My father carried Thul all his life. And now, quietly, I carry it too.

Neelam Malkani | Bhopal

The screen flickering with the raw, rhythmic chaos of Lyari or the gritty heroics of Dhurandhar turned out to be more than entertainment to me. While the cinematic pulse of Pakistan’s streets fascinates me, it serves as a vibrant lens for a quieter, deeper ache: my father’s unfulfilled wish to return to his birthplace—Thul, Jacobabad.

For me, Thul is a dot on a map and a collection of stories. For my father, it was the origin of his soul. He spoke of the Sindh heat, lanes, people and the specific scent of the earth before monsoon. These weren’t just memories; they were fragments of an identity severed by the lines of Partition. He lived his life across borders, always planning a trip with his children to his birth place: Not to reclaim anything. Not to prove a point. Just to stand there. To see if the streets still remembered his footsteps. But the gravity of time and politics eventually made it impossible. His longing wasn’t a loud lament, but a “quiet hum” that stayed with him until the end.

I watched the “Dhurandhar” of the screen navigate the dusty, resilient alleys of the modern-day Sindh region, I am looking for him. I am squinting at the background of the frames, wondering if the light in Thul falls the same way, or if the grit on the screen matches the dust he once brushed off his shoes as a boy. It is a strange inheritance—to feel homesick for a place I have never seen.

Partition is often discussed in numbers: deaths, migrations, trains, dates. But in my house, it lived as an unfulfilled wish. A wish postponed by visas. By politics. By time. My father never crossed that border again. And now, he never will. So the fascination passed on to me as inheritance. A second-hand yearning for a place I have never seen, yet somehow miss. Thul lives in my imagination now-stitched together from films, fragments, and my father’s silences. I know it will never be accurate. But perhaps accuracy isn’t the point. Some places are not meant to be visited again. They are meant to be carried. My father carried Thul all his life. And now, quietly, I carry it too.

Read: Saving Sindhi from Silent Disappearance

_____________

Neelam Malkani is an educator and writer. She is based in Bhopal, the capital city of India’s Madhya Pradesh State    

The post Dreams of a Distant Homeland first appeared on Sindh Courier.

On 14 August 1947, the Citizens’ Celebrations Committee had erected sixteen ceremonial gates along the route. Each one bore the name of a distinguished citizen – political leaders, religious figures, intellectuals and national heroes. One of the sixteen was a Hindu – Dr. Hemandas Wadhwani.

Saaz Aggarwal

On 14 August 1947, the day Pakistan came into being, Karachi was swept up in jubilant celebration. A three-mile state procession wound its way through the city, led by Viceroy Louis Mountbatten and Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the Quaid-e-Azam – Great Leader – of the new nation. Military units lined the route of the procession, while overhead, fighter planes dipped in salute. Crowds gathered at every corner – cheering, waving, witnessing the birth of a country.

To mark the occasion, the Citizens’ Celebrations Committee had erected sixteen ceremonial gates along the route. Each one bore the name of a distinguished citizen – political leaders, religious figures, intellectuals and national heroes – among them three future Prime Ministers of Pakistan, pioneering voices of the Pakistan Movement, spiritual heads of major communities, and iconic city-builders.

One of the sixteen was a Hindu – Dr. Hemandas Wadhwani.

An eminent but forgotten Wadhwani

I came across his name quite by chance while working on the family history of a Wadhwani family, and was intrigued. A few older relatives with memories of Sindh had mentioned Dr. Hemandas – a medical doctor with a practice in Jacobabad. Some thought back with faraway expressions and vaguely recalled that he had once been a minister in Sindh.

Curious, I began piecing together his story through online searches and scattered mentions, and found more than I expected. Most striking of all was a Dawn report dated 15 August 1947, quoted by Khurram Ali Shafique on The Republic of Rumi website – which mentioned the sixteen ceremonial gates.

Who was this prominent Wadhwani, honoured on the day Pakistan was born – and now almost entirely forgotten? From news reports, gazetteer entries, and administrative records of the time, a shadowy picture emerged: that of a widely respected physician and high-ranking public servant. These findings enhanced the family memories.

What Kanu remembered

Kanu Wadhwani (1934-2022) was 84 when I first met him. He had lived in Jacobabad as a child where his father Hiranand (Dr. Hemandas’s father’s brother) was headmaster of the Municipal High School. He had fond memories of his well-settled older cousin, and the three-story family home with its arches, red pillars, wide verandas, and spacious rooms, overlooking the Begaree Wah. Dr. Hemandas’s clinic was in the house and several of the rooms doubled as a nursing home. When Kanu’s elder brother Moti contracted typhoid, the family moved from their government quarters to live in the family home, where a safe and comfortable convalescence was assured.

Kanu’s memories of his loving, always-cheerful uncle are balanced by Dr. Hemandas’s formidable reputation as a skilled and dedicated doctor across the Upper Sindh Frontier region and Baluchistan, where he was responsible for many social activities.

The esteemed doctor saab of Jacobabad

When devastating floods struck Jacobabad in 1929, Dr. Hemandas led the relief efforts. He was again at the forefront during the Quetta earthquake of 1935, in which more than forty thousand lives were lost from a population of sixty thousand.

He served as Honorary Secretary of the Indian Red Cross Society in Sindh, implementing global practices he had encountered while volunteering with the Red Cross Society Leagues in London and Paris. His MBBS degree was from Grant Medical College in Bombay, and he had enhanced his skills with specialized courses in diseases of the Ear, Nose, and Throat in Vienna. A long-serving member of the Jacobabad Municipality and Chairman of both the Sanitary and Primary School Boards, he also established a Child Welfare Centre in the town. One of its most beloved initiatives was the annual Baby Show – a joyful community event with a public health purpose.

Dr. Hemandas’s greatest motivation was to promote hygiene and nutrition across the region. Grateful families credited him with significantly reducing maternal mortality in Jacobabad and with training midwives who later served across Sindh. Perhaps it was his dedication that earned him the title Kaiser-e-Hind from the British colonial government.

One of his most enduring efforts was the establishment of Dow Medical College in Karachi. When Sir Hugh Dow, Governor of Sindh, laid the foundation stone of the college, he reportedly said of Dr. Hemandas:

His efforts were untiring; he would accept no discouragement, and it is certain that this scheme would not have been brought to the stage which we see today had it not been for his enthusiastic and dedicated work. I have done my best to second his efforts, but in my opinion the college might have been more appropriately named after him than after me.

As Dr. Hemandas rose to prominence across the province, he remained a kind and good-natured man – loved by his family and widely respected by the people of Upper Sindh Frontier and Baluchistan.

The rise to eminence

When Sindh was separated from the Bombay Presidency in 1936 and established its own government, he was put up as the candidate of the Indian National Congress from Jacobabad and won a resounding victory. He was appointed Minister of Health for Sindh, and his time was divided between Jacobabad and Karachi. In Karachi, he set up a nursing home next to his residence and the road was named in his honour: Hemandas Wadhwani Road.

Although the British government had postponed independence until the Second World War had ended, negotiations were already underway. Among the senior officials involved in these high-level discussions was Dr. Hemandas Wadhwani. Were these the reasons he was honoured as one of sixteen eminent citizens of Pakistan – with a ceremonial gate bearing his name on the day the country was born?

He stayed on as long as he could

Gradually, things began to change. Sindh had not been partitioned; Hindus had lived there as a peaceful and prosperous minority for centuries, and at first, there was no reason for them to leave. But Partition had created a tide of desperate new arrivals – refugees who had been promised a homeland, and who looked to Sindh to begin again.

Kanu’s family left in September 1947, after a traumatic incident in which their home was raided. He remembered his father walking calmly to the front door and opening it, as the police inspector in charge of the search entered. His terror turned to astonishment when the inspector bowed before Kaka and assured him that the house would not be searched. Hiranand had once been his school headmaster in Jacobabad – how could he violate the home of a man he still respected? But the officer pleaded with Hiranand to leave Pakistan, warning that it was becoming increasingly dangerous for Hindus.

It was Dr. Hemandas who arranged passage for the family on one of the ships evacuating non-Muslims from Karachi to Bombay. Kanu remembered his father weeping at the port, and others around him trying to console him, saying there was nothing anyone could do.

Dr. Hemandas and his family remained in Sindh until 1950. Who can imagine the shifts that finally forced them to leave – the disillusionment, the helplessness, the loss of all the goodwill and prestige he had built over decades of hard work?

