By Saaz Aggarwal

After Partition, the Gajwani family left their business and lands near Shahdadkot in the north of Sindh, travelling through a tormented, blood-stained terrain to Karachi, where they boarded a ship to Bombay along with crowds of others like them. In Bombay, they remained for several days on the Alexandra Docks, where the ship had discharged them, somehow eking together a living, unsure of what to do next. One day, they were removed, along with the large group of others who had also made a temporary home on the docks, herded into a train, and deposited in Valivade. It was in the Sindhi refugee camp at Valivade that Susheel Gajwani was born and raised. His memoir, Sunrise Over Valivade, is a historical record and an intimate family account.

While capturing the resilience, struggles, and identity of Sindhi Hindus displaced from their homeland, this book is also the first recorded instance of the presence of a Sindhi refugee camp near Kolhapur, reflecting the sad absence of comprehensive information about the Sindh Partition experience and the glaring gaps of accurate knowledge about it.

Another fascinating aspect of the book is that the camp was originally built for Polish refugees during World War II. The context of this from online sources, appended with Susheel’s interviews of local people who had served in the camp during that time, provide the opportunity to muse on the two sets of refugees rendered homeless in the same era of history. While the Poles experienced more atrocities during the war than the Sindhis did during Partition, the Poles were given a chance to rebuild with dignity, while the Sindhis had to fight for even basic recognition and make their own way.

Susheel was born in the Valivade refugee camp, a world where Sindhi culture and traditions were kept alive, but where the reality of having lost their homeland was inescapable. His family and other refugees had fled escaping violence and uncertainty. Many had left behind their land, homes, businesses, and even close relationships. He recalls growing up in a purely Sindhi environment within the camp – where everyone spoke Sindhi, ate Sindhi food, and celebrated Sindhi festivals – and experiencing the feeling of stark alienation outside the camp. This paradox of being in their own country yet clearly not accepted, is a recurring theme. Sindhi refugees were not given a province of their own, unlike other displaced communities after Partition. The Indian government saw them as temporary settlers, refusing to grant them official recognition as a linguistic group with rights.

Despite these challenges, Sindhis rebuilt their lives. Susheel’s family, like many others, started small businesses, with his father and uncles selling onions, potatoes, and ginger in Kolhapur’s markets. They worked hard to earn respect, but ingrained prejudice persisted.

Susheel was born in the Valivade refugee camp, a world where Sindhi culture and traditions were kept alive, but where the reality of having lost their homeland was inescapable.

By grounding his narrative in small, intimate moments, Susheel makes history personal, allowing readers to feel the heartbreak, humiliation, and resilience of the displaced community. Through a series of vignettes, he captures the sounds, smells, and emotions of refugee life. In A Glass of Milk, a child’s anxiety over whether there will be enough milk for him in the government ration line serves as a metaphor for uncertainty and scarcity. Other vignettes, such as Laundry and The Photograph, bring out the small yet significant aspects of life in the refugee community, showing how people tried to preserve their dignity and traditions despite their circumstances. Eyyy Nirvashya! highlights the social stigma that followed Sindhi refugees long after they had left the camps. Susheel’s graphic description of verbal abuse by a policeman, followed by a physical assault when he answered back, reveals another untold aspect of the Sindhi story.

Susheel also details the adaptation to Maharashtrian customs, as Sindhi women began wearing saris and cooking local dishes. Over time, the displaced people integrated into local society, but never stopped longing for their lost homeland. A crucial moment in the book is the realization that Sindh had changed too. The land left behind had been transformed, with migrants from other regions replacing Sindhi Hindus. This severed the last ties to their roots, making return impossible.

While this book contributes to the neglected history of Sindhi refugees, it also highlights larger themes of displacement, cultural erosion, and resilience, making it a valuable contribution to Partition literature and diaspora studies.

If I had to look for inadequacies – well, it lacks women’s perspective and women’s stories. It also overlooks the internal class and caste divisions within the Sindhi community. Many wealthier Sindhi Hindus were able to migrate to Mumbai, Pune, or settle in other countries where Sindhi traders have had a presence since the 1850s, while poorer refugees were left in camps for years. Sindhi Hindu society is not homogeneous, and social hierarchies existed even in exile. However, these are gaps that must be filled by other books.

It was a pleasure for me to work with Susheel on his stories, weaving historical research into the personal vignettes and oral histories, igniting an awareness in him that could be passed on to his readers, of the evolving identity of a community for which multi-faith worship was once the only way of life they knew.

It also brought me a strong reminder of the realities of the day, impossible to deny, yet waved away as inconsequential by many in this materially successful community:

-Why did the Indian government refuse to grant Sindhis a state?

-Why were Sindhis not included in the linguistic reorganization of India?

-How did early government policies contribute to the decline of Sindhi language and identity in India, and can the sincere efforts being made today ever compensate?

-Will the shallow stereotypes with which Sindhis are perceived in India – and as a consequence many other countries where the diaspora is settled too – ever be replaced with the nuanced realities, which books such as these provide?

Read: Haridwar – Records of Sindhi Pilgrims’ Travel and Worship

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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: Hindustan Times (Posted on Jan 29, 2025) 

The post ‘Sunrise Over Valivade’: A historical record and an intimate family account first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Monitoring Desk

Pune, India

Saaz Aggarwal, an independent researcher and writer, based in Pune, India, will speak on ‘Sindh 1947’ at a program being held on Saturday April 20, 2024 at 5p.m on the occasion of Pune’s World Book Day at RAAH A Literacy & Cultural Center, Lullanagar.

This talk is about a collection of extraordinary stories centered on the role-model Sindhi refugees of 1947. Stories you have never heard before, stories you will love! They are illustrated with the author’s collection of high-quality archival images, which provide an added dimension.

Saaz Aggarwal’s body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor 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. Her book ‘Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland’ published in 2012, is an acknowledged classic.

Read: Sindhis have strong feeling of belonging – Saaz Aggarwal

Pune’s World Book Day is a people-centric, artists/authors-driven and inclusive celebration. It is a one-of-a-kind book celebration that represents changing eras and evolving generations. It is a multi-lingual event that combines classic paper books with innovative and next-generation forms such as audiobooks, eBooks, digital library, and developing sectors such as self-publication and more.

