Remembering past homeland

Partition 1947- An achievement on one side and on other side a big human tragedy for millions who had to left their homeland. Remembering and being connected to past homeland remained not only part of common men, but many writers of sub-continent couldn’t resist themselves from writing about their homeland.

Remembering Sindh | The Hindu

Author Saaz Aggarwal speaks of her Sindhi legacy and how through her book, she has tried to fill in History’s blanks on what happened to her people during Partition
After the 1947 Partition, thousands of Sindhi Hindus sailed from Sindh, Pakistan for Indian shores. **Author Saaz Aggarwal’s mother, Situ Savur was then 13 years old. Once on Bombay’s soil, the community began life and trade again, settling into a new culture while rarely speaking of the one they’d left behind. Sixty-five years of silence later, Saaz spoke with her mother about her memories of Sindh. It led to conversations with many others from her mother’s generation, the collection of which makes Sindh - Stories from a Vanished Homeland. **

Through personal narratives of headline events, the book fills in a missing piece in India’s official Partition history. In Coimbatore to launch Sindh at an event organised by Coimbatore Art and Theatrical Society, Saaz spoke with author Shobhana Kumar about the book’s writing and the Sindhi Hindu community in India today.

**
From myriad sources**

Sindh* is Saaz’s eighth book and follows a scrapbook-like structure with short first-person accounts interspersed by family photographs, maps, newspaper clippings, poetry, recipes, excerpts from research papers and quotes by academics.

“While my mother’s story represented a well-off class of people, the others I interviewed, spoke of life in rural Sindh, the Arya Samaj and RSS movements, and the rehabilitation process in India’s refugee camps,” says Saaz.Their individual lives pointed to historical facts which the interspersed anecdotes supply, besides providing visual relief.

**Sindh’s partition history is different from the well-recorded, violence-ridden Punjab and Bengal stories because while those states were physically divided, Sindh went entirely to Pakistan. “Rivers of blood didn’t flow in Sindh but the people’s migration stories tell of the drastic cultural change they underwent,” says Saaz.
**

The book opens with Situ talking of a **Sindh where children flew kites all year round because it never rained. The first time she saw an umbrella was in the Bombay monsoons. “Her story made me realise just how much of a new world ‘India’ was to my mother. At Partition, they told her ‘We’re going to India’ but for her, Sindh was already ‘India’,” says Saaz. **

**
Moving forward**

Despite the sea-change, few Sindhis spoke of their past culture, few young Sindhis know their mother tongue today, and by and large, the community is shrouded in the Bollywood stereotype of loud, money-minded businessmen. “Tracing their history, however, shows that once in India, they focused on making a living for themselves. The richer Sindhis helped the poorer ones settle. It was a community that looked forward, but in the process lost their past,” says Saaz.

Saaz’s research partially explains why letting their culture go came easily to the Sindhis. “The capricious river Indus ran through their lands and it changed course often. One day, you’d be by the river bank, the next, you’d be flooded. Their surroundings created a people prepared for change,” she says.

**Saaz’s research also paints a forgotten Sindh where secularism was upheld and spirituality mattered more than religion. Burial sites of religious leaders were places of strength and were sacred for all regardless of individual belief. “The generation that migrated to India, however, lost this secularism because Partition polarised the Hindus and Muslims into ‘us’ and ‘them’. My mother too believed this way,” she Saaz. **

The book, however, revisits an article published by **Situ which writes of how visiting Muslim neighbourhoods after the Bombay riots changed her views: “I looked into their eyes and I saw a familiar expression. It was the same fear that my parents had during Partition, not knowing what their future was going to be.” **

The publication of Sindh took Saaz to the Karachi Literature festival where Oxford University Press launched her book. She also visited the land of her ancestors with her mother.** “There I met a socially conscious young generation who knew their cultural history; Sindhi Muslims who still remembered and missed the Sindhi Hindus who migrated,**” she says.

** Moreover, she visited a village with over 4,000 Hindus where the elders said they never left during Partition because their tribal chieftain promised them safety and fulfilled it too. **

She concludes, “It proved to me that all you need for peace between two communities is good governance.”

