Communal discrimination continued – and still continues – to pervade all levels of Pakistani society and manifested itself in myriad subtle ways – in schools and colleges, jobs and businesses, in social circles. Hindus who did not even plan to migrate found that their houses and agricultural lands were being classified as evacuee property.
Hindus were also subjected to the vagaries of Indo-Pak relations, being victimised when the political situation worsened. For example, worsening inter-dominion relations, especially during the battle for Kashmir and later, the princely state of Hyderabad, contributed to upsurges of violence against the minorities in both East and West Pakistan. India’s occupation of Hyderabad led to riots in Sukkur in September 1948, where 19 Hindus were injured and two killed. The evacuation of Hindus from Sindh was then suspended temporarily.
In these times of ferment, class bonding, especially in the upper classes, saved several Hindu lives. Hari ‘Dilgir’’s existence in Pakistan was greatly eased by the power and the influence that he wielded as a well-placed engineer and poet. Similarly, Baldev Gajra was able to make a quiet and timely exit from Pakistan thanks to his contacts in the government who gave him timely warnings. Yet, the protection that class offered had its limitations; Pribhdas Tolani and Kewalram Shahani were victimised precisely because of their wealth, and ultimately even Hari ‘Dilgir’, despite his top-level connections, spent years feeling like a second class citizen, and felt compelled to migrate.
Those Sindhi Hindus who were not wealthy and influential, and did not have the protection of class, were considerably more vulnerable; the threats and intimidation they were sometimes subjected to were more naked and menacing. The writer, Kirat Babani, had moved to Karachi, where he survived the riots of 6 January. Here he recalls his return to his hometown Nawabshah in 1949:
I went on a tour of my beloved village. […] All the families from the Hindu neighbourhoods had migrated. The houses were either abandoned or had been usurped by muhajirs. The frames of doors and windows had been removed and burnt. There were piles of garbage everywhere. I saw plenty of urine and excreta on the roads. Flies were buzzing around heaps of dung. I felt very sad, very troubled.
[…] One day, while roaming the city, I met Allah Dino. He used to study with us in the same school. We used to laughingly call him ‘Dino’. He was a worthless, good-for-nothing fellow, quarrelsome and blunt. His fighting had earned him many strokes of the master’s cane. The monitor could not cane him himself because Dino would hunt him down and beat him up after school.
Dino saw me and shouted, ‘Vaaniya! You are still living in Pakistan? You haven’t migrated to India yet? Don’t you value your life?’
I merely smiled, and didn’t feel the need to answer. Such people were nurtured by the Muslim League, and were receptacles of its poisonous teachings of communal malice.20
Apart from Hindus, there were other minorities in Pakistan who felt threatened, such as Parsis and Christians (many of whom were scheduled castes who had converted to Christianity). Several Jews had left Pakistan after Partition, expecting to be at the receiving end of communal discrimination. Mohan Makhijani, the Karachi Port Trust employee, had got the idea of staying on board the ship from the Irish inspector Hanagan. According to Makhijani:
A few weeks after migrating to India, I was walking down the street in Bombay one day, when I bumped into, of all people, Hanagan. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked him. ‘I’m Jewish,’ he replied, ‘Jews have no future in Pakistan. I had to leave.’21
Christians and Parsis also faced communal discrimination, though to a lesser degree. G. M. Syed, referring to his friendship with Gool Minwalla, a Parsi social worker and philanthropist, writes of how communal prejudice proved to be a stumbling block in her social work:
After August 1947, hatred, religious intolerance and small-heartedness stoked by the ruling elite and the maulvis came to be experienced by every non-Muslim or any Muslim who criticised or opposed the creation of Pakistan.22
Yet not everyone from the minority community felt discriminated against. My mother’s maternal cousin, Bhagwan Advani, was a small boy of six when Partition took place. Although Bhagwan Advani was initially sent to Bombay with his grandparents, he and his older sister returned to live with their parents in Karachi, where his father had a flourishing marine insurance business that he did not want to uproot. The family lived in a comfortable bungalow on Clayton Road in Bunder Road Extension. Advani, who was too young to have memories of his pre-Partition neighbours, recalls that later the families who lived on this road belonged to Pakistan’s business and political elite, and they were good friends with him and his family. He would play with their sons, and get invited to their homes for meals, even though his mother would worry about him every time he went out. ‘If I said that I would be back by five pm, she would start worrying by 4:45 pm.’ During the 1965 war with India, his mother, living alone in Karachi, left the bathroom light on by mistake during a blackout. When the police arrived to arrest her, various Muslim neighbours came out to dissuade them, explaining that she would not have done so deliberately; they managed to stall her arrest.
