Other Side Of Silence

by Urvashi Butalia

  Yes, many women were still left in our village. Mostly our family women died, and then the ones who jumped into the well. But the others were saved. Because the Musalmaans saw that they were killing themselves. The ones who sacrificed ... if the women of our family had not been killed, and those who jumped into the well had not taken their own lives, the ones who were left alive, would not have been alive today. The Musalmaans had come for this. You’ll forgive me for saying this, but the Musalmaans from our village, they were not so good. Our children for example, they were clean, they dressed well. The Musalmaans would not bathe for eight days together. And soap was an unheard of thing. Then they would look awful. And our women were beautiful, which is why they had planned to take them away. But my father was determined not to let this happen. History does not change every day, and we are not born every day. How much longer do we have to live, he said. Maybe ten years, maybe twenty. And then what? We still have to die after that. We’ll die with honour. And the rest of the work ... my father took the first step, and the rest of the work was done by Sardarni Lajjawanti. There were only two advocates in our area: one was justice Harnam Singh and one was Sant Gulab Singh.

  Justice Harnam Singh reached the High Court, and Gulab Singh became a sant, he went in this direction, he was a man of a higher order, a literary man. Mata Lajawanti was his wife, and she saved all the other Sikhs by sacrificing her life. So twenty-six and ... this made around a hundred girls. Then, the Musalmaans in our village ... there was one Hari Singh. There was another, a granthi whom they caught hold of and took away. First they cut his hand, then his arm, but he kept refusing to become a Musalmaan. He said you can kill me if you like. They killed him. Then one of our relatives, Gurbaksh Singh Dheer — he’s dead now. They kept a gun on his chest. Tell us where your father is. Tell us where your father is. The father had escaped at night, he travelled some twenty kilometres to Rawalpindi, where he approached the District Collector, and managed to get the military from there. The real sacrifice was made by Mata Lajjawanti, and the girls who jumped into the well. Look at the weapon she found, how suited to the time it was. She took inspiration from Sant Raja Singh. She saw that he had cut his own girls. Then, these girls and those, what was the difference? If they took even one of these away, it would bring dishonour. The girl that they were talking about, we brought her with us. She was alive ... we brought her with us into the camp, from there she ran away and went to Montogomery, and she married a Musalmaan. She still lives in our village.

  It was like this, when all the fighting started, then there were also attempts at settlements. After all, a fight means a settlement. So the Musalmaans came to make a settlement. They said they would allow us to stay on in our homes if we gave them that girl. There was one Musalmaan, he was quite strong. He was a kind of loafer, he used to work the land, but he wanted this girl. He had some kind of relationship with her. They kept asking for this girl, saying if you give us this girl, we’ll send all the Musalmaans away. And people were discussing this, saying she is a bad girl anyway, she has a relationship with him, what’s the use of keeping her? You see, when it comes to saving your life, nothing counts. So a sort of decision was taken to give her away.

  At the time there was no question of what she wanted. It was a question of the honour of the village. My father said, how can this be. Our history says that in Kabul and Kandhar Ghazni took girls away, and those girls we brought back into people’s homes, and now we should just say take our girls away, just to save our lives? How can we do this? This girl is my daughter. He said, all of you stand aside, I’ll show you how we give this girl away. So he put his girls aside, and then he went out into the maidan, and he fought and made the Musalmaans run away. Then we picked up the charpai on which Pratap Singh was — he said, let’s give the girl. Then when the military came, the girl came with us in trucks. First we went to Jhelum ... no to Gujjar Khan. Then at night, we went to Rawat, then to Wah camp, we stayed there, and the girl was also there. Then there were some relatives of hers in Montogomery. There had not been much trouble elsewhere yet ... when trouble began in our Rawalpindi, people were still comfortable in their homes elsewhere. The trouble started for us in March. In Jhelum there was one Sardar Harnam Singh, he helped people a lot. He would collect things from all over and distribute them. We were in such a bad State that we had nothing at all, not a penny. Once I stuck my hand in my pocket and came up with a two anna piece and I gave this to my nephew and said go and bring some cholas. On the way to Rawat. We were fiercely hungry. In a way the entire hunger and thirst had been killed ... when you are holding your mother by one hand, another child by another and carrying a younger brother at the same time, where do you have the capacity to feel hungry?

