility as the 20th century progressed. They were also affected by changes in fashion that were taking place elsewhere in India – wearing salwar kameez, or a dress, or even sleeveless sari blouses.
While most women were kept in the seclusion of their homes, great emphasis was placed on the education of girl children among the Hindu Sindhis, especially among the Amils, because a girl’s education was considered to be part of her dowry.2 Consequently, Hindu girls in Sindh were better educated than their Muslim counterparts.3
In Sindhi society, back then, it was unthinkable that a ‘respectable’ woman could work outside the home – the only exception being the lack of an able-bodied adult male in the family. Among the middle class, only those women worked who did not have a father or a father-figure to provide for them, and they generally opted for the ‘safe’ and ‘woman-dominated’ sector of education. Among the poorer sections of society, though, women could and did work from home, rolling bidis or pursuing tailoring work to supplement the family income.
Sindhi Hindu women found their world especially transformed after Partition. Apart from the physical dislocation from their homes, the arduous journey across the border, and the lengthy and difficult process of rehabilitation, they also found themselves pushed out of their homes, their private spaces, into the public domain. This occurred in different forms – in the very act of journeying to India, in some cases without a male escort (which could translate into a bewildering situation where the women were not easily able to negotiate public spaces); in the lack of privacy in the camps (with mere curtains for walls, open-air kitchens, and common toilets and bathrooms); and for those women who were obliged to support their families, in their employment outside the home. All these situations shattered the private world of the home that Sindhi Hindu women had inhabited before Partition. This is illustrated in the narrative of Popati Hiranandani:
Early in the morning we arrived in Jodhpur. We were 50 people in all. All women and children. We killed time in the waiting room, because we didn’t know where we were supposed to stay. In the afternoon a boy came to fetch us. He put us in tongas and brought us to a bungalow.
We reached the bungalow but what were we to eat and what were we to wear? Two people in our group approached the neighbours in the locality. One Rajasthani woman in the neighbourhood said, ‘We will only give food to the children.’ The woman and her daughter-in-law prepared the food and brought it to us one hour later. They made the children sit in a line and served them the food on sheets of paper. At night also, similarly, the children were fed. The adults fasted.
At night, there were no beds to sleep on, no lights, no mattresses, no pillows. We covered ourselves with the pallu of our saris and tried to sleep. But how do you sleep when you are hungry?
The next day, at noon, someone came selling fried moong dal. Everyone bought one or two kilos and swallowed it. The bungalow was at a distance from the city. We didn’t know our way around. There was money but we also feared we would run out of it. It was why we were hesitant about spending.
On the third day, we bought soap; we washed the sari and the blouse on alternate days.
[…] There was a brave woman with us, Sundri. On the third day, she took money from all of us, made a list of things and went to buy them. She bought wheat and got it ground, and also bought vegetables. After two and a half days, we got some something to eat. Sundri stood at the door to the kitchen and handed out rotis for everyone to eat: one for each child, two for each adult, and a big spoonful of vegetables, no more. With something in my stomach, my mind and my heart came back to life.
Through it all, we worried, not for ourselves, but for the relatives left behind. Everyone wrote letters, and some sent telegrams. After seven days, my masi’s eldest son reached Jodhpur. He gave us news from home, but this only troubled us more. Thousands of Punjabi Muslims had come by train to Karachi; they had collected some Labana Sikhs in a temple, poured kerosene all around, and set fire to it. The 160 Sikhs sitting inside were burnt to death!4 In Hyderabad, the muhajirs would go knocking on the doors of all the houses at night, break them open if locked, and start living there.
On receiving such news, we began to wonder why we had come to India. If anything happened to our men, of what use would our lives be?
My [male] cousin had come to Jodhpur to find out how we were. When he went back to Sindh two days later, everybody begged him, ‘Tell our family that they should come here. We don’t want anything else. Even if they have to come barefoot.’
After 12 days, a lorry filled with grain arrived. My [female] cousin’s husband had also sent a few clothes. We had spent 12 days wearing a single set of clothes and eating only one meal a day. On the 13th day, we bathed and then ate our stomach’s fill.
Gradually the boys and the men started coming. But they all came empty-handed. My brother Hashu had reached Delhi. He sent us money and clothes from there. Only my eldest brother was left in Karachi. When we heard that he too had left Sindh, we practically celebrated.5
While the near-absence of privacy necessitated the shedding of purdah, the homelessness and the economic difficulties of the women in families where adult male members were absent or incapacitated also ensured that some women now acquired a greater degree of freedom. They began to step out of the house, either to look for a house or to earn a living, often teaching and/or sewing. In this regard, the Sindhi Hindu culture of educating girl children stood them in good stead.
