How refugees from Sindh rebuilt their lives – and India – after Partition in scroll.in

The community’s many losses and the distortion of their history is only now being acknowledged.

by Saaz Aggarwal

Bhai Pratap looks on as Jawaharlal Nehru inaugurates Kandla Port, 1952. Image courtesy Pratap Kriplaney, grandson of Bhai Pratap

What happened in Sindh during Partition was not considered consequential until quite recently. In comparison with the grisly violence and graphic images associated with the process, the Sindhi side of the story paled into insignificance. I Will and I Can, the story of Jai Hind College by Nandita Bhavnani was among the first mainstream publications that gave a glimpse into this “refugee” community and its many contributions – in 2012. With this and her subsequent work, a rich and complex tapestry began to emerge.

In these ten years, a growing swell of voices have shown that the dominating images of Partition – the trains filled with dead bodies and the women forced to jump into wells to save the family “honour” – are only elements of the picture.

There are many factors which make the Sindh story different. Originally a Hindu and then Buddhist land – as was the rest of India – Islam came to Sindh as early as CE 711. It grew steadily and peacefully with Sufi values of tolerance, integration. Fluid belief systems dominated all forms of worship. This ecosystem endures among Sindhis even today, in locations around the world.[S1] 

Through centuries of paying tribute to Delhi and Kabul, indigenous prince of Sindh ruled largely undisturbed. Non-Muslims migrated from neighbouring provinces confident of a relatively non-discriminatory environment – Nankapanthis from Punjab, and worshippers of various Hindu deities from other parts. Over time, they evolved into a comfortable, prosperous minority with an eclectic belief system.

Hindu temple in Malaga, Spain, Saaz Aggarwal, 2013

One group served in the courts of the princes, rising to positions of responsibility and even power, and came to be known as the Amils of Sindh. The larger part of the community were traders, from the omnipresent village grocer and moneylender to those with a larger reach and empires that stretched inland all the way to Russia, China and Japan and Iran on the other side.

The British occupied Sindh in 1843 – in gross violation of treaties of eternal friendship with the princes – their descriptions of the barbarism a transparent and rather weak defence of the annexation. They also wrote of the sad plight of the Hindus, but a closer look at indigenous accounts of the time reinforces the “comfortable, prosperous minority” version.

The British occupation was a setback to the traders of Sindh but they soon used the opportunity to expand using the steamship routes and set up retail outlets in ports around the world. In 1999, a French scholar, Claude Markovits, published a detailed account of how this group of South Asian merchants had carved a niche for themselves in a European-dominated world economy. [S2] 

The Amils, meanwhile, had soon been recruited into the British administration and switched quickly from Persian to English. Their commitment to education led to increased opportunities. They began setting up their own schools, and educated their daughters. The Dayaram Jethmal Sind College – Dayaram Jethmal Government Science College [S3] today – one of the finest institutes of higher education in India at the time, was built and funded by the Hindus of Sindh. By the early 20^th century, the Hindus were the backbone of the Sindh administration as well as its economy.

All this while, Sindh had been a part of the Bombay Province and in 1936, it was given provincial autonomy. The separation was not made on communal lines but for more administrative care and focused development. In fact it was a Hindu, Harchandrai Vishindas[S4] , who first expressed this need at a Congress assembly in 1913.

However, the separation made the Hindus a minority in a Muslim province, in a larger political situation with festering differences between the two communities. And so it was in Sindh that the question of Partition was first raised. In the annual session of the Muslim League in Karachi in 1938, Muhammad Ali Jinnah made Pakistan the official demand of the Muslims of India. In 1942, the legislative assembly of Sindh passed a resolution supporting the demand for Pakistan.

The DJ Sind Arts College in Karachi in 1893. Credit: Zainub via Flicker, Public domain.

The Second World War was occupying the British and so was the Indian freedom struggle. When Mohandas Gandhi demanded that the British “Quit India!” the response around the country was tremendous, and no less in Sindh. There are numerous examples, not least being the sound system used by the Indian National Congress which was contributed and personally monitored by Nanik Motwane of Chicago Radio, an electrical business that started in Larkana, Sindh, and with head office in Bombay.

Men, women and children of Sindh participated in the freedom movement, most poignant and heroic being the case of 19-year-old Hemu Kalani. Arrested for his participation in Quit India, he was sentenced to death. The response to mercy petitions was that he would be pardoned if he revealed the names of his co-conspirators. Remembers Madhuri Sheth, 13 years old at the time,

He was hanged at midnight and we sat up in wait until the body was cremated behind the primary school where I studied.

When the line of Partition was drawn, it was believed that, well integrated as a religious minority for centuries, the Hindus – about one-fourth of the population – would continue as such. And Sindh was given in its entirety to Pakistan.

As Partition approached, tension rose and reports of the massacres in other areas caused fear and uncertainty. When an influx of migrants entered Sindh from other parts of India, things began to change dramatically. Dr Mohini Hingorani, 17 years old at the time, was a student at DJ Sind College, Karachi. She remembers:

When the trouble started before Partition, Bunder Road Extension where we lived remained unaffected. But Gadi Khata, where the college was, had severe riots and some of my father’s stepbrothers were caught in the crossfire. One of them was killed.[S5] 

Still, the Sindhi Partition story is marked by less violence than in any other area. Karachi remained calm even in December 1947. Cases of abduction and even decapitation were reported – but they were few. This changed with the January 6, 1948, pogrom.