Their first home away from Sindh was in Udaipur, where Dr. Hemandas was welcomed as personal doctor to the Maharaja, whose treatment he continued for nearly a year. It’s unclear how this association had formed, but the family had links to Udaipur – it had been the first port of call for several relatives after Partition. This included Kanu’s family, who were allotted two rooms in a large house known as Iron Bungalow, shared with seven other displaced Sindhi families – their first home as refugees.

From Udaipur, Dr. Hemandas moved to Indore, where he tried, unsuccessfully, to set up a business selling steel vessels for his son Moti. Eventually, he, Totibai, and their differently-abled son Gopal moved to Bombay. Moti, his wife Kamala, and their sons Vijay and Ashok – both born in Sindh – and baby Ravi, born in Jhansi, settled in Pimpri. In time, the family came together again in Colaba, Bombay.

Our family physician, the former Health Minister

Building up a professional practice takes years, and Dr. Hemandas was one of the thousands of illustrious Sindhi professionals who had lost everything and did not have the resources to start all over. In time, patients came – largely from families who had known him in Sindh. Many travelled from the refugee camps in Kalyan, a journey of nearly three hours, having complete faith in his treatment. Colaba had a large Sindhi population too. Dr. Hemandas established the Colaba Sindhi Panchayat and Bombay Sindhi Panchayat where medical treatment was provided free of cost.

Among the many Sindhi families who made Colaba their home was that of my grandfather, Presidency Magistrate K. J. Bijlani. That home in Colaba remained a center for gatherings and happy times for our family, all the way till 2003.

When I asked two of my uncles if they remembered Dr. Hemandas, it turned out that his home had been right nearby. To my amazement, they recalled him vividly – because he had been the family physician! However, they had not the faintest idea that he had once been an important public figure in Sindh. What they did remember, the kind of detail children are so likely to retain, was the lisp with which he spoke.

My uncle Hiru, who was born in February 1948 at the peak of post-Partition trauma (the family had migrated just months earlier in November 1947), had been sickly as a child. He remembered Dr. Hemandas as kind and reassuring. On phone consultations he would say, “Haa, haa, samjhi vyus – yes, yes, I understand”. Someone would then be sent over to collect the medicine he dispensed.

The Ramayana mix-up and the darbar servant

For some years I believed that in the completely altered life after Partition, Dr. Hemandas revived a tradition initiated by his grandmother Chetibai when he was a little boy in Sindh, encouraging him, “Ramayana ji katha budhaye – tell us a story from the Ramayana!” People would gather round to sit and listen when he did. This became a daily routine, and it gave the comfort of home to many who had carried on with stoic acceptance after their lives had been upturned.

However, in November 2024 I finally got the opportunity to meet Ashok Wadhwani, Dr. Hemandas’s grandson, who had grown up in the Colaba home and he was adamant that no such routine ever took place there! Kanu had passed on. There was no one else I could check with. Confused, somewhat sheepish that I may have got my facts wrong, I went back to Kanu’s recordings. Eventually it became clear that I had misheard. It was Rupchand, Hemandas’s father, whose Ramayana katha was so popular.

Seventy-four when Partition took place, Hiranand’s brother Rupchand resolutely stayed on in Sindh. His wife Jasoda and their brother Thakurdas were both no more. While most of the family left Sindh, Rupchand chose to stay. Long steeped in the life of contemplation, of “seeking the beloved” that was so common in Sindh, he moved to his darbar – a traditional Sindhi place of worship usually maintained by generations of a family – in Kambar. There, he swept the floors himself and referred to himself humbly as “Darbar jo naukar Rupo – Rupo, a servant of the darbar”.

After the pogrom of 6 January 1948, when mobs began attacking gurmandars, tikanos, darbars and other Hindu places of worship, moving from the cities into interior Sindh, the Kambar Darbar’s devotees fled as well. With help from its followers, the community reconvened in Kandivali, a suburb of Bombay. Some years later, Rupchand moved to live with his son – once the health minister of Sindh – now leading an unassuming life in Colaba.

The memory of the daily katha was not Dr. Hemandas’s – but it remains part of the family’s atmosphere of comfort, continuity, and reconstruction in a world turned upside down.

A lasting legacy – with an invisible donor

While in Bombay it is the memory of Dr. Hemandas’s gentle lisp that lives on, in Sindh his legacy endures – not only through infrastructure and institutions, but through a model of civic service, compassion, and professional excellence. His contributions to Dow Medical College, the Indian Red Cross Society’s work in Sindh, and the Jacobabad Child Welfare Centre, along with the public health practices he pioneered, continued to shape the region’s medical and social fabric long after his departure – and long after his name was erased from plaques and street signs.

Dr. Hemandas was one of many illustrious Hindus of Sindh whose work remained even as their names vanished from public memory. I felt a little better about this when my uncle Moti told me about Dr. Hemandas’s funeral procession: that it had been enormous, numbering hundreds.

The local population probably wondered what all the fuss was about.

Read: ‘Sunrise Over Valivade’: A historical record and an intimate family account

__________________

Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humour columns. Her books are in university libraries around the world, and much of her research contribution in the field of Sindh studies is easily accessible online.

Courtesy: Sindh Stories 

This article first appeared in Scroll on 15 August 2025

Images courtesy Ashok Wadhwani, Dr. Hemandas’s grandson.

The post A Gate that Rekindles Hemandas Memory first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Milind Teckchandani

It has been a long time since I last wrote a blog post. Apologies for this rather long gap but the truth is that I had run out of topics. I then also got busy serving our Local Sindhi Panchayat in Old Rajinder Nagar (where I am now the General Secretary) and hence writing took a backseat. However, it was always my intention to start writing again so I though why not (re) start now. A big thanks to my wife Monica who keeps nudging me every now and then to continue with the blog.

I recently went on a short two-day trip to Gandhidham to attend the condolence meet of an elderly relative “Ammi” who passed away at the ripe age of 101 years. All throughout my growing up years, my maternal aunt and her husband kept inviting me to come to Gandhidham but I always had one excuse or other thinking that it is too far away. When I heard about “Ammi”’s death, I had this urge to visit their home and within a short period, I was able to plan and visit them. As the saying goes “Jahan Chaah vahan Raah” (Where there is a will, there is a way). Given my interest in Sindhi identity, I have always read about how Gandhidham became a key city for post partition refugee Sindhis thanks to the efforts of Bhai Partap (Dialdas) and others who wanted to develop the twin cities of Adipur and Gandhidham as resettlement colonies for displaced Sindhi refugees. He was also instrumental in setting up of Kandla Port. It was his economic vision that led to an awareness of the concept of zones for duty-free export in independent India, and the establishment of the first such zone at Kandla. It is also perhaps the only place where Sindhis are still in sizable numbers and one can overhear/speak in Sindhi in most areas. In fact, since Gandhidham falls in Kutch area of Gujarat, Kutchi being the other commonly spoken language which many also count as a dialect of Sindhi. I have also grown up reading about the famous Indian Institute of Sindhology (IIS) established by prominent Sindhis to serve as a centre of excellence for Sindhi culture and traditions and the work of stalwarts like Prof. Pritam Varyani , Prof Sahib Bijani and others who had dedicated their entire lives to promotion and preservation of Sindhi identity.

I took a flight from Delhi to Ahmedabad followed by a 5-hour car journey from Ahmedabad to Gandhidham. Given work commitments, I reached Gandhidham at around 4 o clock in the evening and had to leave at 11 AM next day so that I could reach back Delhi by around 9 in the evening. Whilst I was there for a short 16-hour journey to meet family, there is something magical about Gandhidham that has stayed on with me. There is a very Sindhi vibe to the place.  Even at my relative’s place, most of the neighbourhood families were Sindhis settled there since partition. Like in the olden days, grief of losing a loved one is shared with ones near and dear ones with the community providing comfort and support and close friends/family gather every evening for a communal meal. These rituals will continue for the entire mourning period of 12 days. With Ammi’s firm belief in Tulsi Dham , a Sindhi Tikano in the city centre which is run by a Sindhi family of Udasi sect , Guru Granth Sahib was brought to the residence the next morning  and Paath initiated which will continue for the next few days. As the Paathi/Pandit is from Udasin sect, along with Guru Sahib’s homecoming, the path recital was preceded by Hindu Navgraha Puja. As many readers will be aware, Udasi sect was founded by Baba Sri Chand, the elder son of Guru Nanak, the founder of Sikhism. The Udasi sect’s religious practices are a syncretism of Sikhism and Hinduism. The morning Guru path was followed by serving of Sindhi breakfast of Daal Pakwaan which was cooked with the assistance of a Sindhi helper lady. I had to unfortunately board the taxi for my return journey soon thereafter.

