Midnight’s Descendants: South Asia from Partition to the Present Day

William Collins

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

WilliamCollinsBooks.com

First published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2014

Copyright © John Keay 2014

John Keay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Cover photograph © Naringer NANU/AFP/Getty Images

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBN: 9780007326570 (HB), 9780007480036 (TPB)

Ebook Edition © January 2014 ISBN: 9780007468775

Version: 2015-07-20

In Memory of Julia Keay

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

List of Illustrations

List of Maps and Charts

Author’s Note

Introduction

1. Casting the Die

2. Counting the Cost

3. Who Has Not Heard of the Vale of Cashmere?

4. Past Conditional

5. Reality Check

6. Power to the People

7. An Ill-Starred Conjunction

8. Two-Way Tickets, Double Standards

9. Things Fall Apart

10. Outside the Gates

11. India Astir

Epilogue

Postscript

Picture Section

Notes

Bibliography

Index

By the same author

About the Publisher

Illustrations

1. Wavell greets Jinnah prior to the 1946 Cabinet Mission talks. (Press Information Bureau/British Library)

2. Gandhi with Pethick-Lawrence during the talks. (akg-images/Archiv Peter Rühe)

3. Police use teargas to disperse a crowd in Calcutta. (© Hulton-Deutsch Collection/CORBIS)

4. The aftermath of the Calcutta killings of August 1946. (© Bettmann/CORBIS)

5. Lord and Lady Mountbatten’s carriage swamped by the crowd during India’s Independence Day celebrations. (Topham Picturepoint)

6. Nehru addresses a crowd of over a million on Independence Day. (Topham Picturepoint)

7. Trains packed with fleeing refugees at Amritsar. (© Illustrated London News Ltd/Mary Evans)

8. The refugee caravans were easy prey. Hundreds of thousands were massacred. (© Illustrated London News Ltd/Mary Evans)

9. Female students protest against the adoption of Urdu as Pakistan’s official language in Dhaka in 1953. (Rafiqul Islam)

10. Demonstrators in Bombay burn an effigy of Nehru in January 1956. (AP/Press Association Images)

11. Tenzing Norgay at the summit of Everest. (Getty Images)

12. Indian patrol in eastern Ladakh in 1960. (Topfoto)

13. Indian women preparing to defend the nation during the 1962 Sino–Indian war. (Topfoto)

14. A village in Jammu and Kashmir during the 1965 Indo–Pakistan war. (©Hulton-Deutsch Collection/CORBIS)

15. A Pakistani liaison officer shakes the hand of an Indian army officer after the announcement of a ceasefire in the Indo–Pakistan war. (Topfoto)

16. Indian troops advancing into East Pakistan in December 1971. (Getty Images)

17. Pakistan’s General Niazi signs the document of surrender at the end of the Bangladesh Independence War. (©Bettmann/CORBIS)

18. The Indian Herald’s supplement on Mrs Gandhi’s declaration of the Emergency. (Courtesy of the Indian Herald)

19. Indira Gandhi campaigning in Calcutta for the 1977 elections. (EE/AP/Press Association Images)

20. Sri Lankan Tamils training in southern India in 1986. (Topfoto/AP)

21. Young recruits undergoing training by the Tamil Tigers. (Topfoto/AP)

22. Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale. (AP/Sondeep Shankar/AP/Press Association Images)

23. The Golden Temple of Amritsar during ‘Operation Bluestar’. (Topfoto/AP)

24. Kashmiris burn the Indian flag in March 1990. (Ajit Kumar/AP/Press Association Images)

25. Protesters against the Indian army’s presence in Srinagar. (Barbara Walton/AP/Press Association Images)

26. Militant VHP kar sevaks attack the Babri mosque in Ayodhya. (AFP/Getty Images)

27. Hindu youths clamber onto the domes of the Babri mosque. (AFP/Getty Images)

28. Mumbai under attack by jihadist gunmen in November 2008. (Punit Paranjpe/Reuters/Corbis)

29. The Golden Quadrilateral highway under construction near Kanpur. (Ed Kashi/VII/Corbis)

30. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. (Mary Evans/SZ Photo/Scherl)

31. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. (AP/Topfoto)

32. General Ziaul Haq. (AP/Topham)

33. Benazir Bhutto. (PA/Topfoto)

34. Atul Behari Vajpayee. (Topham Picturepoint)

Maps and Charts

1. South Asia – physical

2. South Asia today

3. British India and the Princely States in 1947

4. North-East India and Bangladesh

5. Kashmir and Punjab

6. Political succession in South Asia, 1947–2014

Author’s Note

I was six years old in 1947 when what was then British India won its independence. I vaguely recall the pomp and ceremony of the Delhi celebrations as filmed for Pathé News but have no recollection of seeing any coverage of the horrors of the Great Partition that followed. Pakistan I came across only in the classroom; it was not till nineteen years after Independence that I first visited what is now called South Asia.

