Literary Latitude

The discussion begins with an overview of the complex social and cultural fabric of the Punjab region, emphasizing its significance in understanding partition literature. Punjab historically witnessed the coexistence of different communities, mainly Hindus and Muslims, making it challenging to distinguish religious identities solely based on names. Names like Iqbal Singh, Harnam Choudhary, and others demonstrate the blurred boundaries of identity in this region.

The region’s complexity stems partly from historical interactions between invading Muslim groups and the local Hindu population. When Muslim invaders came to India from regions like Afghanistan, Iran, and Turkey, they often arrived without their families, particularly their wives. These male invaders entered India, including areas that now constitute modern-day Pakistan, through wars and conquests. Some of them returned to their countries after looting, but many stayed and settled permanently in India.

Those who remained often integrated into local communities through marriage. Upon defeating local Hindu kings, they frequently married or abducted women from the defeated regions. At that time, Sikhism had not yet emerged as a major religion, while Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism were prevalent. Buddhism was particularly influential, although it later faced suppression by certain Hindu rulers, such as Vaishnavites and Shaivites, from the 2nd to the 10th century AD. Many Buddhist monks were reportedly persecuted during this period.

The intermarriage between Muslim men and Hindu women created a hybrid cultural environment. The children from these unions often had a blended religious and cultural heritage. This historical mingling of communities in Punjab shaped its unique socio-religious dynamics, contributing to its significance in the context of partition literature.

In the patriarchal society of the time, most men were given Muslim names, reflecting the dominant male lineage. As Muslim invaders settled and assimilated into Indian society, they integrated with local communities, leading to a blending of cultures. Over time, this became a common feature, with the invaders gradually merging into Indian cultural practices. However, during periods of rigid Muslim rule, religious taxes were imposed on non-Muslims, creating pressure on Hindus to convert to Islam. Those who could afford the taxes remained Hindu, while many others converted to avoid the financial burden.

Intermarriage between Muslim men and Hindu women further strengthened the bonds between the two communities. Hindu women who married Muslim men often retained some Hindu practices, resulting in households where cultural influences from both religions coexisted. This coexistence wasn’t a short-term phenomenon; it spanned 700 to 800 years, leading to the development of a distinct, mixed culture in the region.

Sufism, an important religious and philosophical movement, emerged as a blend of Hindu and Islamic beliefs, selecting positive elements from both traditions. Sikhism also developed within this environment, diverging from Sufism while retaining significant influences from both Hinduism and Islam. Though Sikhism shares similarities with Hinduism, it also incorporates Islamic elements, highlighting the region’s layered religious and cultural history.

Names further illustrate this blending. Muslim first names were often paired with Hindu surnames, as family lineages were passed down through fathers with Muslim surnames. This naming tradition continued for generations, explaining why names such as “Chaudhary” or “Singh” can still be found among Muslims, especially in Pakistan.

This interwoven culture created a society that was difficult to classify based on names alone. Despite this cultural mixing, distinctions between Hindu and Muslim women remained, often through subtle cultural markers. However, during the partition of India, these markers became blurred, contributing to confusion and uncertainty in identifying individuals based on their religious affiliations.

During the partition, women navigated the complex socio-religious landscape by altering their clothing to adapt to different areas and avoid potential violence. Women moving through Muslim-majority areas wore burqas, while they reverted to traditional Hindu attire when entering Hindu-majority areas. This adaptive strategy helped some women avoid violence, although it was not a widespread solution. An example of this can be seen in the film Pinjar, an adaptation of Amrita Pritam’s novel.

In Pinjar, Puro, the protagonist, searches for her sister-in-law, who had been abducted by a Muslim man. Despite the abduction, the sister-in-law was not forced to convert fully or abandon her identity. Her captor only tattooed the name “Hamida” on her hand, symbolizing her new identity, but otherwise allowed her to maintain her Hindu customs. As Puro searches house-to-house, she wears a burqa to conceal her identity and avoid suspicion. However, when confronted, her tattooed hand reveals her “Muslim” name, Hamida, protecting her from further suspicion.

