by John Keay
A few migrants quickly changed their minds and went back, some doing so several times. Others had their minds changed for them. When in 1971 East Pakistan became Bangladesh, refugees from India who had been welcomed into East Pakistan as Muslims in 1947 found themselves interned as non-Bengalis in a now proudly Bengali Bangladesh. Perhaps 100,000 of these so-called ‘Biharis’ are still there, eking out a pitiful existence in Bangladesh’s refugee camps; others have been shunted across India to Pakistan; and a lucky few have since obtained visas to reside overseas.
In this they are not alone. Emigration was as much a by-product of Partition as urbanisation. Over the three decades immediately after 1947 an estimated two million South Asians, many of them already displaced by Partition, exited the subcontinent altogether. Better prospects and wages undoubtedly tempted them, but it was the push-factor of dislocation and enforced mobility that proved crucial. Thanks to Partition, what might have been a modest trickle of economic migrants turned into that flood of expatriates, now over twenty million strong, known as ‘the South Asian diaspora’.
Applying the term ‘diaspora’ to the South Asian exodus remains controversial, although reasonable enough. South Asia’s Partition and the Nazi Holocaust have also been bracketed together, with comparisons being drawn between the apparently chaotic and unpremeditated nature of the one and the systematic, state-directed nature of the other. But more to the point, just as in some unspeakable way the Holocaust made the need for a Jewish homeland manifest and thus reversed one diaspora, just so did Partition yank at those bonds of kinship, locality and community, and unleash another great exodus of peoples.
At the time, the 1950s and ’60s, few In India or Pakistan considered the spectacle of mass emigration as grounds for congratulation. Plucked from villages in unfancied districts like Sylhet (east Pakistan), Mirpur (Azad Kashmir) and Jalandhar (India), then penned, tagged and bussed to an international airport, the huddles of all-male migrants hunkered down beside the check-in desks seemed a sad commentary on the lofty hopes of Independence. Their minders brandished wads of tickets and newly minted documentation. For the passport-holders themselves, holding their passports was seldom an option; most could barely sign their name or pronounce their destination; their identities, like their paycheques, were in hock to their gang-masters.
In the 1960s these emigrants were destined principally for low-paid jobs in the UK and North America, thereafter and more substantially for the Gulf states. Others followed well-trodden trails to east and south Africa, the Caribbean, South-East Asia and the Pacific. These were the destinations to which bonded workers recruited for labouring elsewhere in the British Empire had traditionally been despatched. The new migrants looked no more go-getting or better prepared than their nineteenth-century antecedents. A hookah might be passed among them in the airport forecourt; betel-stained saliva betrayed their sojourn in the departure lounge. The white-shirted businessmen and briefcase-clutching bureaucrats brushed past with eyes averted.
Yet in retrospect this unpromising stream of exiles heralded a new respect for the region’s international profile and added an important new dimension to the fraught relationships between its post-Partition states. By the 1980s cash remittances sent home from places as far apart as Dubai and British Columbia were critical in sustaining the economies of all the South Asian states. They also transformed the built landscape in the emigrants’ Bangladeshi, Indian and Pakistani areas of origin. At about the same time, second-generation South Asians in the West were being joined by a second wave of emigrants from the subcontinent. Young and ambitious, both were more interested in professional qualifications and internships than hourly rates. History sanctioned their quest for advancement. Without exception, all the architects of Independence, from Gandhi to Nehru, Jinnah, Ambedkar and Patel, had acquired their lawyers’ training in Britain. Political freedom had come courtesy of diasporic passport-holders; economic betterment would follow suit.
For now it was US degrees, corporate experience, entrepreneurial skills and silicon technology that were the attractions. And unlike bus-conducting, curry-cookery or courtroom rhetoric, these were qualifications in high demand back in South Asia. The massive back-transfer of skills, and then investment, that resulted would dramatically empower the Republic of India and to a lesser extent its neighbours. From it sprang that great transnational community of South Asian origin that would be so ideally placed to prosper in a globalised century. The despised diaspora was metamorphosing itself into the most desirable of elites. In short, and by some delicious quirk of fate, peoples so keen to equate community with nation, nation with state, and to identify with a ‘bounded territory’, were proving the most adept at transcending such obstacles.
