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Source: Sarai

Independence did not come to South Asia as a single, identifiable event in 1947, though that is way most South Asians like to remember it. The slow, painful process of dismantling British India began with the great Calcutta riots and ended with the genocide in Punjab.

I was nine in 1946 and relatively new to Calcutta. Even at that age I could sense that the people around me had had enough of ‘shock’ and trauma. First, there had been the fear of Japanese bombing in the last days of the war, which had taken my mother, my younger brother and myself to a quieter city in the nearby state of Bihar, while my father had stayed back to work at Calcutta. The bombing was nothing to write home about, but it created tremendous panic all around and there was an exodus from Calcutta. Now we were back at the city, the war was over, and freedom was round the corner. But for a small outbreak of plague in 1946, Calcutta was limping back to normal.

Then there was the famine of 1942, precipitated by British war-time policies. Its memory was still fresh and Calcutta wore the scars of it. People no longer died of hunger in public view, but begging and fighting for food with street dogs near garbage bins was not uncommon. The memory of thousands of people slowly dying of hunger, without any resistance or violence, often in front of shops full of edibles, was still fresh in the minds of the Calcuttans. Most victims were peasants, many of them Muslims. They died without ransacking a single grocery, restaurant or sweetmeat shop. Whoever thought they would fight like tigers when it came to religious nationalism? A religious massacre was the last thing we were prepared for.

My father was a secretary of Calcutta YMCA and we stayed in a YMCA campus that had enormous lawns. Right in front of the building was a slum of poor non-Bengali Muslims from UP and Bihar, part of the large immigrant work force that kept the Bengali city alive. Everyone used to call them upcountry Muslims then. We could look into the households in the slum from our third floor apartment windows and see housewives cooking their meals and children playing. Beyond the slum were a couple of lower-middle and middle-middle class Bengali Hindu localities and, beyond them, another large slum of upcountry Muslims, Raja Bazaar. But unlike the next-door slum—modest, nameless—that slum was notorious as a den of criminals. In our slum, we used to know many of the residents by face. Some of the welfare work of the YMCA were meant for them and that also made them obsequious and friendly.

As the tough negotiations for transfer of power began to heat up and communalise the political atmosphere, in front of our eyes the slum dwellers turned into active supporters of the Muslim League. They began to fly the green flag of the party and, some¬times, take out small processions accompanied by much frenzied drum beating . Many of the enthusiasts were middle aged and looked very poor and innocuous in their tattered clothes, even while shouting aggressive, martial slogans. Their new-found politics did not change our distant but friendly social equation with them. We, the child¬ren, were not afraid of them, and when we teased them, they smiled. They would passionately shout their slogans and we the kids would reply in our tinny voices: Kanme bidi, muhme pan, Ladke lenge Pakistan. In any case, their fierce slogans seemed totally incongruous with their betel-nut chewing, easy style.

On August 16, our domestic help told my mother that while walking to our place through the slum, she had seen some of the residents assembling and sharpening knives and sticks. As this was not as uncommon sight during Mohurram, she felt they were preparing for some religious procession. She did not even know that the Muslim League had declared a Direct Action Day in support of its demand for Pakistan. No one took the declaration seriously till, suddenly in late morning, before our unbelieving eyes, Calcutta exploded. Mobs that had collected in front of the slum began to beat up Hindus; in the distance we could see houses being set on fire and looted. That was my first exposure to the politics of slums in South Asia and rioting as a crucial component of that politics.

The YMCA building had a high wall separating it from the middle-class Hindu localities to its right. The workers at the YMCA—gardeners, guards, cooks, both Hindus and Muslims–quickly put up ladders there and brought in the frightened residents. In no time, there were about 200 families on the lawns. The main door of the building was closed. That effectively contained violence in the immediate neighborhood. But the streets belonged to the mobs. I could see in the mobs familiar faces, now trying to look very heroic. But they also seemed to have found a chance to give petty greed a new ideological packaging and a new, a more ambitious range. They would beat up the Hindu passers-by, depriving them of their money and watches and, in one or two cases, even knifing them.