Re: Remembering past homeland

I know a good number of Hindus moved to India after partition. Did people move in the reverse direction too?

Re: Remembering past homeland

people keep on visiting their relatives, but it was difficult after a point to relocate and even visit the relatives. One of my friend from Bihar told that his Mom wanted to visit Bihar, she got visa but got ill and couldn't visit afterwards due to visa restrictions.

Re: Remembering past homeland

Do you know of Gujaratis and Sindhis from Indian areas who moved to Sindh after partition?

Re: Remembering past homeland

Gujrati Muslim community was more into business and trade and they were spread in many areas of Gujrat and KathiyawaR and after partition, they moved to Pakistan and settled mainly in Sindh (majority in Karachi). They are collectively known as Memon.

Re: Remembering past homeland

hindus move to india? :hmmm: werent hindu already from there? :hmmm:

Re: Remembering past homeland

Ali meant Sindhi Hindus

Re: Remembering past homeland

One thing that was surprising for me (in OP) that writer’s mother who lived in Sindh for 13 years never observed rain… :hmmm:

The book opens with Situ talking of a Sindh where children flew kites all year round because it never rained. The first time she saw an umbrella was in the Bombay monsoons. “

Re: Remembering past homeland

^ does it rain in northern Sindh (thar desert)?

Re: Remembering past homeland

yes, until its severe drought. 13 years is a big period and I don't think there was severe drought in Thar during 1940s.

Re: Remembering past homeland

I was watching a tv drama a few days ago, sanjhna which has been filmed in thar. I like the houses built there, unique, haven't seen them in other parts of the country.

Re: Remembering past homeland

and imagine Marvi of Shah Latif comparing those house with palaces :)

Re: Remembering past homeland

Can you be more precise please? Was marvi herself rich?

Re: Remembering past homeland

May be they have same style houses in Rohi and Cholistan


Restored attachments:

Re: Remembering past homeland

Marvi was poor girl from Thar who was abducted by King Umar Soomro. She was offered all worldly things but she kept in remembering her poor relatives and poor lifestyle. Shah latif when wrote story of Marvi, he mentions names of grass, foods, and simple dishes which were and part of life of poor Thari people.

Re: Remembering past homeland

Gulzar’s longing for Dina, Jehlum Pakistan

I left Pakistan with my father at the age of eight. During these 70 years, I had flown to Lahore only once earlier in 2004 on an emergency visa for four days to meet my mentor Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi sahab to see him in hospital as he had suffered a heart attack. But going to Dina, my birth place, was a desire I held for a long time. I had felt like going there many a times, but did not want to wash away the images in which I had lived and always feared that just like other cities of the world, there would be changes even there. I am 78 and I knew that this would probably be my last chance and I may not be able to go there again. Doing that would complete the circle for me.

I wanted to cross the Wagah border on foot. Walking on that soil I felt like I was walking to my homeland, my birthplace. The feeling was extremely intimate. Instinctively, as soon as I reached the Pakistan border, I took off my mojaris (shoes) and wanted to put my feet on the soil.

It might sound childish, but I wanted to feel the ground. My friend Hasan Zia had come to receive us from Pakistan and we could see him waving at us, while our passports were being checked. With them we first went to Lahore, where Vishal and I recorded over two nights.

During the day, we visited the streets of Lahore, but I realised that being who I am, it had become impossible for me to just walk across the street and have a bhutta (corn) with a common man. While people there love me, I was always crowded around by friends and their relatives, who had come from all over to just meet me. I was always ghira hua (surrounded) and that started disturbing me. I was lonely inside, but I could not explain that to anybody. I wanted to just have some bhutta (corn)and ask the cobbler *kay mere jootay ka naap zara theek kar dein *(please fix the size of my shoe). I wanted to get my shoes polished, but was not being allowed and felt the suffocation till I decided that we would go to Dina the next day.