Midnight’s Descendants is nevertheless a contemporary history. It spans my lifetime and has revived as many memories as questions. Since that first visit in 1966 I have been returning almost annually – as a journalist, documentary-maker, lecturer, writer of many books and taker of many holidays. In the process I have learned enough to know just how presumptuous this book is.

Contemporary history is itself fraught with pitfalls. It is, of course, a contradiction in terms: by definition, what is contemporary can’t be history. No record of the current can aspire to the detachment expected when writing of the past. Memory proves dangerously unreliable; impressions muddy the facts. A ready-made consensus does not exist in respect of many crucial developments, and access to the documentation on which later histories may be based is still embargoed. This book will probably be challenged and will certainly be superseded.

So why write it? The answer is simply that – both despite Partition and because of it – South Asia remains as distinct and crisis-prone a global entity as the Middle East (or ‘West Asia’, to South Asians). With a population greater than China’s, it is already the world’s largest market, and it may well host the world’s next superpower. In the past sixty-five years it has also staged at least five nasty wars and has more than once taken the world to the brink of nuclear conflagration. Yet its problems remain poorly understood, and its influence easily underrated. Studies of the region as a whole are surprisingly few. Visa restrictions limit travel and inhibit mutual exchange, much as prejudice limits mutual understanding. The outsider has a slight advantage here, which is my excuse for undertaking the book.

Over the years literally hundreds of friends and contacts have contributed to what follows. It would be invidious to attempt to list them; but one and all, I thank them. Sam Miller in Delhi and Philip Bowring in Hong Kong kindly read an early draft of the book. For their comments and encouragement I am enormously grateful, and I have enjoyed returning the compliment in respect of their own books. More immediately I want to record my debt to editors Lara Heimert and Sue Warga at Basic Books and Robert Lacey and Martin Redfern at William Collins. This is not by way of an authorial convention. Creative editors are a rare breed; so are patient ones. I have been blessed with four of the finest and most forbearing, and I thank them all most sincerely. For her still greater patience and unstinting support, and for her love, I am indebted to Amanda. But in her case thanks would be inappropriate and hopelessly inadequate. So I say no more.

John Keay

Argyll, 2013

Introduction

Approaching Bengal from opposite directions, the Ganges and the Brahmaputra shy away from a head-on collision and veer south, their braided channels fraying and criss-crossing in a tangle of waterways that rob the parent rivers of their identities. Long before reaching the sea the Ganges has split into the Hooghly and the Pabna, among others, and the Brahmaputra into the Padma and the Meghna. Known as ‘distributaries’, these sub-rivers then fork some more, creating a maze of broad brown bayous whose combined seaward meanderings define the area known as the Sundarbans. Here, in the world’s largest estuarine wilderness, expanses of glossy mangrove and thick muddy water cover an area as big as Belgium. Islands are indistinguishable from mainland; promising channels expire in stagnant creeks. In the several designated wildlife sanctuaries, amphibious adaptation proves the key to survival. Crocodiles loll along the tideline close-packed like sunbathers. Mudhoppers gawp and glisten in the slime and the local tigers swim as readily as they prowl.

With roads a rarity, the best way to get around the Sundarbans is by boat, perhaps with a bike aboard for excursions on terra firma. A guide is essential, the trails being few and the landmarks fewer. The rivers tug one way, the incoming tide another. Neither is consistent: salt water comes down on the ebb, fresh water is backed up by the flow. The logic of the currents is as hard to fathom as that of the international border which here separates India and Bangladesh. Maps show the border as a confident line bisecting islands and slicing through peninsulas as it ricochets from side to side down the broad Raimangal waterway. Its trajectory provides the region with its one feature of human geography. But on the ground – where there is ground – the border is scarcely to be seen. Shifting mudbanks and encroaching mangroves are no more conducive to frontier formalities than they are to cartographic precision. Apportioning the Sundarbans between India and what was then part of Pakistan must have been like trying to carve the gravy.

A game warden announces a sighting: ‘Changeable hawk-eagle.’ He points to a large raptor lodged in a dead tree.

‘It’s a darker version of the one in peninsular India.’

The bird is rooted to its perch and motionless. It could be stuffed, its taloned feet nailed to the branch, except that every now and then it moves its head ever so slightly, as if troubled by indecision. Choosing the behaviour appropriate to its species is problematic for a changeable hawk-eagle. Should it quarter low over India’s chunk of the Sundarbans or soar high above Bangladesh’s? Is this a hawk day or an eagle day? Or just another changeable day? The options make for great uncertainty.