Regrettably, this also has a downside. Ensconced nowadays in the airport’s premium business lounges, the Asian knights of the global economy are not encouraged to transcend the febrile frontiers of South Asia itself. Once reviled as deserters by patriotic nationalists, those emigrants who return are now embraced and fêted. ‘Non-Resident Indian’ (NRI), from being a term of contempt, has become an accolade. New Delhi – and Islamabad and Dhaka in respect of their Pakistani and Bangladeshi equivalents – not only woos its NRIs but most emphatically claims them. Their US, Canadian and EU passports carry Delhi’s endorsement of their status as ‘Persons of Indian Origin’ (PIOs) or ‘Overseas Citizens of India’ (OCIs). Residential options, fiscal breaks and investment incentives await the prodigals; receptions and conferences are organised specifically for them; whole government ministries pander to their needs; homegrown CEOs and rupee billionaires flock to join them.
The diaspora’s inward investment has powered up domestic economies throughout South Asia. But the start-ups and the statistics are not the only things to benefit from diasporic largesse. Numerous non-governmental agencies and charities, among them organisations commonly blamed for the abiding level of communal strife, are also handsomely supported by this overseas citizenry. A classic example was provided by Sri Lanka’s Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), otherwise known as the ‘Tamil Tigers’. For thirty years the LTTE obtained arms and training in India and found sanctuary there while being heavily bankrolled by the donations of Tamils and Tamil sympathisers resident in the West. Kashmiris, principally in Britain, funded the Jammu and Kashmir National Liberation Front; Sikhs, many in Canada, helped sustain the Khalistan movement for an independent Sikh state. Likewise, Saudi dinars are channelled through diasporic Muslims to the Islamist madrassahs of Pakistan; and US dollars raised by diasporic Hindus finance the temple-building and the social and educational programmes of extremist outfits like the Shiv Sena and the RSS. For longer than anyone can remember, Naga nationalists have been funding their open insurgency from overseas.
Where funds can be transferred, often undeclared and undetected, so can ideas. Through social networks, blogs and SMS, and through the distribution of CDs, DVDs and print, the diaspora exerts an influence on opinion in South Asia that is commensurate with its hefty financial donations. For the bonds of kinship and community, however attenuated, still apply. The status of diasporic families in the land of their settlement often depends on the approval of their caste or community back home; so do their chances of extending their family landholdings in South Asia and of securing suitable brides. By supporting communal interests and disseminating exclusionist views, the diaspora validates both itself and its affiliates in South Asia. Diasporic endorsement of, say, the 1992 demolition of Ayodhya’s Babri mosque emboldened the zealots responsible and lent a veneer of international respectability to the interminable debate that followed.
Activists sustained by diasporic support are carried along on the ebb and flow of migration. A.Z. Phizo, for many years the charismatic leader of the Naga National Council, directed operations almost entirely from the safety of a UK residence. So did, and do, the leaderships of the MQM (representing the voluble muhajir community in southern Pakistan), of the Sikh separatist Khalistan movement, the Ka
shmir ‘government-in-exile’ and the Baloch separatists of Pakistan’s western extremity. They are in good company. At one time or another sanctuary in the West has been the choice of many of Pakistan’s and Bangladesh’s political leaders, including several Bhuttos. A host of lesser dissidents at odds with the regimes of South Asia also avails itself of the immunity of exile. And in the opposite direction come diasporic ‘tourists’, sometimes with misguided convictions and terrorist assignments.
The globalisation of protest is not a peculiarly Muslim phenomenon. Worldwide, the first to blow up a jumbo jet in mid-flight were not Palestinian activists but members of a Sikh separatist group; they then took the life of an Indian prime minister. Tamils took the life of the next prime minister, and made suicide bombing their speciality. Earlier it had been a Hindu supremacist who gunned down Mahatma Gandhi. More recently Indian Maoist (‘Naxalite’) revolutionaries have blown up nearly as many policemen as the Pakistan Taliban.