Thirteen-year-old Khushi Khubchandani stood on the terrace of his home and could see mobs carrying away radios, furniture and valuables. If anyone resisted, they were attacked. People escaped mobs who attacked buses by reciting verses from the Quran. A very large number were saved by Muhajirs who put themselves in danger to protect them.

The exodus began, with fleeing people crowding the docks to escape.

Some tried to stay on. Pribhdas Tolani[S6] , a once well-known landlord of Larkana, had no intention of leaving. In October 1948, he was arrested and imprisoned in Sukkur Jail, accused of being an Indian spy. His eldest son, Gopal Tolani, Sessions Judge in Sukkur at the time, could do nothing but watch, in helplessness and despair. When Pribhdas Tolani was released, it was on condition that he leave Pakistan and never return. So it was not just mobs of the homeless and victimized who wanted the Hindus of Sindh out so that they could claim their property – the government too participated.

Mansharam and Rukmani Wadhwani (Dr Mohini’s uncle and aunt) with three of their children, on the second floor of the family building in Sukkur. The beautiful Sadh Belo temple, accessed by boat, could be seen from this terrace which had cots on which they slept at night in summer.

The newly truncated India, economically depleted by centuries of colonial rule, further drained by the Second World War, was hardly in a position to receive the lakhs of fleeing refugees but did make a tremendous effort. Army camps around the country were rundown, but had the infrastructure. The homeless ones were taken there in droves.

Remembered T. Sushila Rao, wife of a camp commandant at Kalyan,

If I ever woke before dawn and looked out, I would see a long line of the Sindhi refugees walking to the station on their way to Bombay for the day to work or trade or study. They had lost everything but did not weep and complain. How hardworking they were!

Sindh had many women doctors and teachers, even in the 1930s and 40s – but most middle-class women did not go out to work. After Partition, women of many families contributed economically. Some used domestic skills, making papad and pickles which their menfolk sold from door to door; some took in sewing. Others went to work as telephone operators, secretaries, assembly-line workers.

Many of these refugees had lost not just their homes and their homeland but also their comfortable lives and sources of livelihood. The Bombay Refugee Act of 1947 was a further slap on the face with the restrictions it placed. The Sindhi community fought back with indignation. By definition, a refugee is a stateless person – and they were in their own country for whose independence they had sacrificed so much! The Act was modified and a new definition, ‘displaced persons’ was coined.

Kaka Pribhdas Tolani (1893-1988) and his sons, Gopaldas, Pribhdas, Nandlal, Chandru, Bombay, c1970s. Having left Sindh with nothing, Kaka Tolani was one of the many Sindhi entrepreneurs who began by building a home for himself and his family, but continued in the ‘construction line’ and went on to build some of the best known-buildings in Bombay. He also built a number of colleges in Gandhidham which are still run by his family. 

Yet another blow came when the constitution failed to list Sindhi as an Indian language. Aghast, the writers and thinkers of the community recruited the young Ram Jethmalani to lead their campaign and Sindhi was included in Schedule VIII of the Indian constitution – but only in 1967. So while Sindhi parents had stopped speaking to their children in their mother tongue in an effort to acquire languages which would help them in their new lives, the state played its own role in the extinction.

The biggest support came from within the community, with doors being opened to members of extended families, friends and business associates. And the wealthy ones were most generous, contributing materially to the camps, providing employment within their enterprises and campaigning relentlessly to the government for matters such as hawking licenses and support in housing development.

There are a very large number of names, too many to list here, but among the best known is Nanik Motwane in Bombay for his extraordinary efforts on behalf of the “refugees” at every level.  Ramnarayan Chellaram in Bangalore contributed with material relief and also helped the “refugees” protect their rights as citizens preparing identity documentation, applications for compensation, admissions to educational institutions and other requirements.

Certificate of domicile of Situ Kishinchand Bijlani, who was 13 years old at the time and lived 30 years as the wife of a planter in the Nilgiris – but preserved this precious document all her life

Sahijram Gidwani lived in Ahmedabad: he had studied at Cambridge and was retained as tutor to Vikram and Gautam Sarabhai through their secondary schooling and later headed the Sarabhai Empire's Calico Mills, which contributed substantially to refugee relief. As the numbers increased, he moved to Bombay and took up an honorary position as chairman of the newly instituted Bombay Housing Board.

One of the most interesting histories is of Bhai Pratap, one of the businessmen with a global retail chain, who with Gandhi's help acquired a piece of land from the Maharao of Kachchh to create a “new Sindh”. It was Bhai Pratap who initiated the development of Kandla Port. [S8] He assured the Maharao that he would bring enough business to Kandla so that it would soon match up to and exceed the volume of trade done by Karachi. He was also instrumental in having Kandla designated as a free-trade zone – Asia’s first – in 1965.

Meanwhile, the refugee camps in Bombay, Poona, Ahmedabad, Ajmer, Bhopal, and other places grew into hives of industry. Being homeless, the Sindhis built homes for themselves. In time, they would change the skyline of these cities. From the camps rose other tremendous institutions – factories, hospitals, educational institutions. For a community that had lost its ancestral homeland forever, the names they chose – Jai Hind, Jai Bharat, National and so on – are poignant indeed.