This example highlights how identities during the partition were both complex and often deliberately constructed as a means of protection. The burqa and other markers became symbols of safety but were also problematic for women. The purdah system (veiling and seclusion) imposed restrictions on women, limiting their freedom and movement in public spaces. For Muslim women, wearing a burqa was a cultural expectation, making them easily distinguishable from Hindu women, who wore simpler, traditional clothing without veils.

Another way identities were discerned was through specific physical and cultural markers. Muslim women were often identified by their burqas, while Hindu women did not wear them. Hindu men, particularly those following Sikh traditions, were identifiable by their unshorn hair and long beards, as they did not cut their hair or shave as part of their religious practice. These visible markers were crucial in differentiating individuals during the chaos and violence of the partition, though they often put people at risk of being targeted based on their perceived religious identity.

In Sikhism, maintaining unshorn hair is considered a religious mandate, making cutting hair a serious violation of their beliefs. Sikh men are often identified by their long beards, hair tied in locks, and turbans. These markers are culturally significant, serving as visible symbols of religious identity. However, during times of violence, such as the partition, some individuals found flexibility in their religious practices. Some Sikhs, for example, chose to shave their beards and cut their hair, allowing them to switch or conceal their religious identity for safety.

Muslim men, on the other hand, were typically identifiable by their beards without mustaches, which was another cultural marker. However, clean-shaven Muslims could blur these visual distinctions, complicating identification. During the partition, this ambiguity in appearance sometimes escalated into extreme measures. If there was uncertainty about a man’s religion, people would demand to see if he was circumcised, as circumcision was a common practice among Muslim men but not among Hindus or Sikhs. This invasive and humiliating practice became a tragic reality during the violence of partition.

This aspect of identity verification is depicted in partition literature and films. In Train to Pakistan and Earth: 1947, such scenes of forced verification reflect the brutal and dehumanizing methods used during that period. For example, in Earth: 1947, an old Hindu servant named Singh, working in a Muslim-dominated area, converts to Islam in an attempt to survive the communal violence. Despite his conversion and ability to recite the Kalma (a declaration of Islamic faith), he is met with suspicion. To confirm his religious identity, people force him to undergo the ultimate test—checking for circumcision by opening his clothes. The exact details of how this scene unfolds are not depicted in the film or novel, leaving some ambiguity about the outcome.

This harrowing depiction underscores how partition violence went beyond surface-level identification, leading to deeply invasive and traumatic experiences. The blurred and “grey” identities made it difficult for individuals to navigate the violence, especially when external markers like names, clothing, or appearances were not enough to guarantee safety.

The mass violence during the partition was fueled by deeply entrenched cultural and religious identities, making it difficult for many to escape persecution. Men had a slightly better chance of evasion as they often carried weapons like swords or guns, allowing them either to defend themselves or take their own lives when faced with inevitable death. When caught alone or separated, individuals were subjected to verification processes to confirm their religious identity, a practice that was pervasive and brutal. Those who did not strictly adhere to visible religious markers were especially vulnerable.

For women, escaping violence was far more challenging. Hindu and Muslim women were easily distinguishable due to their clothing and cultural practices. Muslim women typically covered their faces completely with only their eyes visible to navigate their surroundings, whereas Hindu women varied in their practice. Married Hindu women sometimes covered their faces, but unmarried women were generally not expected to do so. This difference made Hindu women easily recognizable in public spaces.

Skin tone was another factor used in distinguishing between Hindu and Muslim women, with Muslim women often perceived as having relatively fairer skin compared to Hindu women. This perceived difference was based on racial and ethnic distinctions. The facial structure of Muslim women in regions like Punjab was also often distinct, owing to historical and genetic factors. Muslims in Punjab were often associated with Caucasoid racial traits, having origins connected to regions near the Caucasus Mountains, Iraq, and Iran. In contrast, Hindus in India were seen as having a more mixed genetic background due to a greater degree of racial blending over centuries.

