Other Side Of Silence

by Urvashi Butalia

  In the Jalandhar camp, in Gandhi Vanita, there were a lot of marriages because most of the girls who came there were unattached. Young girls used to come there, and they were given training, and because people knew there were young girls there, we’d get a number of marriage proposals. We used to also find them jobs, get them to their relatives ...

  Where there were girls who were carrying children from Musalmaan men, their families were very reluctant to take them back. For the woman, once the child is in her womb it is very difficult to leave it ... but many women were forced to leave their children for the moment people knew this was a Musalmaan child, you know what society is like. That child would have had no future. Most of the women were recovered within a year or so, and families did take women back. But women who were pregnant, you know this Dr Kapur’s clinic, they used to get abortions done there, and others would give birth and then hand their children over to the home in Allahabad. With children it was very difficult. And when the women left their children in Allahabad, they used to want to visit them, to meet them. They were given a choice — they could keep their children with them — if, that is, their relatives would be willing to let them do so, if they would be willing to let the child live with dignity, if they would even look with respect on that child. Otherwise they had to give them up. It was a real problem. Each case was different. The mothers used to go to Allahabad ... they would take time off from us and go there, what they did there we don’t know, how they felt ... we would give them a ticket and tell them go ahead and meet your children. What kind of future those children had ... who knows?

  Ashrams were set up in north Indian cities to house abducted women: in Jalandhar, Amritsar, Karnal, Delhi. Some of these were meant to hold women in transit until their families took them back. Often, families didn’t: the women were now soiled. The family had made its adjustments to their absence, why should they now have to readjust, make new space, and take in a person who had become ‘polluted’? So the ashrams became permanent homes for the women; there they lived out their lives, with their memories, some unspeakable, some which they were able to share with a similar community of women. And there, many of them died, the only people who had suffered a double dislocation as a result of Partition. As late as 1997 some women still remained in the ashram in Karnal; until today there are women in the Gandhi Vanita Ashram in Jalandhar. Many whose histories will forever remain hidden; others who don’t even know their own histories. In Jalandhar there is a woman who is said to have been brought into the ashram when she was only a few months old. No one knows to which community she belongs; there is no idea of who her parents were. A child of history, without a history. The Gandhi Vanita Ashram at Jalandhar is today a home for destitute women and widows. ‘When we set up the ashram,’ one of the social workers told me, ‘we looked all over for an appropriate space. And finally this spot was identified. It was actually a graveyard, a kabristan for Muslims, and on the bodies of the dead, we built the lives of women.’ It was perhaps only because Partition was a time of dislocation and upheaval, that it became possible for the Indian State to lay claim to a graveyard. And it was clearly because everyone was running for their lives that no one had the time to question this. But what sort of lives were actually built for the many women who lived on in ashrams, or were rejected by their families, is something we are not likely to ever know.

  The recovery operation for abducted women continued for nine years after Partition, though recoveries began to drop off after the initial few years. In all, some 30,000 women were recovered, about 22,000 Muslim women from India, and about 8,000 Hindu and Sikh women from Pakistan. Many of these were, apparently, not listed in the reported cases with the governments. As time went on, the process of recovery became more and more difficult: apparently, the greatest hurdle in the way of forcible recovery was the women’s reluctance to leave their children. Over time, differences developed between the key social workers in this programme. Rameshwari Nehru, for example, wanted the programme to be stopped, while Mridula Sarabhai was all for it continuing. In 1954, a special conference was held at which it was decided that some way should be found to ensure that abducted persons were not forced to go to the other country against their will. Special homes were then set up where unwilling persons could be housed and given time to make up their minds ‘without fear or pressure’. How much of a free choice this actually gave women is another question.