Seventy-five years later, the Sindhis are respected for their contributions and for the way they have integrated. What is often not noticed is the magnificent way in which this heterogenous community behaved as one: each person, each family, each group felled by Partition simply stood up and kept moving. Their contribution is seen and appreciated – but the loss of their language, music, poetry, philosophy – and the distortion of their history – is only now being acknowledged, as an important aspect of the story of the 1947 Partition of India.

 Saaz Aggarwal is a biographer, oral historian and artist. See her website here.

We welcome your comments at letters@scroll.in.

First appeared here on Aug 13, 2022

HT Podcast: Books & Authors with Saaz Aggarwal, author, Losing Home; Finding Home

Podcast with Sonam Kalra for 1947 Partition Archive on 18 July 2022.

Interview with Harish Mehta about his book Maverick Effect for Hindustan Times

Interview: Harish Mehta, author, The Maverick Effect – “Technology is like bottled lightening”

BySaaz Aggarwal

1.      What made you write this book?

India’s economy has ballooned in the last few decades, and the seminal role played by the IT industry, which contributes almost 10% of the country’s GDP, has not been properly acknowledged. Noted professionals, industrialists and even bureaucrats have written books but none mentioned its contribution, or the contribution made by NASSCOM in fuelling this growth. Even seasoned economists only credit the economic reforms of 1991, unable to explain how these reforms arrested the downward spiral our economy.

The reforms did help to make the business environment more conducive, and almost all sectors grew – but no other industry matched IT. It was a technology-led revolution, and this success was an outcome of what we did at NASSCOM – some of which were getting the government to understand how IT would transform the world and the opportunities it gave India; working with IT companies to embrace global practices; building brand India at various levels. It was a structured series of monumental tasks.

Someone had to play the role of the historian and set the record straight!

2.      What has been the social and cultural impact of the IT revolution?

The Indian IT industry employs 5.3 million engineers, and earns foreign exchange of around $160B. In some countries, growth and riches are divided amongst the king’s family or a few large companies. But in an IT company, about 70% of expenses are employee-related. These jobs give a high disposable income which allows employees to expand their imaginations and wings. The second-order effect has been humongous. It’s the IT jobs that gave the real-estate sector its biggest boost. Our airports needed to be expanded because of the global reach of our business. Our campuses and infrastructure gave a boost to many businesses.

In the past, to get a job you needed to know someone. In IT, if you get through the standard recruitment test, you get the job. This seeded a meritocratic revolution as India Inc started following our standards.

It's not just meritocracy we introduced but also a new era of gender equality. Today the IT industry has 37% women employees: almost two million women delivering great outcomes and earning a good income, enjoying freedom at work and freedom at home. Imagine the cultural change as these women bring up their families and inspire the next generation.

Industry players also set world-class standards of corporate governance and transparency standards in financial reporting – these built trust in India Inc and opened the gates for FDI money.

As for my friends who run MSME/SMEs, most lament about the government regulations crippling their growth. The only way to do business was by bending the rules. Subsequent generations who inherited this environment assumed it was the only way. However, the changes around them have encouraged young entrepreneurs and smaller companies to start doing things differently.

 

 

3.      Do you have a message for the new generation, the start-up people who are building the unicorns?

I admire this generation – they are fearless, imaginative, and confident. And they have the potential to change India faster than any of us can imagine. Technology is like bottled lightning, and they have the capacity to bring it out and use it to create solutions.

They are also lucky to inherit an environment that can enable them to solve the problems that have been plaguing us as a society!

Of course, I’d like to caution them. I see many young ones chase valuation and not values. They should chase both and never focus on one at the cost of the other.

I also feel that they are too hyper-focussed on their respective businesses. At NASSCOM we saw success differently. Each of us spent 10% of our time working for the ecosystem – contributing to the industry, or to India. I believe this allowed us to deliver a CAGR of 30% over the last 30 years. We knew that if the size of the industry pie grew, our slices would get bigger too, and that’s the way it turned out. When you think like that, your approach to solving problems is markedly different.

People in today’s start-up space have to understand that building trust with competitors, as well as among stakeholders, from employees to government, will help accelerate growth.

4.      Respect for intellectual property and an anti-piracy feeling comes out strongly in your book. Is that an Indian tradition?

In India, we believe in sharing knowledge freely. Our epics like the Ramayana and Mahabharata are free. Everybody uses our ‘zero’ without paying royalty. IP is a western concept, one that the IT industry had to buy into.

In our early days at Hinditron, when we travelled abroad to try and sell our services, our prospects would look at us as if we were thieves. They would not give us business because they suspected we would sell out to their competitor for a higher price.

We knew that unless India respected copyright, the world would not recognize us as a business-friendly nation. NASSCOM lobbied hard to amend the Copyright Act 1957 to include software with some tough conditions. When the modified act (even stricter than the UK laws) did not prove as effective as we had expected, we recommended that software piracy be treated as a criminal act. The new Copyright Act of 1999 carried a seven-day jail term. These actions sent out a powerful message across the world: India was serious about the software business and IP. We became a trusted nation to do business with. And this stance has been one of the advantages we have over China.

5.      You’ve written about the influence of Jain teachings such as Anekantvad on your life and work, can you give an example not mentioned in your book?