The radio worsened things. Being government-controlled, it gave censored news. Though even that was fearsome, few believed what they heard. They relied on even more fearsome rumours, specially since, in other respects, the information given over the radio did not fit what they themselves were seeing. These rumours further intimidated the residents of mixed localities, and minorities began to move out of them, ghettoising the city even more. We also found the police openly partisan.

Within two or three days the Hindus had organised themselves and begun to counter-attack. Earlier they were a majority but only theoretically. Thanks to the riots, they began to see themselves as part of a larger formation and, for the first time, we were treated to the spectacle of a Hindu nation emerging in Calcutta. The lower caste musclemen and the criminal elements, apart from castes with low-status vocations such as butchers, blacksmiths and fishermen, and even up-country Hindus, Sikhs and Nepali Gurkhas, previously considered social outcasts or outsiders, became the heroic protectors of middle-class, sedentary, upper-caste Bengali Hindus. What the Hindu nationalists could not do over the previous one hundred years, the Direct Action Day had done. Many years later, when I read that inter¬national wars created nations, it did not sound a cliché. I knew exactly what it meant.

There was a neighbourhood football club, Badurbagan Sporting Club, which occasion¬al¬ly used to visit the YMCA to play friendly matches with us. Usually it was football, but sometimes cricket and basketball, too. They always were a much better team and defeated us virtually every time, except in basketball. We had a natural advantage in basketball, because they did not play it much. But they were also an exceedingly friendly lot and we used to love their company. The members were mostly in their teens and they all belonged to the Hindu neighborhood diagonally opposite our home and sandwiched between two non-Bengali-speaking Muslim communities. The riots turned the club into a new kind of formation. They became the protectors of their community and some of them openly and proudly turned into killers. The community, too, began to look at them as self-sacrificing heroes.

Such new heroes mushroomed all over Calcutta, The reprisals they visited on the Muslims was savage. We saw an old Muslim driving a horse-drawn carriage being literally stoned to death. It was a devastating experience. Even when such gory events did not take place, we were not allowed to forget the riots. I remember that for days an old woman sat every day for hours on the footpath in front of our home and cried for her son who had died in the violence. The YMCA building now had to house, on another floor, a huge number of Muslim families. Strangely, there was no hostility between the communities within the building, among either the riot victims or those serving them.

My father, showed remarkable courage all through those days. A couple of times he even faced was threatened with death. Twice, he was shot at, once when he had aggressively asked the police to be firmer with the rioters. Indian police had not yet been toughened up by their encounters with militants of all hues and could still be relied upon to miss.

The family, however, was traumatised. The bloodshed and the cruelty affected everyone, but above all my father and younger brother Manish. They did not eat for days and were visibly depressed. My mother proved sturdier. She cried a lot but also kept life going. On the other hand, when my father fell seriously ill after a few weeks, the doctors diagnosed the illness as induced by that depression.

Ours was not the only family so affected. We were Christians and could perhaps, to that extent, take a slightly more distant, non-partisan, moral position. But our names did not give any clue to our faith and my parents used to be very nervous when we brothers walked to our school just round the corner. Later on, when I heard accounts of the riots from my friends, they sounded roughly similar. Only most of them sounded terribly partisan. They claimed on behalf of their newly-defined community, simultaneously and incongruously, that they were the worst victims as well as the clear victors in the battle of faiths.

The riots would not have stopped easily in Calcutta but for Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. He undertook a fast unto death in one of the worse-affected localities of the city. No one thought the fast would work. Some of our elders in school were openly sarcastic. But it did work. In fact, it electrified the city. The detractors, of course, continued to say that had he not fasted, the Muslims would have been taught a tougher lesson. But even they were silenced by the turn of events.