  DAMYANTI SAHGAL

  After a year [in Jalandhar], I went to the Hoshiarpur camp. It was a big camp, some 1500 women, who had managed to get away or whom we had rescued, whose families had tried to kill them ... we had some forty five staff, and I got very caught up there. We had to rehabilitate these women, that was a rehabilitation camp, we had to do mental, physical and financial rehabilitation. This is what we were supposed to do, how many of us actually did it is another story.

  The government had opened these camps, the women who had become orphans, or who were alone, they were put into camps. Hoshiarpur was a big camp and then there was Jalandhar. Then there was one in Karnal and many others. These were opened, and women like me were put in charge of camps, and how we did our work really depended on the individual. None of us was really qualified for this work, many of us were not educated. The government wanted to rehabilitate these women in every sense — our job was to make them forget their sorrow, to put new life into their veins, and to give them the means to be economically independent. This was a huge liability, and the mental adjustment used to take the longest; economically it was much easier. The government had given us industrial centres, like hosiery, tailoring, basket making, embroidery, weaving and spinning, we had all these things. For me, when I came back from Pakistan and before I went to Hoshiarpur camp, I had decided I had had enough. I don’t want to do any more, I thought.

  But Mrs Nehru was very taken with my work, and she insisted with Auntie Premi that I should be made to work. Earlier we had made recoveries, now the next step was rehabilitation, rehabilitation of the women who were recovered. She told me that they had opened a camp in Hoshiarpur, and the camp commandant was not very good there, and she had been getting bad reports — so she wanted me to be in charge there. I kept saying I don’t want to do anything, but masi would not let me do this. Then one day Lady Mountbatten came and she had to be taken to the Hoshiarpur camp, so I thought I’d go — because I was getting a free ride. I went. They had made a lot of arrangements for the visitor. She first looked at the women who were spinning. To visitors they said these women earn quite a lot, some ten rupees a day, and then we went to the tailoring people and they said the same, the needlework girls said the same ... and I began to wonder, spinning does not get so much money. If it is ten for spinning, it would mean three hundred for the month. I thought, I came back and told my aunt, and she said you are foolish, you should go there. She was a strong woman, full of life, strong, what a personality. She said, it’s no use telling me. So they insisted that I go there, and Auntie Premi told me to come along with her, because she had to go there for an inspection. Once she was there, she said to me, why don’t you stay and I’ll come back tomorrow to get you. She just left me behind and said I’ll come back in a few days and fetch you.

  She told the people there, give her a bed and keep her here. So from that day I was appointed to that job. And then with me, it’s like this that whatever work I get into, I put everything into it, and my god helps me to get success in it. After about a month, when the bills had to be made for all the income we had got, they brought the bills to me for the work jobs, and I said what is this? They said once you sign this, the individual workers will get paid, and it was when I saw these documents that I discovered that some women were earning five rupees, some ten for the whole month. At first I thought this was a daily document. Then I realized — the spinning women had just ten or twelve, basket workers — no one had earned more than forty for the whole month. I said is this every day’s earning? They said no this is for the whole month. So I
said but what about the time I came for the inspection? They said, that was for the visitors. Do you really think they can earn that much? I was shocked: I said to them but you lied so much. They said, no it wasn’t really lies, what we meant was that if a person worked day and night, she could earn so much. Twenty-four hours. So it was all show.

  The other thing I noticed was that if we were given a tailoring assignment from outside, it would be the technicians who would cut the clothes. They were the ones who were responsible. Independently the women could not do anything. If you bought a lot of fabric and placed it in front of the women, they would not be able to do anything! So I said, do you think the technicians will run around with these women wherever they go? Even in the hosiery department, it was the technicians who were responsible. The whole thing was heavy on show, wonderful show, but the reality was different. If there was a technician, there was a machine, and if the technicians were thrown out, the whole thing would come to a standstill. What kind of economic rehabilitation was this? As long as they were in the camp, they would get rations and they could earn a little, some ten rupees or so, but once they went out ... they have no experience, they can’t do hosiery, they have no machines, even if one of them buys a machine, then without the technician how will she work? If she puts a spinning wheel or a loom at home, what will she do? Here, the moment a thread snaps, the technician is there to help her but elsewhere ... that means no future, nothing. The government wanted that after three years these women should learn to stand on their own feet. And what could we do with this kind of setup? I used to be very concerned at this. I couldn’t sleep for many days, wondering what I could do. And because basically I am a religious person, I could not rid myself of the feeling that I was committing a sin, a sin. I thought, here I am, I’ve got an important post, I have become camp commandant, people are around to do salams to me, I have servants and helpers but ... what am I doing about the real issue here? Then I prayed, and asked God what I should do. And it was at this time that I began to think of adult education.

