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What did it take to leave your family home behind during Partition 1947 and start a new life without anything in a new land? A writer shares his parents' story and his childhood in a young India. An Independence Years Special.

In 1947, during the tumultuous time of Partition and India's subsequent independence, I was a mere three years old. We hailed from a small but affluent family, situated amidst a larger clan of about 20 families in the Sialkot District of what was then undivided India. As word spread about the impending division of the nation along religious lines, confusion reigned. The plan was to bifurcate India to establish Pakistan as a separate state for Muslims. This new state would predominantly comprise Muslim-majority areas in Punjab and Bengal. Consequently, Hindus in these regions were expected to migrate to mainland India, while Muslims from other parts of India would relocate to the newly established territories of Pakistan in the west and east.

Our clan had called Sialkot home for generations. Most of our elders had only ever experienced life in Sialkot and its neighbouring regions. However, as uncertainties mounted and concerns for family safety grew, a decision was made to relocate to more secure, Hindu-majority areas like Jammu, which were anticipated to remain part of India. This migration took place in March-April 1947, well before the actual partition in August, which was marked by significant violence and animosity.

Family elders have since shared with me that while the decision to move was rooted in apprehension, it was undeniably prudent and timely. Remaining in contentious zones like Sialkot, hoping that situations would stabilize, would have posed risks to our clan. Due to our early relocation, members of our clan could even transfer a portion of their wealth, though a majority of it was left behind, likely claimed later by former neighbours or the authorities.

The magnitude of the disaster that might have befallen our clan, had we not chosen to move earlier, is unimaginable. Yet, destiny played its hand as it did. Our departure was discreet. We left our homes locked, seemingly nonchalantly, the keys to which were probably later used by either the Pakistani government or the neighbours, long after we had found refuge in distant places like Agra and Delhi.

Here's what I wrote about our life after Partition in my small book: What They Don't Teach In Educational Institutions. Excerpts below:

My parents, along with millions, came as refugees to the Free India of their broken dreams. Life could not have been easy for them, uprooted from where they had everything, to a new place in a new environment, where they owned nothing except the clothes on their back, the willpower to make things work for the family and the tenacity to do well in life. It was a transformation from total abundance to total scarcity, from everything to nothing. The only consolation, if we could call it that, was that they were not alone but in the company of millions, who were uprooted from their original homes, on both sides of the border. Though my parents could only afford for us four brothers to be educated in ordinary city corporation schools, education was especially emphasised.

However, our real education was in our home, our gurukul. By personal example, our parents taught us innumerable things, we could never have learnt in school in those tension-filled times. 

I still remember those fateful days as a child. I never saw my parents cribbing, complaining or grumbling about the new situation that fate had put them into. Be it money, eatables, clothes or other things that are normal in households these days, they were mostly short, less than what was required. We were expected and encouraged to share amongst ourselves or with other children in school and outside. We got only one ‘anna’ as our daily pocket money, which could generally buy only one item during our school recess. But hunger during those days was perpetual since ‘angeethis’ (coal stoves) were lit only twice daily and took almost an hour to light. Breakfast and lunch were cooked in the morning and dinner, in the evening. Our mother, for most of the day, used to be in the kitchen, trying to meet our requirements. She was a good cook and met our requirements of abundant home-made snacks quite efficiently.

While attending any social function, our parents strictly instructed us to eat after everyone had eaten. Whenever they had gone to attend a marriage in the community or friends’ circle, they would never eat there, which was a dignified social custom those days, quite contrary to the present-day culture of guests toppling over to eat. They would come home and eat what our mother had cooked before leaving home. Sharing was encouraged at every level. In daughters’ marriages within the community, food was served by friends and community members, not by paid waiters.

Despite all the financial hardships and scarcity, our parents went about their job, doing whatever needed to be done -- my mother at home, and my father in our grain shop, which he had opened by then. Father was a great humorist and mother was very social and worldly-wise. People liked to be in their company. Since they were very helpful and social, they were welcome everywhere. Adversities and facing problems were considered part of our education. Keep trying and one fine day you will emerge winner, was a lesson we were reminded of daily. Without anyone ever mentioning a word, I learnt my first greatest lesson in life: When confronted by a multitude of grief and adversity, if a person stands boldly without accepting defeat, he shall see the defeat itself depart utterly defeated”.

Cover image: A refugee special train at Ambala station. Used for representation only. Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons

Would you know of the experiences your family went through during Partition? Share them with us here or mail them to editor@silvertalkies.com 

Books open up our world in more ways than one. Here are five books that talk about India's struggle for freedom, the Partition of 1947 and the post-independence years.

Knowing our history and the numerous narratives that led to the dawn of August 15, 1947, is essential. Now, more than any other time, it is important to understand history from many viewpoints to comprehend how India attained Independence. Here are five books that talk of life and the world around the time of Independence, in fiction, non-fiction and with an eye on every age.

Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie: You can't have a list without this one. It is considered an absolute masterpiece by Salman Rushdie, who was viciously attacked in New York just a few days ago. Midnight's Children is the story of Saleem Sinai, the narrator of this book. Born at midnight on August 15, 1947, the book is about his fate intricately linked to his country. It's also about the mystic abilities that connect Sinai to the other midnight's children of India, all born in that first hour of freedom. In 1981, the book received both the Booker Prize and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize. 

Indian Summer: The Secret History of the End of an Empire by Alex Von Tunzelmann

This book chronicles all the significant political people and events that led to the partition of India. It demonstrates how a small group of people's decisions completely altered the nation. Because it discussed the relationship between Jawaharlal Nehru, India's first prime minister, and Edwina Mountbatten, Lord Mountbatten's wife, the book was controversial.

The Integration of Indian States by VP Menon: This is for the factually oriented reader. VP Menon was the personal secretary to Sardar Patel. One of the most fundamentally significant challenges the Indian government faced following Independence was the amalgamation of the 554 princely kingdoms with the Indian state. The book details the negotiations Patel and Menon carried out with each of these states and might interest those with a keen eye on administrative history.

The Chowpatty Cooking Club by Lubaina Bandukwala:  Suppose you are a grandparent wishing to give the young ones a window into children's lives during the freedom struggle. In that case, the books from the Songs of Freedom series (Duckbill) make a great choice. In the Chowpatty Cooking Club, set during the Quit India Movement, three children fervently wish to participate in the freedom struggle and revolution brewing around them. The author weaves in actual historical elements such as an underground people's radio that broadcasts news hidden from the British, student rebels and secret codes. It's a book for children that adults are likely to love too! 

The Great Indian Novel by Shashi Tharoor: Shashi Tharoor's debut novel is a fiction that retells the great epic of Mahabharata. It's a political satire that draws parallels with major events in India's political history during the freedom movement and in the post-independence era.

Also read: Oral historian Aanchal Malhotra shares her personal favourite list of 20 books on the Partition of 1947.

Every August, Silver Talkies records memories and instances of humanity, fortitude, and courage during the Independence Years; stories of life in a newly independent India; crossing over during Partition, and finding freedom. You can find these stories here & here.

Yashpal Mehta lived abroad for 38 years before returning home to settle in Chembur, Mumbai, his childhood neighborhood. For two years, the pandemic prevented him from exploring the area. One fine morning, Mr. Mehta decided to locate the barrack in Chembur Camp where he was born. He narrates his childhood years in the neighborhood - a legacy of life after the Partition of 1947.:

The ship had a capacity of 300 but carrying a load of 4000 displaced people, set sail from Karachi on September 18, 1947. It anchored at Mumbai port three days later. Never in their wildest dream did the Sindhis, Multanis, Derewals, and people from Jhung, forced out of their homes, think they would not return to Karachi in the next few months. Many had left their house keys with neighbors to mind their homes during this 'short stay' in Bombay. But, alas, it was not to be, and they were now in Bombay for good.

We are from Multan, a border state between Sindh and Punjab in West Pakistan. Most of our men found employment in Karachi, then a vibrant commercial city. 

A Family Uprooted

My father was a matriculate working with the British Overseas Airways Corporation (now British Airways) as a stenographer. He told us how he had the temerity to ask his British boss if he could get a transfer to the Mumbai office of the company when the Partition riots started. 

But the company had not asked the employees to leave. Since they were going of their own volition, there could not be a transfer. So my parents and eldest sister, who was a few months old, joined the 4000 refugees, homeless and penniless, to a whole new world of uncertainty on that ship.

Our family eventually found refuge in the military barracks opposite the Golf Course in Chembur. Each barrack had six units. The walls in the barracks were halfway from the ceiling, and one could see and hear what transpired in the neighbor's home. The new residents' first task was to cover the space with jute bags painted white for a semblance of privacy.

The water came from a well nearby. The cooking was done in tandoors outside the barrack. The Gurudwaras, always the good samaritans, provided food to those in need.

Remaking Lives

In Chembur, the area from Jhama to the golf course was called Chembur Camp, and shops were set up on both sides of the road by the migrants. Sindhis, the entrepreneurial breed, began to find jobs even as far as Crawford Market in Central Mumbai and the Mulji Market to get a foothold. Those who were not so literate found work in the three studios, RK, Asha, and Basant, not far from Camp, as extras in movies. For some, it became a career. I remember the two shootings that I was part of. One was Zameen Ke Tare featuring famous character actors Honey Irani and Daisy Irani as child artists. The other was Waqt in the celebrated song sequence of Aye Meri Zohra Zabeen.

Some young boys would do the job of an Aagewala (now called the ball spotter) or a Carry (now known as the Caddy) and earn some pocket money. I still remember fixing tricolor paper flags on the pockets of an 'Angrez' (a white man) on August 15 and January 26 outside the golf course to get some money. Educated migrants like my father got office jobs, mostly as clerks, thanks to the policies during the Nehru Era and the emphasis on industrialization.

Most children were born in the barracks, including another sister and me. Most of us went to preschool at Balkanji Bari, run by the Sindhis. The Hindi High School Ghatkoper was popular for higher classes as it offered fee remission to refugee children. The Municipal school to the left of the Golf Course was another free choice. A few children attended the DAV school in Matunga, including some from our family. As people settled and had some income, the younger children got admission to St. Anthony and OLPS, Chembur. I joined OLPS in 1957 for the first standard, and this was the first batch of students in Class I. We were four children, and all of us went to four different schools, DAV Matunga, Hindi High School, Ghatkopar, OLPS, and Swami Vivekanand, perhaps reflecting their parents' changing economic status.