One person who moved closer to Gandhi at the time was H. S. Suhrawardy, leader of the Muslim League and Chief Minister of Bengal. In many ways, he had precipitated the riots, not perhaps because he want¬ed a blood bath, but because his constituency was mainly immigrant non-Bengali labourers, the lower-middle classes, and the lumpen proletariat. This support-base was a potent political force but always volatile and uncontrollable, always waiting to be hijacked for violent causes. Suhrawardy had to depend on them and on his populist and demagogic skills because he was an aristocratic, Urdu-speaking Bengali leader coming from an illustrious, cultivated family that had no knowledge of the predominantly peasant community of Bengali Muslims. His credentials for being a leader of Bengali Muslims were never foolproof. Bengalis may not like this, but he had picked up some of his mobilisational strategies from the militant nationalist leader and Bengal’s mythic hero, Subhash Chandra Bose. My suspicion is that he wanted a controlled mayhem, to show his political power to the British authorities, the Indian National Congress, and the Muslim League leadership. It turned out to be a full-scale massacre.

Suhrawardy, however, was a man of courage. Journalist Nikhil Chakravarty once told me how, once he joined Gandhi’s peace effort, Suhrawardy confronted rioting mobs unarmed and single-handed in his distinctive patriarchal style. I remember him visiting our place once or twice to meet my father who also was a part of the peace effort.

Just when the riots began to subside, came in reports of communal violence from East Bengal. Once again, rumours and hear-says made matters worse. Whatever semblance of sanity had survived the Calcutta massacre, disappeared after the stories of Noakhali and Sylhet reached other parts of eastern India. Calcutta was too tired to react, but parts of Bihar did.

Looking back, Calcutta riots reconfirmed that while the poor as a class may not be prone to bigotry, urban slums are often the first to embrace compensatory or defensive ideas of a generic community offered by fanatics and demagogues. The slums are the natural bastions of people with broken community ties and nostalgic memories about faith grounded in such ties. When they develop new loyalties in the cities, there is touch desperation in these loyalties and a different kind of ardour associated with them. These new loyalties are, then, systematically endorsed by fearful, prosperous members of the same community, themselves unwilling to risk their lives, but willing to fight for their faith to the last slum dweller.

The great Calcutta riots, everything said, could not match the communal carnage in Punjab. The eastern Indians were not martial enough to push things to their logical conclusion. After the first few frenzied days, the battle of faiths in Calcutta took the shape of communal riots one sees in South Asia nowadays. It became a dirty war of attrition in which the slums and the criminal gangs began to play an increasingly larger role. Stabbing an unaware member of the other community became the preferred mode of warfare. I still remember the widowed mother of two teenaged school children who were stabbed to death crying and requesting the army to shoot her dead. However, on the whole, Calcutta being an impersonal, diverse city, there was lesser scope there for neighbours turning against neighbours as happened in Punjab. (Though even in Punjab, we are now finding out in the course of a study, the breakdown of neighbourhoods and communities was not complete, as many previously suspected.)

In Punjab, communal violence reached the interstices of the villages society, something that had happened in Bengal only in pockets, in places like Noakhali. There is now enough evidence to show that while the framework of violence in both Bengal and in Punjab was supplied by religious nationalism, it allowed enough play for various forms of anomic and psychopathic behaviour. In many instances, old foes settled scores and greedy relatives exploited their own families.

Once the Punjab violence begun, all other instances of violence paled into insignificance. The violence in Bengal and Bihar were brutal, but it had taken place partly outside span of vision of the media and middle-class consciousness. The upheaval in Punjab—with its forty-mile long caravans, thousands of abducted women, spectacular self-destructiveness, and large-scale ethnic cleansing—was something for the whole world to see. Urvashi Butalia, a feminist publisher who herself belongs to an affected family, has recently described, in painful detail, instances of self-destruction that would have done credit to hardened Samurais.

Gandhi’s India had dominated the news channels for more than two decades during India’s struggle for freedom. Now, that freedom was being born in a blood bath that retrospectively justified the imperial theory of the likes of Winston Churchill who believed that India, left to itself, will dissolve in anarchy and violence.

On a conservative estimate, half a million died in Punjab, another half a million in Bengal; ten million were uprooted. But the victims did not find a voice in even some of the most sensitive writers of their community. In Bengal, one of the two main killing fields, there is only a defensive, nostalgic return to the idea of less violent, ecumenical East Bengal. Except in a couple of films of Ritwik Ghatak–where the tragedy is recognised but fitted in a rather pathetic, pre-war version of Marxism–there has been no effort to confront the depth of the tragedy. In Pakistan, the partition is officially seen as a victory and the uprooted as mohajirs, those who have left their homeland for the sake of their faith. But even there few have actually talked of the sacrifice; it is seen as a ‘natural’ by-product of the division of spoils after the demise of British India.

