Ten Million People Became After India Was Partitioned





EXCERPT


The Other Side of Silence


Voices From the Sectionalisation of Bharat



By URVASHI BUTALIA


Duke University Press


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The political sectionalization of Bharat caused one of the great human convulsions of history. Never before or since accept so many people exchanged their homes and countries so quickly. In the space of a few months, about twelve million people moved betwixt the new, truncated India and the 2 wings, East and Due west, of the newly created Pakistan. By far the largest proportion of these refugees—more than than ten million of them—crossed the western border which divided the celebrated country of Punjab, Muslims travelling west to Pakistan, Hindus and Sikhs east to India. Slaughter sometimes accompanied and sometimes prompted their movement; many others died from malnutrition and contagious diseases. Estimates of the dead vary from 200,000 (the contemporary British figure) to two million (a later on Indian estimate) but that somewhere around a one thousand thousand people died is now widely accepted. Equally e’er there was widespread sexual savagery: about 75,000 women are thought to have been abducted and raped by men of religions unlike from their ain (and indeed sometimes by men of their ain religion). Thousands of families were divided, homes destroyed, crops left to rot, villages abased. Astonishingly, and despite many warnings, the new governments of India and Islamic republic of pakistan were unprepared for the convulsion: they had non predictable that the fright and uncertainty created by the drawing of borders based on headcounts of religious identity—so many Hindus versus and so many Muslims—would force people to flee to what they considered `safer’ places, where they would be surrounded by their own kind. People travelled in buses, in cars, by railroad train, only more often than not on foot in bang-up columns chosen kafilas, which could stretch for dozens of miles. The longest of them, said to comprise nearly 400,000 people, refugees travelling east to Republic of india from western Punjab, took as many as eight days to pass any given spot on its route.

    This is the generality of Partition: it exists publicly in history books. The particular is harder to discover; it exists privately in the stories told and retold inside so many households in Republic of india and Pakistan. I grew upwards with them: like many Punjabis of my generation, I am from a family unit of Partition refugees. Memories of Partition, the horror and brutality of the time, the harkening dorsum to an—oft mythical—past where Hindus and Muslims and Sikhs lived together in relative peace and harmony, take formed the staple of stories I have lived with. My mother and begetter come from Lahore, a city loved and sentimentalized past its inhabitants, which lies just twenty miles inside the Pakistan border. My mother tells of the unsafe journeys she twice fabricated back in that location to bring her younger brothers and sister to Republic of india. My father remembers fleeing Lahore to the sound of guns and crackling fire. I would listen to these stories with my brothers and sister and hardly take them in. We were center-grade Indians who had grown up in a catamenia of relative at-home and prosperity, when tolerance and `secularism’ seemed to be winning the argument. These stories—of loot, arson, rape, murder—came out of a unlike time. They meant little to me.

    Then, in October 1984, Prime Government minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her security guards, both Sikhs. For days afterwards Sikhs all over India were attacked in an orgy of violence and revenge. Many homes were destroyed and thousands died. In the outlying suburbs of Delhi more than iii thousand were killed, often by being doused in kerosene and then set alight. They died horrible, macabre deaths. Black burn marks on the footing showed where their bodies had lain. The authorities—headed by Mrs Gandhi’s son Rajiv — remained indifferent, but several citizens’ groups came together to provide relief, food and shelter. I was among the hundreds of people who worked in these groups. Every day, while we were distributing nutrient and blankets, compiling lists of the dead and missing, and helping with bounty claims, we listened to the stories of the people who had suffered. Often older people, who had come to Delhi as refugees in 1947, would remember that they had been through a similar terror before. `We didn’t retrieve it could happen to us in our ain state,’ they would say. `This is like Partition once again.’

    Here, across the River Jamuna, but a few miles from where I lived, ordinary, peaceable people had driven their neighbours from their homes and murdered them for no readily credible reason than that they were of a different religious community. The stories of Partition no longer seemed quite so remote: people from the aforementioned country, the same town, the same village, could even so be divided by the politics of their religious departure, and, one time divided, could do terrible things to each other. Two years subsequently, working on a film about Segmentation for a British television receiver aqueduct, I began to collect stories from its survivors. Many of the tales were horrific and of a kind that I had found hard to believe when I was younger and heard them second or third hand: women jumping into wells to drown themselves so as to avert rape or forced religious conversion; fathers beheading their own children so they would avoid the same dishonourable fate. Now I was hearing them from witnesses whose bitterness, rage and hatred—which, in one case uncovered, could be frightening—told me they were speaking the truth.