After the settling in process from 1947 to 1951, the government appointed a Claims Commissioner to look into the homes and properties left behind by the migrants and decide on the claims.

Our area was divided into three wards, and buildings were built. Each building had three floors and 12 units. Each unit had a room, a living/bedroom with a washing area, and a kitchenette at the back. Each floor also had six common baths and six common toilets. According to my understanding, those with a claim were given this unit for free, while others had to pay Rs 4500. The structures were completed in 1956/57.

A Joyous Childhood

"Woh kagaz ki kashti woh barish ka pani..."

The famous Jagjit Singh song sums up our stay here. There was lots of bonhomie and trivial but joyful activities. We loved playing gilli danda, langri, kho kho, seven tiles, rolling of the tyres, and cricket and volleyball. We grew up listening to stories from my grandfather during summer nights under the starry skies on the terrace. The terrace was our common bedroom during the hot months of April and May. I was paid a coin to scratch my grandpa's back to make him comfortable from the sores caused by prickly heat. There were innumerable times when we would have to rush from the terrace to our homes with our beddings at the fall of the first rains. We'd run through the rickety stairs between the second floor and the terrace. Simple days of joy and fun.

Note: This episode is from 1947 to 1957. The information is based on my research and largely from an interview given by my uncle that is now archived at the Godrej Library in Vikroli. 

Cover image: Women and children arriving at Bombay port on an ocean liner from Karachi after the Partition in 1947. Image courtesy: Twitter

Every August, Silver Talkies records memories and instances of humanity, fortitude, and courage during the Independence Years; stories of life in a newly independent India; crossing over during Partition, and finding freedom. You can find these stories here & here.

This writeup originally appeared in Chembur Pulse.

77-year-old photographer, cinematographer and director, Ashok Talwar’s life houses tons of incredible memories of the partition and Independence Years. 

A youth witnessing his father getting slaughtered in front of his own eyes while crossing the border during the Partition of India and Pakistan in 1947. A mother whose love for her two children, one brought up in India and the other in Pakistan, could not be divided. An Indian septuagenarian’s thrill of unknowingly visiting his grandfather’s home in Lahore, Pakistan after more than six decades and realising that was home. Talwar is known for his works on Doordarshan like Maila Anchal, Police File Se, Space City Sigma and more. He looked into his storehouse of memories for us.

Talwar, 77, whose life has been deeply influenced by the memories of India-Pakistan Partition

Father stabbed to death in front of his son during the Partition riots

At the time of India’s Independence, Talwar was 4-year-old and was settled in Delhi with his parents. However, several relations from both his father’s and mother’s ends were on the other side of the border. Talwar believes his perception as a film director has been heavily influenced by the Partition and recalls the experience his paternal aunt, Bua’s family had to go through while crossing the border in 1947.

“My Bua had come earlier to Delhi from Lahore, now in Pakistan, to stay with us during the times of Independence and Partition. My cousin brothers along with my Fufaji were supposed to come a little later. When they were crossing the border to come to India from Pakistan, they were provided shelter during the night by someone whose house was nearby the India-Pakistan border. Those were unimaginable days of riots and horror. The house where my cousins and Fufaji took refuge for the night was surrounded by high compound walls. In the middle of the night, the house owner secretly informed his neighbours that they were staying at his place. A group of people broke in to slaughter my brothers and uncle. While my brothers were young enough to jump over the compound wall, Fufaji was old and he could not manage to escape the wall. He was stabbed to death right in front of his two sons who were in the early twenties then,” says Talwar.

His cousins managed to reach Talwar in Delhi and stayed there with him and his parents. “There were many relatives who crossed the border and came and lived with us in my father’s bungalow in Delhi. That’s why I have always grown up in a big joint family with lots of people around and even today I do not like living alone,” he adds.

Dividing the nation could not kill a mother’s love

Talwar feels lucky to have experienced some magic stories of India’s Independence that have etched a mark on him forever but have remained unknown. During the 1970s, he was farming for a short while in Khasa border, a few kilometers away from the Attari border in Amritsar. There, he befriended a Singh, a Sikh farmer who worked on his farm and lived with his only son. When Talwar enquired about his wife, the farmer revealed that his wife had gone to Pakistan as she is a Pakistani. Talwar was surprised and out of curiosity wanted to know more.

“The story that I heard was something that I have never heard before. While we have made several movies on Partition of India, this story that speaks of the love and commitment of a mother is a truly deserving movie plot. During the partition, several Indian Muslims were crossing the border on foot to go to Pakistan and a lot of bloodsheds took place. Singh’s wife was a young girl then and was crossing the border with her father and brothers when Singh and some others caught and killed them. Singh decided to marry the girl, had a son with her and after a few years, she went to Pakistan,” recaps Talwar.

It was during Talwar’s stay in Khasa that the wife returned all of a sudden after almost 15 years. He adds: “I was overwhelmed to see the woman back to her husband and son after such a long time. She walked across the border just as she had gone earlier. I went for a chai party to her place and wanted to know where she was and why she went off to Pakistan. She told me that she was already married and had a son when she was crossing the border in 1947 and Singh captured and married her. Her first-born is now a citizen of Pakistan and she has never denied being a mother to both his sons. She keeps on crossing borders for the sake of motherhood and tends to both her sons, one in Pakistan and the other in India.”

Talwar took part in a delegation and visited Pakistan a few years back

Partition could not cut off ties of blood and friendship

Talwar, who is a photographer, took part in a delegation called by the photographers of Pakistan and visited Lahore 2006. His grandfather who was a well-known barrister in Lahore had died a few months earlier and the rest of the family had migrated to India during the partition.

Talwar says: “I expressed my desire of visiting my grandfather’s house to one of our hosts, who was a member of the Pakistan Planning Commission. I gave him the address and he wanted to take me there himself as he said he was living on the same road and his house was right next to my grandfather’s. However, he informed me that my grandfather’s house is not there anymore and some government buildings have been raised in the same plot. After our visit, he took me to his place and offered me tea. There, he showed me around the house and also took me to the library of his father who also happened to be an eminent lawyer in Lahore and had recently passed away. It was an old library and something strange happened to me when I stepped in. Difficult to put in words but even at the risk of being overdramatic, it was almost like I was being pulled back in time.”

Talwar’s cherished moments in Lahore, Pakistan during his visit

On returning to India he spoke about it with his elder sister. He was awestruck to find from her that he had carried the wrong address of his grandfather’s house in Lahore and the house and library that he visited was his grandfathers.

“I immediately called back my host who had taken me to his house and then he disclosed that his father was a practicing lawyer in Amritsar. When he and his family crossed over to Pakistan during the partition, they were allotted this bungalow. He said that his father had heard of my grandfather and admired him and it is because of this respect and admiration that his father never changed or renovated the library. The library that I visited was actually my grandfather’s and nearly the same as he had left nearly 60 yrs ago.”

Talwar believes India’s Independence was not just freeing our country from years of Imperialism, but also a collage of untold feelings and emotions.

How was India’s first Independence Day celebrated? These seniors take us back to August 15, 1947. 

Spending some family time on a national holiday, wishing each other Happy Independence Day, shuffling through TV channels to watch the live national flag hoisting program, listening to patriotic music and watching films on India’s struggle for freedom, taking part in some Independence Day exclusive events and relishing special lunch or dinner at home, – that’s how most of us generally observe August 15, our Independence Day. While all of us may have heard thrilling stories of our freedom fighters and their remarkable sacrifice, have you ever wondered what the first Independence Day back in 1947 was exactly like? How did India look like on her own after 200 years of colonialism? As we celebrate the 74th year of India’s freedom, Silver Talkies speaks to senior citizens who witnessed the first Independence Day celebration, over seven decades ago.

This nonagenarian was a part of the music band that performed on the first Independence Day

Rukmini Srinivas who is fondly called Rukka by her friends and family is 93 and her memories of the celebration of India’s first Independence are anything but faint. When Silver Talkies reached out to her, she was brimming with joy as she recollected those golden days.

Srinivas, who was born in Bangalore in 1927 and grew up in the British cantonment areas all over India as her father was an officer in the Military Accounts Department, had a dichotomy. “I went to British schools in Pune, Madras (now Chennai) and Jabalpur. There, our lives were about British customs and culture. We sang God Save our Gracious King for George the Sixth on every public occasion, we celebrated Christmas and read the King James Bible and Shakespeare. At home on the other hand, though my father loved English literature, and wore western clothes, the talk in the house was of the struggle for freedom. I remember distinctly my father took my sister and me to Yerawada Jail in Pune where Gandhiji and other freedom fighters had been imprisoned. He told us about the Dandi March and about Mahatma Gandhi’s life. We crossed the bridge at the Mula Mutha River and spent several moments staring at the cell where Gandhiji spent countless days, planning and hoping for a free India,” she says.

Rukmini Srinivas took part in the celebration of the first Independence Day on August 15, 1947

After finishing school in Pune, Srinivas went to Madras, joined the prestigious Queen Mary’s College in 1946 and was among the first generations of women to get a college education in free India.

“In college, I joined Manjubhashini’s Seva Dal and went every weekend from my hostel to practice drill and marching. She used to read to us stories of the freedom struggle, of Gandhiji’s and Nehru’s life. The following year of my joining Queen Mary’s College, India celebrated independence from British colonial rule. I was 20 years old then. Meanwhile, my professors had noticed that I had a good voice and was enthusiastic about the upcoming Independence day festivities. They selected me as one of six singers to train under Harindranath Chattopadhyay, the husband of Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay, both noted freedom fighters. Harindranath played the harmonium and taught us the famous song, “Kadam kadam badaye ja, khushi se geet gaye ja!” I still remember the rousing tune to this day and sing it to my daughters.”

On August 15, 1947, Rukka, along with other students from the hostel marched in a parade all along the Marina to Fort St. George where the British flag, the Union Jack, used to fly on the ramparts. “On this momentous day, I remember how the Indian tricolor was hoisted and the British Union Jack was lowered. There were shouts of joy and applause while the band played. I felt very proud. We came back to a special dinner at the hostel mess that day. Our principal talked to us about the importance of education for girls and women in the new India,” says Srinivas who has written about her memories of pre-Independence India in her memoir and cookbook Tiffin: Memories and Recipes of Indian Vegetarian Food. At present, she is finishing a book on her memories of this exciting time in India’s history and other stories, titled Rukka’s Reminiscences.