Advani recalls that that there were only two other Sindhi Hindu boys, and no Sindhi Hindu teachers, in his school, St Patrick’s High School. According to Advani, ‘Since the minorities in Pakistan were very few in number, they were a scared lot. They minded their own business, and were careful not to ruffle feathers.’ Advani claims that he did not face any discrimination; he was appointed school prefect as well as editor of the school magazine. Yet he admits also that his History teacher would often make him read aloud from the textbook, and if there was anything about Kashmir or India, the entire class would turn to look at him.
Advani moved to Bombay in 1962, because the future – Advani’s education, work and marriage prospects, as also his sister’s, and the post-retirement scenario for his father – looked dim for a Hindu in Pakistan. Although he emphatically states that he had a good and happy childhood growing up in Karachi in the 1940s and 1950s, he also says that he felt a little more comfortable in India. ‘I never really felt like that in Pakistan, there was always a little fear.’23
Jiyaldas Ramnani (Mehrumal Ramnani’s uncle) says that his family had decided to stay on in Sindh after Partition. He recalls that they lived in their native village of Wakro till 1950 or so, when there was an incident of communal violence which obliged them to shift to Larkana city. While Hindus were in a minority, Ramnani says he didn’t feel it so much, since there were still about 500 Hindu houses left in Larkana. At school, there were very few Hindu students, the rest being either Sindhi Muslims or muhajirs. Ramnani recalls playing with both Hindu and Muslim friends, with no sense of discrimination. In his words:
The Muslims were mostly good people. There were a few bad apples over there, like there are over here. They would pass comments about us Hindus, but only indirectly. Otherwise, there was no trouble at all. We had good friends among the Muslims.24
Ultimately, however, Jiyaldas Ramnani chose to migrate because of an underlying sense of fear. Although his textile store was doing well, he was reluctant to expand and buy more shops or property. He was apprehensive about becoming conspicuous in the eyes of the Muslim majority public. He and his family migrated in 1971, and subsequently settled in Ulhasnagar.
It is important to remember that many Sindhi Hindus continue to live in Pakistan. While they may experience communal discrimination to some degree, many of them actively choose to live there.
A Woman’s Perspective
Like Jiyaldas Ramnani, Hiroo Pamnani also recalls a relatively problem-free life in post-Partition Karachi. In 1947, Hiroo Pamnani was a 10-year-old girl living a large joint family in Karachi. She and her brother were sent with her father’s brothers and their families to Bombay, while her parents and grandparents stayed on in Karachi.
In 1955, however, Hiroo and her brother went back to Karachi since they wanted to be with their parents. After her grandfather also mov
ed to India, her parents moved into a house in the Hindu colony in the Swaminarayan Temple compound in Karachi. They had no other relatives living in Karachi by then. Hiroo Pamnani clearly says that she doesn’t recall an atmosphere of fear or tension. Only once, she remembers, there had been some communal incident in India, which had reverberations in Karachi. There had been some trouble in Karachi in 1957-58, just outside the Swaminarayan Temple, but nothing happened to Hiroo and her family.
The Carneiro Indian Girls’ High School, set up by Hindus in Karachi, had been converted after Partition into the Government College for Women. According to Hiroo, the founder-principal was an intelligent, modern lady from Lucknow by the name of Zeenat Rashid. She used to play tennis with Hiroo’s father, so he was able to get Hiroo admitted in her establishment with no difficulty. Hiroo was the only Hindu in the only-girls college; most of the other girls were muhajirs. She would commute to college by bus. Hiroo says that she faced no problems with her classmates. They used to go for picnics and movies, and generally had a good time. Things were peaceful as long as she didn’t discuss India or religion. One day, when Hiroo started discussing matters of faith, a classmate asked her not to speak of such issues. The college would have a couple of hours for religious training every week, which she skipped. Hiroo tells us that this was her only regret; she wished she had attended these classes and learnt about her classmates’ religion.