Register: https://zfrmz.in/8FU7L7Vd7Gd4O4JeuPRj

Contact: 7798578140 / 9422517939

Complete Schedule of Pune’s World Book Day https://bit.ly/BookDay24

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The post Saaz Aggarwal to speak on Sindh 1947 at Pune’s World Book Day event on April 20 first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Saaz Aggarwal

Anand Hingorani (18 March 1907 – 10 May 1999)

Anand Hingorani had been a follower of Mohandas Gandhi since the age of 13, when he pledged himself to Swadeshi and to wear nothing but khadi all his life. 9 years later, as a law student in Karachi, he came further under his spell when Gandhi visited Sindh in February 1929. They met in person shortly thereafter, at the Lahore Congress of 1929, and Gandhi invited him to come and stay at his Sabarmati Ashram.

Anand’s father, Totaram Hingorani, was a civil engineer and had been awarded the title of Rai Bahadur for construction projects he had executed in Baghdad. His income was in the form of a bag of gold guineas, from the government. When he retired, he received a substantial pension too.

However, Totaram was firm in his support of independence for India. Towards the end of the Second World War, his engineering skills were useful to the Indian National Army, and he advised on the construction of bridges and other matters in Burma. It must have been a disappointment to him that his son quit his studies, but a pride and joy that he left for Sabarmati in January 1930 and, in time, became a pillar of the freedom movement. He first worked as Gandhi’s secretary during the temporary absence of Mahadev Desai.

Anand also marched with Gandhi to Dandi (the only Sindhi to do so) in the historic salt march, a protest against British rule which defied the salt tax by making salt on the beach. A group of men and women set out from Ahmedabad and walked for 24 days until they reached the seashore at Dandi, where they conducted the illegal activity of making salt, in the presence of large crowds of supporters and the international press. They faced police violence and arrest without fighting back, in the spirit of Ahimsa – non-violence – which was the hallmark of the Indian freedom movement.

In Sindh, Anand joined the activists who worked in hiding, printing bulletins that contained inflammatory articles to rouse the passion for freedom in their readers. These were considered treasonous and punishable by law. Every few days, dressed in a suit and felt hat, Anand Hingorani boarded the first-class compartment of a train, a privilege generally restricted to the British and highest Indian elite. He behaved like an English gentleman, so no suspicion fell on him. Travelling from Hyderabad to various towns of Sindh, he returned next day, leaving stacks of the bulletins with trusted members of the movement at each station so that they could be circulated to people all over Sindh. Anyone caught with such a leaflet would be jailed for ‘treason’.

In time, Gandhi made Anand the editor of his weekly newsletter Harijan for a time. Later, it was he who began compiling Gandhi’s scattered writings, with the blessings of Gandhi, in 1941.

Anand participated in all the Civil Disobedience movements and courted arrest 5 times. He did village and social work, and lived a very humble life in Sewagram Ashram with his wife Vidya. He was in jail in 1933 when he was informed by telegram that his son had been born! He was named Mahadev, the name suggested by Gandhi. Anand was a good looking person with a vibrant personality, soft-spoken but forthright, poetic, and with a sarcastic wit. He loved music, including Sindhi kafis and kalaams.

Sadly, Vidya suffered from chronic stomach ailments, and succumbed to them in July 1943. Anand was devastated. When he informed Gandhi – who had just been released from confinement by the British at Aga Khan Palace – of Vidya’s demise and how forlorn it had left him, he received the following reply:

No forlornness permissible. God our eternal companion. You can come after ear-treatment.

After Vidya’s death, Gandhi sent a hand-written postcard to Anand every single day for two years, to cheer and inspire him and give him solace. A total of 688 “thoughts,” they were compiled into a book by Anand, A Thought For the Day.

In fact, it was Anand Hingorani who had begun collecting Gandhi’s writings in a systematic way, an effort which Gandhi had appreciated and blessed. His Gandhi Series was launched in 1941 and met with unstinted acclaim. A Thought For the Day, a collection of sermons from Gandhi to his devoted and beloved disciple Anand, is one of the most unique and precious.

Anand’s imprisonments had left him hearing-impaired. Gandhi encouraged him to attempt various naturopathy cures to heal his ailment, but he would also joke that to be deaf was not a bad thing since it helped to avoid listening to so much that was not worth hearing.

In 1947, when the new Government of India was formed, Gandhi instructed Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister, to appoint Anand as a cabinet minister. Anand declined. Instead, he continued to spread the teachings of Gandhi by publishing more than 52 books on Gandhi, creating a storehouse of writings which have been widely appreciated by various dignitaries, world leaders and the common public.

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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 for example in:

https://www.sahapedia.org/sindhworkis-unique-global-diaspora https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZVBQWpTX4Uww1e-ZP_kT8A

http://blackandwhitefountain.com/

Her 2012 Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland is an acknowledged classic. With an MSc from Mumbai University in 1982, Saaz taught undergraduate Mathematics at Ruparel College, Mumbai, for three years. After a career break when she had a baby, during which time she established a by-line as a humour writer, she was appointed features editor at Times of India, Mumbai, in 1989, where she launched Ascent, the highly successful HR pullout of the Times of India Group. From 1998 to 2006, she was HR and Quality Head of Seacom, an Information Technology company based in Pune. As an artist, she is recognized for her Bombay Clichés, quirky depictions of urban India in a traditional Indian folk style as well as a unique range of offerings at the annual Art Mandai event in Pune. Her art incorporates a range of media and, like her columns, showcases the incongruities of daily life in India.

Courtesy: Saaz Aggarwal | Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland 

The post Anand – deeply loved by Gandhi first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Saaz Aggarwal

On January 24, 2024, I spoke at the Willingdon Club, at the invitation of the club library. My friend Shahsultan happened to be in Bombay and she attended too, as my guest – she’s a member of the club but when she registered for the event, was informed that it was full and even the waiting list was full, which I found very flattering. Of course the club has many Sindhi members, but it was good to see that the audience had non-Sindhis too. One of them, a professor at a university in Canada, told me after the talk that I had missed speaking of an important point: the “bad name” that Sindhis have. He suggested that in future, if I did not want to talk about it, I include a disclaimer on the lines of “today I will not be speaking about the fact that Sindhis have a reputation for being crooks”.

