After the riots, when the curfew was lifted for two to three hours, and we went down, we saw handcarts… There were handcarts in Karachi at that time. And the police were carrying the bodies on handcarts. I still… these things I still… I can still see this before my eyes. I can see the dead bodies carried in handcarts.13
Wary of their new surroundings and their new neighbours – who could be unsympathetic or even hostile – while still attempting to resettle themselves, Sindhi Hindus often projected the brunt of their stress onto their fellow Sindhis. Victor Barnouw writes of the ‘milieu of rivalry between competing groups, fraud and mutual suspicion’ that prevailed among the ‘warring segments’ of Sindhis living in Pimpri camp.14 For several years, Mohan Panjabi helped Dr Choithram Gidwani deal with the government during the lengthy and arduous process of rehabilitating Sindhi refugees. He recounts his memories:
The Sindhis had not even settled down, and they started attacking one another. Our letter was enough for them to get jobs, electricity, ration, free railway tickets, admission to schools and colleges. I must have signed thousands of such letters.
Yet, unable to tolerate each other, Sindhis would send in complaints that so-and-so had given a false report or that an affidavit happened to be bogus. […] Those in Bombay’s Mantralaya (especially in the chief minister’s office), the Department of Rehabilitation, the university and other such institutions would show me these letters.
One incident is worth relating. I was sitting with the doctor [Choithram Gidwani] at Govind Vallabh Pant’s place. He had complete sympathy for us. Talking to us, he showed us a whole file of letters in which Sindhis had made complaints and accusations against each other. Pant said, ‘Under the present straitened circumstances, we are ignoring such letters, even though some may be justified. But make your fellow Sindhis understand.’ Dharam Vir, the rehabilitation secretary, also used to complain about this problem.15
It is difficult to make generalisations about the Partition experience of the Sindhi Hindus. The diversity of situations encountered by those Sindhis who experienced Partition arises from differences in class (the upper classes were relatively more sheltered from the trials and tribulations of Partition), region (by and large, residents of Karachi, and to a lesser extent Hyderabad, witnessed more violence than did those living elsewhere), and in the final destination (which played a significant role in rehabilitation). Chance played a major role – for example, with people travelling on one bus in Karachi reaching home safely only to hear subsequently that the bus behind them had been ‘cleansed’ of Hindus. Age was a significant factor too. Younger refugees had their lives before them, and were able to rehabilitate themselves with relatively greater ease than the elderly who had deep roots in Sindh and were harder hit. There was also a great deal of diversity arising from personal choices. Those who chose to leave before the winter of 1947-48 were able to liquidate their assets and resettle themselves in Bombay with somewhat less difficulty than the lakhs who poured out of Sindh in 1948. Stories abound of well-to-do people – affluent businessmen, powerful zamindars – who became helpless paupers in India. Yet there are also plenty of rags-to-riches stories. Many Sindhi Hindus – pushed by desperation post-Partition – found in themselves the tremendous drive to make their lives succeed – typical of refugees the world over.
Never Say Die
It should be remembered that Partition not only brought out the worst, but also the best in human beings all over South Asia. There are numerous instances of Sindhi Hindus who were helped or saved by Muslims – whether Sindhis or muhajirs – during times of communal violence in Sindh. Similarly there were many Sindhi Hindus who put their own interests aside to help their compatriots. The examples of Dr Choithram Gidwani, Professor Ghanshyamdas Jethanand and numerous other social workers (many of whom were from the erstwhile Sind Provincial Congress) demonstrate this, as do the examples of Sindhi Hindus who had been settled in India prior to Partition.
The Sindhi Hindus of Bombay – Chellaram Lokumal, H. B. Shivdasani, Parmanand Deepchand Hinduja, Parmanand Sugnomal Mehra and others – set up the Sindhi Hindu Seva Samiti, specifically to assist in the post-Partition rehabilitation of Sindhis in their city. Sindhi-owned companies – such as Blue Star Ltd, founded by Mohan Advani, and Chicago Telephone & Radio Co Pvt Ltd, founded by Gianchand Motwane and later run by his sons, Visharam and Nanik – now gave jobs to their destitute and jobless relatives and friends who had come from Sindh. Nanik Motwane, in particular, worked hard in myriad ways for the Sindhi Hindus’ welfare, and also put up tents for refugees – complete strangers – in his bungalow compound. The well-known Sindhi tycoon, Kishinchand Chellaram, orchestrated efforts to find housing for Sindhi refugees in Bombay, as well as in Valsad, Deolali, Poona and Nasik.