Whilst in the taxi, I couldn’t help wondering where else (other than a Sindhi household) will I ever get to see Guru Sahib and Navagraha Puja together being held at the same time by a Sindhi speaking priest. In the current world of “either/or” identity, can there be a better example of a unique secular identity that we Sindhis carry! I hope the next generation of Sindhis get to experience our hybrid practices and infact take pride in our unique cultural practices. I plan to visit Gandhidham again soon hopefully for a longer period this time. I also pray to Lal Saeen to bless Ammi. Om Shanti.

I end with this lovely song sung by Delhi based singer Saeen Rajan Jhangiani remembering his mother, (Late) Smt. Leela Jhangiani who was also an accomplished singer. Titled “Mithi Amma” , this was released by Saeen Rajan and Radio Sindhi on Dadi Leela’s on her birth anniversary. I hope you like it as much as I did. The lyrics are by Hyder Chhajro.

Read: Are You Sindhi?

__________________

Courtesy: Sindhi Chokro Blogpost (January 16, 2025)

The post A visit to Gandhidham first appeared on Sindh Courier.

[Lekhraj Tulsiani was a prominent voice in Sindhi literature, well known for his short stories. Born in Sindh in 1919, Tulsiani’s early life was steeped in the rich cultural diversity of this region, then part of undivided India. Tulsiani’s world was dramatically altered by the partition of India in 1947. Sindh became part of Pakistan, and like many Sindhis, Tulsiani was forced to leave his homeland and migrate to India. This experience of displacement undoubtedly shaped his writing, and themes of loss, identity, and resilience can be seen in them.]

Manjri

By Lekhraj Tulsiani

The atmosphere of a moffusil court-of-law is not expected to be attractive. That of the Mirpur Khas court is no exception. A commonplace building, with no beauty of construction, no high tower, no big round pillars, no imposing dome.

As you enter the courtyard, there is nothing but dust to greet you and an air of desolation hangs all around. But in the midst of that desolation, there is a simple spot where one could rest for a while. In front of the court-house there are half a dozen large trees; four neem and two tali. That is the best resting-place in Mirpur Khas court.

Look at the trunk of each tree, its branches, its twigs—they are not trees, they are monsters! And the wind of Mirpur Khas! When the branches of those trees wave in the wind, monsters appear to be dancing!

Under one of the neem trees, Manijri was seated. She was a low-caste Kolhi girl, but there was magic in her eyes, a magnet in her limbs! The eyes of every passer-by were attracted to her. But today clouds of sorrow had gathered on her round face. The luster of her eyes had dimmed and her red lips appeared colorless. She wore a tattered skirt and her blouse could hardly conceal her brimming youth. Her chunni was waving in the wind. Her long hair, tied up with twine, fell disheveled about her face, and as she pushed it back an alluring delicacy was revealed. What natural grace! No need for any artifice or blandishment!

Opposite Manjri, about a hundred steps away, under a tali tree sat a young man, handcuffed, a policeman standing by with a musket on his shoulder. The youth did not appear to be over twenty-four years of age. He had a brown, sunburnt face, strong arms, and broad chest. He wore a dirty shirt and a coarse printed loincloth.

Manjri was glancing at him every now and then and lowering her eyes again. At times a long sigh escaped her. All her world was centered on that young man. Was he not enduring these difficult days on her account?

The young man, too, was looking at Manjri at frequent intervals, but there was no trace of suffering on his face. His looks were giving a message to Manjri: ‘‘Don’t lose heart, dear; even the scaffold would be my wedding couch, Manjri!”

At the call of the court, the policeman took the youth inside the building. After some time the naik loudly called thrice: “Is Musamat Manjri present?’’

Manjri, who was absorbed in her thoughts, was startled. She arose, collected her wits, and moved towards the courtroom. There was a strange fascination in her gait. The naik stared at her and twirled his moustache.

Manijri was a low-caste Kolhi girl, but there was magic in her eyes, a magnet in her limbs!

She entered the courtroom like a nervous deer, and all eyes as they were drawn to her grew wonder-struck. A voice said whispering, “What an attractive woman! Who would say she is a mere Kolhi girl? Look, how the woman walks—like a proud pea-hen!”

Manjri hesitated before the witness-box. The magistrate pompously ordered: “Get into the box, woman. What are you looking at?”

Manjri did not hesitate any more. She had come resolved to save Isro. Although she had no idea of the intricacies of law and the cross-examination of advocates, her firm resolve acted as a solace. She entered the witness-box and the court clerk administered to her the oath that she would speak the truth, nothing but the truth.

While making her statement Manjri faltered a little at first but soon got herself under control.

She began: “My parents were in debt to Mangal. In lieu of that debt, I was married to him. Mangal was an opium-eater and a debauchee. Every evening he used to take opium and come home in a semi-conscious condition. Every night he used to oppress me, and on my refusal to satisfy him he used to beat me up. He thrashed me more and more violently every day. After three months the house became hell for me. But I was newly married and bore everything with patience.”

“One midday I was carrying Mangal’s food to the field where he worked. Isro’s plot of land was near that of Mangal—just across the boundary. Isro was in his field, digging a water-course with his shovel. He had nothing on his body but his loincloth. He was exhausted digging with his shovel, and drops of sweat shone on his body. Broad chest, powerful shoulders and large sharp eyes. He was young and attractive. I stopped short. On the previous night, Mangal had beaten me severely and my limbs were aching. I called out to Isro and began chatting with him at random. He was not particularly interested in me. I induced him to come over to the shade of a tree. The water-course was running on one river and on its bank was a row of bushes. That’s how we knew each other, and our intimacy increased with each day. Isro never came to my house; I managed to meet him somehow or other. . .”

She faltered and added after a while, “In this case which Mangal has filed against Isro for seducing me, Isro is not to blame. He is faultless. It is all my fault and I am prepared for the punishment.”

One pleader remarked, “The whore has turned blind with love.”

Another said, “Can’t you give her credit for making her statement so boldly and frankly?”

The Magistrate smiled faintly and said to the advocates: “The time has come when women seducers should be punished instead of men seducers.”

The next day he delivered the following judgement:

“Although Musamat Manjri states—and there is a certain amount of sincerity in her statement—that it was she who seduced Isro and that Isro is not to blame, still from the legal viewpoint Isro is the culprit, because according to law man alone can be the seducer. Isro, the accused, has not defended himself and has confessed his illicit relations with Manjri—and on that account too he is the guilty one. But out of mercy, the court allots him the punishment of two months’ rigorous imprisonment only.”

Manjri’s eyes were involuntarily filled with tears. The lover for whom she had done so much, for whom she had shamelessly made such a statement in the open court—she had failed to save that devoted lover. She drew a long breath and looked at Isro. He was smiling faintly.

As the policemen were conducting him out, he passed by Manjri and whispered: “I am a man; the period of imprisonment will pass quickly, dear.”

In that single sentence, Isro poured out his whole heart to Manjri.

One pleader said to another: “Look, the slut is shedding tears for her illegitimate love.”

The other solemnly replied: “Friend, such love can’t be called illegitimate. This poor girl’s tears are also priceless, arising from the depth of her soul.”

The policemen took Isro away. With bowed head and faltering steps Manjri walked out of the court like a defeated soldier.

________________

Courtesy: Kalampedia (Posted on March 24, 2024)

Read: Sindhi Literature: Masoom Ilteja (Earnest Request) – A Short Story

The post Manjri: A Sindhi Short Story by Lekhraj Tulsiani first appeared on Sindh Courier.

• My grandfather was a civil engineer with a responsible senior position on the construction of the Sukkur barrage on the Indus River in Sindh.

Jyoti Bachani

Every family affected by the partition of India, to create the nation of Pakistan, in 1947, has grandparents with stories of the political divide of that time. Millions died, on both sides of the border, in a large needless human tragedy. The implications remain to date, not just in the politics of the region and countries but also in the human relations between the people. Even for the refugees who survived, the families bear the inter-generational trauma of the disruption and uprooting of their lives.

At the time of the partition, Goji maasi, my mother’s eldest sister, was a married woman, while my mother was not yet ten. Of the six sisters and four brothers in all, three were even younger than my mother at the time. They were all born in Sindh and lived in a large mansion with many servants, a car and a horse driven carriage called a tanga, and more than one horse, whose stables on the premises were called a tabela. My grandfather was a civil engineer with a responsible senior position on the construction of the Sukkur barrage on the Indus River in Sindh. Indus is a distortion of the local name of the river Sindhu, like Italy is for Italia. When the country was carved up, he had to make the difficult decision to relocate to the Indian side as a refugee. His three younger siblings with similar large and young families were on the Indian side of the new border so I suppose it was easier to uproot one family than three.