His kind advice made me remember my primary motive in writing and speaking about Sindhis – the conviction that prejudices can only be overcome when we understand realities and face the truth. I believe that offering a body of true stories could work towards this.

Also read: Sindhis have strong feeling of belonging – Saaz Aggarwal

One of the lovely moments at the event yesterday was when I spoke of Harchandrai Vishindas and mentioned his work as a city father of his hometown, Karachi, and found that there were 4 members of the audience who were his grandchildren! I requested them to stand up so I could take this photo.

I usually don’t bother to speak about the prejudice against Sindhis, but many of the people I’ve interviewed do, and many ask me about it. When I invited a range of Sindhi academics, businesspeople, artists, professionals and others, truly wonderful people, to contribute to my book SINDHI TAPESTRY: AN ANTHOLOGY OF REFLECTIONS ON THE SINDHI IDENTITY, it was very surprising to find that 4 of their excellent essays mentioned “The Sindhi and the Snake”!

Also read: Haridwar – Records of Sindhi Pilgrims’ Travel and Worship

In October 2013, at the fag end of a book tour in the south of Spain, I spoke to a gathering of 80 Sindhis in Gibraltar, showing photos, sharing insights, and explaining why I’d called it SINDH: STORIES FROM A VANISHED HOMELAND. At the end of my talk, Suresh Nagrani stood up to share something.

“When I was young,” he started, “I thought all Indians were Sindhi.”

This was greeted with a ripple of laughter, but it was no less than a fact: the Indians native to Gibraltar are indeed Sindhis. Suresh Nagrani went on: “Then I went to ‘uni’ in England. There I met Indians who were not Sindhi, from different parts of India. That was surprising. Even more surprising was that one of them said to me, ‘Oh, so you are a Sindhi. Let me ask you a riddle. If you meet a Sindhi and a snake, which one should you kill? You should kill the Sindhi!’”

The audience broke into guffaws.

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Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor 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. Her 2012 Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland is an acknowledged classic.

The post Of Sindhis and the Prejudices first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Saaz Aggarwal

I first saw these ledgers in Haridwar in 2015, while working on the family history of a Sindhi family. The oldest entry for their surname was dated 1824 – before the railways came to Sindh. Journeys each way would have taken weeks, and been by boat, camel and bullock cart.

The records are signed accounts of travelers to Haridwar, their names and the names of their male children, male siblings, male uncles, and male ancestors. Most often they came to perform the final rites of a close family member; sometimes it was a halt on a pilgrimage further into the mountains.

I was intrigued to read a woman’s name, Kushalibai, appearing in 1895, 1902, 1905, 1908, 1915 and 1918. While she accompanied family members on their visits, there is no record of her visiting Haridwar with her husband or her son Chandiram. What made Khushalibai such a ‘rolu’ – someone who revels in travel and adventure – at a time when it was unusual for a woman to wander so far so often? It seems that she was well off and well cared for; and not particularly bound by domestic duties. When she died, in 1919, it was a grand-nephew who performed the final rituals in Haridwar and not Chandiram. Perhaps Khushalibai was a widow; perhaps her son died young; perhaps they were disabled – who will ever know? Or perhaps it was just the Sindhworki lifestyle – where men went to work in distant lands, visiting their families for only a few months every 2 or 3 years – that was responsible for the extended separation.

The paper of this ledger is so delicate that it crumbles as the pages are turned, and he is reluctant to turn each page to look for the information we have come for. When we suggest that he digitize it, he speaks of intellectual property and privacy, and explains that he would never allow that to happen as he cannot give away something so precious that his family has been instrumental in recording and preserving for centuries.

Rather than individual hand-written entries, this ledger contains information recorded by Pandit Anirudh’s ancestor with names and addresses of the visiting pilgrims as well as their family members. While these are only names of male family members, today Pandit Anirudh is meticulous about noting female names as well when updating family records.

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Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor 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. Her 2012 Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland is an acknowledged classic. With an MSc from Mumbai University in 1982, Saaz taught undergraduate Mathematics at Ruparel College, Mumbai, for three years. She was appointed features editor at Times of India, Mumbai, in 1989.

Courtesy: Saaz Aggarwal | Black-And-White-Fountain 

The post Haridwar – Records of Sindhi Pilgrims’ Travel and Worship first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Saaz Aggarwal

Kanu Wadhwani was born in Jacobabad, Sindh, on 19 April 1934 where his father Hiranand was headmaster of the Municipal High School.

The board displaying names of the school’s headmasters is intact even today. This photograph is courtesy the anthropologist Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro who arranged for it to be taken to accompany this text in October 2019.

As the headmaster of a school with eight hundred students, Hiranand was an important person. When the Governor of Sindh, Hugh Dow, visited Jacobabad on a tour of inspection, Hiranand would be called for meetings to report on progress and to submit his requirements.

Childhood in Jacobabad

Kanu would remember his hometown fondly as long as he lived, especially his home, one in a row of houses allotted to government officials, with three rooms built of brick, and an asbestos roof. The asbestos insulated the house in the cold Jacobabad winter. However, Jacobabad was the hottest city in the world, so hot that in summer, tar on the road would melt and the asbestos made it even hotter! A siesta was necessary, and a municipal staff worker, Khalifa, came to the house to work the fan, pulling a rope that moved a cloth banner from one end of the ceiling to the other, creating breeze and cooling the room while the children slept. Hiranand was particularly fond of Khalifa and would always acknowledge the connection he had with him and the other Pathan staff members, as Wadhwanis are of Nukha Pathan. The two communities differed in culture, but they shared a cordial relationship and participated joyfully in each other’s festivals.

In the evening, the children played marbles and flew kites together. Religious festivals were occasions of celebration when people exchanged greetings and sweets. Women shared household tasks and delicacies from their kitchens. When Kanu’s mother Totibai wanted to make papad, she would prepare the dough and women from other homes would come to help rolling it out. Children would then be sent to lay the thin circles out on two cots in the veranda which were covered with clean sheets of cloth to hold the papad. Under the heat of the sun, they would dry and be ready in a few hours, to be roasted or fried and enjoyed with meals or offered to guests, something every Sindhi enjoys!

