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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 

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