In 1957, Hiroo and her family moved back to Bombay. Her uncle’s stevedoring business in India was booming and he wanted more family members to help. Since Hiroo’s father had a good head for business, he was immediately summoned. Hiroo Pamnani says that she stayed in touch with some of her classmates even after moving to India.25
While Hiroo Pamnani had the freedom to commute to college by bus, and to go to movies and picnics with her friends, it is possible that this freedom was enabled by the fact that she was living in the more modern city of Karachi. In the interior of Sindh, life for Hindu women had become more cloistered. It was well after Partition that a number of abductions of Hindu women took place, often by Sindhi Muslims. In early June 1948, The Times of India, Bombay, reported that a deputation of Hindus of Larkana district, led by Pribhdas Tolani, president of the Hindu Panchayat, waited on Pir Ilahi Baksh, the premier, and requested him to take stringent measures for the return of abducted women in the district.26 (It is not clear how successful this deputation was.)
Nanki Daryani was the wife of Hari ‘Dilgir’ Daryani. She recalls how, as a 27-year-old Hindu woman living in Larkana, her world suddenly shrank and transformed after 1947.
Muhajirs had occupied our whole neighbourhood, our haveli. In the past, this used to be a Hindu neighbourhood. With time, ours became the only Hindu house.
After the arrival of the muhajirs, I stopped wearing coloured saris. If I did, everyone stared. My wardrobe now had only white saris.
Every fortnight, my husband would hold a mushaira, and invite poets and writers to our house. I longed to attend these sessions, but sitting with men was discouraged in Pakistan. There was a balcony upstairs; I would open the window and watch from there.
I stopped going out. I used to think, ‘Oh, it’s been so many months since I stepped out. I should see what our lane looks like.’ Once I had a toothache. My husband said, ‘Get dressed, let’s visit the doctor.’ On that pretext, I was able to see my parents’ house after ages.
Sometimes my husband would take me out for a drive, for a change of scene, but we could only do so in the evenings. The Rice Canal used to be just outside the city. It was under my husband’s supervision, and used to be our favourite spot. Each time we’d visit, I would say, ‘Let’s smell the rice. If we can’t get a whiff of flowers, at least we have the fragrance of rice.’ We would stop there for 15 minutes and take a walk, that’s all. Then we’d return.
There weren’t many Hindus to visit. There were a couple of Hindu houses in the vicinity after Partition. Then they left, as did all my relatives. We had nobody of our own, and were truly alone. I used to feel lonely, yes. There was no peace of mind. The only source of comfort was our pir.
How much things changed! Before Partition, there used to be a sense of belonging. There was no fear. Everything was cheap. We could walk freely, and could reprimand the Muslims who stared at us.
With Partition came fear. With Partition came confinement. Where once we were lions, telling people off, now we had to be subdued and deferential. We had to stop going out.
This is despite the fact that all the people in my husband’s office were our friends; all the Muslim officers were our friends; they used to support us, invite us for dinner. Despite this sense of surface belonging, we felt unsettled, unsure of our relationships. God alone knew what was inside the hearts of our new friends.
This used to trouble me most: that these people are not our own.27
For Nanki Daryani and countless other Hindus who stayed behind in Sindh after Partition, their deepest sorrow was that they had lost the Sindh of their past without even migrating. Despite the warmth of a few close friendships, their homeland had become an alien country. Shah Latif writes:
Tell me tales, oh thorn bush,
Of the mighty merchants of the Indus,
Tales of how they spent their thriving nights and days.
If you truly lament their loss, oh thorn bush,
Your branches would not blossom so.
How old were you, oh thorn bush,
When the river was in full spate?
Have you ever met the likes of these merchants since?
In truth, the river is dry now,
And only weeds grow on its banks;
The merchants have lost their power,
And the tax collectors have departed.
There are hardly groups of people to be seen.
The river is not the same any more:
The fishermen predicted this.
Studying the water’s flow,
They have steered their boats away.