Totibai and her helpers cooked the food on sigris – small stoves. Workers brought wood kindling and live coal was used to ignite it. Dal and rice were cooked in big pots on the stove, and the family ate off plates made of aluminum. Their favorite dish was pakora and they loved it so much that the family that they ate pakoras almost every day – a tradition that would continue for decades! In addition, vegetables and fruit such as mangoes and bananas were brought to Jacobabad from nearby Shikarpur. Almonds, dates and lotus seeds were popular, too, especially in the winter months, and these came to Jacobabad and other parts of Sindh, along with fruit delicacies like peaches and apples, from Quetta.

Jacobabad, with its tropical climate, was rife with snakes and scorpions, and their bites were dangerous. When spotted, servants would be called to kill them. Dog-bites were also quite common, requiring victims to be taken to the hospital in Shikarpur. But the children loved visiting Shikarpur, where their loving relatives would take them for picnics by the Sindh Wah canal and to Lakhi Dar, a quarter known for its specialty foods. Jacobabad had sweetshops, too, but Hiranand did not allow his children to eat street food. Street stands were home to multitudes of flies, and the vendors reeked from poor hygiene.

Toti was a pious lady and took Kanu and his elder brother Moti with her on regular visits to the tikano, her place of worship, where holy songs were sung, holy verses were recited from the Guru Granth Sahib, and where the priests told the history of Guru Nanak and the ten Sikh gurus. At home, the family had a framed picture of Guru Nanak. Though they followed Sikh tenets and practiced the rites of Sikhism, they did not adopt any of the outer symbols of Sikhism as they considered themselves Hindus.

School was located half a mile from the house, and featured a large playground for playing football and volleyball. Teachers were strict, and when children were disobedient, they would be rapped on their palms with a ruler or stick, or made to stand on a bench outside the classroom. Doing this was a way of nurturing discipline, which was considered essential for a proper education.

Hiranand taught English, Persian and Urdu to the senior class. His deputy was Sewaram, and the history teacher was Sambu, a pious man so engrossed in his prayers that he would be chanting god’s name constantly, even during class. He prayed with such fervor that tears flowed from his eyes. This amused the children, but they did not consider it strange since religion and a connection to the divine was essential to the environment in which they lived. To feed and clothe the religious “seekers,” who spent their lives wandering and living on alms in their quest for enlightenment, was considered a great blessing. When these seekers, or “saints,” died, their burial sites would become dargahs, places for worship where people made wishes and annual festivals to commemorate the particular saint’s birth or death anniversary took place. The countryside was dotted with these burial sites.

Karachi and the freedom movement

In 1942 when Hiranand turned sixty, he retired as headmaster and moved with his family to Karachi. Hiranand knew Karachi well since he had lived there as a student. Totibai, Moti and Kanu were familiar with Karachi too as they spent their summer holidays in the home of Totibai’s brother, Totaram Hingorani.

Moti and Kanu studied at the nearby Wadhumal Bulchand High School. The teachers were mostly women and mischievous boys were punished by being made to stand on a bench.  On school holidays, the family would hire a bus and ride to Clifton to picnic. In the evenings they often visited the Karachi Gurmandar, which stood at the junction of Bunder Road Extension and Clayton Road, a place where Amils gathered to worship.

An officer had pleaded with Hiranand to leave Pakistan, explaining that it was becoming more and more dangerous for Hindus.

In 1942, Mohandas Gandhi made a historic speech, exhorting the British to Quit India. He fired his listeners with fervor, and the protest spread rapidly across the country. The leaders of the movement remained separated from their families – either underground or in jail – for months and sometimes years, until the end of the Second World War. Hiranand did not encourage his children to participate in protests since he believed in following the law and refraining from activities that were potentially dangerous. When Gandhi visited Karachi, Moti and Kanu were discouraged from attending his rally as it was likely that police were watching and those who attended might be arrested. However, their cousin Anand, Totaram’s son, was under no such restriction.

Anand had been a prominent member of the Indian National Congress for a long time. Its activists worked in hiding, printing bulletins that contained inflammatory articles to rouse the passion for freedom in their readers. These were considered treasonous and punishable by law. Every few days, wearing a suit and felt hat, Anand Hingorani boarded the first-class compartment of a train, an area generally restricted to the British and highest Indian elite. He behaved like an English gentleman, so no suspicion fell on him. He returned next day, leaving stacks of the bulletins with trusted members of the movement at each station so that they could be circulated in the towns of Sindh.

Independence – and uncertainty

On Pakistan’s Independence Day, August 14, 1947, Hiranand, Totibai, Moti and Kanu went to visit Tekchand and his family. Kanu remembers standing on the terrace and watching the celebratory cavalcade, with Jinnah sitting in a big car.

The three-mile state drive by the Viceroy and the Quaid-i-Azam – Great Leader – of Pakistan through the main parts of the city marked the end of the morning celebrations. The route was lined with British and Indian military units, the Royal Indian Air Force (RIAF), the Royal Air Force, and the Royal Indian Navy. A flight of RIAF planes flew over the procession and dipped in salute as it passed. Hundreds of people stood, watching and cheering, at every vantage point. League flags dominated the decorations on buildings, but the new Pakistan flag was prominent.

The Citizens’ Celebrations Committee erected sixteen gates on the route. Each was named after a prominent citizen of the new state of Pakistan. One of them was named after Dr. Hemandas Wadhwani, Kanu’s uncle!

Though Partition had been announced, the family had no intention of leaving their homeland. However, the situation became increasingly tense as migrants from across the new border came to Karachi, having faced violence and trauma in their homes. And, on September 10, 1947, a catastrophic event took place. A bomb exploded in a house in the nearby Shikarpur Colony. A neighbor called the police for protection from alleged attacking Muslims, but when the police arrived, they found that the bomb was detonated by mistake, not by Muslims, but by members of the RSS who had been experimenting with explosives. All RSS members present were arrested, search warrants were issued, and security forces were deployed to stamp out the revolutionary activity.