Even with American audiences unfamiliar with Dhamal, I have danced to it when Pakistani qwaals performed in the local Unitarian Universalist church once and more recently at my favorite Memorial Church on Stanford campus.

Although the countries were supposedly divided along religious lines, with Hindus in Hindustan, the vernacular name for India, and Muslims in Pakistan, there were more Muslims (94.5 mil) in India than in Pakistan (75mil, with 42 in current day Pakistan and the rest in East Pakistan that later became Bangladesh). Sindh is the land of Sufis where meandering saints sang and danced up and down the meandering Sindhu River and its tributaries. Locals worship Zinda Peer (living saint) also called the River God Jhulelal, often depicted as a sage riding a fish. He lived in the twelfth century and was a contemporary of Rumi, the better known Sufi poet. His real name was Syed Shah Hussain Marvandi but he was popularly known as Lal Shabaz Qualandar. His interfaith preaching led the locals to adopt him and give him the name Jhulelal. The river acted both as the super highway of the time and the force of nature it still remains to this day, despite the dams. Qwaals (choir-like group-singing with claps because instrumental music was haram amongst some Muslims) everywhere, even today, always end their devotional concerts with the best known dhamal — Dama Dum Mast Qalandar — in praise of Jhulelal. It is customary for audience to get up and dance in music-induced ecstasy and if they haven’t done it already, this old composition sung through the centuries would be hard to sit out in the always grand finale. Even with American audiences unfamiliar with this, I have danced to it when Pakistani qwaals performed in the local Unitarian Universalist church once and more recently last year at my favorite Memorial Church on Stanford campus.

Majority of Sindhis today are Muslims and the Sindhi language is written in a script similar to the Arabic one. However, my family, like several other Hindu Sindhis, worships in temples or gurdwaras, although the most common way is to worship at a domestic altar, with rituals individually selected and created, often by each member of the family. We have many devotees of Sai baba of Shirdi, another wandering saint from Maharashtra who most likely was a Muslim, and Dada Vaswani another holy man and living saint, along with a wide selection from the Hindu pantheon, represented in the domestic shrines. The only family religious rituals I have ever participated in are a rare Satyanarayan puja, literally prayers to the Truth God, on a full moon day, or a prescribed ritual say for housewarming or blessings on someone’s special day, say before their wedding or a big birthday, with a quick havan (fire worship) or Sukhamani Sahib path (prayers for Sukh/Blessings of Joy, chanted from the Sikh holy book). Religion is a personal individual choice for us. After spending the formative K-12 and undergraduate college years at Catholic institutions and the past fifteen years again at a Catholic college, and sending my son to Sunday school at the local church with our neighbors good friends, in practice I would qualify to be more Catholic than Hindu.

My grandfather’s two younger brothers were also engineers, one working with the Indian Railways and the other with a large industrial house, and his sister was a married homemaker. The migration from Sindh to India was piecemeal with married kids traveling separately, older unmarried ones traveling in batches, to stay with their uncles and cousins, and the youngest ones coming with the parents. The details of reunification and life in the refugee colony of Rajinder Nagar are limited. The school my mother attended was in tents and the ridge around the area was wild enough that an occasional big cat was a possibility and wolves were regularly heard at night. My grandpa built the first homes for the refugees there, with his engineer friends. By the time my mother grew up, married and had me, the occasional story of life from pre-partition days that were ever brought up in any family gathering were nostalgic and happy ones.

The Indus River acted both as the super highway of the time and the force of nature it still remains to this day, despite the dams.

As impoverished refugees, they lived in a small two room house. We were told that our eldest unmarried aunt, Gopi maasi, use to have her bed on a loft suspended above the bedroom, about 3 feet from the ceiling, where some trunks were stored by the time my cousins and I were kids. My mother’s four brothers lived together in that house and to this day, two of my cousins live in newer construction multistoried flats built on the same location as my grandmas two room home, loaded with family history.

Before I was ten, I have memories of attending the weddings of two of my mother’s younger brothers and two of her younger sisters, in that home, and then that of my cousin closest to me in age, who married early. She grew up in that home as my eldest uncle’s daughter. For weddings or if there was a newborn or similar special family time, a trunk from the store room would be opened to find a piece of appropriate fabric, typically, precious lace, sparkling brocade, Swiss voile or plush velvet or jacquard satin, to be tailored into something suitable to celebrate the special occasion. These pieces of fabric had been carried from Pakistan and were the only reminders of the past life of wealth. Like the Parsi community in India who recall their forced exodus from Persia over 800 years ago, Sindhis of my mother’s generation too would meet each other at social gatherings and always ask each other “Where in Sindh are you from?” It’s as much a way of keeping alive the memory of places left behind, as knowing the local variations: the Sindhis from Hyderabad or Karachi are city dwellers while those from Jacobabad are gothana — country folks or the finer distinctions that I don’t know between the bhaibands or Shikarpuris, and many others.

Read: We Leave A Country Behind, But We Carry Our Culture Within

From her childhood in Sindh, my mother had two stories that were recounted periodically. As a child under 8 year herself, she was carrying one of her younger sisters, Vimla. Somehow she had an accident near a coal fired cooking stove, so the baby sister fell face down on live burning coals. Vimla maasi sustained serious burns on the side of her forehead, and narrowly escaped damage to her eye, before an adult came to help. The doctor who treated her also became a refugee and my grandpa gave him one of the two pieces of land he got in Rajinder Nagar, to help him in hard times as he had done for him in Sindh. That is how my grandpa expressed his gratitude to the doctor. My maasi lives with that permanent scar just above her eyebrow on one side of her face. It has defined a lot of her life’s experience, right down to who she would be considered eligible to marry.

Goji maasi would tell us about how the street lights in Sindh used to be gas lanterns and every evening a man would come with a lit torch on a pole to walk the streets and light each one

The other story involved my mother as a kid walking along the river front to go from her home to her elder married sister Goji’s home, where she spent a lot of her time. A man approached her and offered her sweets if she would be willing to give him the bangles she was wearing. She liked the deal enough to accept the candy in exchange for her bangles that happened to be pure gold for she was a wealthy man’s daughter. The thief escaped quickly and when the candy was over, she started to cry. That’s how a friend of her father’s found her and recognizing her, brought her safely back home. Everyone was so relieved to have her back safely that no one complained about the lost gold bangles.

Goji maasi’s memory from Sindh was one of March of time. She would tell us about how the street lights in Sindh used to be gas lanterns and every evening a man would come with a lit torch on a pole to walk the streets and light each one. Nanki maasi was married to a wealthy judge’s son in Pakistan and when they moved to India, they too lost bulk of their wealth. Her husband went from being a tennis playing princeling to a government of India clerk, and he was considered a lucky one to have scored steady employment on relocation due to being from a well-connected family. His aspirations for his kids, my four older cousins, remained the best but their means were non-existent. There were whispered family discussions about how he was crazy to give his sons tennis lessons when he could barely afford the food rations for his family of five on his solo meager clerical income. My cousins were bright and while still in school, learned to generate their own pocket money by offering other kids tuitions. Two of them became doctors and one an engineer, with their only sister being a homemaker.

Only after I was all grown up and had relocated to America, and travelled to other countries, did I finally become curious about these family stories. Growing up, whenever these came up, we kids, my cousins and I, had zero interest in these repeated stories of the distant past. Such family folklore was strictly for the adults, who didn’t know how to play and have fun. Kids don’t get the concept of nostalgia. On my visits back to India, Lachu mama, my eldest uncle, would often bring out the old family photos and share some tidbits about the extended family, some of whom I was meeting in America and he had known as cousins when they were growing up together. While a student at Stanford, I met another student, a Sindhi from Sindh, and was surprised that there were Sindhi Muslims (no internet at fingertips in 1991). On my next visit to India, hanging out with Lachu mama, I said to him “I have only heard the stories of the big mansion in Sindh and the life left behind. We can go visit and see it all. Would you like to travel there with me?” His answer was quick and clear “No, thank you. Never going there and suggest you don’t entertain such mad ideas either”. Brought up to listen to our elders, I left it there. On a later visit, by when he was too old to travel, I tried to get the address and locations of the old places in Sindh. He was a school kid when they abandoned that life so he could only describe it the way we still navigate in the third world: there was a Gurdwara, and a hill, and you had to go past an open maidan (field) to get to the mansion, which is probably all gone by now anyway. That’s where the story ends. One of Lachu mama’s investigations into the family history had traced our ancestors to the 17th century kingdom of Surajmal in Rajasthan, where someone served as a minister. Sadly no one kept a trace of that work. The current family chart was created a few years ago by my son, based on many conversations with various uncles and aunts, and has about 150 cousins, mostly from my side of his family.