I’ll tell you about an incident that took place at a customer site in the 1990s. My company, Onward, produced ALPM (Account Ledger Processing Machine), a single desktop which did simple data processing. We had shipped a large number of ALPMs to the Bank of Baroda and many other banks. BOB was now ready to step up to the next stage of automation, but there was resistance from the labour union. The negotiations continued for some months. One day CIO K Kannan – later MD and Chairman of BOB – asked if I would be willing to attend the next meeting to present industry’s views. He told me that the demands were simple: automation should not result in layoffs or loss of increment, plus a few minor points, all of which the management agreed to. However, they were still refusing to sign.

I remember that meeting vividly – a huge table with thirty or thirty-five people on either side, with management sitting across from the union members. They talked and argued, and I sat quietly and listened. There was no unresolved issue, but the aggression was tangible. After some time, I got up and went around the table and sat next to the union leader. He looked at me suspiciously and asked curt questions. “What do you want? Why are you here? But you represent the management!” I explained that I represented customers of the bank, and those were essential to both management and union. That broke the ice, a relaxed discussion followed, and the agreement was signed. This is an example of something I was trained in at an early age – the Jain philosophy of Anekantvad which encourages you to take a non-egoistical view of things, to look at the other person’s point of view, and when in doubt to choose the higher common good, because there is no such thing as absolute truth.

I have also benefited from other concepts of Jainism. Aparigraha is the law of detachment. When I had to give up my place as MD of Onward, my son was selected by the board to replace me. He was still in his mid-thirties, and I was criticized by many and warned of sombre consequences! But it was the right time for the younger leaders to take over, and I found it easy to give it up. Similarly, Sweekar – acceptance – has helped me through the tragedies of my life.

6.      In an interview about the autobiographical aspect of this book, you said it was like taking the risk of walking naked on the streets. How did that turn out?

I’m enjoying being an author. Many from the industry, some critics, and quite a few strangers, have written to me praising the book. Seeing your book at the bookstores gives you another high. Traditionally, we Indians have never really valued writers, and I would like to contribute as a change driver in that transformation too!

The other day my daughter-in-law’s friend came to talk to us about the book. While we were chatting her phone rang, and she stepped aside to take the call. We heard her say, “I can’t talk to you now, I’m having wine with an author!”

That felt good.

First appeared here on Jun 10, 2022

Sindhiness and the untold truth about Partition: Global Indian Series podcast on 30 Mar 2022

Judge books by their covers, says Saaz Aggarwal

Interview about books with Chetana Divya Vasudev for Money Control on 7 March 2022

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

Read also: Women's Day Special

The first book you remember reading?

The Prince and the Pauper. I loved it, still have it, fished it out and realised from ‘After the story by Mark Twain’ on the title page that it was an abridged version – Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, London and Melbourne… surprisingly the year of publishing is not mentioned but I would have read it when I was seven or eight – late 1960s.

The first book you wish you'd read?

Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh … I’ve been eager to read it for SO long and it’s been on my bedside shelf, waiting, but…

Your hands-down favourite writer?

Kurt Vonnegut <3 absolutely no comparison

A genre you're partial to?

Literary romances

A book you outgrew and grew into again?

Love of Seven Dolls by Paul Gallico

A classic you'd like to have written?

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

A character you wish you'd met?

Darcy (of course).

An author you want to meet on the other side?

Eiji Yoshikawa, I never got enough about Musashi.

Inside jokes or references that found their way into your writing?

I like to channel Stephen Fry and Spike Milligan.

Your most unconventional workspaces?

For several months the lobby of what was then called National Hospital, while waiting for my daughter to finish school across the road. This was really long ago and I was writing on a notepad – with a pen! It’s Hinduja Hospital now and probably not that easy to gain entrance into. I’ve always worked at airport lounges and waiting areas too, while waiting to take off …

As you work, you listen to?

My inner yakking only! It doesn’t matter what’s playing or even if there’s a big racket with people shouting or construction happening… I can’t hear it. One of the precious gifts of my existence.

The book(s) you've gifted most?
On Two Feet and Wings by Abbas Kazerooni
Mukund and Riaz by Nina Sabnani
and of course my books :)

Ever fallen in love with a character? 

Laurie in Little Women.

If you were in a murder mystery, your choice of weapon would be...

Poison, of course!

Book covers are...

to judge a book by! I make as much effort on the cover of my books (erm... almost) as on the text.

A book-based movie you liked better than the book?

Gone with the Wind

A female character you think an author did disservice to?

I can’t think of a single one since it’s many years since I read James Hadley Chase but in college I devoured every one that my local lending library had and the women were really sad, shallow characters, one and all!

A woman or girl in history you wish had got a different ending?

Erm... Sunanda Pushkar maybe?

"There are no bad books..." -- your take?

Hahahahaha – it’s the other way around these days as publishing is very easy and most books rolling out so relentlessly are of very poor quality.

(This is a multi-part interview series with women writers.)

Chetana Divya Vasudev

Keeping in Touch by Anjali Joseph

A writer's life

Her father, Mathai Joseph, is one of India’s earliest computer scientists. Her maternal grandfather, Principal Bannerjee of Elphinstone College, was one of the most revered educationists of his time. Anjali Joseph studied English at Trinity College, and completed PhD in Creative and Critical Writing at University of East Anglia. In 2010 she was listed by The Telegraph as one of the twenty best novelists under forty. Her books detail ordinary life, delving inner lives and familiar realms.