Moti and Kanu both attended RSS meetings, which served as social events where they could share inspiring stories of historical Hindu warrior kings like Maharana Pratap Singh and Shivaji. They were also trained in self-defense in case of attack by Muslim mobs. It was a warm and community-based gathering, and the children who experienced RSS in Sindh look back on it as a pleasant experience with no sinister overtones. It was indeed marked by periodic street violence, but this was not uncommon for the times.

Hiranand’s home is searched

The day after the bomb blast, a search party knocked on the door of Kaka Hiranand’s home. The women in the house ran and hid in a roomy wardrobe. Trembling in fear, knowing that all wardrobes in the house would surely be opened during the search, they chanted prayers for mercy, and for the courage to face whatever transpired with dignity.

Muslims were pouring into Karachi from Bihar and other parts of India. They needed homes, and had begun taking them from Hindus by force

Kaka Hiranand walked calmly to the door and opened it, and the police inspector in charge of the search entered the house. Members of the family stood behind doors, anxiously straining their ears to hear what was being said. Somehow, Kanu freed himself from a restraining hand and put his head around the door to see for himself what was going to happen to his father. He has never forgotten how his terror turned to amazement when the inspector bowed before Kaka and assured him that he would not search the house. Hiranand had been his school headmaster in his hometown of Jacobabad – how could he ever violate his home by ransacking it?

However, the officer pleaded with Hiranand to leave Pakistan, explaining that it was becoming more and more dangerous for Hindus. Muslims were pouring into Karachi from Bihar and other parts of India. They needed homes, and had begun taking them from Hindus by force. The problem was escalating rapidly, and it already appeared to be beyond the forces of the law to keep them safe.

Goodbye to Sindh

Kaka had been receiving his schoolmaster’s pension and expected to continue doing so, given his years of dedicated service. He never thought of leaving Sindh – why would anyone leave their home? But now it was clear that there was no choice. Dr. Hemandas helped the family secure passage on one of the ships evacuating non-Muslims from Karachi to Bombay. Kanu remembers his father weeping at the port, others consoling him, saying there was nothing anyone could do. To stay in Karachi would put their lives at risk. By leaving everything and moving, at least their lives would be safe. They would try their best and see what fate held in store.

Kanu has vivid memories of his childhood in Sindh. One of the most striking is of the love and cordiality between the Muslims and Hindus, in particular within his own family. He repeatedly reiterated, “The staff were mostly Muslim but they were very good people, they were very honest.”

In Udaipur, Hiranand – an intellectual, proficient in Persian, English and Urdu – was unable to find a job because he did not know Hindi. With their neighbors, on the streets, at the shops, while travelling by train – the family was immersed in the knowledge that they were unwelcome; they were seen as aliens. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but they kept it to themselves and made efforts to regain stability without reacting to any provocation.

Kanu remembers his father weeping at the port, others consoling him, saying there was nothing anyone could do

Unlike most of the Sindhis who were ejected from their homeland, Hiranand did not lose everything. He had invested his retirement savings in a house in Clifton, an elite neighborhood of Karachi. Less than five years later, in the turmoil of Partition, when property prices plummeted as fleeing Hindus tried to sell whatever they could and escape, he was fortunate to receive more than double the amount from his tenant, the Makrani family. This would form a good base for the uncertain future ahead of them.

In September 1948, Hiranand and Toti moved into a home in Sindhi Colony near Bengal Chemicals in Worli, Bombay. It was a step down from the home they had lived in in Karachi, but Bombay, similar in many ways to Karachi, seemed like the right place to settle.

In 1952, Kanu received an Inter-Science degree from Jai Hind College in Bombay and moved to Delhi as a student at Delhi Polytechnic for a degree in textile engineering. After he completed the course, he joined Shrinivas Cotton Mills in Bombay in 1959, where he excelled.

On December 31, 1961, Kanu married Roma, the daughter of Nirmaldas Gurbaxani, a well-known educationist in Sindh. He and Kanu’s father, Hiranand, had known each other for more than thirty years.

Dada Nirmaldas

Like Hiranand, Nirmaldas was a school headmaster. He led schools in Rawalpindi and Quetta, and was the Principal of Ramjas College in Delhi, then of National College in Hyderabad. It was by the efforts of people like Hiranand and Nirmaldas that the level of education in Sindh, and the awareness of the benefits of education, were far higher than in most other parts of India.

Nirmaldas was well known for his contribution to the cause of women’s education, campaigning from door to door with his colleagues, to convince parents to send their girls to school, and arranging for them to travel in covered horse carriages for privacy. In 1897, he established Nava Vidyalaya and its counterpart for girls, Nava Kanya Vidyalaya, on the principles of the reformist Brahmo Samaj movement. When his wife Kamla died in 1942, the Nava Kanya Vidyalaya was renamed Kamla Girls’ School in her memory.

After Partition, it took a tremendous effort by Nirmaldas Gurbaxani and his close family and friends to re-establish Kamla High School in Bombay. The students and teachers of the school in Hyderabad, many whose families had settled in Bombay, joined.

Life in Bombay

In January 1962, Kanu and Roma moved into their new home in Venus Apartments along with his parents.

In the 1980s, the Bombay textile mills went through a phase of militant trade unionism which eventually led to the collapse of the industry despite various efforts by the government. Sixty-four composite mills in Bombay known for spinning, weaving, and printing were affected by the strike. Shrinivas Cotton Mills had more than eight thousand employees, and when it closed, they were all left jobless. Kanu, with the advantage of his technical skills and management experience, got a job with India United Mill, later transferring to Madhusudan Mills. These were two of the twenty-five mills nationalized and resurrected under Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s government. After retiring when he was sixty years old, Kanu joined Prakash Cotton Mills and worked there till he was sixty-five, quitting for good when he was diagnosed with cotton fibre in his lungs and at high risk of tuberculosis.

Roma and Kanu had two children: Vijay and Mahesh. Mahesh lives in London and Vijay in Lagos.

Sadly, Roma passed away in April 2017, succumbing to non-alcoholic liver cirrhosis. Kanu joined her 5 years later, on May 15, 2022.