Similarly, Ramnarain Chellaram, a Shikarpuri merchant and philanthropist, helped many Sindhi refugees resettle in Bangalore. Mohan Panjabi attests that in Ahmedabad, Sahijram Gidwani, a trusted lieutenant of the Ambalal Sarabhai group of companies, made arrangements for Sindhi Hindu refugees to receive free cloth from the Sarabhai mills. More often than not, these refugees would come en famille to collect as much cloth as they could (since a fixed quantity was distributed per head) and they would then resell the cloth in the city at a small profit, and come and stand in the queue to receive cloth again. (According to Panjabi, the Sarabhais were aware of this, and yet continued to distribute cloth to the Sindhis in an era of scarcity and rationing, which only adds to the dimensions of their charity.)16
Even at a personal level, Partition brought out the qualities of generosity and humanity among the Sindhi Hindus. Many Sindhi Hindus recall the munificence of those relatives who had settled in Bombay before Partition and housed the kith and kin who had fled Sindh.
As the narratives of Popati Hiranandani, Kodandas Gopalani and Sardar Nihalsingh confirm, the crisis of Partition cemented the unity of some large families. This was especially true in the case of families where there were many sons or brothers which, in a patriarchal climate, gave the entire family a sense of security in terms of both future earnings and physical protection.
In the case of Sardar Nihalsingh, this sense of solidarity extended from the family to the clan. There were about 200 Sikh families, all from Naich, relocated in Kalyan camp. These were four clans – Sahajsinghani, Ailsinghani, Gurnansinghani and Gurbakshsinghani – who had all descended from the same ancestor, with the clan name of Talreja. These 200-odd families were settled in Camp No 4, and most chose to live near other Sikh houses. In Section 26, Nihalsingh recalls, there were at least three or four Sikh houses out of a total of 12 in each barracks. As a result, the tremendous sense of unity that existed among the Sikhs of Naich was further cemented. ‘We are all Sikhs, all brothers, from the same village, sons of a single ancestor,’ he emphasises. ‘…We used to have so much unity among ourselves.’17 Vakil and Cabinetmaker also report a variety of families in Kalyan camp where grandparents lived with the family, where brothers (with their individual families) lived together, where families looked after their relatives’ orphans, or their dependent uncles or aunts.18
More than any other quality, however, Partition brought out amazing levels of determination and drive among the Hindus who migrated from Sindh, as is depicted in the narratives of Nimmi Vasvani, Narayan ‘Bharati’ Paryani, Shobha Bhojwani and many others. Refugees over the world are known for their will to succeed in their adoptive countries, and Sindhis were no exception.
In this context, Partition is often perceived today as a ‘blessing in disguise’ by many Sindhi Hindus because the upheaval that it caused also gave many Sindhis the ‘freedom’ to restructure and relocate their lives. Several Sindhis who managed to set up flourishing businesses, or obtain well-placed jobs, living in large cities like Bombay or Delhi, describe their lives in Sindh thus: ‘We used to be like frogs living in a well, now the whole world is our oyster.’ Horace Alexander notes: ‘They have rehabilitated themselves. There is widespread testimony that the Sind re
fugees in general are very hard-working people. Whatever may happen to them they do not become beggars.’19
Many Sindhis who had become impoverished by Partition came full circle, reacquiring wealth, through sheer grit, hard work and ambition. Lakhmichand Bahirwani’s father was a wealthy zamindar in Tando Jam, near Hyderabad. After Partition, the family was given agricultural lands near Aligarh in exchange for their thousands of acres of land in Sindh. The abolition of zamindari soon after, as well as certain bad business deals left the family impoverished within a few years. The stress was too much for Bahirwani’s father, who died in 1953. Lakhmichand Bahirwani recollects:
T. M. Advani explained to us [the Jai Hind College motto] ‘I will and I can’. Because we were considered refugees, he would instill in us the belief that with a firm will, you can achieve whatever you want in life. He had the capacity to inspire all his young impressionable students. Ram Panjwani had the ability to make us forget our miseries and our problems; he would make us laugh. Even while taking a class he would sing, especially during gloomy chapters or some subject which touched a nerve. But T. M. Advani told us, ‘Every one of you can become whatever you want to. Study hard, achieve the goals that you set for yourself.’ This was a big inspiration in those difficult days. Like me, there must be so many students who have taken the cue from him and done well in life.20
I had joined Jai Hind College in 1950 but I had to abandon my education in 1952 since our family finances plummeted. I told my father, ‘Let me go abroad and learn business.’ I didn’t say ‘service’, since this was not in our family tradition. If I had said ‘service’, he would have killed either me or himself. So I was sent to Lagos with the firm, Wassiamull Assomull. As an apprentice, I received no salary; but my boarding and lodging were provided gratis by the company.