  But after all a human being is a human being. And people do feel hungry. So my nephew, I remember that he told me that the coin was khota, damaged. And I cried. Then I put my hand in my other pocket, and I found a letter of my father’s, a letter that he had written to his sister-in-law. It must have just been in that pocket by chance. And I had one chaddar — a shawl — of my father’s, sometimes I would read the letter, sometimes I would touch and kiss the shawl. I kept that letter for many years. Now I don’t know where it is. Whenever I was full of grief at something, I would weep, I would take comfort from it. But tears are also a good sign. All that overflowing is good. How much I cried that day when I learnt that coin was damaged.

  In Rawat camp there was a room in which a durrie was spread. Just as we were about to settle down we were told this was not for us, and that there was another room. So we picked up our sheet and sacking, whatever little stuff we had, and in that we found a small potli, a handkerchief made into a bundle, in which were tied fifty rupees. When I opened it and found the fifty rupees, I said, there are fifty rupees here, do they belong to anyone? And of course they must have done. But everyone was in such a State at the time, each one had left behind thousands, so no one was going to stand up and claim fifty. Perhaps they’d been there from before, or they came with the durrie. But no one claimed them. So we kept it, and with those fifty rupees, keeping track of every little bit, we managed to get through the next two months. Then some relatives of ours in Peshawar, they sent us a money order for fifty rupees, and with those some relatives of ours who were in Delhi, brought us here. We had nothing. We were young, though, sixteen or so years old, and you know this condensed milk, and sardine fish — the sardine fish is flat. So the fish tins would serve as katoris, and condensed milk cans would serve as tumblers. We used to take off the edges with stones, and use those. Even the best of people would say, please pick up one for us too. You know the military people, they would eat and throw the tins away, and we’d pick these up, hammer them into shape and turn them to use. Then we’d give them away, tayaji, you take one, chachaji, you take one. To everyone we gave these. My first form of aid that I gave was this. We had collected some for ourselves, but to all relatives and others, I used to pick these things up, clean them up very carefully and then give them away. And when the time would come to eat, we would pull out these tins as our utensils. Gradually the camp people did give us utensils, and we managed to have bowls and tumblers. But at first it was only this. And then, gradually, we came here.

  Yes, that girl. When we came, we were close to Montgomery, from there they took her away. It was done with a lot of pomp and celebration. Then in the village we learnt that she was living close to the bus stand, she had married that man and she was heavy with child. He took her away. She was quite beautiful. She was married. Her son must be grown up now, with children. They had a hotel. Her husband died only some two years ago. She was extra beautiful. There are some things like that ... she was the reason for many deaths. This was all a well thought out scheme. All the villages were surrounded in one night. The situation was like this there that if there was one village of Sikhs, there were some thirty or forty villages of Musalmaans. So where will the Sikhs go? They have to drink water, eat, get rations. You see, the Musalmaans
have done some dreadful things — they have never fought a battle in the battleground. Out in the open. They will come and stab you in the back. A Musalmaan can’t fight a Sikh face to face. They’ll set fire to things, your home, your village. So when they surrounded the village, they kept on setting fire to houses, and fire is such a scary thing, and the moment a person sees smoke, he gets frightened. We were fully surrounded. All around us there were fires. What can a person do? I think really all honour to those people who killed their own children, who jumped into wells. And they saved us ... you take any household of martyrs, and you will find it will take root and grow. Blood is such a thing, that as you water a plant, a tree, so also the tree grows, so does the martyr’s household. In our house, my son died — this was after Pakistan was formed. After our marriage, on a farm. Here where I am at the moment, there has been no death. So after all, there is some barkat, some good. Somehow even fate understands that if virtually all their household has been destroyed, at least for some time what is left must be preserved. Bravery is never laid waste is it? We have grown and developed according to the dictates laid down by fate — I have five sons. My mother would weep all day when she remembered those incidents. She would cry, almost sing the dukhan about her family. All day long she would cry. But Vahe Guru must have heard her. Now we are three brothers, we all have children, I have five boys, grandchildren, we have a good, large family and now my mother complains that she isn’t even able to sleep because there is no peace in the family! So you should be happy that fate has turned this miracle for you.