The only person to break through the massive wall of silence and capture something of the culture of violence, particularly the element of necrophilia that had crept into it, was Saadat Hassan Manto, a writer who had been for years a script writer for popular, commercial cinema at Bombay. In his bitter, self-mocking short stories one senses the true dynamics of the tragedy—the near-complete breakdown of communities and neighbourliness, the psychopathic and sadomasochistic components in the violence, and costs of violence paid not only by the victims but also by the perpetrators.

In the aftermath of the carnage, the millions of ordinary people caught in the hinges of history and pushed into new and, in many ways, strange countries, acquired a new identity. The 1940s introduced into the South Asian public life a new actor, the refugee—the uprooted, partly deracinated, embittered victim who knew suffering and had seen the transience of social ties, betrayal of friends, and the worst of human depravity, his own and that of others. Politics in South Asia was never to be the same again.

The South Asian refugee, like refugees everywhere, retained and transmitted to the next generation something of the personality and style of the exile. That personality and style has allowed forms of creativity of which only the psychologically homeless are capable. But they have also brought into the region’s public life the shrewd, ruthless entrepreneurship of robber barons and the politics of anomie.

There is almost no systematic psychological study of survival and homelessness produced by the partition in South Asia. One of the very few available is a modest Ph. D. dissertation turned into a book, Uprooting and Social Change, by an American sociologist, Stephen Keller. It suggests that those uprooted by the partition riots are not only more aggressive in their professional and public life, but also within their families. They are more distrustful of others and, having a greater sense of invulnerability, more willing to operate at the margin of law.

Perhaps here lies a clue to the apparent success with which the Punjabi refugees, as compared to their Bengali and Bihari counterparts, have picked up and re-arranged the fragments of their splintered lives, in India as well as Pakistan. They seem to fulfill all the psychological preconditions of the entrepreneurial person, as psychologists like David C. McClelland used to define the personality type in the 1960s. The Bengalis in most cases had not seen the worst; for most of them, Noakhali was hearsay. The exchange of population in eastern India was a slow bleeding wound; it was not a one-time ethnic cleansing which affected each and every family. Half of the pre-Partition Hindu population still remains in Bangladesh and in West Bengal the Muslim population is now higher than what it was in pre-Partition days. On the other hand, the proportion of Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan’s Punjab and of Muslims in Indian Punjab is nearly zero today.

South Asia has many things to celebrate fifty-five years after its de-colonisation. Strangely enough, one of them is the reasonable amity in which religious communities have lived in the region. Pakistan cannot take much credit for that, for after 1947, there is virtually no minority left in that country. But Bangladesh and India, despite all ups and downs, have not done too badly, despite the record of the partition riots. In India, where more data are available, this is easier to demonstrate. The total number of persons killed in the country since independence is less than one-seventh of those killed in car accidents and one-twentieth of those killed urban crime in the United States during the period, a country which has one-third the population of India. Five months after the sensational destruction of the Babri mosque in 1992, by a party claiming to speak on behalf of all Hindus, the party responsible for the destruction lost eight out of the nine State assembly seats in the district in which the mosque was located. All the constituencies had a majority of Hindu voters. A recent all-India survey shows that a majority of Hindus opposed that vandalism.

But South Asia still seems unprepared to face the genocide that accompanied the birth of Independent states in the region. And these memories, disowned and carefully banished, regularly return to haunt the political culture of the South Asian societies. The past can be historicised and, thus, anaesthetised. But that is no guarantee that it will not return, like Sigmund Freud’s unconscious, unless the new generations of South Asians are willing to painfully work through it. Partition violence cannot read only as a record of what some people did to others, for it is the repressed record of what the South Asians did to themselves. The region will have to learn to give that violence priority over even the moment of freedom, for only by ‘working through’ the memories of that violence can it acquire the right to celebrate its de-colonisation.

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