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About the Author

Saaz Aggarwal is a renowned author, biographer and historian, based in Pune, Maharashtra, India. She has a Master’s degree in Mathematics, but over the years established herself as a writer and artist. Her body of work includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor columns, as well as themed painting collections and mixed-media installations. Her books on Sindh are in libraries of the best universities around the world.

Courtesy: Saaz Aggarwal/ Sindh Stories (Posted on March 18, 2023)

The post Remembering Kanu Wadhwani on his 89th birth anniversary first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Saaz Aggarwal

Vasanmal was a professor and spiritual master. Being the eldest in his family, he was brought up as a Sikh and did not cut his hair, sporting a beard and turban. The book in his hand, his Sindhi translation of the Ramayana, was brought to Poona from Hyderabad along with this painting, but was misplaced.

Vasanmal had one son, by name Tahilram, who worked in the postal department. Tahilram’s only son, Radhakrishna Advani, joined the Indian Medical Service and saw action in Italy during the First World War. Approaching middle age when the Second World War broke out, he opted for the Jail Department on the understanding that he would be back in uniform if ever needed. Joining the department as a junior officer, he rose to be Inspector General of Prisons of the Bombay Presidency and died while in service in 1948. In the years leading up to Partition he was stationed at the prestigious Yerwada Jail in Poona where his honored guests included Jawaharlal Nehru, Bal Gangadhar Tilak and others.

Less-known freedom fighters and prominent in their time, people like Sarojini Naidu and Mangal Das Pakvasa, while in jail, visited his home especially for the delicious meals his wife Lilan cooked. It was under Radhakrishna Advani’s watch that Mohandas Gandhi was incarcerated in the Aga Khan Palace, Poona and where his wife, Kasturba, died.

Radhakrishna Advani died with a cerebral haemorrhage when he was just forty-eight years old. So at forty, Lilan (nee Mithi Chablani 1906) became a widow. Her husband had still been in office, and the government gave his family a flat in Poona. The family packed their things and many boxes of their belongings were kept in storage. After some years Lilan bought a flat in Shyam Niwas and moved to live there. As the boxes were taken out of storage, one was found to contain a portrait of Vasanmal, Radhakrishna’s grandfather, crushed and rather dirty. Lilan’s daughter, Sarla, took it to the curator of the National Museum in Delhi who helped her get it restored. Sarla found, to her surprise, Chinese lettering at the back of the canvas. The restorer explained that the portrait had been painted by a Chinese painter about a hundred years ago.

Sarla married Jagdish Kumar, a Punjabi. Her brother Govind, an MBBS from Grant Medical College in Bombay first took up government service and later opened his own practice, Radhakrishna Dispensary (named in honour of his father), near Crawford Market. Her daughter married outside the community. Sarla and Govind’s brother, Bhagwan, died young leaving two daughters, one married to a non-Advani Amil. Mira, Govind’s wife, regrets the dying out of the Advani line.

[Excerpted from ‘The Amils of Sindh’ by Saaz Aggarwal]

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Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor 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. Her 2012 Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland is an acknowledged classic. With an MSc from Mumbai University in 1982, Saaz taught undergraduate Mathematics at Ruparel College, Mumbai, for three years. She was appointed features editor at Times of India, Mumbai, in 1989.

 Courtesy: Saaz Aggarwal/Book ‘The Amils of Sindh’ 

The post Portrait by an anonymous Chinese master first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Saaz Aggarwal

In October 2022, I received an email inviting me to be a speaker at the Jaipur Literature Festival, and it was like a dream come true.

When JLF was new, I had a book review column for Sunday Mid-day and my job was to select a new book to read and write about every week. And the highlight of my year was JLF where the journalists who covered books for the national media got a front-row view of the events and could meet and interview authors of their choice. You could be sitting next to Pico Iyer at an event, standing behind Alexander McCall Smith in the lunch queue, share transport to the venue with Hanif Kureishi, and step aside as fans rushed towards Wole Soyinka. It was a like a joyous planet of booklovers! In 2010, Vimmi Sadarangani was on a panel to speak about Sindhi language and literature. I did not attend as it was only a few years later that I took to the study of the Sindhi diaspora, it was not part of my world back then – and I would have never imagined that Vimmi would one day be a valued and respected friend!

A few weeks after the invitation came an email describing the session, in which I was expected to speak of my Sindhi literary roots. What a shock! I certainly have no literary roots of any kind, especially not in Sindhi. When I replied trying to explain, the organizers’ disbelief turned to scorn that I was some kind of impostor whose work in the Sindhi space is all fake.

At first I found this very upsetting, but it gradually dawned on me that this misunderstanding brings our situation into focus much more clearly. Even the custodians of literature in India, who are so committed and sincere about showcasing the literature of regional languages, have absolutely no idea of the condition of the Sindhi language and literature in India.

Our reality

Partition scattered Sindhis around the world. Some individuals and families are entirely isolated from the community. There are also quite a few pockets or nodes of varying density, usually separate from each other and surprisingly often not even conscious of the others’ existence.

My research covers a large number of oral history interviews with over 200 Partition survivors and about 50 to 100 of their family members. While I’ve tried my best to cover a wide ground and the interviews are across socio-economic as well as geographic divides, I’m aware of the possibility – because of the dispersal described above that we’re all familiar with – that I’ve worked in a silo and what I’m saying may not be truly representative of the entire community. Be that as it may, and I would request readers to correct me if I’m mistaken – my understanding of work being done for Sindhi identity and Sindhi language and literature are, broadly in the following groups:

1. Teachers and writers of Sindhi language and literature, who have a strong command of the language and have read the prescribed literary texts. This group is unfortunately divided in two because, depending on which script they know, some can explore the treasures of Sindhi literature to their heart’s content – while some cannot.
2. Social media “I’m proud to be Sindhi” type handles. They have some command over the Sindhi language and Sindhi customs, Sindhi culture and Sindhi ways of behaving and relating. They have little or no connection with the wealth of literature and philosophy in the Sindhi language. But they do have enormous fan followings – and those numbers and the responses you see tell a poignant but also heartening story.
3. Researchers on the Sindhi diaspora. For the last ten years, I’ve been privileged to be part of the last group. There were just a handful of us back then but the numbers have grown and continue to grow, with contributions emerging spontaneously in every type of media. We speak, read, write and think in English. Most of us can understand only a little Sindhi. A large majority of us cannot read or write.

