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The violence that accompanied India's partition in 1947 was of such fiendishness that it has
understanding. Fictional writings about this period express this bewilderment. They also portray pre-
times of tolerance. The writers deal with the violence itself in different ways - redemptively, pessim
or cynically. A survey.
MEMORIES of the partition of the Indian some nightmarish image into a part of myman could negotiate his way back to his
subcontinent in 1947 have haunted me all being. Recently, however, my mother own neighbourhood without fear. Too late
my life and have marked with fear many confirmed that the essential details of myhad my father realised that he had failed
of my personal, ethical and political de- remembrance were accurate enough. Theto notice one of the shadowy corners of
cisions. As with almost everyone of my day was like any other usual hot day inthe wall marking the grounds of old St
generation, my childhood consciousness Delhi. The sun was harsh and indifferent;Stephen's College in Kashmiri Gate. The
was scarred by the cruelties I witnessed the dust was full of the dry buzz of fliesman had turned back and had tried to reach
during the riots of 1947-48 and the lam- and the smell of tar. The courtyard of ourour house again. My father had forgotten
entations that I heard. Indeed, there was small house was surrounded by a high wallhis name. There were too many who had
hardly a family which survived those years which was washed with white lime so that been killed.
without feeling perpetually threatened by it could absorb the glare of the sun and I have narrated what I remember with
the repulsive and the ruthless; there was resist the hot winds. The entrance to our a certain deliberateness in order to suggest
hardly anyone who didn't hide in some house was through a small green door with some ways of making sense of our expe-
dark corer for safety as mobs outside, a black chain - lock on it. Three brick and riences during the partition days. My
armed with thirst spears and the names of cement steps led down from the door to narrative account is marked by a degree
gods, killed each other for small and the level of the road below and its burden of agnosticism towards the idea that those
pathetic gain. Now when I look back upon of leaves outside. The details are impor- who have suffered treat others with pity.
those years, I realise that they carried grim tant; their ordinariness is necessary both Indeed, it often encourages them to regard
forewarnings about the world that I was as evidence and as boundaries against the themselves as self-righteous victims who
to grow up in - a world in which thugs, phantasmagoric. For without being sure can neither be consoled nor urged to
chanting a few lines of tribal lore gathered that my memory is located in the real forgive. However, at the centre of my
from some rag and bone shop of history, world, I cannot hope to make an ethical narrative, I have acknowledged the fact
and screaming religious or racial invec- enquiry into the history of my age and that there were countless people who were
tives, are always ready to expel, plunder, place. willing to risk giving aid and were shocked
rape or exterminate with impunity.l I recall that as I unlocked the door to by their failures.
I wish to record here one particular event our house, I saw the body of a man stretchedI would like to urge that, 50 years later,
from my childhood. It is a part both of my out on the steps below. He was lying face as we think about 1947 again, we resist
personal memory and of the long chronicle down. His bag had fallen near his feet;the it temptation either to write celebrative
of suffering that ordinary people caught was open and a few common household narratives of nationalist victories or to
in the maelstrom of the partition had to things had scattered out of it. His limbs become chroniclers of communities of
endure. I don't, however, want my frag- were in disarray, his clothes were soaked suffering.4 A generation later, it is impera-
mentary narrative to be read as a variation in blood and the sun had begun to darken
tive that we make, like many of our fiction
of other stories of massacre; as yet another his skin. There was no one in the street,
writers, a self-conscious attempt to de-
velop a twofold vision in which, even as
platitudinous account full of indignation not even the usual garbage dog. My father
and accusation.2 It is not a contribution had heard the sound of the chain on the we remorsefully accept our culpability in
to the notion of some contemporary his- door and had hurried out. Later, he toldthe evil of those days, we record stories
torians that the partition was constituted me that the man, marked with so manyabout events and people which are instinct
by violence.3 Instead, I want to record my wounds, had earlier in the day soughtwith pity and thoughtfulness. Only then
experience in such a way as to suggest that shelter in our house. He was a Muslim shall we, as literary critics and historians,
be able to make, with novelists like Krishna
even during the dark years of the partition trader who had been chased into our locality
there were countless small attempts by by violent men seeking revenge for blood Sobti and Rahi Masoom Reza, Intizar
fallible people to abide by the covenants spilled in Pakistan. We were HindusHusain and and Mohan Rakesh, Qurratulain
of a civil society. he had stayed with us in safety for aHyder few and Saadat Hasan Manto, sharp
My earliest memory is of a remote hours. Towards noon, my father had distinctionsgone between acts which deserve
summer afternoon in Delhi in 1948. That out to see if the streets were safe. The man
our sympathetic understanding and those
day lies so far back in my biography thatwas obviously anxious to get back to his are reprehensible; consider words
which
I sometimes wonder if what I remember family. My father had looked aboutand thedeeds which we ought to cherish as
ever really happened; if I haven't madestreet carefully and had thought thata the part of our heritage and those we should
If you had killed me, you would have protests against them in Amritsar, Bombay, the narrator's offended pride, while the
regretted it more... But only if you had Lahore and Ahmedabad, General Dyer's ending of the second confirms his feeling
considered...if it had occurred to you that arrogance and his callous genocide,
that the times are utterly depraved. What
you had not killed Mumtaz...a Muslim...a Gandhian 'satyagraha' and its sad failure
he doesn' t realise is that in terms of political
friend, but a human being...If he was a to prevent enthusiastic mobs from doing
morality there is no difference between the
bastard, you wouldn't have killed a bas- rather 'heinous deeds' (Gandhi's melodramas of retaliatory violence or of
tard but murdered someone...If he was a base surrender; that both are without mean-
characterisation of mob violence on April
Muslim, you wouldn't have killed Islam 14th 1919, but without any knowledge ing,
ofwithout purpose and without end.
but a man...And if his corpse had fallenthe shootings at Jallianwalla Bagh the There are other kinds of fictional re-
into the hands of the Muslims, there wouldprevious day). (Collected Works of Ma-
presentations of the partition, written about
have been one more dead body in thehatma Gandhi, vol 15, Navajivan Trust, a decade later, in which the primary con-
graveyard, but one less human being inAhmedabad, 1965, p 221.) cer is not with bearing witness, but with
the world...(vol 2, p 221).
Manto creates such a complex temporal the fate of the survivors of those genocidal
While 'Sahay' is narrated by a Hindu structure in order to show that there is a days. They too recall with nostalgia earlier
in Bombay immediately after the parti- profound link between the mob violence days in small communities where they