India’s struggle for freedom shaped the life of this octogenarian

Indira Narsimhachar, 82, was 9 when she witnessed a new India on August 15, 1947. Recollecting the pre-Independence days, she says: My sister and I were living with our grandparents as my parents were in a remote place where there was no schooling facility. The elders at home excitedly used to read the newspaper and listen to radio news every day. They used to talk about freedom fighters which we listened to with excitement. We also got scared when we heard about the communal riots.

Communal riot before Independence

“I remember the first Independence Day very well,” she tells us.“There was excitement and joy everywhere. My grandfather hoisted the national flag on top of the house. We all saluted the flag. We had decorated the whole house with buntings. My grandmother made sweets and distributed them to all in the neighborhood. My grandfather sat glued to the radio. In school, we were taught the national anthem which we kept singing joyfully. Expressing how it felt to sing the National Anthem for the first time ever in free India is beyond words.”

Freedom was indeed precious for these super silvers and so it is for all of us. We thank them for sharing with us what liberty means in its truest sense.

Image Courtesy: Pinterest

Meet 95-year-old Parbati Chatterjee from Kolkata who went against the social norms restricting women to participate in India’s freedom struggle. 

Draped in a milk-white saree, Parbati Chatterjee, 95, from Barasat, West Bengal spends her day either stitching her own blouses and petticoats or weaving sitting mats for her grandchildren or playing the harmonium and singing to it. With bleak eyesight, trembling hands and a cracked voice, she never misses a strike of the needle on the cloth or plays a wrong tune. She hardly forgets to go out for her daily walk and refuses to board a rickshaw when offered to. With a belt wrapped around her waist, she prefers getting her own medicines and daily necessities, all by herself. She says: “I believe in the true sense of freedom and feel that age cannot be a bar to your will of living independently till the last day of your life. Freedom brings me an immense sense of self-satisfaction.”

When her children warn her of a fall, she tells them with pride that her freedom cannot hurt her as she has walked on the street with Netaji and Gandhiji, singing out loud for the country’s freedom against the British. Chatterjee actively participated in India’s struggle for Independence and marched alongside several freedom fighters, singing ‘Vandemataram’ and ‘Jai Hind’. She had also shared the stage with Mahatma Gandhi and Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose during freedom rallies, where she performed songs, create awareness about the evils of colonialism and get more people to join the freedom movement.

“While my mother-in-law never really approved of my public performances and never wanted me to go out and sing with other men, my determination and my husband’s support could not stop me from being a part of the struggle for freedom. My husband was a theatre artist and he too conducted street and stage plays to spread the fire of freedom among the masses,” says Chatterjee, walking down memory lane.

Chatterjee supported her cousin brother, Bhagirathi Chatterjee, who was actively involved in the armed rebellion against the British. Starting from providing a place of hideout from the police for her brother and his allies to serving food to the young freedom fighters and nursing the wounded revolutionaries, Chatterjee’s youth was as exciting as any patriotic movie.

Several women like Parbati Chatterjee participated in the freedom movement. Shown here is a procession in Bangalore during the Quit India movement with many women marching. Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons

Born in a conservative family in Kolkata in 1924, Chatterjee was not allowed to study after Class 3. “Women those days were not allowed to do almost anything. I got married off at the age of 13 when I was just a little girl. Such marriages were known as Gauri Daan where young girls were married off even before they could get over their adolescence. After marriage, I was not allowed to wear shoes as I was a woman and forced to walk barefoot until my husband would hide and carry a pair of shoes for me. I used to wear shoes once I was out of the sight of the people who knew me,” explains Chatterjee.

However, nothing stopped her from learning English which she felt could become a weapon for the Indians to get rid of their colonial masters then. “I realised that we could attain freedom only and if only we could be at par with the British and knowing their language could certainly gift us equal status. I used to borrow books from my nephews, hide it under my saree and learn English in the afternoons behind locked doors after finishing all household chores. I could not let the elders in the family know about this as in those days women who read books and novels were considered to be of a maligned character,” says Chatterjee.

Eventually, she witnessed India’s Independence in 1947 and her joy knew no bounds. “India’s independence taught me a valuable lesson. Be it the freedom of an individual or a country, it can be achieved through lots of struggle and sacrifice,” she says. Post-independence, she was in touch with the prominent leaders who assumed power in the free nation. Chatterjee is a great cook and loves feeding people. She has had chances to invite and cook for the erstwhile governor of Bengal and Orissa, Kailashnath Katju and many other political leaders of independent India.

“Today I am a proud grandmother and a great grandmother and I feel elated to see my grandsons and grand-daughters doing great in their lives. I have always taught my children to raise their children, especially their daughters in a way so that they can be self-reliant and independent. At times, I have gone against their decision of marrying off my grand-daughters early and suggested them to focus on their career instead of marriage. Born as a not-so-free woman of colonised India, I have realised that the best way a country can achieve freedom in true sense is by gifting wings of freedom to our daughters,” says Chatterjee.

Every August, Silver Talkies records memories and instances of humanity, fortitude and courage during the Independence Years — stories of life in a newly independent India; crossing over during Partition and stories of finding freedom.

The Independence Years Special

Oral historian, multimedia artist and author Aanchal Malhotra’s work includes her first book, Remnants of a Separation: A History of the Partition through Material Memory (HarperCollins India, 2017), which is the story of the belongings refugees from either side of the border carried with them during partition in 1947. Malhotra is also the co-founder of the Museum of Material Memory, a ‘digital repository’ of material culture and memory from the Indian subcontinent. Much of her work also bridges the generation gap, bringing stories of an older generation and an important time in the subcontinent’s shared history to a younger audience. Malhotra is working on her second book and lives in Delhi.

Here are 20 books on the Partition in 1947 that make it to Malhotra’s reading list:

1. This Is Not That Dawn – Yashpal

Translated from the Hindi by Anand

Written originally in Hindi as ‘Jootha Sach’, this is arguably one of the most comprehensive novels about the Partition. Set in Lahore, it chronicles the lives of the residents of the Walled City before, during and after the Divide.

2. The Great Partition – Yasmin Khan

In this seminal work of non-fiction, Yasmin Khan examines the context, execution, and aftermath of Partition, weaving together local politics and ordinary lives with the larger political forces at play.

3. Freedom at Midnight: The Epic Drama for India’s Struggle for Independence – Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins

An almost total recall of the negotiations that led up to that historic Midnight, using primary as well as secondary sources to an exhaustive degree. This book is of particular interest as it chronicles independence through the use of multiple character-sketches of the political personalities involved, as well as the layman their actions affected.

4. Partition Voices: Untold British Stories – Kavita Puri

Stemming from the author’s family’s experiences, it records a difficult and dual migration – first, of refugees fleeing across the Radcliffe Line, and then farther, across the tumultuous dark waters to Britain. Upon arrival, the first generation of South Asians, men and women who had lived under the Raj, now fought to live alongside it.

5. Jinnah – India, Partition, Independence – Jaswant Singh

A vastly controversial book written on Pakistan’s founding father by Jaswant Singh, a former Finance Minister and External Affairs Minister of India, caused him to be expelled by the BJP. However, in this book, Singh sets out to provide clarity on some of the unanswered questions about Partition, tracing the complex arch of Quaid-e-Azam’s character from being an ambassador of Hindu-Muslim unity to the demand for a separate, Muslim state.

Fifteen of the recommended books from Malhotra’s personal collection

6. Punjab – Bloodied, Partitioned, Cleansed – Prof. Ishtiaq Ahmed

Professor Ahmed traverses his way through Undivided Punjab, conducting first-hand interviews with members of various communities and religion, compiling what is, without a doubt, one of the most detailed case studies of Partition and Punjab. A must-read for all looking to understand the highly nuanced, region-specific events that led to the Divide.

7. Since 1947: Narratives among Punjabi Migrants in Delhi – Ravinder Kaur

Written after rigorous field research in and around Delhi, the book delves specifically into the Partition experiences of Punjabi Hindu refugees and the coping strategies employed when forced to leave their homes in 1947, culminating in the formation of a new identification process. In some ways, the book can also be described as a character graph of the evolution of the Capital city of New Delhi post Partition.

8. Unbordered Memories: Sindhi Stories of Partition – Rita Kothari

The loss of land and home remains constant in all those affected by Partition, but none perhaps as absolutely as the Hindu Sindhi, for whom, the entirety of Sindh remained in Pakistan. In this book, we witness Sindhis from both India and Pakistan making imaginative entries in each other’s worlds. Many stories testify to the empathy shared by both the Hindu and Muslim Sindhis for the plight of each other, illuminating how the Sindhi identity was far greater than any conforming to any religious group. Rita Kothari is also particularly well known for her work on Partition, language and the vocabulary of division.

9. Pakistan, or the Partition of India – Dr. B.R Ambedkar

In this work, first published in 1940, Ambedkar analyses the possible reasons in favour of and against partition. As with much of his other work, he relies not on appeals to emotion, but on statistics and reason, examining the Muslim case for Pakistan, the Hindu case against Pakistan, the possible Muslim and Hindu alternatives to Pakistan, and then proceeds to provide a conclusion of his beliefs.

Oral historian and author Aanchal Malhotra

10. Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie

A literary masterpiece about a group of children born at the stroke of midnight on August 15, 1947 – the very moment of India’s independence – their lives inseparable, at times indistinguishable, from the history of their country.

11. A Bend in the Ganges – Manohar Malgonkar

A vivid portrait of life in British India from the 1930s until Partition in 1947. Malgonkar’s novel takes us through the struggle for freedom and employment of force and violence, through the lives of his protagonists Gian Talwar, Debi-Dayal and Shafi Usman, three ordinary men from different cultural backgrounds.

12. Footprints of Partition: Narratives of Four Generations of Pakistanis and Indians and Between the Great Divide: A Journey into Pakistan Administered Kashmir – Anam Zakaria

Zakaria’s first book, Footprints of Partition, is a compilation of her fieldwork and research as an oral historian, recording how memories of Partition can also be considered generational, and how our yearning for home can be translated into children and grandchildren of Partition displaced families.

Her second book, Between the Great Divide, is a brave and unique endeavour as the award-winning Pakistani writer travels through Pakistan Administered Kashmir to hear the voices of its people. She talks to women and children living near the Line of Control, bearing the brunt of ceasefire violations; journalists and writers braving all odds to document events in remote areas; political and military representatives championing the cause of Kashmir; former militants still committed to the cause; nationalists struggling for a united independent Kashmir; and refugees yearning to reunite with their families on the other side.