For me, talking about mother tongue has always been a very long conversation! I think this is true for most of us of mixed-marriage parentage: we can understand Sindhi somewhat but are hard pressed to speak and cannot read or write.  Most of us, having only heard the language spoken in homes, feel comfortable when we hear it spoken even if we can’t understand much. Some of us have translated books from Sindhi to English though we can’t write or even read Sindhi – Anju Makhija, Menka Shivdasani, me – by working with Sindhi writers. There’s been HUGE support from the community of elders who studied in Sindhi medium (now almost all gone) for our work.

There are other languages in India which have very few speakers, marked as ‘dying’ languages, stoutly propped up by the efforts of a few with some support from the government. What makes Sindhi markedly different is the absence of connection to the mother lode, not just geography but also the squabble of the script.

The Panel

When I tried to get past the scorn and explain this, the JLF organizers were kind enough to modify the panel, with mother tongue as the theme. They gave it a really lovely name, The Call of the Mother Tongue: Loquations and Dislocations, and the panelists were Archana Mirajkar and me, in conversation with Rita Kothari.

Unfortunately, Rita was unwell and did not come to Jaipur. It was left to Archana and me to discuss mother tongue. She did a great job talking about the work she has done to promote Marathi Literature. However, all I could do was talk about the glories of the past, the huge wreckage of language and literature created by Partition – and the huge hope we all have for the future as young people have started taking more and more interest in their heritage.

I wanted to reach out to non-Sindhi readers around the world with this message!

So I wrote about my experience of the panel along with my thoughts and feelings and insights, in an essay which was published on 28 January 2023, covering what we spoke of, and adding one important aspect of the story.

You can read it on here and I hope that you will enjoy it!

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Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor 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. Her 2012 Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland is an acknowledged classic. With an MSc from Mumbai University in 1982, Saaz taught undergraduate Mathematics at Ruparel College, Mumbai, for three years. She was appointed features editor at Times of India, Mumbai, in 1989.

First published by Sindhi Samachar (February 2023 issue) – Reproduced with permission of author Saaz Aggarwal and the publisher 

The post Sindhi Language and Literature at JLF first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Saaz Aggarwal

Khushiram Motiram Kundnani was my college principal at National College. It was he who built the college in Bombay.

He had been a professor at National College in Hyderabad, in a sprawling campus with our beautiful canal, the Phuleli, flowing past. My father had studied there, and that is where he and Bhai Pratap became friends. Later, Bhai Pratap donated a large sum of money to his college, and the Bhai Dialdas Moolchand Library was built in his father’s name. They also built a hall, which now houses the Physics department of the college, in memory of Bhai Pratap’s brother Naraindas.

He packed some books and laboratory equipment into trunks, took them to the Hyderabad railway station with the help of the college peon Dayaram.

When Partition took place, most of the teachers and students fled the troubles in Sindh and the college remained closed. Professor Kundnani was heartbroken to see his beloved college collapsing, and decided to take it with him to Bombay! He packed some books and laboratory equipment into trunks, took them to the Hyderabad railway station with the help of the college peon Dayaram. Luggage was being searched and when Kundnani was asked what was inside the trunks, he replied proudly, “Treasure!” The armed police leapt on the trunks and opened them – and, seeing books and instruments, snorted in disgust and told him to move along.

It was a difficult journey. When he eventually arrived in Bombay, he lived in a cramped room in a crowded locality with a number of other families who had also fled Sindh. He worked hard to find a place to start the college, and while doing so, he also kept in touch with his colleagues, writing postcards every Sunday, promising them that he was going to build National College in Bombay. “We are all going through a very difficult time,” he wrote. “I know you are struggling to earn enough to feed your family. Whether you are doing this by giving tuitions, or helping in your uncle’s shop, or working with the women of your family to cook and provide meals to others – stay cheerful! Very soon, our National College will start and we will get our classrooms and our students back.”

Kundnani was determined, and he found a piece of land, raised contributions from Bhai Pratap and other wealthy members of the community with the help of barrister Hotchand Advani – Kundnani’s wife Jotu contributed her jewellery to this fund too – and started building. In June 1949, the college started. In Sindh it was called DG National College – Dayaram Gidumal National College, in honour of Dayaram Gidumal Shahani, one of the most prominent and benevolent judges and scholars of Sindh, whose family still lives in Sindh. In Bombay, Principal Kundnani named his college after the same wise man, but used different initials, RD National College – Rishi Dayaram National College.

Though we were living quite far away, my father insisted that I should study at Kundnani’s new college, and for all those years I had to commute. I graduated from there, then earned an MSc in Chemistry and got a job as a Demonstrator in the Chemistry Department there. During those years, I also met my future husband, Bob Savur, in National College! We got married and went to live in the Nilgiris where he was a tea planter.

The illustration above, by Subhodeep Mukherjee, shows Khushiram Kundnani sitting at a table writing postcards to his colleagues who have been displaced and made homeless, like him, by Partition. These are some of the books and laboratory equipment carried by him, which are still in use at National College, Mumbai.

[Excerpted from Losing Home, Finding Home by Saaz Aggarwal]

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Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor 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. Her 2012 Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland is an acknowledged classic. With an MSc from Mumbai University in 1982, Saaz taught undergraduate Mathematics at Ruparel College, Mumbai, for three years. She was appointed features editor at Times of India, Mumbai, in 1989.

Courtesy: Saaz Aggarwal | Sindh Stories (Posted on Dec 2, 2022)

The post He took his college with him first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Saaz Aggarwal

How did you manage all this research during lockdown?

My first and most intensive period of fieldwork was in 1999-2000, in London, Malta and Mumbai. I was at the Gateway of India for the millennium celebrations, and remember watching the first sunrise of the third millennium at the lakeside in Borivali. I have since been to India six more times, and the results of that work are contained in my scholarly writing. I also draw on them in this book, though Selling Anything, Anywhere is not aimed at the academic reader. I did intend to spend some months updating my notes in India in 2020-1, but had to resort to Zoom. There was also a fair bit of desk research, which was unaffected by Covid.