In Lagos, our manager was extremely strict about keeping the Satyanarayan Katha, and fasting on that day. He would not eat a morsel and would consume prasad only after seeing the moon at night. I began to fast as well. I heard the whole Katha, but could not understand what the story was actually about. I asked the manager, who explained to me that the essence of the Satyanarayan Katha was ‘Always tell the truth.’ I immediately promised the manager that I would only tell the truth hereafter. I was only 20-years-old at that time.
The manager gave me the responsibility of looking after the mess and chummery accounts. Within two to three months, he realised that expenses had come down, and he began to trust me.
We used to receive bags of thousands of coins from our sales to poor Nigerians. Each time these bags were deposited in the bank, every bag would have four to six coins less than what we had accounted for. Every day there was a total shortage of 20-40 coins. Following my success with the mess accounts, I was given the responsibility of depositing the coins with the bank. I kept a watch, and the firm noticed that coins had stopped disappearing. Now their trust in me was firmly established. As a result, although I was the youngest and most inexperienced, I was given great responsibility.
In India, our family lost our land in Aligarh. I had three elder brothers, and they were at a loss. When my father died in 1953, I came back to India. We moved to Adipur since Bombay was very expensive, and we took up construction work in Kandla port. We were four brothers working together to build a business.
Then came the biggest twist in the story of my life. We made a profit of Rs 60,000 from a contract of Rs 1,80,000. In those days, you could buy a Fiat car for Rs 6,200 and an Ambassador for Rs 6,600 – and we had Rs 60,000! We came and told our mother about this huge profit. Our mother said, ‘I’m very happy for you, but your father has left a debt of Rs 40,000. Please pay it off and then start all over again.’
My elder brother said, ‘The debt was taken by our father, not by us. Now our father is dead; and the debt has been written off by the parties concerned. We are not bound to pay it.’
Our mother said, ‘That is all very well, but I will not eat a single morsel of food till you pay off your father’s debts. This is paap ki kamaai, the wages of sin. I understand your fears: that if you return the money honestly, you will not rise again. But remember, with my blessings, you will become billionaires before I die.’ With that, our mother began her fast.
The next morning, my eldest brother got demand drafts issued to the value of Rs 40,000 in favour of various creditors, and went to Bombay to return the money. Only when he phoned our mother to inform her that the drafts had been handed over, did she start eating. When my brother went to repay the loan of Rs 20,000 to one party, they were so impressed, and developed so much trust in us that they offered us a loan of Rs 1,00,000. Other parties also offered loans.
After that, my brothers and I went to Bhilai and tried to get a construction contract at the steel plant there. Other firms had contracts to build 400 houses each. With difficulty, we were given a contract to build 12 houses. When the monsoons arrived, the manager checked the roofs of each of the houses. They were all leaking except for our 12 houses. He asked my elder brother what his construction formula was. My brother said, ‘Sir, my formula is honesty and sweat. I have not cheated in cement or steel. I have stood here and I have got these roofs cast myself. That is why they are not leaking.’
The manager was quite impressed. He called my brother to his office and asked him, ‘How many houses do you want to build?’
My brother said, ‘If the price is right and there is no corruption, then I can build 1,000 in one year.’
The manager said, ‘We can’t give you that big a contract. We have given the others the responsibility of building 400 houses; we can give you the task of constructing 400 houses too.’