13. The Spoils of Partition: Bengal and India, 1947–1967 – Joya Chatterjee

Using compelling sources, the book shows how and why the borders were redrawn, how the creation of new nation-states led to unprecedented upheavals, massive shifts in population and wholly unexpected transformations of the political landscape in both Bengal and India.

14. Borders & Boundaries – Ritu Menon and Kamla Bhasin

While there are plenty of official accounts of Partition, there are few social histories and fewer feminist histories. ‘Borders and Boundaries‘ changes that, providing first-hand accounts and memoirs, juxtaposed alongside official government accounts. The authors make women not only visible but central. They explore what country, nation, and religious identity meant for women, and they address the question of the nation-state and the gendering of citizenship. Written after considerable fieldwork and interviews with Partition survivors, wards of the state, social workers and women who were abducted during the Divide.

15. Kitne Pakistan? (How many Pakistans?) Hindi – Kamleshwar

In a fictional court, various historical characters are brought to the witness’s box and asked to narrate their version of history. These historical personalities range from Mughal emperors Babur and Aurangzeb, Spanish adventurer Hernando Cortez, Lord Mountbatten. Although it does not directly deal with the events of those days, the shadow of the Partition constantly hovers on it.

16. A time of Madness: A Memoir of Partition – Salman Rashid

During the chaos of partition in 1947, something dreadful happened in the city of Jalandhar in Punjab. After living in the shadow of his family’s tragedy for decades, in 2008, Rashid made the journey back to his ancestral village to uncover the truth. A time of Madness is the story of what he discovered. It is a tale of unspeakable brutality but it is also a testament to the uniquely human traits of forgiveness, redemption and the resilience of the human spirit.

17. The Line of Control: Travelling with the Indian and Pakistani Armies – Happymon Jacob

This vividly told, fast-paced narrative brings the border area to life. Jacob was given unprecedented access by the Indian and Pakistani armies and he explores how the border is seen-both in the popular imagination and by those who exist in its shadow. He chronicles the lives of civilians and soldiers, their courage and resilience in the face of constant danger and the extraordinary similarities between the two sides.

18. The Kashmir Dispute: 1947-2012 (2 volumes) by AG Noorani

In this highly detailed book, Noorani traces the complex history of Kashmir and the political and social discontent and dissent surrounding it, particularly in response to the question of the accession of the state of Jammu and Kashmir to India in late 1947. It then delves into the intricacies of the Kashmir problem with a collection of the author’s articles published over the last five decades in various dailies, journals, and books, bringing to light many hitherto unknown or forgotten issues and facts relating to the troubled history of the state.

19. In Freedom’s Shade- Anis Kidwai

A personal memoir and an activist’s record of the nature of gendered and religious violence during the Partition of India and the subsequent murder of her husband at the hands of communal perpetrators. Written originally in Urdu as Azaadi Ki Chhaaon Mein.

20. A Gujarat Here, A Gujarat There (Gujarat Pakistan Se Gujarat Hindustan) – Krishna Sobti translated from the Hindi by Daisy Rockwell

Part novel, part memoir, part feminist anthem, A Gujarat Here, A Gujarat There is not only a powerful tale of Partition loss and dislocation but also charts the odyssey of a spirited young woman determined to build a new identity for herself on her own terms.

To know more about Aanchal Malhotra’s work, visit the following links:

http://www.museumofmaterialmemory.com/

https://www.instagram.com/aanch_m/

https://twitter.com/AanchalMalhotra

Every August, Silver Talkies shares work done on the theme; records memories and instances of humanity, fortitude and courage during the Independence Years — stories of life in a newly independent India; crossing over during Partition and stories of finding freedom.

Vatsala Parthasarathy, 82, remembers a time when life was lived by simple Gandhian ideals. She cherishes the memory of the great leaders of our freedom struggle and feels they have shaped her life and helped her play a positive role as a home-maker. Here is her account of the pre and post Independence years, shared with us by her daughter Kala Sunder.

My early childhood years were influenced by the freedom struggle dominated by Gandhiji?s non-violent (Sathyagraha) means. When I started schooling at Calcutta, World War II was looming large over the horizon. The Japanese were advancing in South East Asia. So the families were evacuated, and we moved to Madras, where we had roots. Later there were evacuations from Madras too, and whole families moved. We went to Cuddalore near Pondicherry, and stayed with our grand uncle. I was enrolled in a local school, and when the evacuation was lifted, we were back in Madras. The neighbourhood St. Ebba?s girls school, where my mother and her sisters studied, had not re-opened, so all the neighborhood children were sent to a secondary school started by Ramakrishna Mission.

My father was still working in Calcutta and was wise enough to realise that his children?s education should not get disturbed due to the war, the independence struggle, partition and its aftermath, the riots that took a heavy toll on the life of the nation. So he set up an establishment in Madras solely for the purpose of our education. Myself, my sister and two brothers did our schooling in Madras and visited our parents in Calcutta during the holidays. At that time my father used to narrate true-life stories about himself, the social conditions that existed and how he coped with life?s situations.

My father was a self-made man, a firm believer in Gandhi?s philosophy and adhering to truth, honesty and all other good traits that make life worth living. After finishing his schooling he joined the university. At that time the freedom movement was taking root in many educational institutions. Influenced by patriotism, and the path set by national leaders, many students took part and my father was one of them. His brothers were in the service of the British government and fearing loss of their jobs, they pleaded with him not to take the plunge into student politics but to divert his energy to living the Gandhian way of life instead ? speaking the truth, wearing home-spun khadi clothing and the whole way of living which Gandhiji loved.

This made an impact and he decided not to inflict suffering on the whole family, and heeded their advice.

I remember vividly an incident. We had all gathered to celebrate the marriage of my aunt. All arrangements were in place, and we received the shocking news that Gandhiji had been assassinated. The marriage was to take place the next morning, and the elders decided against canceling the whole affair but to perform it in a quiet way instead. Though it was a very solemn affair, my father did not take part. He shut himself in a room on the top floor, took to prayer and fasting and ended his fast after Bapuji?s cremation. Now I feel, perhaps this was his way of doing penance, having failed to participate actively in the freedom movement. Throughout his life my father was respected for his strict principles and even admired for sticking to his dress code ? only khadi!

Vatsala Parthasarathy

The Ramakrishna Mission school taught us to sing patriotic songs, use the thakli and charkha to spin yarn. Many of us wore khadi dresses and took pride in being part of the freedom movement. I had made a scrapbook containing photos of the leaders, Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, Rajaji and other giants among men, who trod on Indian soil. I used to collect a lot of articles from The Hindu and felt sorry when the leaders were jailed. I celebrated when they were released.

India achieved Independence and August 15, 1947 was a day of celebration and rejoicing. We listened to Nehru?s famous speech and the hoisting of the tri-colour flag from the Red Fort of New Delhi, over All India Radio. It was a memorable day, but it was marred by Partition. All the same, it was a day to be celebrated. In the evening all of us children got into a bus and went to witness the illumination.

All the major buildings were beautifully lit up, and crowds lined up to get a glimpse. There was a festive spirit all over the city. People sang, holding up National flag, and buses moved at snail?s pace! We were elated ? we were part of a New India, free from the foreign yoke.

Building a new India fell not only on the shoulders of leaders, but also the citizens of the whole nation. This Herculean task was undertaken by our first prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru. His cabinet consisted of a number of able leaders. The constitution was written by men who were very well-versed in jurisprudence. We had a dream ? to do away with injustice and poverty and build a modern and secular state. We had the opportunity to read and hear the speeches of Nehru, exhorting his countrymen to be partners in building factories, institutions of higher learning, and instilling a sense of scientific temper, and doing away with superstition. Our generation had very high hopes to build a better India for the future generation. We have succeeded in some ways, but a lot has to be done so that the fruits are shared by all sections of society. I find there is very little evidence of the spirit of sacrifice now. All the same the hope is still there.

Our generation had a number of great women leaders to look up to. During the independence movement Gandhiji had the vision to involve women in the freedom movement, and many women were given important positions in the Indian National Congress ? Sarojini Naidu, Kamaladevi Chattopadhyaya, Aruna Asaf Ali and other women leaders played very important roles in bringing ordinary women out of their homes to become part of the gigantic experiment of building a new India. Without losing their roots, women leaders, in villages and towns across the country were involved in spreading female literacy, doing away with age-old superstitious beliefs and many other ills prevalent in society. So we, the younger generation, were influenced by these events.

Featured image: The Indian Flag at the Red Fort on August 15, 1947 (Photograph: Wikimedia Commons)

Writer, musician and activist Sakuntala Narsimhan shared her memories of 1947 and the later years with the members of Nightingales Elders Enrichment Centre in Bangalore recently. Here?s a retelling as part of our #Nofilterflashback series?

?My mother said she felt a total misfit at the party?, recounted Sakuntala Narasimhan talking about the party her mother had attended at the Rashtrapati Bhavan as part of the Independence Day celebrations. She went on to explain that her mother was the only one all dressed up in her beautiful silk sari and high heels, while all the ?greats? like Sarojini Naidu, Kamala Devi, Nehru, Rajaji and others were dressed in simple khadi and proudly too!

On August 9, 2018, the members of Nightingales Elders Enrichment Centre, Bangalore, were transported to the August of 1947 as Sakuntala Narasimhan, the well-known writer-musician-activist (among other things), shared her experiences of the very important and special period in Indian history.

Sakuntala was all of 7 years old in August 1947, but 71 years later, the memories are still amazingly vivid, sharp and clear in her mind.

Sakuntala?s father worked for the Central Water and Power Commission (part of the team that built the Hirakud Dam in Orissa). They lived in Delhi in a colony opposite Mandi House (the American Consulate was located there), and next to Lady Irwin College. She often walked with her best friend Zarina to buy jalebis at the Bengali Market, which was 2 minutes from home. Her mother was an accomplished singer and musician, a pioneer, possibly the first South Indian to learn Hindustani music. She learnt to play the Vichitra Veena from an illiterate Muslim, Ustad Ahmed Raza, who came on a cycle to their house and was paid Rs 20 a month.

August 15, 1947 was a day of ecstatic jubilation. The young Sakuntala did not know the meaning or importance of the day, but she says the mood was electric. Every school child was given a bronze medallion to commemorate the day and she remembers her younger brother being so jealous that he took it and locked it away. She shared some photographs with the audience and was kind enough to share them with Silver Talkies later.