Was it really the Sindhi businessman Bhojoomal and his sons who founded Karachi?

If the memoirs of Seth Naomul Hotchand are anything to go by, then yes. Hotchand was a merchant who lived in Karachi in the nineteenth century, and who wrote the history of his family. He wrote that his ancestor Seth Bhojoomal (who originally hailed from Sehwan in Sindh) settled and established business in Kharrakbandar around 1720. The place, however, quickly silted up, and Seth Bhojoomal and his fellow Sindhi merchants relocated to a new place, later named Karachi, and developed it into a port of considerable prominence.

Claude Markovits published his findings about Sindhi global traders in 1999. Why did it take so long for this centuries-old phenomenon, well known among the Sindhis themselves and the local populations where they live, to be identified and written about?

The Sindhworki network goes back to the 1850s, and involved traders from Hyderabad-Sindh who travelled quite literally around the world in search of potential markets (usually in port cities, especially in the earlier phase). That of the Shikarpuris goes back to at least the early eighteenth century, and involved men from Shikarpur who ran an elaborate banking trade in Central Asia. You’re right in saying that it took scholars a long time to get the hint. Some early examples were Anita Chugani’s 1995 MA thesis on Sindhworkis in Japan, my undergraduate thesis on Sindhworkis in Malta in 1996, Markovits’ benchmark book of 2000, and my book of 2005. I think the reason is that Sindhis are so adaptable and flexible in their ways that they are easily overlooked as generic “Indians”. It took Markovits considerable detective work to tease out the Shikarpuri presence in Central Asia; and Sindhworkis can be even more difficult to identify as such. For all their globetrotting and business acumen, Sindhis tend to fly under the radar.

Why are there no women in your book? There’s a brief indication of them as secret agents, and later the ones to prepare “poppadums” and pickles which the men hawked. What about the many entrepreneurs and the captains of industry?

I do mention that in some contexts Sindhi women are increasingly directly involved in business, and that women played a key role in the circulation of information – crucial to business success – back in Shikarpur and Hyderabad, and that well-connected Sindhi women in India and elsewhere play an important part in the making of networks. Still, I think your observation is justified. Mine is a partial story that leaves room for many more. Some have already been told by Rita Kothari, Subhadra Anand and yourself, and there’s a new breed of scholars (some are Sindhi women – Trisha Lalchandani, Radhika Chakraborty and others) who are researching doctorates on various aspects of Sindhis, and there’s Aruna Madnani’s Doorway to Sindh webinar series for her Sindhi Culture Foundation.

“Poppadums”?

It’s papad I had in mind – not least since I must have consumed hundreds in the course of my fieldwork. Sindhis can be good hosts. You’re quite right to say papad is iconic. In part that’s because of their unique peppery taste and blistered appearance (they always remind me of Neapolitan pizza dough). But as I mention in the book, the making and selling of papads and pickles is a defining episode in the story of how many Sindhi refugees survived, and overcame, the economic hardships of Partition.

Why does your book not mention the Sindhi tradition of philanthropy? And why do you have mostly only stories of plodders and small-time dealmakers – yes, the bell-curve people – but no representative of the huge population of rags-to-riches and the “my mother’s blessings took me to where I am” people, who would have loved to be mentioned by name?

This book does not cover every aspect of Sindhi business and culture. It was prescriptively intended as a short and readable text, aimed at a popular audience. Besides, I cannot claim to have worked with a mathematically representative sample of Sindhis. That’s also why this interview is welcome: it complements the contents.

Many Sindhis are, in fact, involved in philanthropy. In the case of some of the big Sindhworki and other firms, this can be as prominent as full-scale hospitals. But I’ve met people of more modest means who funded and ran small homeopathic clinics, for example, in India and elsewhere. I think the point really is that, contrary to some of the more toxic stereotypes, Sindhis do not form isolated moneymaking enclaves; rather, they are embedded in the societies they live in in various ways that include philanthropic giving. Seth Naomul writes that on one auspicious occasion in 1805, his ancestors spent “large sums of money in charity and in feeding Brahmins and fakirs, and acquired such renown on account of their liberality that Bhats and Brahmans chanted their benevolence in songs especially composed”.

Did you observe cultural differences between the solidly Sindhi communities in Panama, Hong Kong, the Canaries (and other locations) through local influences?

You’ve put your finger on one of the most fascinating parts of the Sindhi story. Simply put, Sindhis live in places.

The very first Sindhi I interviewed ran a retail business in Malta which had been in the family for many decades. In a corner of the shop was a little shelf, and on it photos of departed family members and figures of Ganesha, Lakshmi and the Virgin Mary. When I asked, he told me he was “100% Hindu” but also a follower of a number of Catholic devotions.

In Indonesia today, there are about 10,000 Sindhis; many are businesspeople involved in many different lines. Perhaps the best known is the production of sinetron (soap operas), which they have been heavily invested in since the 1980s. The Sindhi producers even came up with an innovative product, sinetron Ramadhan, which, in turn, evolved into a new genre of Indonesian television known as sinetron Islam (Islamic soap opera). These are two small examples of their linguistic, cultural, economic and social diversity. And yet, Sindhis retain a strong sense of a networked cultural affinity, which makes it possible for them to relocate should they wish or need to.

The journalist Priya Ramani sent me an indignant message about the title of this book and I realized that it could be seen as demeaning to the community. I told her I’d ask you.

There’s the joke about the Sindhi on the moon who approached Neil Armstrong and tried to sell him a flag – old and weary, but telling. Everywhere you look you will find pockets of Sindhis selling things as diverse as souvenirs, textiles, electronics and carpets; financing films and developing real estate; manufacturing industrial plastics in West Africa and snack foods in Ulhasnagar, making bespoke suits in Hong Kong and running restaurants and hotels in dozens of locations worldwide. Selling Anything, Anywhere is my homage to a tremendous life force of adventure and enterprise.

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Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humor 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. Her 2012 Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland is an acknowledged classic. She is the author, most recently, of Losing Home Finding Home.

Courtesy: Hindustan Times (Published on Nov 11, 2022)

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