  From 1947 to 1948 I was in Pakistan, and then in ‘48 I took over in Hoshiarpur, and then I collected my staff, and we went in for adult education. I told the staff to make lists of all the widows who were below thirty-five, or thirty, I can’t remember. I said leave the ones who are above this age. We got the lists, and there were some hundred and fifty or so who came within this age bracket. I then asked for a list of staff members, with their qualifications. Then I said, those who have failed matric, still, even if you have failed, there has to be one subject in which you are strong, so we had a column where they could put down the subject in which they were strong. And in this way I had a list in which I could see how many of my staff were strong in Hindi, how many in this subject and how many in that ... so I then said, here we are working eight hours, but actually we aren’t doing a lot. We do pray in the morning, but the country is in great difficulty, and yet we can’t, for example, give any daan, any donation for we have nothing. But what we can give is our time, this we can do. We are not asking anyone for money, but I am asking you for a bit of time. For eight hours you give your time to the government, over and above that I’m asking that you give a bit of time to this work. So the list came, and on top was my name, and against it first of all I put a half hour, I was willing to give a half hour of my time ... Then someone wrote half an hour, someone wrote a full hour and what with those forty or so staff members, we managed to get a lot of time donated. Then we looked at the list of women, and we divided up the staff, and we found that there were usually five women to a staff member. So that work could now begin. Then another problem came up: we needed pencils and notebooks. The government used to give an allowance of ten rupees a month to these women, how could they manage anything from this amount? They had to eat. So then I said, all right, whatever stationery you need you take from me. We couldn’t take it from the women, they had no money. And we couldn’t ask the government for they did not recognize our effort, so I said, never mind, just take it from me. And then I prayed, I asked the women to pray too, that our effort would be successful, that they would not have to wash dishes or do domestic labour and that they would be able to lead lives of dignity ... then my director got to know. In the evening, Miss Thapar got to know that I was planning to start adult education classes. She said, whatever such scheme there is, I know you will be the one to start it. The news spread, the staff and the women were there. A message came from Jalandhar. It said, I’ve heard you plan to start adult education classes. You do not realize that you are a government functionary, you cannot act of your own accord, you will have to take permission if you are to start anything like this. I thought to myself, what can they do? All they can do is to talk, they can’t kill me after all, so I said to the women, tomorrow your classes will start. But then there was the problem: where would we hold these classes? And I decided they would be held under the mango trees ... so that’s what I told the women. Some of them had a little bit of Hindi and Punjabi while there were others, when they received their money they would put a thumb print, while others would be able to sign. I offered rewards to those staff members who would teach the women the fastest ... this whole enterprise did so well, it was so successful, the government had set up so many industries, but everywhere there were these technicians who would earn a lot of money. The women could not go anywhere. But with a little education, and many of the women made a noise about the technicians once they were a bit educated. Then the technicians got worried about losing their jobs. If they didn’t show any work, they’d be out. And again I got shouted at for doing something that might put them out of work. Anyway ... the first set of women, some eighty women, the first year, some of them were old enough to be grandmothers! Some had studied upto one point, some to another, many were ready for the ‘middle’, some had studied in the vernacular. And then another question came up: that of their ages. Most jobs had an age limit, and these women ... so we had to get together new affidavits. They had to fill in their educational qualifications, but we needed an age certificate first. I told the staff that there is a government rule that anyone over the age of twenty- eight can’t get a job. I don’t know what the logic was, but that was the rule. So we did some rough calculations — we took off some time for the educational opportunties some of the women had lost, and then a year for something else, and a few months for job searching, and then tried to see how many women fitted the bill. But my workers said, behanji, these lists have now become very small. I said how — how will we find them jobs? Make the lists bigger. They said, but how? I said just do it, orders are orders. They all looked at me, thinking behanji has gone mad. Then we had to get the affidavits done. I went to the magistrate, to the Assistant Deputy Commissioner, what was he called — I forget now. Oh yes, Mr Puri. I telephoned him and said I need to come and see you and he said, yes please do come, what is it you need. I told him I needed to get some affidavits signed. He said, what sort of affidavits. So I told him that these women had to take the exam for the eighth standard, and this was their first entry so we needed an age certificate. He said, these women’s age? Where are they? Bring them here. The women were outside. I said, why do you need to see the women? He said, if I am signing the affidavit, I need to see them. I tried to dissuade him. He said don’t be funny, I have to see the women. I said, for what? He said, am I being funny or are you? I said you want to see the women? You have to sign the affidavit, that’s all. He said, Miss Sahgal, you are a strange person, at least bring the women in. I said all right, if you insist. So we brought the women in. [laughing] Poor man, we had written down their ages as twelve, eighteen, fourteen ... he looked at them and said, these are the women? They are these ages? I said you sign the paper, why are you wasting your time and mine, what does it matter. He said Miss Sahgal, look at that woman, her hair is white. I said, congratulations, well done. Don’t you know that people’s hair goes white even at a young age? Today, even twelve- year olds have grey hair — haven’t you seen any
? I can show you lots! Today, one can’t rely on hair at all, you never know when hair might go grey! Even at age twelve. Look at that one, he said, she has no teeth. Oh ho, I said, you have such sharp eyes, for a man. I said to her, bibi, you fell down from the roof did you not, the other day?