  I had two sisters. One was in Calcutta at the time. The other was the first one to become a martyr, and how she did it, with such courage. I did not see anyone else with my own eyes. She sat just like this, on her haunches, and behind her stood my father, while I stood next to him. Father and daughter could not see each other. He was behind her. He sat. He did ardas with his kirpan out. And then, when he tried to kill her, something came in the way perhaps, or perhaps a father’s attachment came in the way. Then my sister ... no word was exchanged. Just the language of the kirpan was enough for the father and daughter to understand each other. They both were sad that this vaar, this hit went waste. Then my sister caught hold of her plait and moved it aside, and my father hit like this, and her head fell ...

  Some people were upstairs and some were down. The whole village was there ... there were a few rooms downstairs, and some upstairs. There wasn’t any long scheme, but suddenly they realized that their whole household would be destroyed, all the girls were young. The only difference was that my father was the youngest of the seven brothers. Avtar Singh, whom I spoke to you about, the girl who had a child in her womb, this was her first child ... what was I saying? The chacha and nephew were young. The elder brother’s son and the chacha were roughly the same age. They were all young men. There were so many men in the household. After all, if there were twenty-six girls, you can imagine how many men there must have been. Fifteen or twenty young people. They all thought, we will be destroyed and the chacha said this is right, you must do it. So they all stood behind him. If the Musalmaans take these girls they thought ... who knows how long we will live. Suppose today that they had not done this, would my sister’s name not be among the abducted women listed in this book that you have with you today? [The reference is to a book containing a list of abducted women that I had with me.] These are the same people who saved lives. They said we will kill our girls instead of leaving them to rot. Look through this whole book and you will not find the name of our village there. The names that you find here, from Thamali and other places, these poor girls had no choice. Say if some ten people come, and take away our girls, what can I do? There were so many people, there seemed to be no end to them. It seemed as if the world had broken its borders and people had poured forth.

  Yes, there were people who took their girls away. Only our household was left, the others went down. Upstairs, we were alone. Those who were left upstairs were finished. They did not kill men. I was upstairs, they didn’t kill me. They just put me aside. I have never seen such a frightening scene. Even today when I remember it ... I cry, it helps to lighten my heart. A father who kills his daughter, how much of a victim, how helpless he must be. It’s as if his insides are being ripped open when he thinks that someone will take my daughter away. And all my life, I will have to ... they wanted to take them away for religion.

  It was exactly the same thing [as 1984]. People were forced to shave their hair, forced to convert. It was exactly the same thing. People have fought, they died. There was a woman whose husband worked in Delhi and he was transferred to Ambala, and her brother worked in Patiala, he was transferred to Delhi. So he thought, my sister has such a big house, we’ll stay there. So the husband lived in Ambala and the brother and sister were in Delhi. The woman had children. They lived near Palam in Palam colony, and there they were surrounded, the sister begged and pleaded with them not to kill her brother. They told her, you get away, we do not kill women and we won’t kill you. But in front of her, and she told me this, they started hitting him with spikes and they killed him and left him. She was left alone with her brother’s body. She kept wondering what she could do. Sometimes she would break a bit of wood from the window. Another time, she took out some ghee. Then she found a book, a chair ... whatever she could lay her hands on, she put together, and built a cremation pyre for her brother. Still, she could not burn him fully. All this because of an attitude ... If Pakistan was made it was made because of our attitude. And it is the Sikhs who have helped to create Hindustan. We have held its flag aloft. Before Musalmaans, what does history say? If there was an attack, the Sikhs would come forward. The Sikhs were after all Hindus who became Sikhs. And now Hindus think they are separate. Or Sikhs think they are separate. We are the sentries, the gatekeepers if you like, the soldiers of the entire Hindu society. You can call us any of these things. Sardar, elders, youngers ... but if we are alienated ...