That?s her in the black and white photograph above with her brothers, dressed in a white sari with a tricolor border, which her mother stitched overnight and another one of her the same evening shared below (A benarasi butta sari this time). She also shared a photograph with Pandit Nehru and autographs (dated 1950) that she got from Nehru, Rajaji, K S Krishnan, written in Hindi, Tamil and English respectively.

Being blessed with a beautiful voice, Sakuntala was constantly ?made to sing? for guests who came home, and at other places too. She says she hated it. She was never allowed to eat ice-cream. Her mother taught her songs of Subramania Bharati, the fiery Tamil writer, poet, activist and social reformer. And, she was called upon to sing anytime, anywhere! As she spoke, she sang a few lines in between, certainly an additional treat for the audience listening to her.

And then memories of the post-independence period, of how she woke up one morning to see an orange and red sky, caused by flames of burning houses and buildings. The Hindu-Muslim riots, the angry mobs, the abandoned shops, the looting, the killings and stabbings ? she saw it all happen before her eyes. She remembers seeing numerous cameras and huge radios lying around outside broken shops, and their live-in servant, Diwan Singh, asking her father if he could take one, which he was not allowed to, of course. Her young mind did not understand the enormity of what was happening and her mother telling her not to step out made her angry.

She remembers her mother asking her Muslim veena teacher what he would do if he was forced to leave India, and his reply ?fa-root bechunga?? (sell fruit). Thinking about that now, Sakuntala finds it very distressing that a great talent like Ustad Ahmed Raza, who should have been in fact awarded the Padma Bhushan, should be reduced to selling fruit.

And then there was the incident of a frantic knock on the door in the middle of the night. A Muslim man caught in the riots seeking help! Her father let him in but her mother was furious, saying the mob would kill them all. And in the morning, the man had disappeared along with the blanket they had given him causing an argument between her parents and her father saying that the man was also an ?insaan (human being)?.

Sakuntala shared personal experiences of the sad state of the refugees. She showed us a gold ring with a beautiful blue stone set in it, her mother had bought the stone from one of the refugees, for a paltry 8 annas, worth thousands today. The refugees came from Lahore and Karachi and put up stalls along Queen?s Way (now Janpath) and King?s Way (now Rajpath). There were silk weavers selling silk at very cheap prices, and her mother bought 6 yards of cream silk from one of them. One day a woman dressed in a salwar-kameez came asking for work, saying she could embroider. She had with her many color threads and needles and by the evening had completed beautiful, intricate embroidery on the silk fabric. Her charges for all that work ? Rs 3! As she was leaving, she saw a papaya tree laden with fruit in the garden and began to weep. Sakuntala?s father gave her the biggest papaya he could find, which only made her cry even more. She said she had a huge house in Lahore, 4 cows, her children only drank milk and she belonged to an aristocratic family, had lost everything and had walked all the way from Lahore?

Gandhiji?s assassination is also a vivid memory. About 10 days before Gandhiji was shot, Sakuntala had attended his prayer meeting at Birla House. His teeth were gone and it was difficult to understand him (she imitated how he spoke like it was a recording in her head). And then followed the fateful evening ? her mother was to perform on the radio and while the family waited to hear her, suddenly wailing music came on and the announcement that ?Gandhi had been shot? was made by Melville DeMello, the All India Radio broadcaster, who became known for his 7-hour broadcast of Gandhiji?s funeral.

Sakuntala remembers their cook saying ?aaj khana nahin banega? (today food will not be cooked), and she herself taking off on her bicycle, going round the colony shouting ?Gandhiji ko maar diya,? without really understanding the implication of it all. The entire country was drowned in a pall of gloom and sadness, a sense of complete loss and hopelessness.

Towards the end of her talk, Sakuntala wondered if we had really gained independence. Considering the lifestyle around her, she felt the colonization of the mind still existed all around. The atmosphere of national pride is gone now. She also feels that the younger generation cannot discern the real meaning of freedom. They would rather learn a foreign language than their own mother tongue, would rather go to the gym than get the same benefits from housework, were some of the things she mentioned.

As with vernacular architecture, where local resources are used and buildings are built conforming to local conditions, Sakuntala felt there was a need to increase sensitivity among youngsters for indigenous items and a sense of pride in what had been achieved by our great leaders for our country?s freedom.

Listening to Sakuntala Narasimhan?s nostalgic walk down memory lane was a wonderful experience for her audience, many of whom surely had their own personal and special memories of the time.

Photograph courtesy: Sakuntala Narasimhan

Compiled through family albums, home videos, journal entries, and interviews, the book Yarn: An Interwoven Memoir follows the life of Shyama, the author?s grandmother, who was pushed by the Partition, at the age of 10, from Pakistan to India. We bring you an excerpt.

In this chapter of ?Yarn: An Interwoven Memoir?, Shyama learns what it?s like to have one?s life uprooted overnight.

Fatima and her daughter Sulo visited Shyama with empty buckets. The constant supply of water from an outdoor faucet brought many families to Shyama?s home, and it was her responsibility to turn the water on and off, because Muslims could not touch their faucet. While the water poured into their buckets, Shyama sat on the jute-woven charpoy, singing songs with Sulo who, along with her mother, squatted on the ground.

Do kothiya do dvar, hichonnikaliya thanedar

thanedar ne bhinnibheli, hichonnikaliyabuddhatheli

buddhetheli ne paighani, hichonnikalirallitakhani

rallitakhani ne rinikheer, hichonnikaliyaikphakeer

Two houses, two doors, out comes the police officer

The policeman bakes a sugar cake, and out comes the oil man

The old oil man puts a mustard seed in the oil press, and out comes Rali the carpentress

Rali the carpentress cooks some pudding, out comes a hermit.

?Are you coming over for Eid?? Sulo?s large eyes appeared darker because of the kajal that lined the rims of her eyes. Wide cloth ribbon held the edge of her pigtails in place.

?What kind of question is that,? Fatima said, ?Shyama always comes over for Eid.?

?I?ll have to ask Mataji,? Shyama said. Her mother had recently begun reminding Shyama how she was almost a woman. Shyama wondered what that meant.

?Ammi, will you talk to Shyama?s bebe??

?Of course I will. Now get up.?

?Ammi, can we stay for one more song??

?Sulo, get up.?

?Why not??

?Don?t ask so many questions.?

?Just one more song,? Shyama said, ?please??

?Please?? Sulo?s eyes grew even wider with hope.

Fatima looked at her daughter. Shyama knew that look. Mataji used it often. Sulo got up silently.

?See you on Eid, Shyama.?

Once Fatima and Sulo left, dadi came outside with a handful of ash and rubbed the faucets clean.

?Why do you do this, bebe?? Pitaji chided dadi for her discrimination. ?The paltani who takes our old rotis smells,? he reasoned, ?but Fatima keeps herself so clean.? Dadi, silently resolute, continued her cleansing ritual.

Jallan?s people cultivated peace through the maintenance of social hierarchy. Each community knew its place, and this awareness led to unspoken rules of interaction. Intercaste marriage was naturally forbidden, but each group knew precisely the nature of its overlap with other groups. The Jats farmed, the Khatris managed, and the Mahajans lent money. Living in the outskirts of Jallan, the Merasis played the dhol, and the Chureys, isolated in a fringe of shanties, swept the streets. Dadi had something to say about each community, and in these sayings Shyama learned about identity.

?There is no salvation without a spiritual guru, there is no honour without a money lender.?

?A Jat should not be taken as dead until all the death ceremonies are complete.?

?Even if a Merasi child cries, he will cry according to the rules of music.?

?Take nine away from ten, you get one,? Aakash said, chuckling, ?take brains away from man, you get a Sikh son.?

As Khatris, Shyama?s family enjoyed relative privilege in this ladder of Hindus, a privilege that defined their interactions with Muslims. A privilege that was about to be challenged.

Shyama, before the Partition.

August 1947 rode unsuspectedly into Jallan, redefining unspoken rules overnight. The Hindus of the village suddenly became foreigners, for the country they inhabited was now called Pakistan. Many Hindu families left for India soon after the split, but Shyama?s family, her parents and taya and bua, stayed on, trusting the inter-generational bonds of co-existence. In this time of uncertainty, Shyama visited Fatima and Sulo?s home during Eid.

While Mataji never invited Muslims into their home, Fatima opened her hearth to Shyama and Gopal at every Eid celebration, where Shyama devoured the firini and kalejiyan placed in front of her. The Eid after August 1947 was no different, with one exception. The village seemed emptier.

?Will we have to leave too,? Shyama asked, ?Mataji says we have to move to where the other Hindus are.?

?Ammi, why does Shyama have to leave??

?She doesn?t have to leave. We?ll protect her.?

?Then why are they leaving??

?Stop asking so many questions.?

?You can?t leave,? Sulo said, her mouth stuffed with kalejiyan, ?I still don?t know what happens to Sita after Ram rescues her.?

?And I want to learn all the songs you know.? Shyama looked at Fatima. ?I don?t want to leave.?

?Eat, Shyama,? Fatima whispered, smiling, ?Eat more.?

It was only when Muslims from India arrived in Jallan that Pitaji realised their home was lost.

?The Hindus need to leave,? the recent arrivals told the local Muslims, ?we left our homes so we could move into their homes. If you don?t force them to evacuate, we?ll kill them.?

Pitaji didn?t talk much anymore. After he returned from Hafizabad in the evening, Shyama saw him combing the mane of his horse. Shyama spent this time with her father in silence, as he stroked the horse?s back and combed the horse?s mane. Pitaji washed the horse every morning now, feeding him channa soaked in water. Sometimes, Shyama helped him.

It was decided. They would leave Jallan in ten days. Each migrating family was allotted two iron trunks to take with them. Shyama packed Gopal?s green sweater, her knitting needles, and her wooden box of savings. Why did they have to leave? Why could Fatima and Sulo stay? Who made these new rules? What would happen if she didn?t follow them? Like Sulo, was she asking too many questions? Why did no one have the answers?

On their last day in Jallan, Shyama combed the horse?s black coat and fed him black channa soaked in water. She held his reins one last time. The day?s clackle of wheels and hooves had just begun when Pitaji handed the horse and the carriage to a Muslim neighbour, still believing ? in a tiny pocket of his shaken mind ? that his family would return.

On the morning of their departure, the rules suddenly changed to accommodate only one trunk per family. Mataji unlocked one of the bulky metal boxes, poured its contents onto the street, and burned half of all she had considered important. The alternative, their things being used by Muslims, was worse. As she stared at the flames, Shyama didn?t know which of her items burned.

