Updated: August 15, 2022 12:54:06 am
SD Sharma (sitting) with Dr SS Bhatti at Le Corbusier Centre in Sector 19, Chandigarh. ArchiveAs India commemorates its 75th year of Independence, the past, present and future come alive in the memories of those who witnessed the pain of the Partition and the spirit of a free country. These women and men recount the defining moments of a new chapter in their lives, a long and eventful journey that began with freedom. Against all odds, their hope is to build bridges between nations, as they relive the acts of kindness and generosity beyond borders.
‘It’s never easy to leave one’s wattan’
Susheel Gill, 97
Susheel Gill, 97 We left our home in Sargodha (now in Pakistan) at a moment’s notice. There was no time to pack any personal belongings or bid farewell to friends. We just locked our houses and hastily departed, nurturing the hope that we would return after things settled down. I feel we were among the lucky families who crossed the border just before the massacre started. My father had a second factory and home in Khanna (Punjab), so we had a safe roof over our heads.
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It’s never easy to leave one’s wattan, one’s homeland. You are forced to abandon your friends and community – the sight, sound, smell and feel of everything that was familiar and beloved. East Punjab felt alien.
I was 22 years old and pregnant with my second child. My husband was a Captain in the Army and responsible for organising convoys to provide safe passage to refugees on both sides of the border. We were posted in Ambala and had been allotted a bungalow with a large compound in the cantonment area. When the violence increased, the household staff (almost all of whom were Muslim) fled to Pakistan. I was a young woman left alone in a large, empty house. To try and provide me with some protection, my husband left behind a gun and taught me how to load and fire it. Fortunately, I never had to use it.
Every few days, I would receive a message to let me know that members of my husband’s extended family or community were going to cross the border and come live with us. Because of the chaos and uncertainty, there were no specific dates for arrival. Every night, I would go to the railway station and wait for the trains coming from Pakistan. The station master would urge me to go home: “Bibi, all that is coming across are dead bodies.” But I couldn’t leave just in case someone had survived the journey, someone who had perhaps been hidden from view by the dead bodies. The trains would pull in and all that I saw were compartments piled with dead bodies dripping blood.
Our house soon became a sarai, with people spilling out into the verandahs and garden. As the ‘bahu’, I was expected to take care of everyone: to cook, clean, wash clothes and provide bathwater drawn from the handpump. The wailing of the new arrivals would continue for hours. I worried about the effect this would have on my daughter, who was just four years old, bewildered by what was happening.
Who could have thought that India would be partitioned? People talked about it hypothetically, but we believed – perhaps because we were desperate in our hope – that wise leaders on both sides would prevail and work out a compromise solution.
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There was cruelty and savagery on both sides. And yet, there were also innumerable acts of kindness, compassion, generosity and tremendous courage on both sides. Despite the risk of being discovered and killed as traitors, Muslim families had provided shelter to Hindus and Sikhs, even as Sikhs and Hindus had sheltered Muslims.
My mother had provided a safe haven to several Muslim girls and women in Khanna while they waited to be safely evacuated. On several occasions, she had to use her negotiation skills to turn away gangs that came demanding that the Muslims be handed over to them. My father, who had stayed behind in Sargodha after we left, was protected and helped by his Muslim friends to safely reach the Indian border. A few weeks after the violence had finally died down, he received a message from his factory manager, a Muslim, asking him to meet at the border. When he reached there, he was handed a cloth bundle containing all the cash and jewellery that he had left behind in his safe.
During discussions on the horrors of Partition, it is these acts of compassion and personal courage that my husband and I also chose to remember. We would remind our children that both good and bad existed in every community and that it is our responsibility to build bridges of understanding and mutual support. We need to remember the horrors of the Partition and realise that all we can ever gain from fanning the flames of religious zealotry and bigotry, is ashes and rubble.
(Susheel Gill is a resident of Sector 35, Chandigarh)
‘We hope together we can build a great nation’
SD Sharma, 91
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I was 19 years old and migrated from Sialkot after Partition and even after so many decades, I feel the pain of what I had witnessed and experienced in that tough and terrorising time. I was one of the shattered survivors and experienced death all around me when I crossed the border. Once we reached India, I breathed a sigh of relief and with hope in our hearts, we walked towards hope for a new and safe life.
Today, as a proud citizen of a progressive new India, I hope that together we can make long and fast strides toward a self-sufficient country, build a great nation as envisioned by those who fought for our freedom, and achieve a deserving place amongst the most advanced nations.