A reader and a writer all her life, in her youth she may have experienced, as many of us do, the torturous periodic shedding and renewal of skin. The years passed – perhaps not (as she once wrote) as painlessly as that clause implies. She followed her whims and explored possibilities. Call them massive research projects, or immersion experiences, or the ashram life of renouncing this and that. And then out comes a novel, a space to lose yourself, experience new things, understand life in a different way – in the process, as she says, of becoming the person who wrote that novel. 

Saaz: What got you started with writing this book?

Anjali: I was chatting to a friend in Norwich some time in around 2014 and she said she was terrible at keeping in touch. The phrase hovered in the air, illuminated for me, and I went home and wrote it down, convinced I’d write a book called Keeping in Touch. That was also the year I moved from Norwich to Guwahati in search of a new adventure, both at home and very much not at home, but fascinated by Assam. I had the character of Keteki in mind for a while as I was finishing The Living, and had even started writing about her, but Ved came along a little later, in 2015 when I wrote a short story that turned into the opening chapter of the book. The lightbulb called Everlasting Lucifer was a short story I’d begun writing when I was about eight years old, and not finished.

Saaz: And the symbolism of that lightbulb?

Anjali: Maybe it’s some form of the light that’s in everybody. Maybe a sort of objective correlative of something that is much bigger. Besides, each of us wants to light up. But maybe the prospect is also a little threatening. What would really happen if that light were seen?

I don’t know where the name came from.  I was reading a lot of F Scott Fitzgerald at the time, The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and several other of his stories. I must have at that time or sometime earlier learnt that Lucifer meant ‘light bearer’ or read about the story of how Lucifer was the fallen angel, but that it’s not necessarily a pejorative name. It was there as one of those ideas and half-ideas, some of which you write down and some that remain at the back of your mind.

Saaz: Did your characters change as you wrote?

Anjali: Well, they meet at a time in their lives when they are ready for change. Their encounter is the catalyst that makes them step outside the comfortable shells they have created.

Both of them evolved as characters in the way I wanted to show them. My friend, the wonderful writer Tim Pears, was kind enough to read a draft and from his responses, I realised that the initial iteration of Ved was too off-putting, and Keteki a little too oblique.

At the opening of the book, Ved is a toxic bachelor, but he’s also in coming to the end of a time of getting over his earlier geekier self. He’s enjoying a period of his life when he feels he can be in control. But obviously he’s also still at least in a latent way open to the possibility of more. And then he falls for her. And Keteki – I had to say more about her in subsequent drafts; initially I wanted to show her mainly through the effect she had on other people.

Saaz: Your books have always run quite close to your own life adventures.

Anjali: When a child growing up in a provincial English town I was waiting to start my life, the fiction that I read was about all sort of things and these novels almost seemed to be carrying messages, telling me, maybe your life will be like this! Or maybe it will be like that! I drank it all in. In a way, reading fiction is a way of thinking about how to live.

Now I get interested in one thing after another, and sometimes that’s what my next novel will be about. Maybe the other things that I’m learning around that time also become relevant. But I wouldn’t say most of my life goes into my novels. There are lots of things I do and read about that don’t directly feed into what I write.

I suppose for me, writing a novel is partly about finding out more about the characters and place I’ve decided are interesting. But it’s also a process of becoming the person who will have written the novel I’m writing. It’s something that gets revealed as I go along. Each individual step is in the dark, but there is a kind of feeling of what the next thing is.

Saaz: Why Assam?

Anjali: When I went to live in Guwahati in 2014, Assam was a new place for me. I started learning Assamese, a beautiful and elliptical language. I think there might be a flavour of that in the book. After a while of studying, I realised that being able to say what you mean in Assamese hardly means you can speak it. That is not how Assamese is used. As I wrote in an essay for Unbound, most people  say something indirectly related to what they mean; the person they are talking to then responds by saying something indirectly related to the first thing.

I had two lovely teachers of Assamese, Dimpy Deka and my friend and neighbour Babu’s grandmother, Bimal Rajkhowa, herself a writer and lyricist. My Assamese remains halting but I can read and write, and some of my learning comprised reading aloud books in Assamese and asking about the phrases or words I didn’t know. It was a beautiful introduction to a sensibility as well as a language. The culture of Assam has so much depth, so many layers. There is a certain way of seeing life. It was just lovely to live there. And in Assam, everyone is a reader, it’s a place where people understand books and literature. In Bombay or Bangalore or Delhi if you say you’re a writer people will ask whether you know this writer or that writer, or if you’ve written for films, things like that. But in Assam people will want to tell you about what they’ve been reading. I’ve had conversations like that with a taxi driver, the man who works in the gas agency. Everybody is excited about reading, and for a writer that is truly special.

Saaz: And your book has such a strong yoga component too!

Anjali: Well, I had a scientific, post-enlightenment sort of upbringing. In my family, there was not much ritual or religious observance. Still, as a child I was fascinated by religion, magic, and wonder. I’d read a storybook and hark back to the missing word in a spell, thinking, one day I’ll find out what that word is! And then I’ll be able to be invisible or do whatever the spell was for. That interest in spirituality found its expression much later, in my thirties, when I did a yoga teacher training. And there we studied Vedanta and some yoga philosophy: that was the first time I felt, here is a description of the world that makes intuitive sense to me.