In what follows, the notice taken of the influence and agency of the diaspora may seem disproportionate. It can, for instance, hardly compare with the death and dislocation that were directly occasioned by Partition, nor with the decades of mutual hostility and misery inflicted by the unending strife over Kashmir. The story of post-colonial South Asia is seldom inspirational. Among Midnight’s Descendants the body count of those who have succumbed to wars, civil strife, natural disasters and unalleviated poverty has yet to be exceeded by the number of those so enriched as to qualify as ‘middle-class’.
Other regional commonalities are more striking. For the first decade and a half after Partition, both India and Pakistan concentrated on nation-building. Constitutions were drafted, dissent confronted and sovereignty asserted. India absorbed its princely states, snapped up the colonial enclaves of Pondicherry and Goa, ‘smashed and grabbed’ the kingdom of Sikkim and received a bloody nose from the Chinese in the Himalayas. In like manner Pakistan cowed its separatists in Balochistan, wrestled with dissent in East Bengal and in the North-West Frontier Province’s Tribal Areas, and snapped up what it could of Jammu and Kashmir state.
This nation-building phase was followed in the 1970s by a wave of rank populism. Indira Gandhi in India, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto in Pakistan and Mujibur Rahman in Bangladesh chalked up massive electoral victories. With the exception of Nepal, all of South Asia basked under democratic rule. But it was short-lived. Economic woes and popular adulation tempted all three leaders into autocratic ways, which were then emphatically rejected. Mrs Gandhi was toppled by the electorate that had empowered her, Bhutto and Mujib were overthrown and eliminated by the military. A people-powered era subsided into one of edgy accommodation in which confessional values thrived.
The 1980s marked the rise of the religious right. Pakistan and Bangladesh, each under a General Zia, warmed to their Islamic brethren in the Gulf and conciliated Islamic opinion at home. For Pakistan, ‘liberating’ Kashmir still topped the agenda, but the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan ensured sympathy, support and a steady militarisation of Islamic sentiment. In India, on the other hand, it was among ‘right-wing’ Hindu and Sikh parties that zealotry prospered. A series of devotional spectaculars saw the ‘Hindu nationalist’ Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) garnering ever more support. To meet this long-term challenge, the Nehru–Gandhi Congress tarnished its own secular credentials and paid a heavy price. Sikhs, Assamese, Sri Lankans and Kashmiris were fatally antagonised. Two Gandhis were assassinated.
On this fraught scenario dawned the era of globalisation in the 1990s. India, and to a lesser extent all the other countries of South Asia, have undoubtedly benefited. Democracy has been given a second chance in Pakistan, Bangladesh and Nepal. Pluralist politics and coalition governments have become the norm in India. Despite glaring examples of neglect in educational and health provision, living standards are rising. But these economic and political dividends have been offset by a challenging level of expectation, appalling examples of corruption and little in the way of normalised state-to-state relations. The globalisation of protest, militancy and criminality has yet to be successfully addressed by any South Asian state.
There are, of course, other ways of periodising the post-Partition era. It could, for instance, be characterised in international terms. The first generation of Midnight’s Descendants were born in awe of British rule. The second looked to Moscow or Washington (or both), and the third looks increasingly to Beijing. In varying degrees Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Nepal and Bangladesh now see China as their best safeguard against India’s perceived ‘bullying’, otherwise its regional hegemonism. India is more ambivalent. Respect for the post-Mao achievements of the People’s Republic is there tempered with suspicion of China’s authoritarianism and apprehension over its intentions along the Himalayan frontier and in the Indian Ocean.
To many Indians, China is the superpower that India might have become but for Partition. When in the late 1940s South Asians were opting for the division of their subcontinent, China’s leadership brusquely demolished the divisions within its own subcontinent. Manchuria and Tibet were reclaimed, central Asian borders reaffirmed, Hong Kong put on notice and Taiwan’s defection vigorously contested. The indivisible nature of the People’s Republic has since come to be seen as one of its strengths, while the fissiparous nature of South Asia’s republics remains their greatest weakness. Yet Partition, by sundering the region and dictating so much of what followed, lends to their story an essential cohesion of its own. United in ferment, Midnight’s Descendants have no difficulty with such contradictions. And of all these paradoxes, not the least – and a good place to begin – is surely the most easily forgotten: that given cooler heads and a bit more time, Partition might well have been avoided altogether.
1
Casting the Die
In the early afternoon of 24 March 1946 three members of the British Cabinet, plus their staff, were driven from Delhi’s makeshift airport to the monumental residence built for the Viceroy of what was still British India. The traffic was light – it was a Sunday – and along the capital’s leafy avenues the cars were outnumbered by carts, some of them high-sided haywains drawn by enormous white oxen, others rubber-tyred flatbeds hauled by wispy-haired water-buffalo whose languid pace allowed for a snatched bite at the herbaceous bounty provided by the municipal groundsmen.
New Delhi, the garden city laid out as the capital of British India only twenty years earlier, dozed in the afternoon heat, unroused by the visiting Cabinet Ministers, untrodden by policemen or postmen – both were on strike – and unbothered by the post-war turmoil beyond India’s distant frontiers. It was just eight months since the British Labour Party had taken office in London, and seven since Japan’s surrender had brought an end to the Second World War. Half the world was still in uniform. A blitzed and rationed Britain faced the biggest reconstruction crisis in its history. Yet in London Prime Minister Clement Attlee had reconciled himself to dispensing with three of his most senior colleagues for what would turn out to be a hundred-day absence. Their mission was that important.
Of the three Cabinet Ministers, Lord Pethick-Lawrence was there as of right: as Secretary of State for India he headed a branch of the London government whose personnel and budget exceeded those of both the Foreign Office and the Colonial Office. Another of the delegates, Albert Victor Alexander, later Earl Alexander, had responsibility for safeguarding the British Empire’s maritime links as First Lord of the Admiralty; and the third, Sir Stafford Cripps, had led an earlier mission to India, was the prime mover in the present one, and was currently President of the Board of Trade. All were men of high principle. Pethick-Lawrence had once received a custodial sentence for encouraging suffragette defiance; Cripps, a vegetarian and a teetotaller, had once been expelled from the Labour Party as too left-wing; and Alexander, a blacksmith’s son, had been known to double as a lay preacher. All sympathised with India’s national aspirations and shared its leadership’s socialist values. Their integrity, their seniority and their extende
d leave from Cabinet duties bespoke their government’s intent. Britain’s Labour Party had already committed itself to ‘freedom and self-determination’ for the peoples of India; now it must deliver. As per its instructions, the delegation’s task was ‘to work out in cooperation [with India’s political leaders] the means by which Indians can themselves decide the form of their new institutions with the minimum of disturbance and the maximum of speed’. Thus would be consummated what the mission’s statement called ‘the transfer of responsibility’ and what the delegates themselves called ‘the transfer of power’.1
The Cabinet delegates, all of them aged around sixty, reeking of tobacco and unaccustomed to the ease of light linen suiting, were immediately dubbed ‘the Magi’ by Lord Wavell, the current Viceroy. The Indian press preferred to call them ‘the Three Wise Men’. They might have come from the West and arrived by plane, but the treasure they bore was indeed priceless. India was at last being proffered the means of securing full and unconditional independence. After decades of sacrifice and disappointment, of repression and obfuscation, protest and imprisonment, azadi (‘freedom’, ‘independence’) was within the grasp of the subcontinent’s four hundred millions.
In the history books this first post-war initiative in the endgame of British rule is known simply as ‘the 1946 Cabinet Mission’, an impersonal phrasing that has deterred scrutiny and obscured its importance. Within a year the new Viceroy, Lord Mountbatten, would steamroller through a very different handover of power that would relegate the Cabinet Mission and all its doings to the India Office’s bulging archive of begrudged concessions and aborted proposals. Yet, for all this, the Mission deserves recognition as one of the twentieth century’s milestones. It marked the beginning of the end for the British Empire in India; it was the first such overture to offer independence on a plate – to India or anywhere else. And it was the last to provide any real hope of staving off a division of the South Asian subcontinent.