Thereafter, there was no looking back.21
Today Lakhmichand Bahirwani is an extremely successful businessman, based in Cuffe Parade, Bombay.
The Sindhis’ enterprise, determination and never-say-die spirit are best exemplified in the numerous institutions that they have set up in India after Partition – housing colonies, schools, colleges, hospitals, senior citizens’ homes and dharamshalas - not just in Sindhi-dominated areas such as Adipur-Gandhidham, Bairagarh and Ulhasnagar, but in many major Indian cities.
This resilience – to get back up in the face of a calamity, to go about the business of rebuilding their lives and then give back to society – is the older generation’s most inspiring legacy to the younger generation of Sindhis.
The Dispossessed
Yet there were some Sindhis who remained outside the circle of those who were able to rebuild their lives in India, Sindhis who keenly felt the loss of their homes, their hometowns and their homeland.
Many elderly Sindhis who had spent their careers working for the government now faced great problems in terms of their pensions, which had to be transferred from Karachi to Bombay. The delay in resolving this issue between the two dominions froze pension disbursements and as a result, these pensioners were obliged to spend months, and sometimes years, without any source of income.22
My maternal grandfather, Dharamrai Shivdasani, worked in the Sindh High Court as the official assignee and official trustee. He was also administrator-general of Karachi, before he retired in August 1947. According to my maternal aunt, Ratna Thadhani, his arrears of pension took many years to materialise, despite his senior position. She recalls:
Baba’s arrears of pension and provident fund came very late, in 1962. After I finished my law degree, I used to work for some years in the income tax office. The provident fund office was right next door. I knew someone in the provident fund office, who took me to her workplace. From my experience in the income tax office, I knew how most government organisations worked. They would put important papers at the bottom of a pile and claim that the papers could not be found. They would take many lunch, tea and coffee breaks, and work very slowly. I personally sifted through several piles till I found my father’s papers and finally got the work done. I was able to get his pension, but I don’t know how other people managed.23
The vic
issitudes of Partition also brought to the fore an amazing degree of equanimity in this older generation. Faced with major upheavals in their lives, many of them, who had inherited a Sufi-flavoured tolerance, displayed admirable grace under pressure, and formidable fortitude. Many Sindhis say that their parents never complained about having to leave Sindh, or having to start life over as a refugee when they were well past the prime of their lives, but instead were grateful to God for their lot. Their ‘gentle stoic acceptance’,24 to quote the writer Saaz Aggarwal, in the face of extreme adversity is also a significant thread running through Ram Panjwani’s short stories, Anokha Azmooda. S. K. Kirpalani, the then secretary for relief and rehabilitation, says:
…I went to inspect Sindhi refugee camps at Bombay. On rounds in one camp, Director Mula Gulrajani mentioned that one inmate had known me personally for many years. Almost all the refugees had come out in the open to meet me and discuss various problems. But the man we looked for was nowhere in sight. So I went to his assigned quarters. There was Punwani with his wife and two children huddled in the room of a mud-hut dormitory. The room was no more than ten feet square and devoid of furnishings but for two hempstring beds and a reed curtain at the door. Punwani had been a neighbourhood kid and a school colleague. He quit at an early stage and went abroad with Sindhi merchants. He made good and flourished. In December 1944, on the way back from Buenos Aires, I had met him at Trinidad and went to have a drink at his house. He had a beautiful bungalow near the European Club which was eloquent testimony to his status. He said then that he had been away from his home town for three decades, had amassed more wealth than he had dreamt of, and was now in the process of winding up and returning to India. Good as his word, he reached his home town in a few months with over $200,000 in cash and invested it all in attractive landed property. In January 1948 he had to get out at very short notice with just two small weather-beaten tin trunks. For him life had turned full circle. He was penniless. But he was dry-eyed and articulate. He was grateful to the good Lord that he and his family had escaped unhurt. One could not help admiring such massive calm in adversity. But having met and mixed with Punwani in his palatial abode in Trinidad, I could not fail to be hurt by the tremendous tragedy reflected in his eyes. Punwani asked for nothing: [he] added that the camp was running better than might have been expected in the circumstances. That meeting with Punwani will never be erased from my mind.25
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