Yoga training, then learning about tantra, were ways into these systems of thought. It was kind of liberating. And of course, if you are a fiction writer, you can use that fiction to offer people the idea that reality might not be quite as monolithic and quite mechanically materialist as we – certainly my generation – were told when we were young. The idea is important to me and the book is sort of soaked in that.

Saaz: The uses of a novel, then?

Anjali: I believe in the novel as a machine that can re-configure a reader’s way of being in some way, perhaps for more lightness, or just more joy. Imagination can bring us back to ourselves, and that’s something I’m always aiming to do. Here I wanted to take the reader, while reading about Ved and Keteki, through the idea that in some ways the past is imaginary, and its weight that we have been carrying can be exploded into lightness. I don’t necessarily see ‘enlightening’ as a one-off process after which one transcends and everything is bunnies and angels. I think it’s part of human experience that there is an intermittence to keeping in touch with that real self inside, as well as with others and the way we really feel for them. It doesn’t matter that this awareness drops; we can pick it up again, and that’s the process of keeping in touch which also enables compassion, for ourselves, and for others.

Saaz: Your life has centred around writing since a very young age but in your books you come through as someone who has led many lives through others. Knowing what you know now, would you have chosen another path?

Anjali: I didn’t really choose writing; I just always knew that was what I would do. And as you say, in a way through writing I can do anything else I like.

First appeared in the Hindustan Times books page on 10 July 2021

Colaba The Diamond at the Tip of Mumbai by Shabnam Minwalla

Shabnam's vale of serendipity

It was an online talk in which the author presented some of its intriguing photos, experiences and learnings, that led me to this book. Her discoveries, couched in the easy wit and bubbling energy so compelling in the talk, were just as much of a pleasure to read. 

“What Colaba doesn’t have is easy to list. What Colaba does have, is not. Its qualities are concealed by voluminous skirts and peeling paint,” writes Shabnam Minwalla, and proceeds to treat the reader to a comprehensive expose, weaving personal experiences from a range of people interviewed, with widely diverse secondary sources.

The latter include facts and administrative data from Gazetteers; iffy maps and exaggerations from travellers’ accounts; colourful descriptions from novels; even gravestone epitaphs (“doleful postcards from the past”). The one I enjoyed most was an August 2002 Busybee column which lampoons the Arabs who for decades holidayed in Colaba to revel in rain, a novelty rendered anachronistic by global weirding. The exuberant snippets provide information, they create atmosphere, and their depth and diversity well represents contemporary Colaba, a place whose character transforms from corner to corner, sometimes quite dramatically.

As for the people interviewed, most are long-term residents and colourful neighbourhood characters. The best stories come from the author herself, memories of Colaba haunted houses, lingerie shops that date back to before the word lingerie arrived in Colaba, glimpses of a prim schoolgirl, one of a horde, who transformed into hoydens tumbling down the staircase the instant the evening bell rang, only to be harangued on the way home by the fierce battleaxes of Cusrow Baug. Biographical details are introduced not in a self-congratulatory or coy manner or even in bland lists, but in a festive jumping-about that interweaves energetic adjectives, provides vivid pictures, and sometimes has you laughing aloud. The creative happiness is impressively balanced with deep, fault-finding, nit-picking research into this unabashedly grimy district of India’s financial capital.

Colaba has no medieval fortresses, tales of tragic queens, or echoes of bloody battles. Just two hundred years ago it was a jackal-infested island – fine-grained diorite, composed of feldspar and hornblende! – separated from the emerging metropolis by a temperamental creek, ghastly shipwrecks, and a cemetery greedy for colonizers. When a causeway was built, the inconvenient outpost transformed into a place of buzzing industry, and the malodorous creek with mosquito-riddled mangroves and criminal-infested bays was eventually replaced by traffic-choked streets lined with art galleries, cakeshops, and more. Who doesn’t love Colaba for its street shopping – those cool, billowing cottons, coolly-replicated designerware? Amidst the thronging crowds, familiar faces pop up and cheery “Hieee!”s ring out in Shabnam’s vale of serendipity, the place of which one well-known resident (read the book to know who) is reported as having instructed, “When you go shopping down Colaba, Ma, don’t forget to give everybody my love.”

Besides the extraordinary energy of the haphazard streets of the southernmost tip of a city rapidly sprinting northwards, this book also documents nooks and structures: Colaba Lunatic Asylum, Royal Alfred Sailor’s Home, the garden of a Mrs Hough and its magical mango tree which fruited twice a year; the reincarnation of Buckley Court from a haunted Indo-Saracenic mansion to a guesthouse packed with fascinating residents to a ‘luxury skyscraper’; dragonflies fluttering by enroute to East Africa. And the fascinating stone which clarifies the boundaries between Colaba and Old Woman’s Island of yore – inside a residence encroaching into, of all places, the trendy and laidback Colaba Police Station.

When I called Shabnam Minwalla to tell her how much I had enjoyed her book, we naturally compared notes and, though we’ve never met, and even claim different territories of Colaba, found much to celebrate.

Colaba is still somewhat in the nature of ‘native place’ to me, the venue of childhood winter vacations escaped to from bone-chilling frost, sultry evenings strolling on the Cuffe Parade promenade, playing in the piles of rubble waiting to take their place in swanky buildings, snacking on peanuts and sometimes even illicit bhel (because typhoid). “Which building?” Shabnam asked and when I replied, she knew exactly which one, and together we moaned the decaying grandeur and eventual demise of the townhouse with its authentic stained-glass windows, Minton tiles, sagging wooden staircase and unpolished banisters, residence of former presidency magistrate KJ Bijlani for nearly fifty years.