In this way, when Shyama was ten years old, the Partition uprooted her stability, her childhood, her home. Driving away on a military truck from all she had known, Shyama passed Lahore and along the way, bodies of the discarded dead. Pitaji stared ahead, wheezing and coughing occasionally. Her head covered with a cotton dupatta, Mataji rocked Shyama?s youngest sister Gauri in her arms. Gauri wouldn?t stop crying. Shyama lost track of time.

?Muslims are raping our women,? taya said to no one in particular, ?they are murdering their own neighbours. It is inhuman, the crimes they are committing. So much death.? Dadi began to cry.

?Muslims and Hindus can never live in peace,? Mataji said.

?So much death,? dadi said.

Shyama?s madrassa teacher sat at the inner edge of the truck, whispering a Sikh prayer.

Tumhéchhaadkoeeavarnaadhiyaaoo(n). jo bar chon so tum tépaaoo(n). sevak sikhhamaraitaareeahé. chunchunsatrhamaarémaareeahé.

Aaphaathdaimujhaiubariyai. marankaalkatraasnivariyai. hoojosadaa hamaarépachhaa. sireeasdhujjookariyhorachhaa.

Leaving You, may I never worship another. All my needs, I get from You. You save my Sikhs & Devotees. One-by-One you demolish my foes.

With your Hand guard me. destroy my fear of death. Always side with me. With your Sword protect me.

From Shyama?s receding truck, the dead looked unreal. Had they been killed because they didn?t heed the threats of their new neighbours? Were they caught in a battle of vengeance? Did they die of no fault of their own? Were they Hindu or Muslim?

As one scene left, another arrived. It was like a movie, and she wanted to forget the sad parts. She would never see Sulo again. Who would teach her songs about oilmen and hermits? Would Sulo forget her? Perhaps her dadi and Mataji and taya were right. Perhaps Hindus and Muslims couldn?t be friends. Shyama didn?t entirely comprehend the angry exclamations of her uncle, nor did she have answers for the questions that fizzed in her head. And yet she was sure of one thing ? her life would never be the same again.

(Featured pic: Shyama, second from left, with her family.)

Yarn: An Interwoven Memoir is available on Amazon. You can also follow Pragya?s work on Facebook.

Gunmala Jain, 79, was born in 1939. She remembers the mayhem and chaos in Old Delhi during Partition 1947 and the act of kindness of her father, who emptied out his godowns to house refugees who were without shelter. Here?s her story (as narrated to us) during our month of #nofilterflashback

I was eight years old, when Partition of India and Pakistan took place. If you ask me what exactly was happening historically, I would be unable to say as we were children and did not know much then. I knew there was ?danga-fasad? and some trouble taking place but we had been cossetted and sheltered from all that inside our home.

We were three sisters and one brother. I remember we used to move around in horse drawn tongas of our own. Our father was a wealthy timber merchant and we lived in a huge mansion in Deputy Ganj, what is in the Sadar Bazaar area of Old Delhi. My father Daya Chand Jain was a well known businessman and as the riots and trouble in the city grew, our house gradually became a refuge of sorts for people who lived in unsafe areas or had homes which were not safe enough for the women and children of their families to live in.

Most of these people living in our home were our own relatives or from the extended family. Some of them had moved to our home because they lived in a Muslim dominated area and their lives were in danger there. It was dangerous for anyone out there those days ? Hindus or Muslims. You never knew when you could be attacked.

We had a big house and thankfully had the means to take care of these people. I remember all the women would get together and cook food. There were constant curfews as the riots had escalated and people were not allowed to step out. We children were strictly ordered to stay home.

Whenever the curfew would lift, my father would take his car and go buy supplies to ensure that everyone stayed safe, healthy and had whatever they wanted. He was much respected in that area, so it surely helped. He arranged for provisions for the people staying in our house, whether it was material goods or money, as many people had left their homes in a hurry and did not have enough money or things of daily need on them.

Helping people came naturally to my father. I have heard from people later that he was one of the rare people who had the courage and desire to help people in this manner in those turbulent times.

Later on, as people started coming from across the border after Partition, my father went on to house refugees in our godowns. These godowns were behind our house and housed not just our cattle but also machinery, as we were in the business of timber. My father got all these cleaned out and made it habitable enough for people to stay until they found their feet or were rehabilitated by the Indian government.

Gunmala with her husband Ulfat Rai Jain now

I don?t remember Independence Day 1947 as I probably did not realise the significance of that day then. Yes, we did know that our country had got ?Azadi.? However, the realisation dawned upon me when our schools finally opened and all students were given a brass plate which had a memorial stamp of the three lions on it.* We were also given four ladoos each and told about the significance of what had taken place: We had finally gained Independence from the British!

As children, we took a long time to understand why my father had cleared out his godowns to house refugees or why our house was always full of relatives. We were happy to have holidays (due to the riots and curfews) and thrilled that there were always so many people at home. We ran around the house, hopping across different floors to meet people and play with all the children.

I also realised later the importance and significance of what my father had done. Yes, he was a wealthy man but very few people think that helping people out in times of distress is something they should do. It was not just the sense of duty that made him create a safe space for people in need and the refugees but also the kindness in his heart and his generosity of spirit. He was also courageous enough to step out and get things for people, if they had fallen ill, without any care for his own safety. It must not have been easy for him but when I remember now, what he did, I feel a huge sense of pride.

*Gunmala Jain is referring to the National Emblem and her memory of the exact stamp embossed on those plates is a little hazy here. Our research shows that the National Emblem did not come into use until December 1947 and was officially adopted on January 26, 1950, the day India became a Republic.

Featured image: Gunmala Jain as a young graduate, encouraged by her father who supported his daughter?s education.

Silver Talkies is collecting memories as part of its #NoFilterFlashback #MonthOfMemories throughout August. To read the complete series, click here: https://silvertalkies.com/category/community/memories-musings-community/

To contribute your own memories of life during partition or living in pre and post independent India, mail us on connect@silvertalkies.com

The monsoon of 1947 ? it rained more blood and tears than rain that year. Colonel Swarup Lal Kapur, Retd., narrates poignant memories of the home he has never forgotten and a little box of ivory toys?memories that still come back to haunt him on pensive evenings. His daughter Anjum Kapur, plays them back for us.

Kadakni, the village of my father?s ancestral family home for generations, in the land that now lies across 

the LoC, was a prosperous, fertile part of District Montgomery or ?Mintgummery?, as my imperious, Punjabi speaking Daadi (paternal grandmother) rolled off her richly accented tongue. Named after Sir Robert Montgomery, then Lieutenant Governor of Punjab, it is now a bustling town renamed Sahiwal and lies between Lahore and Multan.

They were one of the most progressive and prosperous families in the region. My grandfather was a tall, handsome, hard working and enterprising Punjabi landowner, Lala Amar Nath Kapur, who, legend has it, was known for his enterprise and large heartedness and owned many hundreds of quillas of land spread over many surrounding villages. He was admired and feared for his uprightness, his sharp sense of justice and an inherent sense of authority, which came naturally to successful, self made men, even in those times. Trusted by the local governing authorities, he had the honorary designation of Officer on Special Police Duty, to help solve local disputes.

They lived in a sprawling haveli, a large, bustling joint family ? the sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren of Lala Barqat Rai Kapur, the abundant ones, which they were, literally and figuratively. My father, then about eight years old, remembers being escorted to school in a horse drawn tonga, one of the few in the village, along with his siblings and cousins; eleven young children of ages one to fifteen, growing up together in a bustling, affluent home. The ladies of the house had special, covered buggies to take them around, which were pulled by two horses.

The large kitchen churned out delicious, hot food for more than twenty people at each meal, including the household helpers. There was shikaar to be cooked and fresh produce from the land to be savoured. The family retainer, Saudagar, would ply the children with tall, peetal glasses of fresh, frothy milk from a barn full of cows, in the mornings before school. Life was good and happy and well, abundant.

My grandfather unfortunately passed away in the winter of 1946, due to a sudden, acute illness. My grandmother, a protected and cosseted wife and still quite young, was suddenly bereft and rendered alone to bring up five young children, fortuitously with the help of her husband?s younger brother and his family. Life became tougher but was still serene, given the catastrophe that lay in store for them just a few months away, in the summer of 1947.

There had been murmurings of a ?division? but nobody quite took it seriously. Surely they couldn?t be thrown out of their own homes and the lands of their ancestors, and at such short notice, if at all? The departure came suddenly when news of Hindus being slaughtered by the suddenly hostile local Muslim populace spread like wildfire. They loaded what they could, mostly utensils, bed linen and jewellery -the key domestic assets in most Punjabi homes ? in their tongas and left, still disbelieving and shocked. The security of the tongas and their minimal load of worldly assets was short-lived; they were snatched from them within a few hours of heading out, by the newly minted, hostile citizens of a newly minted nation. My father remembers clutching on to a small box of ivory toys, the only memory of a short lived, halcyon childhood.

They had now no option but to join a kaafila on foot, with thousands of others like them, little children, stunned adults and the weak and stooping old, suddenly uprooted, homeless and shell shocked. They were headed towards the nearest post of the arbitrary ?Radcliffe Line?, which decided the bloody fate of fifteen million people rendered homeless in that violent monsoon of 1947; it rained more blood and tears than rain that year.

The nearest post of the new country they were now stunned citizens of, was in Fazilka, about a 100 kilometers from where they started walking. My father remembers being hungry a lot, as they walked that seemingly endless distance, with frequent alarms of hostile and murderous attacks en route. The small box of ivory toys was found missing after one such restless night of fear and precarious uncertainty; the little eight-year-old boy in him still laments their loss.

Another poignant memory is that of a fruit orchard they stopped to rest at, with luscious sweet limes hanging low from the branches of glistening citrus trees, tempting the ravenous young children to reach out for them. He remembers being screamed at by the adults, forbidding him and other children from touching the fruit, after it was discovered that they were injected with poison and people were dying from consuming the juicy sweet limes (mosambis). I don?t think the shock and horror of that hungry, haunted night, of being surrounded by an orchard full of poisoned fruit and dying folk, has ever left him entirely.

They finally reached their destination, but not before they crossed a similar kaafila of hungry, hollow faces with vacant eyes, headed in the other direction, towards Qasoor. That kaafila had been visibly attacked earlier, this time by the locals on this side; the blood still hadn?t dried in their eyes and on their clothes.

?Laali akhiyaan di dasdi hai, roye assi vi, roye tussi vi?