Nimmi Vasvani, then a 10-year-old girl, had come to Bombay with her older sister Padam and her family. She recalls how she became financially independent at a young age:
My father must have been about 54-years-old in 1947. He was the advocate-general for the province of Sindh and he also had his private practice. In those days, I remember, his fees were Rs 1,00,000 per case. So we were living well, and we had a highly Westernised upbringing. Before Partition, my elder brothers and sisters used to get pocket money amounting to Rs 100. They enjoyed going to clubs and racecourses. I did not have those facilities growing up. I was the youngest and I was denied these pleasures because of Partition.
We had a beautiful house in Karachi, and when we came to Bombay, initially we stayed like refugees at my cousin’s residence. Other relatives had also sought shelter with my cousin, and at night the sitting room would become a dormitory with mattresses lined up on the carpet.
Subsequently, our house in Karachi wa
s sold, and my father came to Bombay. We first stayed at a couple of hotels, and later on, we got a requisitioned five-bedroom flat at Worli. It came at a rent of Rs 400 which was considered very steep in those days, but it was a beautiful flat, overlooking a garden.
For a while, my father dabbled in stocks and shares, hoping that he would be able to make some money. But this did not work out in his favour. The money that we got for our beautiful Karachi bungalow – Rs 1,00,000 – was a princely sum then. But it didn’t take us far because inflation progressively ate it up, and the family was big.
I started working at the age of 15. I did not go to college for the simple reason that when I attempted securing a seat, I was informed that Bombay University would not accept me without a Maths certificate, and unfortunately, I had not opted for Maths in my Senior Cambridge.
After I completed my school education, to while away my time, I learnt shorthand and typing. Soon a job was arranged for me with Kaycee Industries, since the owner, Kishin Chand Sadarangani, was a friend of my father’s. After a two-year stint, I left Kaycee Industries to join Siemens Engineering. After resigning from Siemens, I went to London where I worked for two-and-a-half years. When I came back, I first joined TWA, and later worked at Metal Box for almost 25 years.
When I started working, my salary was Rs 150. I used to bring that home and give it to my mother, who’d say, ‘I can run the house on this money for 15 days of the month.’ One of my brothers supplemented this amount by giving tuitions whilst still in college. I used to get Rs 10 for my bus fare, and sandwiches for lunch every day. That’s how life was, but I never felt bad about it or cribbed. No. This was my family. And we took it in our stride.
Earning money taught me the value of many things. I suspect, if I didn’t have to work, my approach to life would have been quite different. See, initially, before Partition, we were brought up in the lap of luxury. Everything was done for us by servants. We really didn’t want for anything. Then circumstances put us in a situation where we struggled to make two ends meet. When I got this job, I realised how important it was to save and not fritter away one’s savings. I also came to cherish my independence, the freedom that came from being a bread-winner.
I continued to work after marriage of my own volition. When my daughter was growing up, I told her, ‘Go out and work. You are secure only when you cease being dependent on others.’
I have tried to teach my children the value of money, and hopefully now they are teaching their children the same.6
Maya Shivdasani (nee Sita Kripalani) had come from her native Hyderabad (Sindh) to Bombay in 1937 after she got married to Lachiram Shivdasani, who was then working in the city. After Partition, Maya had to look after her younger siblings – three brothers (including Dr Nari Kripalani) and three sisters – who came to stay with her in Bombay. She also helped other relatives who had migrated to India. In her memoir, Maya Shivdasani describes how her cousins worked hard to rehabilitate themselves:
When Partition came, Sundri, Devi and Khema [my cousins] came to India. They were in Poona for two years where Khema opened a chemist’s shop but it didn’t do well so they headed to Bombay. Here they managed to get accommodation in the refugee colony in Kalyan. At least three times a week Sundri used to come to my house because she had nothing to do. She was my age and quite close to me. Once Radhi Aunty [my aunt-in-law] saw her sprawled on the divan. She asked me who she was and why she was sleeping in the middle of the morning. I told her she was my cousin and that she was an expert at embroidery and making pickles and mithais. Radhi Aunty gave her a sari and asked her to embroider it, choosing the design and colour combination. A week later Sundri brought back the sari with delicate embroidery in very sophisticated colours. Radhi Aunty was very impressed and she helped Sundri and Devi get many orders from her friends. Sundri’s and Devi’s reputation for good quality authentic Sindhi pickles and mithais also began to grow: their mithi chutney, kadukash, tel ji ambri, gur ji ambri and pista-badam vara7 became famous. They had many special clients […] and also many Sindhis living in London and the US. Devi used to do all the making and Sundri did all the marketing. As the orders grew, Sundri hired a small boy (around 15 years old) to carry the heavy bags because she used to make home deliveries and kept up a good relationship with her clients.