Where I live now has changed radically in the time I have been here and pace of change continues to accelerate. When I visit India and the locality where I grew up, I don’t recognize anything there. The dream of ever seeing where my mother or her siblings came from in Sindh, Pakistan, have long been abandoned. There is appreciation for what has stayed. My grandma’s house in Delhi, which I saw being rebuilt, is still there. My young nephew welcomes me to it with a “Jyoti Bua, you can sleep in my room”. My brain goes ‘kiddo, I slept here when I was younger than you are today, and my mother too grew up here when she was a kid’. But to him, I say “Thank you, I like your home. We can play the shadow game, if you sleep here with me”. The street light filters in through the window curtains and it’s fun to make up stories based on what shapes we can find in the shadows cast by it. Imagination is a refuge for the refugees and migrants. We carry the places within us in the stories we share when we can.

Read: My Nani’s Papad Container

____________________

Dr. Jyoti Bachani is an Associate Professor of Strategy and Innovation at Saint Mary’s College of California. She is a former Fulbright Senior Research Scholar, with degrees from London Business School, UK, Stanford, USA, and St. Stephen’s College, India. She translates Hindi poems, and has edited a poetry anthology called “The Memory Book of the Poetry of Diaspora in Silicon Valley.”

Courtesy: Medium (Posted on Sep 9, 2020)

The post Personal Price of Politics: Sindhis first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Nazarul Islam

The most pleasant memories in our lives tempt us to live in the past, at least for some time. These short-lived stories bubbling from moments in time have life-lasting effects, impacting how we view our past. It is not just the memories which haunt us. And most certainly, it is not what may have been written down. Simply put, it is what you may have forgotten, and not what you must forget. Perhaps, it is something which you may go on forgetting…all your life.

Truly, human memory is bizarre! When I first began to write my book ‘Chasing Hope’, my childhood memories of Dacca during the tumultuous year of 1971 had come flooding back to me— the small moments and the bigger ones, as well. Things I hadn’t thought about in years, and the other stuff that I’ve never forgotten. When I began to write it all down, I realized how much I had missed my childhood years. The more I had stressed myself to dig back, the tougher it turned out for me.

So, for the first time, seven years after the massive uprising and civil war (leading to independence of Bangladesh) had ended, I gathered enough courage to return “home”. This was September of 1979. I visited Dacca, the city of my birth and my infancy. I met my former neighbors and also my school friends since childhood. I could see the familiar sights and places, just another time!

I was particularly looking forward to reconnect with my childhood friend Tanvir Khan, to discover how we had fared—after separately being drawn to the real world challenges, accepting new ideas, new values and the visions we carried now—particularly, in the aftermath of a bloody war… and peace.

In these tumultuous seven years, all of us had obviously changed. Wars, famines, revolution, oppression and hard earned freedom alter human lives drastically. The fog of war and conflicts draw us to the safety of an imaginary net. My friends in Dacca had who survived the War of Liberation, had (in 1979) crossed over their boundaries of adolescence to evolve into fully mature men.

Adolescence is a sensitive age. Stuck in an upheaval, thrown into a bloody revolution, one may find himself sitting on a fence divided by hatred, trying to figure out which side carries a safety net

Most of them had acquired a decent, well rounded professional education, and were well on their path they had opted for— leading to success and prosperity. A few had returned from foreign countries, loaded with qualifications, energy and experience. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge. There was a lot to catch up, and share together.

Adolescence is a sensitive age. Stuck in an upheaval, thrown into a bloody revolution, one may find himself sitting on a fence divided by hatred, trying to figure out which side carries a safety net. Bad judgment could mean death or total destruction for me.

There is a critical error people make, which I thought I had also made, perhaps on the spur of the moment. In crisis, we hardly think or reason. There is the obvious pressure to get out of the mess. One does not waste time, taking chances. I liked to pursue the easy option, not calculating the real consequences. There is always a fog of confusion and a lot of uncertainty in wars.

I realized in life, that my wrong choices had to bear consequences—the stressful abandonment of available mainstream choices, as the catastrophic war of ‘71 had raged, giving way to another critical period of upheavals and hopelessness. The aftermath of a fierce revolution is always challenging for both, the winners and the losers. But, lives had then mattered in 1971 for 75 million Bengali souls, plus migrant outsiders, who were caught in the revolution.

Read: Did Pakistan Learn Any Lesson From The Debacle Of 1971?

Again, in the fog of my indecision at the close the war, there emerged yet another dark fog of my indiscretion. My siblings felt insecure, because our lives were under threat. Therefore, we must find ways and means to escape to another city say, Karachi, in a desperate search for the proverbial safety net.

To me these were my wrong choices that had thrown me and hundreds and thousands of those like me, to have landed on the wrong side of history and the revolution. And if it did, this would was a painful migration, which I would lead, followed my loved ones. Surely, this would impact my immediate priorities and my future.

In the last seven years, I could not pursue what my best friends had done, nor achieved what they did  —reason: I had been chosen to lead my flock of siblings and loved ones into an unknown land, full of heart broken people—brooding and shocked by  the impact of a lost war.

I had always wished I had walked on those dirt roads and narrow pathways of the land my mother had left for good in rural India, after the great Indian subcontinent was split in 1947

Faced with risks, I had to take a more responsible task of fighting the odds. My future seemed bleak in a new world that I hadn’t visited at all. I had only heard stories many times from my grandmother. Optimistic that I am, I relied in the plan’s feasibility. It would take a Herculean effort through three nations, borders and check points my siblings dreamed that we would jump start their lives, from another painful scratch, to be made more than a thousand miles west in a desert land, which had enjoyed an arid and hot climate. It was a bittersweet journey of hope.

I had always wished I had walked on those dirt roads and narrow pathways of the land my mother had left for good in rural India, after the great Indian subcontinent was split in 1947. She had migrated with my father in 1950, landing in the small city of Dacca. Separately, my uncles, aunts and grandparents had treaded different paths, to journey west, and arrive at the same destination.

They had done so at their own behest and choosing of time. Today, each one has made his or her departure to the final abode. My dead relatives now lie in the graveyards of Bihar, Dacca and Karachi. For five generations my ancestors lived as traveling nomads; they are called migrants, in today’s jargon. The reality is they migrated leaving their belongings, settled down, worked hard and prospered. Somehow, this prosperity had a short shelf life. They were uprooted, left their belongings again and moved on to the next destination. There is always a reason for every calamity,—and that is God’s will!

Decades later in the year 1981, I traveled to India, all the way to the small hamlets, and villages where my parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents were born, raised and had grown up to migrate one day, leaving their possessions and belongings to the new occupants of the homes they built.

I had set foot on the narrow pathways that were once treaded by many of my relatives, who have now passed away. I had walked those winding roads alone, this time. Often, at dusk when grey evening shadows had settled, it felt as though each one of the deceased relatives who had treaded this pathway had shadowed me, to help me not to distract myself. This was an unusual feeling which is deeply etched now, into my memory.

And that’s exactly what my quest has remained—an inquiry into my past, my people, my close relatives, loved ones who remain in my memories, making up the story of my life. The truth is that I couldn’t write about my present or the anticipated future, without writing about my life and events taking place in the small city of Dacca.

And even though I had carried forward my memories of a very small boy who had lived there, I have enjoyed the gift of my amazing aunt Asghari who at 98 years of age is a well-read person, literate enough to be called our family historian.

She had been my go-to person, who has filled in so many gaps in my memory. Aunt Asghari took me right back to the world of her comfort headed by her grandfather Molvi Syed Dawar Hussain, the Hakim and village wise man. He was a gifted, well-read scholar, who had compiled and retained the family tree of our last six generations—for the reference of posterity and their children that would follow!

As my book, Chasing Hope, went to the publishers, three years ago I had availed of the opportunity to return to Karachi to visit my extended family. Aunt Asghari then took me on another virtual journey of the Indian Railway, which we know built by the British colonists, nearly two centuries ago. She showed us the photographs of old train stations, and people.

She also shared some pictures of the graves of her grandparents and my great-grandparents, which she must have obtained through serious efforts. She told me so much of history that I had missed out as a child. Aunt Asghari had shared with me not only the past but she also helped me to understand the present.