It was a five-hour journey to Jhelum and we set out in two cars. Vishal and Rekha were in the other car and Hasan Zia and a poet friend were in my car. I enjoyed the landscape of Pakistan and stopped en route to finally have bananas. People in Pakistan show their love to you through food and our car was filled with all kinds of non-vegetarian edibles.

My friends had a lot to talk about, but I just wanted them to not talk and let me be on my own. I had not seen so many Urdu signboards in my entire life and wanted to read each of them on the way. I was silently sitting in the car , reading and reading and had never read so much Urdu in one day. We reached Jhelum and from there, Dina station.

It was exactly the way I had left it 70 years ago, except for one small brick room now built for women. Next to the station, there were open fields, looking at which brought back many memories. I remembered one about my father when he used to go to Pahar Ganj in Delhi to bring* sauda* (groceries) for his* hatti* (shop). I wanted to go with him, but four people were holding me back and I could see just his figure standing in the train and going away. Whenever I would hear the whistle of the train or see the train, I would go to the station and wait for him. Thinking about it, I started getting more and more choked up. As it is, people around me were all talking and I was not getting a chance to be alone. The only thing I wanted at that time was silence.

It was difficult for me to explain my feelings to my gracious hosts, who had prepared food for me, that I had no appetite and would not be able to swallow anything. I took water a few times. It was close to sunset and I wanted to visit the main bazaar, where we had lived. It used to be on a straight road from the station. To my surprise, I found that the bazaar had been left untouched and a new bazaar had come up on an adjacent road. Both the bazaars meet at Daata Chowk, where we parked our cars and started walking into the old bazaar. Everything came alive. I was walking ahead of everyone and could straight away, without help, reach the gali where we lived. Except a few windows here and there, everything was the same. People knew that I was coming and they all surrounded me. A few shopkeepers recognised me and started talking about my family — my sister, older brother, even my mamu.
**
**
Then suddenly one of them asked me about Allahditta. My father had a lot of muslim friends and he had brought up one of the sons of his friends as a son. That was Allahditta. I told them how I had lost touch with him after he went to Karachi many years back and now owned a textile mill there. They remembered small details of how my brother’s then father-in-law Makhan Singh Kale Wale shared his name with my father’s name, Makhan Singh Kurlan Wale. Then he said to me, ‘Your father used to collect Rs. 5 rent from me. You my landlord has come now, so take the money from me’. I cried and just held his hand and sat down with him. Then we went to my school, where they were waiting for me. It used to be a primary school when I was there with just two blocks. It has now become a high school with the third block named ‘Gulzar Kalra block’. I became too emotional.

On the way back, I wanted to go to Kurlan, a mile away from Dina, where my father was born, but it was getting dark and Hasan Zia could see my condition and advised me to not go ahead and go back to Lahore with Vishal and Rekha in my car. He could understand what I was going through as I was wiping my nose again and again. It is only when we were midway on the highway that we stopped by at Lalamoosa where I had memories of eating Mia ki dal from a famous shop there. I knew I had kept everybody hungry with me. It was dark by the time we returned to Lahore.

Now, it was time to go back to our recording, but I realised that even with the qawaals singing in the background, I was totally alone. People say you feel happy visiting your childhood. I don’t think so. There is something nice, but sad about it. I was feeling unwell and Vishal realised it first. He said let’s pack up. I did not want you to be admitted in the hospital there and at such times you want to be back to the place where you know the medical set-up. Vishal held my hand and said, ‘Let’s not go to Karachi Gulzar sahab’. There was a lot of responsibility on Hasan Zia’s head who had come to Lahore only to accompany me to the Karachi Literature Festival but I am grateful to him for his understanding. Vishal and I decided to come back to Mumbai and not talk about it much to avoid it becoming a controversy. But by the time we reached Amritsar, everyone knew and it had become just that — A controversy.

My father called me Punni and was a textile trader with an establishment, both in Dina and in Delhi. And that’s why I named my daughter Bosky as that is the name of a famous Chinese silk. We left Pakistan just before Partition. Unlike my brother who was well educated at that time and was amongst the first graduates in my community, my father was not too hopeful about what I would do and that still disturbs me. When my father died in 1960, I was assisting Bimalda (Bimal Roy) in Mumbai. I had not been informed but received a postcard five days later after he died, informing me about his death.