Every chapter of this book ends with a pithy ‘Colaba lesson for life’, and the one I’ve picked to pass on here, one that sears me with regret, instructs: “Quick! Talk to your grandparents before it’s too late.” 

First appeared in Hindustan Times books page on 2 July 2021 

Wall Paintings of Sindh by Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro

Secret treasures

In India, Sindhis are most often seen as a mercantile community – hardworking and enterprising, but almost entirely focussed on material gain and pursuits, with limited interest in art and culture. Sindh itself, the ancestral homeland which the Hindus left after Partition took place in 1947 and to which they have almost no access today, is seen as a hot and dusty place of limited opportunity. So this book is a real eye-opener which showcases a very unexpected dimension for Indian Sindhis to understand something about their lost heritage.

In 1998, early in anthropologist Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro’s career, a field visit took him to the necropolis of Mian Nasir Muhammad Kalhoro, where he saw many beautiful paintings on the exterior and interior walls of its monuments. He could see that they were crumbling and in urgent need of restoration. Feeling overwhelmed by the beauty of the art around him, feeling equally disturbed that it would all soon be lost, Zulfiqar resolved that he was going to travel all across Sindh to seek out every other similar site he could find, and record whatever he saw in them. This book is a result of many fulfilling journeys the author made over more than 20 years, to do so – and a great gift to people who are interested in the history of art, and in particular the history of the art of Sindh.

What I learnt from this book is that Sindh is strewn with monuments of many kinds and these include tombs, places of worship, and palaces. Most of these are filled with works of art, and besides architectural flourishes, ceramic embellishments and tiling, many of the walls are covered with paintings too.

In many places, Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro noticed that in the process of maintenance of the tombs by their followers, they were whitewashed on the inside, and the paintings were damaged. For example, in the tomb of Mian Yar Muhammad Kalhoro in Khudabad, Zulfiqar found it all whitewashed except for some paintings which may have required too much effort to reach. From these traces, he deduces that

“the whole interior of the tomb was adorned with stylized flower vases, fruit dishes and a variety of flowers covering every panel, soffit, niche, squinch and arch recess of the tomb.” 

His research indicates that the art was a tradition of long-standing, but very little of what was created before the seventeenth century remains and this book largely covers art of the Kalhora, Talpur and British periods of Sindh’s history. Many of the previous era, glimpses of which sometimes pop up in historical records, no longer exist.

Zulfiqar has covered tombs of rulers and tribal chiefs, as well as the tombs of Sufi saints, and the book has excellent illustrations of the structures as well as of the art inside them. 

Royal tombs, Zulfiqar points out, are not embellished with figural motifs, except for birds. They carry gilded Quranic verses in striking calligraphy; traditional geometric patterns; and floral, vegetal, plant and tree motifs. The lily flower, Zulfiqar points out, is a favourite motif of the Kalhora artists in both paintings and glazed tiles. Zulfiqar also explains the symbolism of other favoured motifs such as the cypress tree, and varieties of birds and flowers. Monuments of other rulers and saints, however, carry all kinds of figural depictions including scenes of a bird feeding its offspring, rooster fight, mourning scene in a tomb, action-packed animal fight scenes, hunting scenes and battle scenes, as well as representations of cultural activities, such as dance, music and sports, and many romantic folk scenes. In all, they provide a rich illustration of the social and political life of Sindh. There are even tombs which also show domestic activities such as dancing, cooking and churning, such as the tomb of Othwal Faqir, located south of Mian Nasir Muhammad Kalhoro’s shrine. In fact, locations of each monument have been meticulously provided – a poignant resource for the many who may want to visit but are unlikely to ever be able to do so.

Through Zulfiqar’s commentary, and through the rich colour schemes of the illustrations, we get a sense of the people of Sindh and their daily occupations through history. He has also linked these paintings with recognized schools of other neighbouring regions, and compares their features. All these give us a rich visualisation of various historical events as well as folk stories and together they bring alive folk romances, battle scenes, and a broad spectrum of social life in eighteenth-century Sindh.

Zulfiqar has detoured with extensive coverage of the folk tales he found illustrated, sometimes two or three adjacent inside a single monument. Along with the commentary and symbolism, he has also recounted some of the most loved folk tales to accompany the illustrations, and these add depth to his book.

We also learn from this book that Mihrab, the arched niche on the qibla wall that indicates the direction of prayer in every mosque, is also seen in the monuments of Sindh. It was a common feature in the tombs, and evolved into the depiction of actual mosques. Many tombs carry these and most tombs built during the Kalhora, Talpur and British periods also depict Makkah and Medina.

I was also intrigued to observe the presence of Khudabadi on some of the monuments, because this was a script thought to have been developed and used by the Hindu traders of the province.

Most of these art treasures, Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro reports, are in sad repair. In the twenty years of his quest, he has seen them decay before his eyes, under the ravages of extreme climate. It is sad to think that in the decades to come, most will vanish, unrestored, and live on only in the pages of this book. It’s not just the government which is responsible for the neglect – but who can blame needy peasants who till the protected land close the beautiful monuments to fulfil their simple needs?

What I learnt from this book moved me deeply. What I saw and read made me feel connected with a precious and distinctive heritage which has been frittered away and is only saved from complete obliteration by books like this one.