So often, I am asked where my stories come from. I know now my stories are part of a continuum-my aunt is a storyteller. So were my mom and my grandmother.

And the history that Aunt Asghari showed me—the rich history that is my history—made me at once proud and thoughtful. The people who came before me had worked so hard to make this world a better place for me. I know my work is to make the world a better place for those coming after me. As long as I can remember this, I can continue to do the work I was put here to do.

On another difficult journey of writing my book, I devoted two complete chapters idolizing her for her kindness, love, affection and her sacrifices for her children. One day my mother had chimed that she had spent her toughest days of life in Karachi.

Read: When states lose direction and purpose

She performed her best in crisis, she washed dishes, cleaned her home, fed her children even though she was seriously incapacitated by disability and hardships. She was a brave woman. Even as I write this, I smile because my mother had the uncanny ability to always make us laugh, when she remained in pain.

I like to think I acquired a bit of her sense of humor.

I didn’t know my father well. In Dacca, he kept himself occupied in the small factory he owned. He produced an essential product for the household kitchen —kerosene fueled stoves. He had kept doing this, until his death in 1983, even though his loved ones had migrated to another country. Any letter sent to him would reach his address after three weeks.

He appeared to hide behind a feeling of guilt.

When I met him again in Dacca after a lapse of seven years. It was as though a puzzle piece had dropped from the air and landed right where it belonged. My father had remained that puzzle piece. I am trying to solve forty years after his demise in Dacca.

Gaps were also filled in by my dear friend Dr. Tanvir, who helped the journey along with pictures and stories.

When we were little, we used to say we would one day be old men together, sitting in rocking chairs remembering our childhood and laughing. We have remained passionate friends for nearly six decades today, and still call each other ‘My Blood Brother’. I hope everyone has a Forever Friend also in their life.

But at the end of the day, when I was alone, I always remembered my Blood Brother. I was always walking through these memories and making sense out of myself as a writer, in a way I had never done before.

I am often asked if I had a hard life growing up. I think my life was very complicated and very rich. Looking back on it, I also think my life was at once ordinary and amazing. I couldn’t imagine any other life. I know that I was lucky enough to be born during a time when the world was changing like crazy—and that I was a part of that change. I know that I was loved and still continue to be loved.

I couldn’t ask for anything more!

Read: Woes of Pakistan’s paralysis

__________________

The Bengal-born writer Nazarul Islam is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America. He is author of a recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his articles.

The post Memoirs: What’s left behind…? first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Chanda Bisht

The month of August always brings up mixed memories for those in the Subcontinent. While India celebrates its 78th Independence Day on August 15, Pakistan celebrates its formation a day earlier. These momentous dates not only mark Independence, but also Partition – the largest mass migration in human history, when an estimated 14 million people were displaced amidst a wave of communal violence in 1947.

The Partition of India brought freedom, but at the cost of millions of lives, scarring generations of refugees who had to leave their homeland and loved ones to survive in a new country. The foundation and roots of our Independence are steeped in blood and sacrifices.

Yet, amidst the bloodshed and violence, there are numerous stories of survival and resilience. Here, we feature five works of fiction by women authors that not only offer a window into societal upheavals during Partition but also capture the emotions and personal struggles of women, highlighting their strength in the face of conflict and displacement.

These powerful stories from those turbulent times allow us to witness the raw realities and unwavering spirit of those who lived through the horrors of Partition.

Independence

By Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

Independence (HarperCollins India, 2022, INR 499) by Texas-based author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni is a story of love, family and loyalty set in Bengal. It offers a moving portrayal of Partition through the stories of three sisters: Priya, Jamini and Deepa. The sisters experience the turmoil and upheaval of Partition together, providing readers with a deep and personal look at this pivotal moment in history.

The novel explores how the life of a Bengali family is drastically changed when their father, a medical doctor, gets killed in a riot. His daughters face challenges and losses that force them to navigate a world that has become alien and divided.

Their stories reflect the broader impact of Partition on individuals and families, highlighting the personal sacrifices and emotional struggles that accompanied the historical upheaval.

Through this book, award-winning and bestselling author, poet, activist and educator Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni delves into the true meaning of ‘independence’ and the price one has to pay for it.

Excerpt: “Now I see that meaning well counts for nothing. Only what happens in the end matters. “

Ladies’ Tailor

By Priya Hajela

Ladies’ Tailor (HarperCollins India, 2022, INR 399) by Priya Hajela is a gripping novel set against the backdrop of the partition of Punjab. Intricately weaving together a mosaic of stories, the book captures the essence of human resilience and hope amidst the chaos. Priya Hajela, through her vivid storytelling, brings to life the struggles and triumphs of ordinary people caught in extraordinary circumstances.

The story revolves around a tailor named Gurdev, whose life is torn apart by Partition. Forced to leave everything behind in the newly born nation of Pakistan, he embarks on a journey to rebuild his life and find his place in a new land. He sets up a small business of stitching ladies’ clothing with two of his refugee friends.

The individual stories of the characters reveal the harsh realities of the brutality that riots and violence inflicted upon them. Pune-based writer Priya Hajela, who holds an MBA from Vanderbilt University and MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College in Vermont, vividly describes these events, painting haunting images of blood dripping from train compartments and the horror of brutal deaths. The stark depiction of these atrocities is not meant just to shock but to highlight the immense suffering and the scars left on the survivors.

Each character’s story unfolds to show how they cope with loss, fear and the desperate hope for a new beginning. The novel paints a vivid picture of the challenges faced by those who had to start anew.

Excerpt: “She liked embroidery. It added to plain cloth beauty and depth that poetry added to simple words. “

Beneath Divided Skies

By Natasha Sharma

Natasha Sharma, a Pune-based software developer and fiction writer, made her debut this year as a novelist with Beneath Divided Skies (Vishwakarma Publications, 2024, INR 260), which brings out the reality of how brutally women are treated, and even used for revenge, during times of war.

The story revolves around Satya, a teenager, who witnessed her family being brutally killed. She observes the mayhem, abduction and riots caused in the name of religion. Though the book explores the lives of millions who were affected by violence and terror, it also endorses faith in humanity, seen through the vivid colours of friendship, love and kindness.

Satya falls in love with a Pakistani army officer, Iqbal Syed. After initial phases, the story brings Satya and Iqbal in close contact with each other. Knowing the fact that it won’t last long, the love story between Satya and Iqbal takes a courageous turn. Through flashbacks we learn how Satya lost her family and how she learns that her sister is missing. Her love for her sister makes her join an organization with the goal of rescuing women on either side of the border.

Read Book Review – Beneath Divided Skies: A Partition Love Story

The book showcases the courage and determination of a woman saving the lives of other women who are treated as no more than the property of men. As the story unfolds, Satya sets out on a journey tracking down women who have been abducted, risking her own life in undercover rescue missions.

Excerpt: “…how a line drawn haphazardly on a map could massacre so many dreams, extinguish so many hopes. And all of this, even before the ink had dried.”

Victory Colony, 1950

By Bhaswati Ghosh

Bhaswati Ghosh’s Victory Colony, 1950 (Yoda Press, 2020, INR 379) provides a compelling look at the lives of Bengali women migrants. It explores how Hindu Bengalis from East Pakistan, created by the partition of Bengal, struggled to rehabilitate themselves in the newly formed India, and how these refugees battled uncertainties and insecurities at every level.

It follows the story of a young girl who flees her village after losing her parents due to communal disputes and violence. Upon arriving at Calcutta’s Sealdah railway station, she tragically loses her brother in the chaos of crossing into India and embarks on a desperate quest to find him.

Based on the aftermath of Partition and the devastating effects on migrant Bengalis, the book also narrates heartbreaking incidents that forced the refugees to leave their homeland in East Pakistan. It vividly recounts how their mass migration dramatically disrupted the socio-economic, cultural and political landscape of West Bengal.

Through this depiction, the novel highlights the crucial role played by penniless refugee women, who, alongside men, worked tirelessly to establish their own colony and carve out a path to independence.

At the same time, it addresses another form of division – an “us versus them” mentality within West Bengal between locals and refugees – and portrays the challenges that beset migration in any century.

Bhaswati Ghosh, a writer and translator based in Ontario, Canada, received the Charles Wallace Trust Fellowship for Translation for her earlier work, My Days with Ramkinkar Baij.

Victory Colony, 1950 is her first book of fiction. It is extremely relevant in today’s scenario, when a violent political upheaval in Bangladesh has created tremors of a refugee crisis for India as well.