Gulzar: This would probably be my last chance to visit Pakistan | Entertainment | DAWN.COM

Re: Remembering past homeland

An ocean of tears in history of literature

ARTICLE: Writings in exile -DAWN - Books and Authors; March 20, 2005

It is said that the partition in 1947 was an event of momentous importance in our history. It resulted in a massive transfer of population in South Asia. Were someone to collect the very essence of the books written by authors, who had to leave their homes, would understand the impact of this development on the affected people. To many it amounted to being sent in exile. Hindu writers from Sindh, who had to leave their homes, have given us a remarkable collection of writings in exile.

During the 1971 Bangladesh crisis, Shaikh Ayaz, a much celebrated Sindhi poet who is considered by many as only second to Shah Abdul Latif, wrote a poem on war and dedicated it to his exiled friend and poet Narayan Shyam. Narayan Shyam is a celeberated Sindhi poet of post-partition India who never came to visit his motherland till his death. In the poem Ayaz lamented how could he fire a gun at this friend of his standing before him? For this the military rulers of the day put him behind bars in Sukkur prison for almost eight months.

One of Shyam’s couplet reads, “Alai kehri ghari Shyam un maan niktaseen/ wattan warn ta chadio sarhad disan bhi naseeb na thee” meaning, ‘Shyam! What a moment it was when we left our homeland/ it has not been my fate to ever see my homeland’s border again’.

The writers who left their homes in Sindh after partition express a sense of deep grief in their works. They have memories of their homeland and their literary works portray their sad experiences of partition and the ‘politics of borders’.

**Mohan Kalpana, a Kotri-born Sindhi, is a writer whose entire work bleeds with the grief of exile. All his books end on the same note: I hope to see my land again for one last time. In his autobiography titled, Bukh, Ishq, Adab (Hunger, Love and Literature), he writes: “Gobind Malhi, another exiled Sindhi writer living in India, hopes he wouldn’t die before seeing Sindh. But I don’t think so. I would, on the other hand, die and burn in exile so that people would tell a tale: Once upon a time there was Sindh and a Mohan Kalpana. Even though they were madly in love, they couldn’t see each other.”
**
Mohan Kalpana died. He never came back. He dedicated his autobiography “To Sindh, which I see in my dreams: foggy and invisible”. While feeling frustrated at the “freedom days” (August 14 and 15), in his exile notes he expresses his despair at being abandoned.

**The first politically motivated riot in Sindh occurred in Sukkur over Masjid Manzil Gah and the Saddhubela Mandir. Hundreds were killed including a Sufi singer Bhagat Kunwar (equally loved and respected by both Muslim and Hindu Sindhis), who was murdered at Ruk Station.
**
There is this child, Mohin Bolchand Laala, who one day finds himself alone on a deserted street. To him it felt like ‘the calm before the storm’. He was Mohan Kalpana, who then joined the RSS, a fanatic Hindu organization. But during partition he disassociated himself from the RSS to become the popular storywriter that he was. He even wrote a letter to the prime minister of Pakistan at that time urging him to permit him to visit Sindh. The late prime minister was not impressed.

Due to Hindu literary influence in the region, Sindh had been gifted with great literary culture. Sindhu, the one great literary magazine Sindh has ever produced, came out as a monthly from Shikarpur between 1932-1946. To this day there is no literary magazine of its calibre. It is said that at the time of partition, the press from where Sindhu was printed, had been turned into a grass-cutting machine. Shikarpur too was then known as the Paris of Sindh. Kheealdas Fani whom Shaikh Ayaz referred to as his “ustaad” (teacher) in literature belonged to Shikarpur. When Ayaz visited him in India, he touched Fani’s feet, a gesture of respect which brought tears to Fani’s eyes. When Nand Javeri, another writer in exile, came to Shikarpur after a long time, he found a new city instead of what he had left behind. Saddened, he penned a long poem on Shikapur — the foresaken city.