(A renowned architect, SD Sharma worked with Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret on the Chandigarh Capitol Project and has to his credit major projects like the Chandigarh Architecture Museum. He lives and works in Panchkula.)
‘The need of the hour is holistic humanism’
Dr SS Bhatti, 85
I was nine. We lived outside the walled city of Amritsar in a neighbourhood then named Kot Muhammad Shah. It was rechristened after the name of Baba Deep Singh. Fortunately, in our neighbourhood, we saw no killings, arson, and riots. In fact, the lone Muslim family in our street moved to Lahore with the help of the Sikhs and the Hindus.
My father Sardar Balwant Singh Bhatti would pass through a Muslim neighbourhood named Sharifpura while cycling to work. He narrated dreadful scenes of dead bodies that he had been seeing on his way to the workplace. The most chilling experience was when we were returning from my maternal parents’ when we saw a couple of trains overlaid with corpses of Muslims travelling to Lahore.
My father had mentored the freedom fighters who were imprisoned at Multan Bostral Jail. He was in a state of inebriate fantasy produced by their promises, so much so that he regularly smuggled in letters and rare information for them. After we achieved independence he accosted one of them on his way back home from the Golden Temple, Amritsar.
“Where are canals of milk that you said would flow after the British left the country as a republic?” The fake fellow’s quip was unsettling. “Of course,” he said, “They are flowing everywhere–but you can never see them, for they were meant for us, not you!”
We need intellectual rigour, and creative potential to reinterpret the great Indian tradition of art, architecture, culture, and spirituality. What we need at this hour to make India great is holistic humanism.
We need intellectual rigour, and creative potential to reinterpret the great Indian tradition of art, architecture, culture, and spirituality. What we need at this hour to make India great is holistic humanism.
(SS Bhatti is a former principal of the Chandigarh College of Architecture, and resides in Sector 15, Chandigarh)
‘People stood together, never losing hope’
Raman Mann, 79
Raman Mann, 79 My nanaji’s house in Sargodha was in a large compound housing far away from our main family home. I was four years old then and would spend my time playing with my cousins and friends.
It was in July 1947 when we started seeing people talking in whispers. One day, Papaji, followed by Beji (grandmother), called us to announce that the whole family was going to move to the other family business and home in Khanna, near Ludhiana.
On reaching Khanna everything seemed different. The atmosphere was gloomy and nobody seemed to laugh. There was fear in the eyes of most people, especially amongst the Muslim staff. Their friends around would often pacify them by patting them compassionately on their backs as if to say, “Don’t worry we’re safe here – we’re all together!”
On reaching Khanna everything seemed different. The atmosphere was gloomy and nobody seemed to laugh. There was fear in the eyes of most people, especially amongst the Muslim staff. Their friends around would often pacify them by patting them compassionately on their backs as if to say, “Don’t worry we’re safe here – we’re all together!”
Beji, along with her trusted helper Mai Jeevan, called the women from the Muslim families working in the factory and gave them shelter in the house. Papaji had the compound gates locked with heavy chains and huge locks. The violence and mayhem grew unimaginably.
After trains pulled into the Khanna railway station, people would run around looking for their relatives only to find dead bodies; blood splattered all over and cries of grief, and sorrow. Some screaming for revenge.
Soon, my parents returned to our Army bungalow in Ambala because it was a safer place. Terrified, I would refuse to leave my mother’s side. My father, would bring home grief-stricken people. He barely rested between his trips taking people to safety from either of the new border.
Women and children from Hindu and Sikh families would make a desperate scramble for spaces in army vehicles with white flags. Some were known to have jumped into wells rather than get tortured by mobs baying for blood. My father refused to talk about what he saw and experienced. On just one occasion, I saw him with tears rolling down his eyes. His parents, sisters and other relatives from Lyallpur; my mother’s sisters and children fled from Quetta reaching India huddled in army trucks. The men often came on foot, their feet blistered by the endless walk to safety.
As a child, I could not make any sense of all this except that there was extreme suffering. The pervading counsel was – Help! Help who you can. In the background, the Japji sahib and other prayers were recited tirelessly by an old aunt. I still have many memories of those traumatic times. The predominant remembrance is one of how people stood together, staying strong to salute and welcome our Independence but few talked in despair – never losing hope.
(Raman Mann is an award-winning documentary filmmaker who resides in Chandigarh)
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First published on: 15-08-2022 at 12:52:41 am