Excerpt: “A woman is the best piece of meat for all hungry men – rioters, criminals, political leaders… For her to lose her home, hearth, family, is never enough. She must lose her final, and sometimes, her only belonging – the freedom of her body.“

The Moon from Dehradun

By Shirin Shamsi

This book stands out in our list as the only one written for children. The Moon from Dehradun: A Story of Partition (Atheneum Books, 2022, USD 18.99) by US-based author Shirin Shamsi won the South Asia Book Award for Children’s & Young Adult Literature in 2023 and several other recognitions.

Based on the real-life experiences of the author, whose own family left India during Partition, the story delves into childhood fondness for cherished possessions and their curiosity about the world around them.

The protagonist is a young girl named Azra who is forced to leave her home in Dehradun during Partition. Azra always carried her beloved doll, Gurya, everywhere she went.  She believed that even when she travelled far from home, Gurya would somehow follow her. One day, just before dinner, her father rushed in and told the family they had to leave immediately. In the ensuing commotion and rush to Lahore, Azra accidentally leaves Gurya behind.

This heartfelt tale captures young Azra’s journey of loss and hope, highlighting her courage and resilience as she navigates through the chaos of displacement. Despite the violence and upheaval around her, Azra’s innocence shines through.

This perspective brings a unique and touching view to the story, illustrating how children are affected by broader conflicts, holding on to their own small hopes and dreams. Shirin Shamsi’s narrative, paired with Tarun Lak’s captivating illustrations, makes The Moon from Dehradun a moving read that resonates with readers of all ages.

Excerpt: “Even if it’s on a train that will take her far away from the house her family has lived in for generations. Even if there is a new flag flying in Dehradun, and no place left in it for Azra. At least she will be taking a piece of home with her.”

_______________

Courtesy: eShe, an independent South Asian media platform that amplifies women’s voices and stories of our shared humanity- (Posted on Aug 8, 2024) 

The post 5 books on Partition highlight hope amidst conflict and the human cost of Independence first appeared on Sindh Courier.

When it was redrawn 

In August 1947

My mom couldn’t allocate

A separate room for me.

Nari Lachhwani, an eminent poet and singer from Bairagarh, Bhopal, India, shares his poem

Nari Lachhwani, born in a refugee camp and based in Bairagarg (Hirdaram Nagar), Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh state of in India, is a seasoned poet, singer and actor. His parents had to migrate to India leaving ancestral abode in Sindh due to partition of subcontinent in 1947. He served at All India Radio as announcer and is a well-known figure in literary and performing art circles of India. He has performed in dozens of stage plays and some movies, and also released some music albums. Mr. Nari Lachhwani continues his literary, social and cultural activities even today.       

My Mom, My Home, and Me

My mom seems deaf and dumb

Can’t feel even my agonies

Nor can she hear my cries

How can I perceive!

My home shrank a lot

When it was redrawn  

In August 1947.

My mom couldn’t allocate

A separate room for me

As my siblings

Hurriedly occupied the rooms

And put their nameplates on the doors.

Apparently there is no restriction on my roaming around

In any room or courtyard of the home

But whenever 

I look at the rooms of brothers

And the nameplates hanging thereon

I feel depressed, harassed

Lose my spirit of belonging.

Whenever I tried to renovate

Any corner of the redesigned home

The kinsmen frown at me with disapproval  

I feel their unwelcoming stares.

Sometimes I’m dubbed as refugee,

Thief, dishonest, profiteer, Cheat

And such other ‘Titles’.

This is what happening in my own home!

I, even heard them as saying

My mother didn’t give birth to me.

I was adopted, and brought to this home

From somewhere else!

Alas!

I can’t see any expression on mom’s face

To ascertain the truth.

Why she keeps mum?

Does it mean my brothers’ contention is true?

Perhaps yes, as my name too looks different from them

It’s diverse,

Of those, inhabitants of some other land!

Is it true that my mom isn’t my biological mother?

With such a mind-boggling question

How long I will keep

Staring with sense of deprivation

At the nameplates

Hanging on the rooms of my home!!

[Translated from Sindhi language into English by Nasir Aijaz]

____________  

     منھنجي ماءُ ، منھنجو گھر ۽ مان

ناري لڇواڻي

منھنجي ماءُ گونگي آھي

منھنجا دک – درد

آھون ۽ داھون

ڏِسي ٻُڌي بہ ٿي

يا نہ؟

پتو نٿو پويم.

 آگسٽ 1947 ۾

جڏھن اسانجي گھر جو

نئون نقشو بڻيو تـ

گھرُ

ذرا ننڍو ٿي ويو

اُن ۾ امڙِ

فقط مون لاءِ

ڪو الڳ ڪمرو ڪونہ رکيو

۽

سڀني ڀائرن

جھٽ پٽ ڪري

پنھنجي پنھنجي ڪمري تي

پنھنجي نيم – پليٽ (name-plate)

ٽنگي ڇڏي

گھر جي ڪنھن ڪمري ۾

يا

اڱڻ ۾

اچڻ – وڃڻ ۽ رھڻ لاءِ

حالانڪ،

مونکي ڪا ظاھري روڪ ٽوڪ ڪانھي

پر،

ڪمرن تي لڳل ڀائرن جي نيم – پليٽن تي

نظر پوندي ئي

ھيسجي ٿو وڃان

ڪيٻائڻ ٿو لڳان

جڏھن بہ

گھر جي ڪنھن ڪُنڊ کي

سينگارڻ – سنوارڻ جي

ڪوشش ڪندو آھيان

تـ

گھر وارن جا ڀِروُن

کڄي ويندا آھن

سندن نظر ۾ بہ

ڪجھ ڦيرُ ڏسڻ ۾ ايندو اٿم

ڪڏھن ڪڏھن

مونکي

‘شرڻارٿي ‘

‘ چور ‘ , ‘ بي – ايمان ‘

‘ منافعاخور ‘ ، ‘ ڏنڊِي مار ‘

۽

 ٻين بہ ڪيترن ئي

لقبن سان

نوازيو ويندو آھي

پنھنجي ئي گھر ۾ ھيءُ حال ؟

مون ، کين

ائين بہ چوندي ٻڌو آھي تـ

مون کي ، ماءُ

پنھنجي پيٽان نہ ڄڻيو آهي

ھن نئين گھر ۾

ڪنھن ٻئي ھنڌان

گود ۾ کڻي آئي ھئي

افسوس

مان

ماءُ جي پيشانيءَ تي

سچُ يا ڪوُڙُ پڌرو ڪرڻ واري

ڪا لڪير بہ نٿو ڏسان

ھوءَ

خاموش ڇو آهي ؟؟؟

ڪِٿي…….

منھنجا ڀائر ۽ گھر جا ٻيا ڀاتي

سچُ تـ نٿا چونِ ؟!

ھا ،

منھمجو نالو پڻ

گھر جي ٻين ڀاتين کان

ڪجھ الڳ ئي آھي…..

اھو تـ برابر

ڪنھن ٻي جاءِ تي

رھڻ وارن ماڻھن جو نالو آھي

تـ ، ڇا……؟

سچ پچ __

منھنجي ماءُ

منھنجي سڳي ماءُ نہ…….. ؟!

ذھن ۾ اھو سوال سانڍي

مان

گھر جي سڀني ڪمرن تي ٽنگيل

نيم – پليٽن کي

سکڻيُنِ نگاھن سان

 آخر ڪيستائين

تڪيندو رھندس ؟

تڪيندو رھندس ؟؟؟

________________

Read: Partition Poetry in Sindhi

The post My Mom, My Home, and Me – A Poem from India first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Himanshu Kakkar

Partition Child

Born in Karachi in 1940, Rajni Bector grew up in Lahore. Her father was an accountant general while other relatives held high-ranking positions in the Government. Though this helped them cross into India unscathed, it was not without witnessing the madness. Seventy years later, she recollects the paranoia around the partition. “We were told that there would be a train at Pathankot, but none came for seven days and we waited under a tree for a week. Then, a maal gaadi (goods train) arrived. I still remember seeing loads of dead bodies. On our way to other cities in Punjab, people would offer us lassi and food, and I would innocently ask my mother, ‘Why are they giving it to us? Do they know us?’” says Bector.

Later, the family shifted to Delhi and settled there. A student of Miranda House, she got married in 1957 before she could finish college and graduated only after. Her husband belonged to a business family in Ludhiana. Bector describes her initial memories of the city, “Ludhiana was very small when I moved there. It was quite backward compared to Delhi. There were only four cars in the entire city.” Similarly, her mother-in-law, though quite in sync with her times, was also conservative. “I came from a very broad-minded family. My dada and nana’s families were highly educated,” she adds. In her words, life was strange there, initially.