Chandur was a poet and singer who in the 30s and 40s touched many a heart. **When Chandur said farewell to Sindh, he wrote his epic: “Aseen mahmaan dam pal ja/asaan ji moklani ahey” (We are guests here for a few moments, we are about to say farewell).
**
Dada Chandur, old-timers recall, sang when he was departing for India, “Isharo kareen haan udami achaan haan” which in rough translation goes, “If you give me a signal I would’ve flown to you.” He was mourning the loss of his homeland.

Hasho Kewalramani, a socialist writer and thinker, whom G.M. Syed referred to as his “political master”, Narayan Shyam, Ishwar Chandur and their contemporaries left their homes and Sindh turned into an intellectual desert. “That’s why I started penning poetry in Urdu,” writes Shaikh Ayaz. “I set my poem on fire. I wanted to forget the entire trauma which I and my generation suffered,” he maintained. When Sundri Uttamchandani and Utam were visiting Pakistan as Shaikh Ayaz’s guests in Sukkur he had to go through a CID ‘enquiry’.

Popati Hiranandani, a respected writer from India, records her inspiring tale of her days in her motherland: “muhnji zindagi ja sona rupa warq”. She has called the time spent in the land “a golden chapter of life”. So does Rita Shahani in her memoir Bipahari Ja Ba Pal (Two Moments of Noon). “In life when the shadow of utter aloofness was hovering over me, I came to my own land to realize I am not alone,” writes Rita. She writes if she had not come to Sindh she would’ve never been able to know her worth. Shahani had left in 1947 and adopted Faizabad, Lucknow, as her new home. But she never could forget the fragrant air of Hyderabad in Sindh and Heerabad and the schools she attended as a child.

Daada Sadhu Waswani, a Hyderabad-born philanthropist and thinker, is on a Meeranbai mission. He founded the Meeran girls high school, college and university in Pune, India, which are great educational institutions for girls. At the time of partition, he “visited Bhit Shah, and then left for India forever”, I was told by Dadi Leela, an educationist and disciple of Sadhu Wasvani. He was himself a great mystic guru who had authored many books. Whenever he met a yatri he would immediately inquire: Have you brought mitti, ashes, from Sindh for me? Alas he died shedding tears for a distant dream — Sindh, his homeland.

Hari Motwani, in his autobiography, Akhri Panna (Last Pages), recalls his childhood in Larkana. But, he complains, wherever he went there he had to face the ‘CID’. **He had dedicated his book to three cities: Larkana (Sindh), Hurdwar and Bombay (India). But there’s an interesting account by Kirat Babani, a socialist writer, “We Hindus were in a minority and were surrounded by Muslim homes in Moro Lakho. But in difficult times we never found them distant from us,” he writes.
**
He has recalled a painful account in his autobiography Kutch Budhaum, Kutch Likaum, when he was told to leave Karachi the very same day. “They snatched away everything that was mine. Even my homeland. Then they handed me an order from Pakistani officials asking me to leave the country,” writes Babani. “On the deck of a ship full of refugees my heart sank,” he writes. “I was pondering the unfortunate partition of the subcontinent. These were the pains of politics, which divided us. We lived on this land for hundreds of thousands of years to be told now to ‘leave your homes and say goodbye to your motherland’,” he has lamented.

“If a collection of writings in exile can be compiled,” observes a young writer, “it would create an ocean of tears in our history of literature.”

Re: Remembering past homeland

i believe so, that the huts in the desert region are the same. It seems the same huts are being built during the past thousands of years.

Re: Remembering past homeland

I also think so.. at least I can say this for last 700-800 years, as apparent from Shah Latif's poetry about Marvi, who lived in 13th century. Remember, we were discussing destruction of Indus valley civilisation in another thread, and there it was mentioned that due to continuous floods people stopped making big buildings.

Re: Remembering past homeland

I didnt realize that Gulzar is a non muslim. Is this name common in Hindus/Sikhs too?