(The redness in our eyes shows, that both of us have cried?)

It took many, many years of shifting base from relative to sometimes callous relative, of being granted uncultivable land in exchange of the lush, flourishing fields that they had left behind, of the once cosseted young siblings weeding out large expanses of thorny bushes from dry fields with their tiny, bare hands, before they began to start feeling they had a home, even if starkly different from the one they had left behind, though not quite.

Colonel Swarup Lal Kapur, Retd., and his daughter Anjum

My father Colonel Swarup Lal Kapur, went on to join the Indian Army and along with his family, rebuilt his life, like millions of others, with sheer hard work and the resilience of the human spirit. The void of abandoning a thriving home however, never quite got filled. The little box of ivory toys, the only token of a secure childhood, and the poisoned sweet limes, just out of reach of a hungry child, still come back to haunt him on pensive evenings.

Silver Talkies is collecting memories as part of its #NoFilterFlashback #MonthOfMemories throughout August. To read the complete series, click here: https://silvertalkies.com/category/community/memories-musings-community/

To contribute your own memories of life during partition or living in pre and post independent India, mail us on connect@silvertalkies.com

In a coming together of generations, the young people at Citizens Archive of India are archiving memories of people who lived through the pre-independence years and were witness to the milestones in the nation?s history.

Mr Khushroo Coorwala?s father was the Nizam?s doctor. One day when the driver bunked work, Mr Coorlawala drove his father, Rustom to work. Without a license of course. He was only 13 or 14 and had learnt from the driver. The Nizam, a close friend of the doctor, would have none of it. He asked for the boy, called the police commissioner and asked him to make him a license! The story doesn?t stop there. Inspired by the Nizam?s ?generous act,? Dr Rustom?s friends went on to bestow other gifts on his young son ? including, yes you are reading this right, a Morris Minor and a pony!

Narrated by the 100-year-old Mithoo Coorlawala, the story would be hard to find in any history book and is a reflection of a different princely India.

Mithoo Coorlawala, 100, attended Newnham College at the University Of Cambridge from 1938-1939. Back then, they didn?t give degrees to women. This is a photograph of Mrs. Coorlawala on the day of her convocation ceremony in 1998, 60 years after she first attended Cambridge. To read the interesting story behind this picture, click here

In yet another video, Pramodini Narulkar of Mumbai shares how she spent August 15, 1947, celebrating with the other girls at home, who, unlike the boys, weren?t allowed to go out and celebrate. Mrs. Narulkar lived close to Gandhiji?s residence Mani Bhavan but mentions that on that day, all the celebration was at Gowalia Tank Maidan.

And then there is Arun Bhatia, 83, who lived on Marine Drive and was part of the ??Quit India Movement.? His best memory of it? The burning of an effigy of Winston Churchill. The 7-year-old Bhatia did not know who Churchill was at that time but the prospect of playing with matches, under full adult supervision and approval was too good to resist.

History is always much more than what is taught in schoolbooks and the Citizen?s Archive of India project is doing just that through oral interviews with people who lived through the pre-independence years and were witness to the milestones in the nation?s history.

Founded by Rohan Parikh and helmed by Malvika Bhatia, CAI?s current effort, The Generation 1947 Project, aims to record and archive the personal stories of Indian citizens who have witnessed life in pre-independent India, as well as the years after independence. The project has also been inspired by the 10 year old initiative, Citizen?s Archive of Pakistan, a non-profit working towards cultural and historic preservation.

Bhatia, who comes from a family with enough stories herself, is an accidental archivist, though with related education and experience. She has an MA in Heritage Education and Interpretation and has earlier worked in the field of museum and heritage education, including creating audio guides for historical monuments.

Memories around 1947 can sometime focus only on partition, which, even if the largest mass displacement of the 20th century, was not the only way life unfolded for many. CAI?s initiative shows us how very differently life unfolded in an earlier India.

Lt. Rama Mehta during her training in the Rani Jhansi Regiment of the Azad Hind Fauj. 

CAI?S project is done through in person interviews. The project also goes beyond just politics and seeks to record how times have changed through stories about people?s personal lives, their social interactions and the environment they grew up in.

Working for CAI has been an education in itself for Bhatia, who has kept an open mind through it all and says, ?I have learnt to be patient and leave my prejudices behind.? Bhatia conducts her interviews in Mumbai at the moment and the project has been a real eye-opener. It has helped her see that there isn?t one single interpretation of history.

She also meets people who belonged to prosperous business families that owed their wealth to the British. Her own family has an example of that. ?My great-grandfather was a freedom fighter and his business family wasn?t very happy about it.?

?A big part of my job is to make people comfortable in their own home. I ask some basic questions to get them started and we make conversation,? Says Bhatia.

Some stories touch upon partition, some don?t. People sometimes get nostalgic, sharing memories with the CAI team that their family members or the person who nominated them hasn?t heard before. What Bhatia always admires is the perspective she gets. ?These are the people who saw 1947 happen. Their stories tell us that Indian history is not just made of Nehru, Gandhi, Jinnah.?

CAI aims to create an archive that is freely available to the public. ?We would love to get out of Mumbai and speak to people,? says Bhatia, adding that they are seeking donors and funding for the same. The project is also a way to bridge the generation gap as Bhatia asks people to nominate their grandparents to share their stories. There is a reason why it?s important to document these stories now, agrees Bhatia. ?In a few years, many of these stories will be lost to us forever. Eyewitness accounts and personal experiences form a large part of a nation?s history, that is important to record and archive for future generation. This is the history that finds no place in our schoolbooks.

To know more, donate or contribute, contact: http://citizensarchiveofindia.org/

Featured image: Malvika Bhatia interviewing Mr Ivan Alva

All photographs: CAI

Sahib Ram Chitkara witnessed the dance of death during the Partition. But he was also part of a story that brought out the best in humanity amidst the gloom and doom. Years later, his daughter Tanya Anita Chitkara recounts it for our readers – as told by her father.

I must have been between 4 to 7 years old when I witnessed and circumstantially participated in this Partition. it was the worst of times. It was the age of foolishness, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope. We had nothing before us. It is a brutal tale of a country that got its freedom after 200 years of slavery but in the process uncovered a very dark side of humanity .

But, here’s a tale that unearthed the bright side of humanity from amidst the gloom and doom.

Seventy-one years ago, amidst mass crimes that created a battleground for never-ending communal violence, we boarded a train to flee from our ‘homeland’, to find refuge, to live life. Almost everyone from our family made it to the train but two cousins. We could never trace them.

Some neighbours, Muslims, escorted us to the train. They did more than just this. I wouldn’t be narrating this incident to my daughter if our neighbours hadn’t saved us. They offered their heads to save ours when a group of people, with naked swords in their hands, came running towards us. The group chided our neighbors for siding with Hindus. My father’s friends, our neighbours, called us part of their family. We had eaten together so many times. They would come to my father’s shop, spend hours chatting with him, and eat with him too. We were a soul family. Our soul family said with firm resolve that their heads must the gang slit first. The gang couldn’t do this, so a deal was struck and we were saved from the clutches of brutal death. We reached what’s now called India.

On this side of the border, Gwalior was our new home. In human history, this was the largest ever forced displacement that left hearts and souls wounded forever on both sides of the boundary. We took refuge in some houses deserted by Muslims who, if they managed to hold on to their dear lives, must have made it to Pakistan. My cousins and I were playing in the horse barn of the house we took refuge in when I slid a plank from what must have been a place for horsefeed once. What I saw didn’t stir me…. after escaping a massacre, a lifeless body of a man with a razor lying on his chest didn’t stir a child all of four. As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But, we couldn’t live in this house after what we saw. We moved to a refugee camp.

In Pakistan, we had a huge storeroom where we would keep grains and groceries and now we were dependent on the government’s ration delivery. We didn’t bring with us gold and currency that we had buried in our home in the hope that we would be back soon . Here, in this part of the country, we didn’t have a place of our own. We didn’t know if we would eat our next meal. Our days were filled with uncertainty and hopelessness.

After all the uncertainty, we settled in Faridabad, in houses allotted to us. From being a businessperson of reasonable standing, my father was now doing menial jobs to feed his family. If he wanted to, our destiny could change. But, he was a man of high principles. He refused help several times. I witnessed him doing so myself. One fine day we received a letter from our Muslim neighbours (soul family) who wanted our permission to sell our house and gold on our behalf. They wanted to hand over the value to my father so we could live a decent life. They were still concerned about us! My father, a man overwhelmed with gratitude towards them, refused to accept anything and instead requested them to keep the wealth with them as a small gesture of gratitude. His friends wrote back questioning if my father wanted to pay them for saving his and his family’s lives? He wrote back saying he could never repay them, not in this life, not in his next life.

Tanya, with her father Sahib Ram Chitkara

The exchange of letters between the families on different sides of the border continued for many years. Religion or the newly marked border could not separate their souls. No boundary on this universe can penetrate the hearts and souls of people. The exchange of letters continued between the neighbours of two hostile neighbouring countries.

Goodness survives darkness, this is the power of goodness.

Featured image courtesy: Pinterest

We have all heard and read about the horrors of partition. Sunita Bhalerao’s mother lived through it. In this piece, Sunita shares her mother’s hair-raising story of escape during Partition. 

1947 – a landmark year for India and Pakistan. Undivided India was hacked into two independent nations. Hacked is the key word. Land hacked, homes hacked and people hacked – literally.

My parents were born and grew up into young adults in Multan. It’s part of Pakistan now but belonged to ‘Undivided India’ as it was back then. My mother grew

Sunita Bhalerao’s parents

up in a rich Zamindar family with an abundance of love and riches, described by her as – rivers of milk and cream. Pots of gold with inscribed jewellery in each child’s name, were kept buried underground. Education was considered equally important for both son and daughters, and my mom graduated to be a teacher back then. She was betrothed to an equally rich, well educated and handsome young boy, from a highly respected family. It was an ideal happy life she would move into. Then the rumblings of uncertainties appeared just before the partition. Hindus were being asked to leave and move to Hindustan. Stories filtered in of unthinkable and unbelievable communal waves of intolerance and hate crimes. Finally, at the stroke of midnight, on the 15th of August 1947 – India got its independence. However for millions of Hindus and Muslims, who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, it was nothing short of hell breaking loose. Indecision on my grandfather’s part in accepting the circumstances earlier, led his family to finally face a day when they had to flee their home without even time for my mother to pick up her dupatta.