BEYOND THE CARICATURE by Rajesh Pant

Many years ago, as a child in class three, I saw something amazing. A tall for his age boy, a classmate, proudly walked up to the Maths teacher and presented him a cake. “It’s my birthday”. The Master who was about to read the results of a quiz, stopped him; read out his marks. He had failed the boy. Then in a rage he threw the cake on the ground, kicked it out the door and roared “don’t try and bribe me you dirty Sindhi”. (Those were the days of course, where Teachers were forgiven for being impolitic!)

After class, the boy went out, quietly picked up the cake, and took the first bite himself and shared it with us saying his mother had baked it, why waste it? The memory of the incident has not left me because it was the first time I had heard a Teacher being abusive and the first time I had heard of someone being called a Sindhi. Before that I only knew that the boy’s name was Pooran. The ‘Sindhi’ caricature of a scroogish person who accumulates cash and real estate while constantly prattling ‘vari sai’ is widespread; egged on by actors playing bit stereotypes of Sindhis in yesterday’s Hindi films. And thereby hangs a tale.

Caricatures are an unfortunate sociological phenomenon, particularly in our country; we draw upon them and use them very matter of factly mostly disrespectfully. This in turn causes diminution of our strength as a society. Constant usage somehow cements these social and untruthful caricatures till they becomes part of our believed folklore – said by elders, repeated by the young who will ape anything. And so it will go till we mature as a Society.

Murli Melwani's collection of short stories ‘Beyond the Rainbow* goes a ways in breaking the caricature. It is a melange of colourful people, exotic locales and some adventure. All characters and events are supposedly fictional. But I suspect, very strongly, each story is true or at least has a broad element of truth. It is said that a people whose homeland is sparse – or who have no homeland at all - causes them to move to far and foreign lands. To make their living or ply their trade. True of Marwaris, Jews and Scots and certainly Sindhis. The sweep of the locations of the people and stories is ample evidence of the truly international spread of this group of people.

Stereotypically Sindhis have settled in Haang Kaang and have shops in Chunking Arcade! Melwani’s book serves us a different and exotic cocktail – Curacao, Toronto, Taipei, Bangkok, Bombay, New York, Honduras, Darjeeling and of course HK and Ulhasnagar. He paints a picture of their fads, foibles, beliefs, customs, strengths, weaknesses. These stories illustrate the ease with which they adapt to (or do not) to stressful, and strange situations.

In one of the longer short stories – the protagonist is called to the Holiday Inn in HK for an interview. This took me years back on my own first trip overseas and to HK; I stayed at the Holiday Inn in Kowloon and was amazed to see a small statue of Lord Shiva near the entrance with a ‘fountainette’ from his locks depicting the source of the Ganges. I was told that the property was owned by the Harilela’s. “Sindhi, you know, flom your contly” – the Receptionist informed me Though I believe they are Hongkongers stretching back a century. Coming back to the tale, ‘Head of a Chicken’ is a textbook narrative of poor boy, with remarkable insights “…but, a Sindhi would not ask a question without a motive…” he is economical with ethics, makes good and then faces the same situation he had left his earlier employer. An interesting take on ethics and business, a motif which runs through a some of the other stories.

Another facet about Melwani’s writing is the simplicity and honesty. In one of his stories he writes “there’s a writer in each one of us”. He does not use artifice; the story is what the story is – and that is where the writer’s true craft comes in. It is very complex to keep a narrative simple. This is exemplified when he writes a commentary on one of the most intricate machinations of our society, almost like a Rube Goldberg contraption – the fixing of a marriage, narrated by the Marriage Broker. It is mirth and thought provoking in equal proportions. Explaining it is like instructing a Martian the process of lacing-up shoes and knotting them. ‘The Bhorwani Marriage’ is a treat. Having made a fair amount of money in the transaction, which is what arranged marriages generally are, the Broker adds his punch line “One must be grateful for the crumbs that life throws one’s way”.

Sex is is not taboo. This is refreshing because our public posturing is prudish and fairly Victorian. So when a well off and retired businessman has a romp with a Bar girl; it does not seem shocking. The twist is later in the tale like in the thought process of a man in another story, watching a call girl undress. And more – a Father who can shoot to kill – to dictate a marriage in his family. As they say - you can take a man out of the home but you can take the home out of the man.

Like all those who have spread across the globe and settled; names soon change to suit or accommodate or better still to merge with the chosen country of abode. Meaning we are here to stay and be a part of you. An endearing quality which makes Jetharam convert to Jimmy and Metharam change to a more suitable Mike. A subtle change of status too? Which brings me to another story.

Years ago in the middle eighties, my Boss called me to substitute for him and make an unscheduled presentation to two gentleman sitting in the Conference room. The object was to present India, as a country full of promise yet not hide the pitfalls. The two were obviously ‘from overseas’. Post the presentation I introduced myself and the young guy stuck out his hand saying “Tommy, Tommy Hilfiger. I’ve just started a line back home with him and this guy brought me here because he’s very hot on India though he’s never lived here.” The other gentleman’s calling card was a folded affair. The top read Gloria Vanderbilt and the card opened to reveal his name ‘Mike’ Murjani.

Rajesh Pant

Pune, December 2020

*Beyond the Rainbow.

Murli Melwani.

Published by Black-and-white Fountain.