In Punjab, these differences in appearance were relatively pronounced, making it easier for people to distinguish between communities. Similar to how individuals from India’s northeastern regions have distinct features that set them apart, the facial structures of Muslims in Punjab were used as another visible marker of identity. These racial and cultural distinctions played a significant role during the partition, often determining who was targeted during the violence.

Hindu and Muslim women during the partition could be identified by distinct cultural markers. Hindu women traditionally wore specific jewelry and vermilion (sindoor) on their foreheads if they were married. This practice was deeply embedded in Hindu customs, making it nearly unavoidable for married women, whether inside or outside their homes. In contrast, Muslim women of that time did not wear vermilion, though in modern times it has become a fashion trend among some. During the partition, unless women deliberately rebelled or disguised themselves, these markers made identification relatively easy.

However, these visible markers became a framework within which women were victimized during the violence of the partition. While much discussion focuses on the suffering of women, children often remain the most overlooked victims of that period. During violent upheavals, adults could sometimes sense danger and take measures to escape or hide. But children, lacking exposure to societal cues and with limited understanding of the unfolding events, became easy targets.

Children’s experiences during the partition are underrepresented in historical narratives, as they were often too young to fully comprehend or remember the violence they witnessed. Writers such as Urvashi Butalia, Kamla Bhasin, and Ritu Menon have collected testimonies from partition survivors, some of whom were children at the time of the violence. However, when these individuals were asked to recall their experiences decades later, they often struggled. Memories from childhood are fragile, and recalling traumatic events 40 or more years later is both difficult and emotionally taxing.

Many survivors experienced trauma that lingered even when specific details of the events faded from memory. Revisiting those painful memories is challenging, as the process of remembering can distort or fragment over time. Survivors may unintentionally exaggerate or omit details, making their stories seem fictional. However, these narratives remain valuable because they are rooted in personal experiences of violence and displacement. While the passage of time alters how memories are reconstructed, the emotional truth of these stories remains a significant part of understanding partition history.

After the partition, many survivors refused to share their traumatic stories. The pain of revisiting the past was overwhelming, and for some, denial became a way of coping. When violence subsided in 1947-48, the governments of India and Pakistan initiated rehabilitation programs aimed at reuniting displaced families. These programs allowed people to search for their missing family members—children, wives, daughters, or sons—on both sides of the newly created border. However, this program created a new set of challenges, particularly for women.

Rehabilitation often meant double displacement for women, especially those who had been abducted. Many abducted women became pregnant within a few months of living with their captors, and by the time the rehabilitation programs gained momentum (some continuing into the late 1950s or even 1960), many of these women had established families with their abductors and were raising children. This created a heart-wrenching dilemma: their original families, who had crossed the border, wanted them to return. However, the women had grown attached to their children, even if they did not love the men who had abducted them.

When women returned to their families, their children—often viewed as illegitimate or fathered by the “enemy”—were not accepted. Their husbands, too, were not recognized or welcomed. This forced many women into another displacement, where they were uprooted once again from the fragile sense of stability they had tried to rebuild. For them, moving back to their families meant not only losing their children but also being stigmatized as “impure” or “polluted” because of the violence and assault they had endured.

Many women were coerced into returning, but the emotional toll was immense. Rehabilitation did not offer them liberation but instead reinforced their oppression. For men, the process of rehabilitation, although emotionally painful, was comparatively easier. They had greater freedom to cross borders and rebuild their lives without facing the same level of social stigma. Many men moved between India and Pakistan and were able to restart their lives, but for women, the experience was marked by shame and rejection.

The scale of violence against women during the partition was unimaginable. Sexual violence was pervasive, sparing no one—whether married, unmarried, young, or old. Women who survived sexual assault often felt too ashamed to return to their families, fearing they would be branded as “characterless” or “polluted.” Even their own parents might not accept them, further isolating these women. For many, the trauma of partition was not only in what they endured during the violence but also in the societal rejection and lifelong stigma they faced afterward. This added layer of suffering made partition an enduring tragedy for women, whose stories often remain untold or overshadowed by the broader narrative of political and territorial conflict.