    Their stories affected me deeply. Nothing as roughshod and bloody had happened in my ain family and so far every bit I knew, but I began to realize that Partition was not, even in my family unit, a airtight chapter of history—that its unproblematic, brutal political geography infused and divided united states still. The divisions were there in everyday life, equally were their contradictions: how many times have I heard my parents, my grandmother, speak with affection and longing of their Muslim friends in Lahore, and how many times with irrational prejudice about `those Muslims’; how many times had I heard my mother speak with a sense of betrayal of her brother who had married a Muslim. It took the events of 1984 to make me empathise how ever-present Sectionalization was in our lives, too, to recognize that it could not so hands exist put away within the covers of history books. I could no longer pretend that this was a history that belonged to another time, to someone else.

* * *

I began, like any other researcher, past looking at what had been written about Partition. And there was no dearth of fabric. Nonetheless, equally I read my way through information technology, I found myself becoming increasingly dissatisfied, sometimes even angry. If the books I was reading were to be believed, the Partition of Republic of india was something that happened in August 1947. A series of events preceded it: these included the growing divide between the Congress and the Muslim League, the debates between Jinnah and Gandhi. Nehru, Patel, and a host of other developments on the `political’ front. And a series of events accompanied and followed information technology: violence, mass migration, refugeeism, rehabilitation. Only the `history’ of Partition seemed to lie simply in the political developments that had led up to information technology. These other aspects—what had happened to the millions of people who had to live through this fourth dimension, what we might telephone call the `human dimensions’ of this history—somehow seemed to have a `lesser’ status in information technology. Peradventure this was because they had to do with hard things: loss and sharing, friendship and enmity, grief and joy, with a painful regret and nostalgia for loss of home, land and friends, and with an equally strong conclusion to create them afresh. These were difficult things to capture `factually’. Yet, could it really be that they had no place in the history of Partition? Why so did they live on then vividly in individual and collective memory?

    I looked at what the large political facts of this history seemed to be saying. If I was reading them correct, it would seem that Sectionalization was now over, done with, a thing of the past. Notwithstanding, all effectually the states at that place was a dissimilar reality: partitions everywhere, communal tension, religious fundamentalism, continuing divisions on the footing of religion. In Delhi, Sikhs became targets of communal attacks in 1984; in Bhagalpur in Bihar, hundreds of Muslims were killed in i of Bharat’s worst communal riots in 1989; a few years later on, the Babri Mosque was destroyed in Ayodhya past frenzied Hindu communalists (supported, openly and brazenly, by political parties such equally the Bhartiya Janata Party, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, the Vishwa Hindu Parishad and the Shiv Sena), and later, thousands of Muslims were again targeted in Surat, Ahmedabad and Bombay. In each of these instances, Partition stories and memories were used selectively by the aggressors: militant Hindus were mobilized using the ane-sided argument that Muslims had killed Hindus at Partitioning, they had raped Hindu women, and and so they must in turn be killed, and their women subjected to rape. And the patterns were at that place in private life too: a Muslim and a Hindu in contained Republic of india could not easily choose to marry each other without worrying about whether one or the other of them would survive the wrath of their families or communities; if such a union broke up, or for some reason ended upward in court, you could be sure that information technology would be accompanied past public announcements, for instance on the part of the judiciary, about those who had accepted the ii-nation theory and those who had not.

    All of this seemed to emphasize that Partition could not so easily be put away, that its deep, personal meanings, its profound sense of rupture, the differences it engendered or strengthened, notwithstanding lived on in so many people’s lives. I began to realize that Partition was surely more than just a political split, or a division of properties, of assets and liabilities. It was too, to utilise a phrase that survivors use repeatedly, a `segmentation of hearts’. It brought untold suffering, tragedy, trauma, pain and violence to communities who had hitherto lived together in some kind of social contract. It separated families across an arbitrarily fatigued border, sometimes overnight, and made information technology practically impossible for people to know if their parents, sisters, brothers or children were alive or dead. A female parent and daughter, separated in the violence of Partitioning, found each other fifty years later through the bureau of a news magazine when, in search of stories to marking 50 years of independence for India, a reporter and a photographer went looking for families divided at Sectionalisation. A brother and a sister were brought together after fifty years at the border by the same news mag. A father whose 13-yr-old daughter was abducted from Islamic republic of pakistan by Hindu men made several trips to Bharat to try to track her downward. On 1 of these, he was arrested on charges of existence a spy and jailed. His daughter was never returned to him.

* * *

These aspects of Partition—how families were divided, how friendships endured across borders, how people coped with the trauma, how they rebuilt their lives, what resources, both physical and mental, they drew upon, how their experience of dislocation and trauma shaped their lives, and indeed the cities and towns and villages they settled in—find little reflection in written history. Yet, increasingly later 1984, I began to experience that they were essential to our knowledge of Partition. What then, I asked myself, were the tools I had to have to begin this search, what were the `sources’ I could turn to? James Immature, writing on holocaust memories and testimonies, poses the question: how tin can we know the holocaust except through the many ways in which it is handed down to u.s.a.? He answers it by suggesting that every bit much as through its `history’, we know the holocaust through its literary, fictional, historical, political representations, and through its personal, testimonial representations, for it is not only the `facts’ of any consequence that are important, but as, how people call up those facts, and how they represent them. The question might well be extended to Partition, for how do we know this event except through the ways in which it has been handed downwards to usa: through fiction, memoirs, testimonies, through memories, individual and commonage, through the communalism it unleashed and, only as one of these aspects, through the histories information technology has produced. Mayhap more than any other event in modernistic Indian history Sectionalization lives on in family histories particularly in north Republic of india, where tales of the horror and brutality, the friendship and sharing, are told and retold between communities, families and individuals. A Punjabi refugee only has to meet another Punjabi refugee and immediately stories of `that time’, of dwelling house and country, are exchanged. Or, an Indian refugee just has to run into a Pakistani refugee for the same process to begin. This collection of memories, individual and collective, familial and historical, are what make upward the reality of Partitioning. They illuminate what one might phone call the `underside’ of its history. They are the means in which nosotros can know this event. In many senses, they
are
the history of the event. It is to these, then, that I decided to turn.

    The choice brought its own problems. Working with memory is never uncomplicated or unproblematic. I am securely aware of the problems that adhere to the method I have called. There has been considerable inquiry to show that memory is not e’er `pure’ or `unmediated’. And so much depends on who remembers, when, with whom, indeed to whom, and how. But to me, the way people cull to recall an consequence, a history, is at to the lowest degree as important as what one might call the `facts’ of that history, for after all, these latter are not self-evident givens; instead, they too are interpretations, every bit remembered or recorded by 1 individual or another. Allow me try to explain this with an case. One of the commonest responses I encountered when I began work was people’s (initial) reluctance to speak. What, they asked me, is the utilise of remembering, of excavating memories we accept put behind us? Every fourth dimension I was faced with this question, I came upward with a question of my own: why, I wondered, were people so reluctant to remember this fourth dimension? Surely this reluctance in itself pointed to something? Was it only to practise with the horrific nature of events—sanitized into numbers and statistics in the pages of history books—or was it to practice, at least in some instances, with people’s own complicity in this history? At that place had been, at Partitioning, no `good’ people and no `bad’ ones; virtually every family had a history of being both victims and aggressors in the violence. And if this was and so, surely that told us something about why people did non wish to remember it, publicly, except perhaps within their families where the `ugly’ parts of this history could be suppressed?

    How then, we might ask, extending James Young’s conception, can we know Partition except in the ways in which it has been handed down to us: not only in the texts and memories it has produced only even through people’due south reluctance to remember information technology. In this kind of knowing then, what we know as `facts’ are non self-evident givens. So much of the existing history of Sectionalization is made upwards of debates nigh these `facts’—debates that balance i person’s estimation confronting some other—that I practice not program to repeat these or indeed to go into them hither. Thus, although Partition is the subject of this book, the reader will not find here a chronology of events leading upwards to Segmentation, or indeed the many `political’ negotiations that followed information technology. Nor will he or she observe much almost the major players of this history: Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, Jinnah, Liaquat Ali Khan, Mountbatten. Their absenteeism from my work is deliberate. Instead, I focus on the stories of the smaller, often invisible, players: ordinary people, women, children, scheduled castes. I do this principally through interviews and oral narratives.

    As I say this I know that I am inbound a problematic terrain. Oral history is a deeply contested area in historical soapbox. I have no wish to pose people’southward narratives, or even a notion of `raw feel’, against something that we might call history, for both are not simple concepts. I am not a historian. History is non my field of study. I have come to this work through a political—and personal—engagement with history, gimmicky communalism, and a deep and abiding belief in feminism. All of these accept led me to the realization that information technology is extremely important to be able to listen, to attempt to empathize how and why religious difference, for example, has come to larn the kind of resilience that it has. Why is information technology that and then many second- and third-generation Hindus and Sikhs after Division take come to internalize notions of `us’ and `them’ when they have no reference to Partition—except through family unit and community memories? What is it near the selectivity of memory that, in this instance, feelings of fear and hatred seem to have been nurtured, to accept a greater resilience, while feelings of friendship and sharing are not allowed to surface? I am aware of the many pitfalls that are bellboy on the method I have chosen: at that place is no way of knowing, for case, if the stories people choose to tell are `truthful’ or not, nor of knowing what they choose to suppress. How tin can we know that, four or five decades after the event, the stories are not only apposite performances; or that they are told differently for different people, perhaps tailored to conform what the person thinks the interviewer wishes to hear? How do we reach beyond the stories into the silences they hibernate; how can nosotros assume that speech communication, the breaking of silence, is in itself a good thing? There are a hundred such questions. Simply I am not making a claim for oral history as against what nosotros understand as the disciplinary narratives of history; rather, I would like to ask if in that location is a style in which people’s stories, notwithstanding all their bug, can somehow expand, stretch the definitions and boundaries of history and find a place in it. Is at that place some fashion in which history tin make space for the small, the individual, vox?

    Whatever its limitations, the oral narrative offers a unlike mode of looking at history, a different perspective. Because such narratives oftentimes flow into each other in terms of temporal time, they blur the somewhat rigid timeframes within which history situates itself. Because people locate their memories past dissimilar dates, or different timeframes, than the events that mark the starting time and end of histories, their narratives flow higher up, below, through the disciplinary narratives of history. They offer us a mode of turning the historical lens at a somewhat different angle, and to look at what this perspective offers. I exercise not desire to contend hither that oral narratives can replace what we see equally history, only that they tin offer a different and extremely important perspective on history, a perspective which, I believe, enriches history.

    I have come up to believe that there is no way nosotros can begin to sympathise what Sectionalisation was nigh, unless we look at how people recollect it. I do not wish here to behave out a literal do of first seeing how people remember the history of Partition, so attempting to penetrate their narrative for its underlying `facts’ to go far at an approximation of some kind of `truth’. Instead, I wish to await at the memories for themselves—even if they are shifting, changing, unreliable. James Young says: `Any “fictions” emerge from the survivors’ accounts are non deviations from the “truth” but
are part of the truth in any particular version
(my italics). The fictiveness in testimony does non involve disputes about facts, but the inevitable variance in perceiving and representing these facts, witness past witness, language by language, culture by culture.’ I tin find no more eloquent description of what I hope to practise in this book.

* * *

Collecting material is sometimes the easiest office of putting a volume together. The hard decisions come when ane wants to endeavor to figure out what to include and what to leave out. Over the many long years that I have been working on this subject, I take interviewed perhaps seventy or so people. While this number sounds quite substantial to me, information technology is negligible in terms of the number of people who were affected by Partition, an indication of the fact that no single individual tin tackle this project in its entirety. While one part of this book is made up of my telling of Partition stories, in the other parts people I have interviewed tell their own stories. Merely of the number I spoke with, I have included only a fraction. This is non because the others are not worth reproducing. Indeed, each story is rich in insights and unique in what information technology offers. Merely clearly I could not have included them all, so in the end I have chosen to use rather arbitrary criteria in my selection. I have included the stories that meant the most to me, stories of people with whom I have formed real friendships, or stories to which I keep returning once more and again.

    In presenting the interviews to the reader, I have taken the liberty of narrativizing them—that is, I have removed the questions posed by the interviewers, and have let the text run as one continuous narrative, although no chronological alterations have been made. And in a few cases I have retained the interventions fabricated past other people, especially in instances where they add to, or illuminate, certain aspects of the text. This shaping of the interviews to plough them into more `readable’ texts has been done quite consciously. I exercise not believe that the transcript of any interview tin ever be an unmediated text. In transferring words to text, so much is lost: the particular inflection; the hesitation over certain thoughts and phrases, even certain feelings; the body language, which ofttimes tells a dissimilar story from the words; and indeed the conscious `shaping’ of the interview by the interviewer who is commonly in a situation of power vis-à-vis the person being interviewed. Given this, I idea it pointless to pretend that the interviews could announced earlier the reader in some `pure’ form, and I have edited them into what I experience is a more readable form. The total text of each interview, and indeed of the ones I have not used here, will, I promise, be housed in a library or archive so that they can exist used past others researching this expanse.

    The fact that most of the interviews took identify in family unit situations besides meant that women were seldom lonely when they spoke to us. Much of the time the interview had to be conducted in the nooks and crannies of fourth dimension that were bachelor to women between household tasks. Equally, if their husbands or sons were around, they tended to accept over the interview, inadvertently or otherwise, making the women lapse into a sort of silence. This is not uncommon—many oral historians take written about the difficulty of speaking to and with women, of learning to listen differently, oftentimes of listening to the subconscious dash, the one-half-said thing, the silences which are sometimes more eloquent than speech. Listening to women is, I think, a different thing between women than it is between men and women.

    When I reread the interviews now, information technology strikes me that at that place are some very clear differences between the spoken language of men and of women. Is there such a thing, so, as a gendered telling of Segmentation? I learnt to recognize this in the way women located, almost immediately, this major event in the pocket-size keys of their lives. From the women I learned nigh the minutiae of their lives, while for the most role men spoke of the relations betwixt communities, the wide political realities. Seldom was in that location an occasion when a man being interviewed would speak of a kid lost or killed, while for a woman at that place was no way in which she could omit such a reference. This is a question I discuss further in the determination to this volume.

    The process of identifying people to speak to was an almost random one. I first began to consciously speak to people when I was working on a film called
A Division of Hearts
made by two friends for Channel 4 Idiot box in Britain. Merely one time I had begun, nigh everywhere I turned at that place was a story to exist listened to. In Delhi particularly, you can be sure that almost every other Punjabi person over a certain age has a history of Partition somewhere in his or her family. I would often find myself stopping on roads to talk to people I idea looked the correct age. Once, subsequently talking to a family in Jangpura in Delhi, I came out to observe an autorickshaw to take me domicile. The driver was dressed in the salvar-kurta that is typical of Pakistani Punjabis. I asked him where he was from. He responded with a question—one that is common when asking n Indians where they are from. Are yous asking about now or before, he said. The word `earlier’ is just an approximate translation of the word that he actually used: `pichche se’, which refers to something that comes from an before time and has been left behind. I told him I was interested in where he was from `earlier’, not now. He said he was from Baluchistan, and had stayed on there for about ten years after Division, in a small village where a customs of Hindus lived peaceably, without whatever problems. Soon, we were in his house talking virtually his recollections of the time. 1 solar day, as I walked out of a take-away restaurant in south Delhi, clutching a roti and kebab, I was accosted by a beggar woman asking for money. She spoke in Punjabi, an unusual thing, for there are very few Punjabi beggars in the city. I asked her where she was from. She responded with the same question: now or earlier. I gave her the same answer and she told me she had come up from a small hamlet called Chak 53, that she had walked over with the large kafila of refugees and had concluded up, by a circuitous route, on the streets of Delhi, begging. In this mode, I moved from 1 person to another, 1 story to another, and nerveless stories, most randomly. This is one reason why at that place is no articulate pattern to the oral narratives in this book.

    Some patterns volition, even so, exist discernible to the reader. For example, many of the interviews I accept used come from the aforementioned region—Rawalpindi commune—and chronicle to incidents of violence that took place at that place in March 1947, just a few months before Partition. Frequently, in an attempt to recreate the communities that Sectionalization destroyed, people moved en masse to one place, or were housed by the State in a particular identify. When I began to track downward Partition survivors, I was led, start of all, to survivors of the Rawalpindi violence who lived in a middle-course expanse in south Delhi. 1 person put me in touch with another, and and so another and in this way I nerveless many stories. It is for this reason that the accounts of Rawalpindi survivors class a major office of my piece of work.

    Apart from all the methodological problems that attach to oral narratives, they are besides very difficult to bargain with in practical, structural terms. How do you structure a book that is primarily made upwardly of such accounts? Should information technology comprise only the texts of the interviews, should there be an accompanying commentary, should in that location be analysis and/or explanation, should the interviews be long or brusque, then on. I have grappled with all of these questions. In the beginning, I thought it improve to simply put together a book of oral accounts, without whatever explanation or commentary. Gradually, I came to believe otherwise: every bit a reader, and a publisher, I know that very few readers actually get through a collection of oral accounts unless they are very short, and I thought the things that people said in the interviews were too important to be either summarily cut short or merely put together without any comment. Also, if I was shaping the interviews, I felt I needed to point to what, for me, was significant in those interviews. As I got more than involved in the work, I found there was a cracking deal I wanted to say, in add-on to what the people I spoke to had said. There were their stories, as they told them, and there was what I learnt and understood from those stories. I and so began to think of a way of meshing the two together. The construction that yous come across in the book now, with excerpts from interviews forming a major role of the belittling chapters, was what emerged from this. Nonetheless, at that place remained the problem of where and how to locate the total text of the interviews. I felt information technology important that, at to the lowest degree for the small number that I had selected, at that place exist a place that was an integral part of the volume. After much thought, I decided to identify all interviews together in a separate section at the cease of the book. Merely having once washed that, the same problem re-presented itself: would people actually read them, or would they meet them as simply adjuncts to the other capacity? Information technology seemed likely that that was what would happen, and to me the interviews were far too important to be put bated every bit an appendix. Finally, I decided to move the interviews into the primary text, and to supplement what I take said in each chapter with one or two interviews. Inasmuch every bit it was possible, I tried to relate the interview(s) to the affiliate in which they take been included, but this was not possible each time. It is difficult, indeed information technology is too pat, to have at the finish of each chapter an interview that perfectly fits the subject area affair of that particular chapter. Had I had a listing of capacity in mind before starting this work, I might have been able to consciously look for interviews that could directly chronicle to specific subjects. As information technology was, my interviews did not fit any item pattern. Nonetheless, I have chosen to place them alongside each chapter because I believe they offering insights into all, and more, of the things I take discussed in this book, and are not but express to the chapters they figure in. Sometimes, then, the interview begins the chapter, at others it ends it, and in ane instance information technology provides the thread that weaves the chapter together. I recall the reader may find it helpful to keep this in mind while reading the interviews.

    While interviews form my primary sources, I have likewise looked at diaries, memoirs, newspaper reports and the kinds of documents that I feel are important for my piece of work: letters written by different people, reports of enquiry commissions, pamphlets and, of course, books. From these I accept reconstructed many different `voices’ of Segmentation: official, unofficial, informal, others. These include the voices of people telling stories, the voices through which they speak in memoirs, diaries, autobiographies, those that emerge from the official narratives, those that are evident in communal discourses, and, woven through all this, my own vox, reading, speaking, questing, hazarding explanations.

    Together, these take made for a narrative in which my presence, as author and interpreter, is quite visible, some would say nearly as well visible. I make no apologies for this. I can but say that I take e’er had a deep suspicion of histories that are written as if the author were but a mere vehicle, histories that, to apply Roland Barthes’ phrase, `seem to write themselves’. The absenteeism of the `I’ in such histories helps perchance to constitute altitude, fifty-fifty to create the illusion of objectivity, perhaps to establish factuality. I have no wish to pretend that these histories, these stories, are in whatever way an `objective’ rendering of Sectionalisation. I exercise not believe such a affair is possible. For the many years that this work has been with me, I have felt involved in it, intensely and emotionally, politically and academically. To pretend then, that this is a history that has `written itself’, so to speak, would have been quack.

    In the procedure of working on Partition I accept become, like every other researcher or writer who gets involved, obsessive about this work. For years, I accept thought of little else. One of the things that troubled me enormously when I began was precisely the lack of what is known as objectivity in my work. At that place was no way I could deny a personal involvement; no way I could pretend that there wasn’t an emotional entanglement; no way I could wipe out my politics. Information technology has taken me several years to feel comfortable with this fact. If this account is read every bit history, information technology may well exist thrown out the door. Perchance so, the best way to read it is to add the word `personal’ to the history that I am attempting in this book. And to throw out, in one case and for all, any notions of objectivity or distance. This is a personal history that does not pretend to be objective.

(Continues…)


(C) 2000 DUKE UNIVERSITY PRESS All rights reserved. ISBN: 0-8223-2494-6

Ten Million People Became After India Was Partitioned

Source: https://www.nytimes.com/books/first/b/butalia-silence.html?simple=True

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