[…] Sundri and Devi worked very hard and they managed to buy a small house for themselves. When Nari and I visited them in their new home they were glowing with pride.8
However, a working girl in the family was perceived as a stigma, as proof of the weak earning power of the men of the family, and in many cases, women stopped working outside the home once their families became financially stable. Yet, it should be pointed out that, with the passage of time and the advent of increasingly liberal attitudes, several working women (many of whom either chose to, or were obliged to, remain unmarried in order to continue providing for their families) also elected to continue with their careers. Equally, unmarried girls found it easier to work, especially in family businesses, since they were perceived as not having taken up their final and permanent status: that of a married woman in her husband’s family. However, these instances of working women appear to be in a minority, and Sindhi society continues to be deeply patriarchal.9
The political upheaval of Partition meant that old systems were overturned. For several decades, many Bhaiband merchants had spent most of their working lives abroad, returning home only for a few months at a stretch before departing once more. In their absence, their wives and mothers had become the de facto heads of the household. This came to a stop after Partition when Sindhworkis moved abroad en famille, and the custom of husbands and wives living apart for most of their married lives also came to an end.
Given the paucity of living space, and the shift in geographical spaces, many joint families also began to break up, giving rise to nuclear families. In business families, the shrinking of the joint family implied that there were fewer family members to trust – essential for a family-run business. This factor also contributed to the entry of women in the businesses run by their fathers, brothers or husbands. However, as the anthropologist Mark-Anthony Falzon points out, the patriarchal nature of Sindhi society ensures that these working women are perceived not as partners or as equals but as ‘helpers’, regardless of their contribution to the family business or income.10
All these factors – the break-up of the traditional patrilocal, patriarchal joint family, increased literacy, the entry of women into the workplace – contributed to giving Sindhi women a greater degree of freedom and influence. Yet, this was often accompanied by marked disapproval from their family members – both the older generation as well as husbands or brothers – and family conflict, not to mention community censure. Vakil and Cabinetmaker report on the position of Sindhi women in Kalyan camp:
The older generation visits temples and gurudwaras for morning and evening prayers. They frown upon the younger women going to restaurants. It was not done ‘back home’. They deplore the deterioration of morals of D.P. women. […]
[Another] source of tension arising from unemployment is the increased number of women going out to work. Pre-partition, there were only 3 women who were gainfully employed. At present there are 30 [out of a sample size of 270]. This is a constant source of friction at home. The Government is blamed for unemployment of men and their inadequate wages. But, even in pre-partition days women did contribute towards the family income by cottage industries like making of preserves, pickles, etc. A number of D.P. women in both the camps have continued these industries and they either sell their produce in the camps or come to the City. These occupations are considered as women’s preserve and the men bear them no grudge for that. It is going to work with men that they dislike.
As compared with the position of women in the non-D.P. section of the population of the middle class stratum, the D.P. women’s role seems to be that of an efficient housewife only. Some of them observe ‘purdah’. Quite a few of them were
married when they were about 14 years of age. Widows are not allowed to remarry. A widower may remarry and as often as he has to, i.e. if his second wife dies too, and the third as well and so on. Age is no bar to his remarriage. During our stay in the camp a widower of 60 years of age married a girl of 14 years. He complained to us that his wife neglected him and spent her time in idle gossip with friends and neighbours.
Although marriage and rearing of children appears to be the destiny of the D.P. women, they have no say in the education of their children. That is decided by the father. Economic independence of women is viewed with disfavour – almost alarm. The women themselves dislike their independence and consider their work as a stop-gap arrangement till they are able to marry. They stated they were forced to seek employment to help the family and because they could not afford a substantial dowry. Some day they hoped to settle down. Thus economic necessity and social custom of dowry are contributing towards a social change. Its duration might be short lived, but while it lasts it gives rise to tensions.11
Dowry had long been a social evil among Sindhi Hindus, despite efforts to eradicate it as early as the late 19th century. Now, in India, in a context of economic strain, instead of asking for less dowry, families of marriageable boys began to ask for even higher amounts of dowry than before. This, combined with the fact that several women had started working in order to support their families, meant that some of these women could not and did not get married.12
Owing to his tireless work and self-neglect, Dr Choithram Gidwani fell ill in 1957. He was to officiate as president at a social service conference in Ajmer, but instead his presidential address – possibly his last public speech – was read out on his behalf by his old friend and colleague, Professor Ghanshyamdas Jethanand. His speech, which lamented the moral and social upheaval wreaked on Sindhis by Partition, said:
It is true that our economic state is pitiable, it is true that we have become dispersed and scattered, but these are not reason enough for us to consider ourselves beholden or powerless to do anything to save our community from social decline. No doubt we are – and should be – always concerned about improving our economic status, but along with that if each of us considers communal self-respect as an asset like money, then finding solutions to social problems will not be difficult for us.
THE MAKING OF EXILE: SINDHI HINDUS AND THE PARTITION OF INDIA Page 36