Oh fish! You did not return when the river was full,
Why do you think to return now?
You will be caught.
Today or tomorrow you will fall into the fishermen’s nets,
The fishermen have blocked your path now.
You have become big and lively, oh fish,
But the white surf on the water is on the wane.28
Notes
1.The Times of India, Bombay, 25 January 1948.
2.Census of Pakistan, 1951, as quoted in Ram Amarlal Panjwani, The Sindhi Situation in Partitioned India, p 18.
3.Mehrumal Ramnani, interview, April 2001.
4.See Joya Chatterji, The Spoils of Partition, pp 171-172.
5.The Times of India, Bombay, 19 June 1948.
6.For other accounts of how India’s occupation of Hyderabad revived communal antipathy in Pakistan, see Sri Prakasa, Pakistan: Birth and Early Years; and Kamla Patel, Torn from the Roots.
7.J. P. Vaswani, Sadhu Vaswani: His Life and Teachings, pp 248-255; and Jayant Relwani, ‘Sadhu Vaswani: Virhange Jo Dard [The Pain of Partition]’, in Virhango, pp 336-345.
8.Baldev Gajra, Zindagi-a Ja Varqa, pp 14-17.
9.Ram Mamtani ‘Naval’, Jeevan Hik Jidojehad: Atmakahani, p 108.
10.Jagdish Mukhi, interview, July 2013.
11.As quoted in Lata Jagtiani, Sindhi Reflections, p 361.
12.Hari ‘Dilgir’, ‘Virhange Je Vehkare Mein’, in Virhango, p 264. My translation.
13.Hari ‘Dilgir’, Cholo Munhinjo Chik Mein, pp 54-55. My translation.
14.Hari ‘Dilgir’, ibid, pp 58-59. My translation.
15.Hari ‘Dilgir’, ibid, p 60. My translation.
16.Hari ‘Dilgir’, ibid, p 61. My translation.
17.Hari ‘Dilgir’, ‘Virhange Je Vehkare Mein’, pp 280-284. My translation.
18.Hari ‘Dilgir’, Cholo Munhinjo Chik Mein, p 71. My translation.
19.Sarla Kripalani, interviews, September and October 1997.
20.Kirat Babani, Kujh Budhayum, Kujh Likayum, pp 150-151. My translation.
21.Mohan Makhijani, interview, April 2009.
22.G. M. Syed, Janab Guzariyum Jin Seen, p 333. My translation.
23.Bhagwan Advani, interview, February 2009.
24.Jiyaldas Ramnani, interview, September 2013.
25.Hiroo Pamnani, interview, July 2013.
26.The Times of India, Bombay, 8 June 1948.
27.Nanki Daryani, interview, November 1997.
28.Shah Abdul Latif, Sur Dahar, Dastaan 1, Baits 1 to 10. My translation.
Epilogue
The story of Partition is one of great irony. Millions of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims sought to wall off the ‘other’, thinking that this was the solution to communal conflict. Refugees – whether they came from India or Pakistan – crossed the border hoping to find a haven, but instead discovered new difficulties in their adopted countries. In the arduous process of starting a new life in a new land, they often faced a variety of problems from the very people they viewed as their ‘own’: a government that could be unfeeling and local coreligionists who could be unsympathetic, if not hostile.
Embedded in the saga of Partition is the sordid story of a ruthless race for real estate. This was the subtext for many conflicts between not only different religious communities, but also refugees and locals belonging to the same religion. In several instances, property was the motivation for communal violence against minorities and their subsequent expulsion. Just as Hindu and Sikh refugees from West Punjab ousted Muslims from their homes in Delhi, muhajirs ousted Hindus in Karachi and Sindhi Hindus ousted Muslims in Gujarat. While some Hindus of Mewat coveted the agricultural property of the Meos, some Sindhi Muslims eyed the lands of Sindhi Hindus. In Pakistan, Sindhi Muslims clashed with muhajirs and later Punjabis, and Sindhi waderos clashed with Sindhi haaris – all for Hindu property. A similar situation prevailed in India, with Sindhi Hindus vying with Gujarati Hindus for Muslim property. This violent lust for land was common across all religions, ethnicities and classes.
THE MAKING OF EXILE Page 46