Women who were abducted during the partition and later returned to their families faced severe social stigma, making reintegration extremely difficult. Even when their parents accepted them back, society often did not. Rumors and gossip about their abduction spread quickly, branding them as “tainted” or “impure,” which severely limited their chances of marriage. This created a complex moral and ethical dilemma for these women, as the rigid social structure prevented their full restoration into society.

This societal rejection led to the creation of a hierarchy among women. Those who remained “safe” during the violence were considered “better” women, while those who were abducted and violated were seen as “lesser” or dishonored, despite being victims with no control over their circumstances. Children who lost their parents or were separated from their families were similarly left to fend for themselves, often surviving wherever they could find food or shelter. Many lost their entire families—fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters—leading to lifelong displacement and trauma.

Indian films after independence frequently reflected this theme of separation and loss, using it as a recurring motif. Films like Amar Akbar Anthony and Karan Arjun depicted stories of children separated from their families at a young age due to unforeseen circumstances, often mirroring the chaos of partition. In these films, the separated siblings are typically raised in different religious households—one by a Muslim family, another by a Hindu family. The plot often relies on symbolic markers, such as a locket, chain, or birthmark, to reconnect them years later.

However, these cinematic portrayals were largely idealistic and fictional. In reality, most families that were separated during the partition never reunited. Children who were lost or displaced were often lost forever, and the idea of reconciliation through chance encounters was rare and limited to a fortunate few. The pain and trauma of partition were long-lasting, with separation and displacement leaving permanent scars on the lives of many survivors.

During the partition, the desperation and suffering of women reached unimaginable extremes. Many women, particularly in Sikh and Hindu communities, chose death over the fear of being abducted, violated, or dishonored. One tragic example of this is depicted in novels and films, where women gathered in gurdwaras as refugees while men fought against attackers. However, due to a lack of sufficient arms and ammunition compared to the Muslim attackers, their defenses often failed.

In such situations, when the gurdwara and community couldn’t meet demands for ransom payments or resources, the violence escalated. Women, to avoid being captured and violated, resorted to mass suicides. In a particular example described, women jumped into a well to escape their fate. The well became so crowded with bodies that those who jumped later found themselves unable to drown and had to jump repeatedly in desperation. This horrifying scene reflected the extreme fear, insecurity, and lack of options available to women during partition violence.

Such events were not just fictional accounts in novels like Train to Pakistan or films—they had real-life parallels. During rehabilitation efforts, many wells were explored, and dead bodies of women who had attempted mass suicide were frequently discovered. Women tried various methods of suicide, including ingesting poison, stabbing themselves, or jumping from terraces, as a means of escaping violence. Male members of families sometimes took on the tragic role of killing their female relatives to “protect their honor” from being violated by attackers.

Suicide, though illegal now, was seen at that time as a last resort for many women who were left with no alternatives. The trauma of this violence reflects not only the horrors of the partition but also the societal pressures surrounding women’s honor and the patriarchal expectations that governed their fates.

The discussion also touches on the role of masculinity during times of war, noting that hyper-masculinity is often a driving force behind violence, especially sexual violence. This topic will be explored further in the next session. Additionally, students are encouraged to watch films like Pinjar and Train to Pakistan or read the novels on which they are based. These stories depict both fictional and real-life tragedies, offering insights into how partition violence shaped individuals and communities.

One notable mention is the village of Mano Majra, portrayed in Train to Pakistan, which is depicted as a rare village where Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs lived together peacefully during partition without any violence or killings. Although historians and storytellers emphasize this exception, it remains a contested narrative. The village stands as a symbol of what could have been amidst widespread violence, but its exceptional nature also highlights how rare peace was during that period.