  You see how the population of Musalmaans is increasing. I think there were seven crores when Pakistan was made. I don’t think I am wrong in this. Now there are some sixteen. In forty years if this has happened, in the next forty will it not multiply more? I had a Musalmaan friend, I used to fight the corporation election from Bhogal. He, Iqbal, came to me and said it’s my child’s birthday. You must come. I said certainly I’ll come. Then I asked him, Iqbal Sahib, how many children do you have? He said, forget it yaar, I’ll tell you that later. So I said again, tell me, or should I tell you how many I have? I have five sons and two daughters. He said forget it friend, I’ll tell you another time. In case you think there are too many. I said tell me, how many are there? He said, eighteen. Eighteen children ... if you multiply these eighteen, what will happen to our votes. This should not happen. In the name of Khalistan you put down the Sikhs, and then you try to make the others happy. This is not desh bhakti, love of your country. This is kursi bhakti, lust for power. Desh bhakti is if you think of the whole of Hindustan as azad. Hindustan became azad because of the gurudwara movement. And the hundred and seven people who were hanged because of the freedom struggle, ninety-two of these were Sikhs. Ninety-two out of a hundred and seven are Sikhs. You can work out the ratio yourself. These people, are they a martial race? They are strong people, we should keep them on our side. Our wise women say that if a cow is wise, and she gives milk, what does it matter if she even kicks you once in a while. It’s the same thing with us. But the one who does not give milk, who should care for her?

  6

  Children

  No history of Partition that I have seen so far has had anything to say about children. This is not surprising: as subjects of history children are difficult to deal with. The historian may well ask: how do you recover the experiences of children, as children? As a tool of history, memory is seen to be unreliable at the best of times, with little to offer by way of ‘facts’. Childhood memories filtered through the prism of adult experience — these may be acceptable as autobiogr
aphy, but not necessarily as history. How, then, do we make sense of the experiences of children?

  Where Partition history is concerned, this is particularly important. So much of this history is woven around children that their invisibility now, in it, is tragic. India and Pakistan did not fight over children as they did over women, or indeed over Harijans. But it was the bodies and beings of abducted children that posed the greatest challenge of all: for while an abducted and raped woman could be brought back into the fold of religion, and could, in a manner of speaking, be ‘repurified’, a child, in whom the blood of two religions was mixed in equal quantities, was not so easily re-integrated. If numbers mean anything, they would force our attention towards children. Nearly 75,000-100,000 women are said to have been abducted at Partition. It took a decade of searching to locate a fraction of that number. Even if we imagine that half the number of abducted women had children, that gives us a figure of nearly 50,000. And apart from these there were the numbers of children who were abandoned, or who simply got left behind — of these we have no record. Can we afford to ignore these histories?

  But while most records were lacking in information about children, virtually everyone I spoke to mentioned the hundreds of abandoned, destituted, lost children: some that families had left behind, others who had been abducted, some who were in hospitals and never knew what happened to their families, some who lost all relatives. Savitri Makhijani, a record collector with the United Council of Relief and Welfare, the parent organization set up under the leadership of Edwina Mountbatten to coordinate relief and rehabilitation work among non-government organizations, described a time when a large camp was closed down in Lahore. At the time, a few months after Partition, she was with the School of Social Work in Delhi. Shortly after the camp closed down they received information that there were some dozen children who had been left behind, who seemed to belong to no one. What was to be done with them? The children were sent to Delhi, and housed in a home by Mridula Sarabhai. Social workers from the School of Social Work then put out advertisements on All India Radio, asking for offers of adoption. A large number of postcards began to pour in — but here too, as in everyday life, everyone first wanted a boy. And yet, most of the children who had been left behind — again as in everyday life — were girls. What was to be done? Finally, most were adopted. And then, one man returned the little girl he had taken, she was too ‘naughty’ he said. Most people, according to many social workers, were looking for domestic help, rather than looking to adopt a child. ‘Naughtiness’ was clearly not what was wanted. Savitri was unable to remember what had happened to that little girl. But, like other social workers, she did confirm that while young boys were preferred for ‘legitimate’ adoption, young girls were much in demand for ‘other services’. I quote from her: