Translator's Note: The 1947 partition affected individuals in various ways — splitting families, losing loved ones, being uprooted from familiar environments, and facing the challenges of navigating an unknown and often unsafe world. The present essay portrays the sufferings of Ishwari Jotwani related to the partition of the India. It seems appropriate that I should introduce her – Ishwari Jotwani was born on 11 November 1930, in Sehwan. She received her college education in Hyderabad, Sindh. In her teens, she became a freedom fighter and was imprisoned during the 1942 Quit India Movement in Sindh. At the time of the partition, she moved to India and lived and worked in various cities. She earned her Master’s degree in the Sindhi language. Eventually, she settled in Pune, India, and taught at St Mira College. She authored a number of books, some of which include: Muhabat Jo Tyag (Renunciation of Love, novel, 1951); Ulfat Ji Aag (Fire of Love, novel, 1953); Kamil Joo Kahaniyoon (Stories of Wise Men, short stories, 1993); Chhatrapati Shivaji (Life of Shivaji, stories, 1996); and Umangun Ja Abshar (Waterfall of Emotions, essays and travelogue, 1993). She died on 6 February 2013, in Pune, India.
This is a translation of her memoir-essay, originally authored in Sindhi and published in the journal Virso (Volume VII), titled “Werhagi Jo Dard” (Pain of the Partition). The journal was edited by Rita Shahani, Pune, India.
***
Roughly half a century has passed since we gained independence. Fifty years ago, I lived in Hyderabad, a well-known city in Sindh. My father was a garrison engineer at the Military Engineering Services (MES) and posted in Agra. My brother and some siblings were also with him, while I remained at home with my aunt, a widow. I was deeply passionate about my education, and all of my siblings were younger than me. My aunt was a devoted disciple of a Guru named Swami Vishonath, an expert in Jyotish Vidya (Vedic astrology), which originates from the Vedas. He lived in Karachi, and my aunt occasionally visited him, sometimes taking me along.
Swami Vishonath was a wise man, exceptionally skilled in Jyotish Vidya. We always asked many questions from him. But, he took great care of me. One day, noticing my gloom, he said, “Don’t worry, all will be well.” I didn’t take his comment seriously; instead, I abruptly asked him, “Maharaj, take my lagan.” (Lagan, in Vedic Astrology is the initial moment of contact between the soul and its new life on earth, revealing the person’s future.) I thought to myself, “Would I be successful in the intermediate examinations?” I kept question secret in my heart. I longed to know about my exam qualifications, as the environment at home was not conducive to focused study. I struggled to concentrate. After approximately half an hour of calculation, he told me I would pass in the second class in the intermediate arts examination. Overcome with joy, I leaped from my place and touched his feet in reverence, and opened my palm before him. He held it carefully and read the lines on my hand, revealing that my future education wouldn’t be here. He saw lines indicating travel to another land. I was surprised; the issue of the partition of India hadn’t even crossed my mind at that time! I adored my college, particularly my professors. I still recall when Professor Kalyan Advani taught us Shah Abdul Latif’s Sur Suhni, and I was swept away into untapped land — a mix of nostalgia, ruefulness, and wistfulness — that feeling rushed through me!
How could I forget Professor Bharwani’s lectures? He taught Paradise Lost, and I often felt transported to multiple journeys in immortal worlds! Professor K. Wasvani and the enthusiastic Professor Kewal Malkani taught us history, enlightening us about the epic stories of public life and politics, while the thoughtful and smiling Professor Hiro Bhuttani taught us logic. He was incomparable, possessing the unique ability to simplify complex expressions of logic. In his class, we never felt the need to open the textbook.
In India, I attended two or three colleges, but I never encountered professors of such calibre! I always longed to study the Risalo of Shah Abdul Latif under Kalyan Advani, but the Partition thwarted my desire.
My college was fantastic, situated on the bank of the Phuleli Canal, surrounded by lush greenery. During free periods, we girls and boys rushed to Phuleli Garden, where swings were installed. As we arrived, we hurriedly occupied the swings, embracing the blissful, temperate air of Hyderabad. Suddenly, our ears caught a melodic, rhythmic song, and we discovered a fisherman singing a Vai of Shah Abdul Latif while rowing his boat over the calm waters of Phuleli, with the dim sunlight casting a brown hue across the sky. Those were mesmerizing scenes and lovely days — alas! All gone! The Partition erased everything.
I always longed to study the Risalo of Shah Abdul Latif under Kalyan Advani, but the Partition thwarted my desire
One day, while swinging in the same garden, my friend held a book in his hand, gazing over the tranquil waters of Phuleli. Unbeknownst to me, the rope snapped, and I, along with the swing’s seat, fell to the ground. In an instant, he came like a whirlwind, helping me up, asking, “Are you hurt?” I replied with a single word: “No, but I realized I was looking at him.” Ah, he was a handsome boy from our college. Meanwhile, my friend arrived, thanked to him and said: “If you hadn’t been here, my friend might have been in trouble!” Little did she know about my throbbing heart!
Afterwards, in the free periods, I followed him, sought out his presence, and it became a routine, even though we were not fully aware of each other. But is spoken words the only medium to share the state of the heart? Soon, the partition of India became the talk of the town. Most people were worried about their properties; parents were concerned about their young daughters, but I was anxious about him, always wondering where his family intended to migrate – his name was Hiro. The last time we met in the canteen, he spoke in a somber tone, revealing that his family’s trade was in diamonds and that they might migrate to Bombay (now Mumbai). Instantly, he took a deep sigh, with wet eyes, and asked, “When will we meet again?”
My journey began from Mumbai, passing through Baroda, Ranchi, and finally landing in Pune. I completed my Bachelor’s and Master’s in Arts from Wadia College and started teaching there. In 1955, Miran Schools were opened in Pune, and Satsangs began. Soon, Sindhis from other cities started attending these gatherings, which became entry points and overpasses for friends and relatives.
Once, a friend showed me a ring set with a diamond and playfully asked what I thought about it, wondering if I liked it. She added that she knew I was not fond of pearls and diamonds but encouraged me to appreciate the craftsmanship of the diamond setter. My heart fluttered at her words, and I responded that she should get me one like it, with the same cut and style.
Approximately three weeks later, my friend returned with a beautiful box and handed it to me, saying that it was my ring but that I should at least tell her how I knew Hiro. Puzzled, I replied that I didn’t know any diamond trader or jeweler. She explained that a diamond trader/ Jeweler asked her for whom she ordered the ring. When she mentioned my name, he flatly refused to accept payment, stating that if I were the same Jotwani who studied with him at Hyderabad, it was impossible to ask for a price. She added that he intended to present the ring to me personally. I giggled and asked my friend who this lover was who hadn’t even seen me.
“His name is Hiro. He has gone to Hong Kong and will visit Pune when he is back,” she mischievously replied. A swift current of joy surged through my heart at the thought — he might be the same Hiro from my college days. I counted the days until his return.
But then, one day before his visit to Pune, my friend revealed that he had suffered a heart attack and died suddenly.
I cried and moaned, lamenting that we had never even had a chance to meet.
My friend looked at me in confusion.
Without a doubt, the Partition brought deep pain.