My mom narrated how they were piled into a truck, as they fled Multan heading towards Delhi, leaving all their belongings behind. The journey was a real nightmare. Fanatics kept slicing their swords through the tarpaulin covers of the truck, hacking any human body they could find in the process. My mother witnessed her elder sister and brother-in-law being brutally murdered. She used to shudder and narrate how her dear elder sister was hacked right in front of her eyes and the blood splattered all over her. She managed to grab and save her six-month-old nephew sleeping on his mother’s lap. It took days till the caked blood could be washed off her face and hands.

Her grandfather

After enduring what would be the most torturous journey of their lives, my grandfather, mother and her nephew made it to the refugee camp in Delhi, survivors amongst a dump of dead bodies all around them. My grandfather was given a one room house in Delhi and they did their best to pick up the pieces of their lives. They managed to reunite with my mother’s brother and sister-in-law, who were also lucky to have made it alive, reaching Delhi by another route. In those difficult days, they often missed what they had left behind as they went about making the most of what life had given them again.

My mother got a job as a teacher in a government school and between them, they raised the little orphaned baby with all their love. They had no idea what had happened to the family of the would-be groom my mother had been betrothed to. However providence had its own plans, and two years after reaching Delhi, my grandfather had a chance meeting with his ‘samdhin’ and the saying ‘ marriages are made in heaven’ turned out true for my parents.

My parents were married in July 1950 and soon moved to Pune. My nanaji and the little baby went on to live with my mother’s brother in Delhi. The baby grew up to be a chartered accountant. We four siblings were born in Pune and in spite of the mental scars of their past, our parents nurtured us with an abundance of love and warmth and gave us an education way beyond their means. My papa, my hero, was an exceptionally wise, warm, gentle, compassionate and far-sighted person. Ma was the backbone of our family. She was simple, extremely warm and social, pious, generous to a fault and ready to adapt to any situation in life. We never saw or heard of any bitterness or grudges they held towards what fate had handed them. Love, compassion, warmth and acceptance are the values we inherited and such riches have shaped us into who we are today.

Every August, Silver Talkies records memories and instances of humanity, fortitude and courage during the Independence Years — stories of life in a newly independent India; crossing over during Partition and stories of finding freedom.

Featured image of a truck travelling during partition: Wikimedia Commons

All other images courtesy: Sunita Bhalerao

We have all read about Jawaharlal Nehru’s famous speech Tryst with Destiny in History books. But hearing it live on radio would’ve been a completely enthralling experience altogether. As would have been walking through the decorated and festooned streets at midnight on August 15, 1947, as India kept its date with freedom. In this lovingly penned account by Kala Sunder, senior citizens recall what it was like being part of the very first day of Independence.

“I will never forget 15th August 1947,” began a then 65-year-old. “For a long time, we had been pestering my father to buy a radio but he maintained it was an untried contraption and the waves it emitted might be bad for health. It would distract us from our studies, expose us to God knows what evil and immoral influences, and above all, it was beyond our means. But when he learned that Nehru’s midnight speech would be broadcast live, all these

objections were forgotten and he ran out and bought home a radio! This big,” he spread his hands wide, then high, “like a microwave.” All heads nodded. “So it was a double celebration in our house, for Independence and Radio.”

Everyone remembered tuning in to the Independence broadcast, static and all. One member even intoned the ‘Tryst with Destiny’ speech in Nehru’s very tones, to thundering applause.Seventy and eighty year olds recalled with delight how they were allowed to stay up late! Men, and even few women, spoke of how they walked through the brightly illuminated streets with the tricolour formed in coloured lights. Some got separated from their families in the crush but so great was the camaraderie that they were safely restored to their parents.

There were grand celebrations in schools and special meals at home. “People distributed sweets at 12 o’ clock, like we do now for New Year,” said a retired teacher. “A house with a flag outside meant there would be sweets inside. We would run in and get a handful. We can only dream of such things now.” “Don’t even dream of sweets, your sugar level will shoot up,” warned a diabetic. “I was in Pune on 15th August 1947,” he continued. “The whole city was decorated like a wedding house.”

Photograph courtesy: Pixabay

“In Trichy, we sang Subramanya Bharathi’s songs fearlessly. We were Indians now, not Britishers,” said a retired civil servant. “Aha!” exclaimed the oldest in the group, nicknamed ‘golden oldie’ because he had worked in the Kolar Gold Fields. “The Britishers got fidgety that year and started treating Indians better. I remember…,” he began, waving his walking stick in front of him.

An old Bangalorean quickly butted in before he could into one of his ‘long-playing’ stories. “I remember, the traders on Avenue Road, of all communities distributed flags and laddus to passers-by. But the Cantonment was dark, deserted, and plunged in gloom.”

(The chat session in Nightingales Elder’s Enrichment Centre, Bangalore which inspired Kala Sunder’s account took place in 2000. The topic was ‘15th August 1947: As I Remember It.’ It’s been many years since then but memories don’t really need a time stamp, do they? Being part of history and having experienced the original Independence Day 1947 is worth documenting, anytime, anywhere. We thank Kala Sunder for taking the trouble to look through her notes and dig up such fascinating nuggets of information. She was guided by the late Wg. Cdr (retd.) GR Mulky, who foresaw that the notes she took of that chat would yield really captivating information someday.)

Every August, Silver Talkies records memories and instances of humanity, fortitude and courage during the Independence Years — stories of life in a newly independent India; crossing over during Partition and stories of finding freedom. 

15 million people crossed the Radcliffe Line during the partition. Yet, there is no structured documentation of this mammoth event in South Asia’s history. The 1947 Partition Archive is probably the largest effort to digitally document partition. We speak to its founder and director Dr. Guneeta Singh Bhalla to find out more. Excerpts from an interview…

Nearly 15 million people became refugees in 1947 after the partition of India and Pakistan. It was the largest mass displacement of the 20th century. Yet, except for mentions in movies and literature and stories being passed down orally from a generation that is almost gone, the 1947 partition has not been documented on a structured scale.

Dr. Guneeta Singh Bhalla, founder of The 1947 Partition Archive is working towards changing that. Guneeta is a San Francisco based research physicist (she left her work in 2013 to focus on the archive) who grew up in US but always heard stories of partition from her grandparents. The 1947 Partition Archive is not just her tribute to them but also an effort to document a mammoth event that still impacts the psyche of India and Pakistan. The global effort now has a 21 member team in South Asia and 5 in the USA, with over 500 citizen historians in 9 countries. Here in her own words, is the story of how it all started and why we need to document stories that may be gone soon, with those who lived through them.

Guneeta with a Partition witness whom she interviewed, Waheed Siddiqui and his wife; Photo courtesy: The 1947 Partition Archive

How It Started

I grew up listening to stories about partition from both sets of my grandparents, but mainly from my paternal grandparents who actually did the migration. They never really got over having to leave their ancestral home and land behind, even 50 or 60 years later. I knew it was a really traumatic and large scale event but I never learned about it in high school in US. In fact, it was not even mentioned in my textbooks while in contrast we learned about the Holocaust in Europe and Hiroshima/Nagasaki for a whole semester in my World History class. At the time when I had tried to tell my classmates, and even years later when I tried to talk about it in college and graduate school, the reaction was always the same: It was probably not “a big deal” because it was not written about in textbooks. That bothered me because the sentiment contrasted so sharply with the stories I heard. The thought that we could let such a massive historical event slip through the cracks without documenting it at the level that it should have been, deeply troubled me. I feared we were going to live in a world where history would keep repeating itself. In the early 2000s for example, I saw the same chaos unfold in Iraq on television, as had happened during Partition, when an entire system of governance was replaced very quickly. In my mind, knowing what I had about Partition, the events I was seeing on television were predictable.

First Hand Stories

I also realised that first hand accounts validated the experience of Partition. They made it human, palatable and accessible. The numbers that we find on Wikipedia and in books simply cannot convey the true meaning of Partition and what it meant to live through that time and the decisions made during that time. People needed to hear about Partition from my grandmother, and not me or books. Only those with lived experiences could truly attempt to convey the horrors and trauma of that time. A trauma that affected millions upon millions of people — a population larger than many Western European nations combined! Yet, no one was talking about it!

Story Scholar Fakhra Hassan interviewing Kishwar Jahan in Lahore; Photo courtesy: The 1947 Partition Archive

The Final Trigger

I had been living with the thoughts and sentiments I mentioned above for years and years. I knew one day I wanted to change the lack of knowledge about Partition. I did not know how until I visited the Hiroshima Peace Memorial in Japan in 2008. My great grandfather was stationed there during World War II and was not far from Hiroshima when the bomb was dropped. That was my motivation to visit. However, when I came across the witness archives in Hiroshima, that’s when it clicked. It was so powerful to hear the stories of experiencing the atomic bomb from survivors. Suddenly it was all very real and human and I felt their pain much more than watching videos of the mushroom cloud or reading written accounts of those hours that followed the dropping of the bomb. It was an immediate click for me. I knew the same had to be done for Partition.

The Recording Process

I began recording witness accounts on a hobby camcorder while on a trip to India in 2009, in a small ancient town in the North of India called Faridkot. In 2010, the last member of my family who remembered Partition as an adult died before I could reach him to record his story. I was deeply troubled, not only by his passing, but by the tremendous loss of knowledge that my generation was facing. My great uncle took with him an immense amount of knowledge and wisdom, and it was now gone forever. We would have no other chance to learn from it. It was the absolute totality of that moment that made me realise that this work needed to be done on a larger scale. There needed to be many others like me out there collecting stories. We, ordinary people from all walks of life needed to come together to build a library of stories from elders who experienced those times and were now spread across the world. I began recruiting a team in late 2010/early 2011 and we registered The 1947 Partition Archive in 2011. To collect stories from across the globe quickly and cost effectively, we decided to crowd-source the story collection. Essentially, we teach people how to record oral history interviews via free online seminars. Citizen historians record and submit stories to the Archive for posterity.

The Final Goal

Our initial goal is to record 10,000 oral history videos through the end of 2017. Our long term plan has always been to launch memorials and ‘Research Centers’ that are informed by the people’s history, across India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. We are also developing partnerships with several universities in order to bring the stories to academic researchers. Finally, we are working on a digital memorial that will showcase the entire collection online as well. The long term vision here is to teach the world about Partition from the human stories. We want to ensure that Partition knowledge is an integral part of K-12 (Kindergarten through 12th) education, so that the key lessons are learned and not forgotten; so that we can avoid history repeating itself.