  She said, yes, yes behanji. Yes I did and my teeth broke, what could I do? He said, Miss Sahgal, you are trying to make a fool of me. I said, Puri sahib, the girls are in front of you, you can see the truth for yourself, why should I fool you. He said, they have wrinkles on their faces. I said to him, how observant you are, you notice so many things. I said, Look Puri sahib, tell me what you ate at home this morning. He said, so now you are trying to turn the tables on me. I said, no, I genuinely want to know what you had for breakfast this morning. You must have had milk, fruit, toast, butter on it, egg — all this at least your wife must have given you. This much I can tell you, more I don’t know. And me too, I have had plenty. But look at these poor women, they get nothing. The government gives them ten rupees. What can they eat with this? They have to starve, that’s why their faces are so wrinkled. Once they get enough to eat they will be all right. He said, you are a real Jatti. Look at these women, one has no teeth, another has grey hair, a third is wrinkled .... I said, oh ho, Puri sahib, what is it you want? He said, tell me the correct age of these women. I said, okay, you write what you want, and I’ll accept what you write. How, he said. Why not, I said. Use your pen, and take an oath and write when they were born and I’ll believe you. He said, how do I know? So I said, if you don’t know, how do I? You will also put down an estimate, and so will I. I said have you seen their faces? They come from the village. Do you think even one of them will know her birth date? What do they know, these women? They will tell you lies, I am also lying, you have to give a false signature, since we are all liars together, none of us will speak. Do you think these women can say when they were born? Neither can I, I was not there, nor can you. So what can we do? For forty-five minutes we argued and argued. He said what should I do? I said I know nothing, I am doing this in God’s name, and why don’t you do the same? I told him if you can swear when they were born, which hour, which day, I’ll take your word for it and countersign it, but you don’t know, neither do I. If you can’t, I can’t.