“We were told that there would be a train at Pathankot, but none came for seven days and we waited under a tree for a week”

Bector was very fond of cooking and throwing parties. She would attend courses related to food or cooking that were available in Ludhiana. Soon, she started experimenting with cookies, salads, and ice creams and started inviting friends and their children to taste. “Everyone appreciated the food. There were no caterers in the ’60s and ’70s, so I would do everything,” says Bector. Of those who praised her, she recalls two people vividly. “Brijmohan Munjal of Hero Motocorp and the Pahwas of Avon cycles have complimented me: ‘Rajni, you have introduced Ludhiana people to good food.’”

Later, the local MLA insisted that she manage the catering at his granddaughter’s wedding. “I was a little stunned as I had to cook food for 2,000 people which I had never done before. But with the help of only two assistants, I managed and it was very well received,” she explains. Till the late ’70s, Bector was still doing it for family and friends but nothing commercially. She also started offering cooking classes to some students at home, but this only angered her mother-in-law. “She would ask me why I had to work when my family and husband were earning quite well,” she says. But Bector somehow managed to have her way, and her husband was supportive of it.

Bector speaks of a doctor who steadily encouraged her to start a food business. “He always told me, ‘Do you know even McDonald’s started from a food stand and it is so big now,’” she says. Dr. SC Jain of Punjab Agricultural University, an authority on food and dairy, later helped her install a hand churner and then setting up a small ice cream unit in her house. Back in 1978, this set-up cost her Rs. 20,000.

There used to be several fetes in Ludhiana around that time. She participated in one of them and put up an ice cream stall next to Kwality. “I was very anxious but, surprisingly, people liked my ice cream a lot more than Kwality’s,” she says. And this was a big confidence booster for not only her but other women in her circle. “They were elated when they learnt that I had started working. They felt that would set the path for them to explore various career options,” she adds.

Meanwhile, her husband was very particular about branding and doing it the proper way. Say, for instance, the day he called up Bector to register the business under a brand. “He asked me to quickly think of a name — whatever came to my mind. I used a lot of cream to make my products, and that is how Cremica [Cream ka] was born in the early ’80s,” explains Bector.

Cremica’s demand took off, slowly, as she started making breads and biscuits. “We took a bigger place on GT Road in Ludhiana and shifted our operations there,” she says. Even though it had only been a few years in the business, Bector never advertised her products much. The buzz was generated mostly through word of mouth, considering that she received a lot of orders for weddings, parties, and from caterers.

It was all going well until the politics of Punjab turned things awry for the family. First came Operation Blue Star, followed by the Sikh massacre in Delhi and terrorism across Punjab. Her husband’s fertilizer and grains business, which was more than 100 years old, was being threatened too. “We had to regularly deal with farmers. The insurgency was extremely strong at that point,” she remembers. Threats had become regular, so much so that there was an abduction attempt on her eldest son. That’s when they decided to fold the family business in 1990, remembers Bector. This also meant that her own food business would get all the attention from the family.

Read: Beneath Divided Skies: A Partition Love Story

Her eldest son joined her after finishing engineering from Manipal. When her business began to pick up, a biscuit plant was commissioned in Ludhiana in 1991. At that time, she also opened an ice cream parlour in Sarabha Nagar in Ludhiana. “It was a small and dull market back then. But our parlour drew in a lot of crowds. Today, it is Ludhiana’s top market,” says Bector.  Over the next couple of years, her other two sons also joined her in the business.

Things finally came full circle in 1995 for Bector. India had liberalized its economy and MNCs such as McDonald’s were trying to set up shop in the country. “They went all over India scouting for suppliers for their buns and finally selected us,” recalls Bector. But associating with a big brand like McDonald’s came with its own set of challenges. “For a year, we were put through constant trials. We were facing big losses and frankly, we were fed up. But we kept on. They scouted across the country for the right wheat quality but the gluten content was not right. Finally, they settled for wheat from Madhya Pradesh,” she remembers. Its first bun plant was set up in Ludhiana. Now, they have plants in Delhi, Mumbai and Bengaluru. More than two decades later, Cremica continues supplying to McDonald’s.

Around the same time, Bector’s company also began supplying sauces to Chicago-based Quaker Oats. “McDonald’s introduced us to Quaker and we started a sauce plant,” she says. The JV was supposed to supply condiments and sauces only to McDonald’s. However there was an ownership change at Quaker, and its new owners weren’t interested in continuing the association. So they handed over the JV to Cremica for $1 around 1999 which introduced her company to the world of sauces.

Two years back, Cremica’s overall business was split between Bector’s three sons. Akshay Bector now handles Mrs. Bector’s (sauces, bread, and syrups), while her other two sons, Anoop and Ajay handles the biscuits business under the Cremica brand. The overall revenue for both the businesses is pegged at around Rs.700 crore and the company’s mainstay market for its B2C products business continue to be northwest India including Punjab, Jammu and Kashmir, Himachal and Haryana. In 2006, Cremica sold a 21% stake in the company to Goldman Sachs for Rs.70 crore. In 2010, when the company wasn’t doing too well, Motilal Oswal bought that stake for Rs.44 crore. “They exited at Rs.300 crore last year, several times their infusion. You can say that we are doing well,” smiles Bector.

Hard at work

There is no shortcut to success, feels Bector, a follower of Aurobindo and The Mother. “Work is worship. That is what Mother teaches us in her writings. I’ve followed that all my life.” She remembers the times when she would work for 16 hours, “I had put my children in boarding schools. When they returned, I used to stop work to give them sufficient time.” Today, the third generation has also joined her business. Bector’s advice to them is to maintain quality at all costs and they’re definitely paying heed. “Food business is very tricky and safety measures have to be followed religiously. My grandson was here recently, and we were discussing how, in the Delhi market, an insect made its way into one of our bread packets. This tends to happen when breads are sold at vegetable and fruit counters. Our team immediately visited the complainant’s house and resolved the matter,” she says.

While she did face criticism from society when she started working, her husband supported her to ignore the naysayers. “Back then, it was uncustomary for women in Ludhiana to work. So, it definitely raised a lot of eyebrows, but mostly, it was just jealousy,” says Bector.  She feels that people management can be challenging when a business becomes large. “Show them love, but also be strict when needed,” she says. Bector may have stepped back from actively running the business a decade ago but she is still involved when it comes to her products. “My passion for food and my taste buds brought me this far. I still taste, select, and approve recipes for our products,” she smiles radiantly.

Read: Award-Winning Author Veera Hiranandani Never Learned About the Partition at School

___________

Courtesy: Outlook Business

The post A Karachi-born woman who witnessed partition, spent 7 days under a tree first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Ahmedabad, Gujarat

A new Sindhi short movie titled ‘Ghanti’, has recently been released in India that deals with the ongoing threat to the Sindhi language and the need of Sindhi speakers to interact in their mother tongue, in the present cosmopolitan milieu. Short movie ‘Ghanti’ of 25 minute duration has been produced by Urmika Wadhwa. The film was screened at the 18th Mumbai International Film Festival (MIFF), held in June 2024 that showcased emerging talents in student filmmaking.

 Synopsis of the Film

Ghanti is a short film adapted from a story of the same name. The story is written by Harish Vasvani, recipient of the Sahitya Akademi award for contribution to Sindhi literature.

It follows the journey of Baba, an old Sindhi man living in Ahmedabad with his son’s family, who longs to speak to someone in his mother tongue, before he dies.

Among Hindu Sindhi migrants today, the language is nearing extinction, as the only remaining speakers of the language are members of the grandparent generation.

The film attempts to raise awareness about this dying language and also seeks to ask – what happens when a thing as rich as a language and a culture dies? How do speakers of that language communicate authentically? And what account shall we keep of its loss, in the future.

Read: Week-long Sindhi Film Festival in Nagpur India

In today’s increasingly homogenizing world, Ghanti brings to the spotlight the subtle, unspoken sentiments and predicaments of being from a minority Diaspora community alienated from its

Filmmaker’s Bio

Urmika Wadhwa was born in New Delhi. She did her Bachelors of Arts in English and Masters of Arts in Sociology from University of Delhi. After that she worked with the Government of India as a public sector consultant at Quality Council of India, an autonomous body under the government. After working with various central ministries for 2.5 years, she joined the National Institute of Design as a Film Student.

Read: A Sindhi film on Partition breaks the mould, wows audiences

_________________

Source: IMDB and other websites 

The post Sindhi Short Movie ‘Ghanti’ Released in India first appeared on Sindh Courier.