‘So is that bit over there India or Bangladesh?’ I’m asking. Nothing seems one thing or another in this gooey wilderness.

‘Oh, that’s India. Bangladesh is over there. See? But it should be India. Khulna, that whole district, should have come to India at Partition. It had a Hindu majority.’

Khulna was not awarded to India because Murshidabad, a Muslim district to the north of Calcutta that straddles the Hooghly river, was preferred by Delhi on the grounds of strategic contiguity and economic convenience. Eastern Pakistan, as Bangladesh then was, got Khulna by way of exchange. Hence mainly Muslim Murshidabad went to mainly Hindu India, and mainly Hindu Khulna went to mainly Muslim Pakistan. So much for the fundamental principle on which British India was divided by 1947’s Great Partition – that contiguous areas where Indian Muslims were in a majority were to constitute Pakistan, and that areas where they were not in a majority were to constitute the new India.

Dividing the subcontinent had itself been a compromise, and proved a heavy price to pay for independence. Flying in the face of fifty years’ struggle for a single India and of a shared cultural and historical awareness that stretched back centuries, it had been dictated by three recent developments: most Indian Muslims had come round to the idea of a Muslim homeland of their own; most Indian nationalists were insisting on a successor state that was strong enough to resist such demands; and the British were desperate for a fast-track exit. Adopted only as a last-minute expedient, Partition was widely regretted at the time. And by all who hold life, livelihood and peace to be dear, it has been rued ever since.

‘These people here must be Indian then,’ I venture. Fishing boats and a gaggle of schoolchildren hint at a nearby village, but there is no mains electricity, no road and no phone line – and all this despite being within 150 kilometres of downtown Calcutta.

‘Well yes, now they’re mostly Indian. But many of them are actually from Bangladesh, some Hindu, some Muslim.’

In the Sundarbans the rivers and raptors are not the only changeable things. Decades after British-ruled India was partitioned into the republics of India, Pakistan and later Bangladesh, national identities in this part of the subcontinent remain as fluid as the wind-ruffled soup that passes for water. So, too, do patterns of migration and the terminology applied to them. Immediately after the Great Partition of 1947, people who crossed the border were known as ‘refugees’. In the 1960s they became ‘evacuees’, in the 1970s either ‘optees’ or ‘oustees’, in the 1980s ‘illegal immigrants’, and now ‘potential terrorists’. Like the reception afforded them in their chosen destination, their status has been declining. Not, though, their numbers. The exodus into India from that part of Pakistan which in 1971 became Bangladesh has always been difficult to quantify. Some say hundreds of thousands have crossed the border, some say millions. Urban India’s twenty-first-century construction boom draws heavily on Bangladeshi labour, much of it illegal. Locally there are migrants who traipse back and forth for seasonal work or even a daily wage. No one is sure who is a migrant worker and who a cross-border commuter. Throughout the delta, people still come and go largely undetected, like the tides and the tigers.

A thousand kilometres to the north, where the Bangladesh border squeezes the Indian state of West Bengal up against the Himalayas, the situation is further complicated by what must be the most eccentric frontier conformation on earth. Here territorial logic veers to the opposite extreme, that of over-definition. Communities lie trapped in time-warped pockets, their national identity determined by arcane landholding patterns and the inflexible notions of sovereignty so jealously entertained by modern nation states. With little regard to the religious affinities of the inhabitants, Partition here simply appropriated the piecemeal patterns of cultivation and proprietorship found in the extant land registers and then upgraded them into international borders.

Outside his house a man poses for the camera. His back is to the wall in the photo and his legs apart. He looks rather pleased with himself. The caption explains that he is standing with one foot in Bangladesh and the other in India, and that the wall behind him is part of an extension tacked onto his house so that it too straddles the international border. With a spare room in India he qualifies as an Indian resident and can avail himself of a connection to the Indian electricity grid. No one else in this bit of Bangladesh has electricity. Providing any social amenities here is problematic because the village is in fact a sovereign ‘enclave’.

An enclave is any atoll of territory wholly surrounded by the territory of another sovereign state, in this case India. Elsewhere there are bits of India stranded in Bangladesh. The border picks its way between these enclaves, and such is their complexity that most maps despair of showing them at all. But on the ground the formalities of international transfer are faithfully observed. Checkpoints bar the tiniest roads; flags are raised and lowered; papers are stamped, currency changed, sim cards traded and bribes disbursed. Cultivators setting off for their fields clutch passports; cross-border shopping trips may be construed as smuggling operations.

Willem van Schendel, Professor of Modern Asian History in the Netherlands (a country which has enclaves of its own in Belgian territory), estimates that there are 197 such sovereign pockets along this short section of the Indo–Bangladesh border west of the Tista river. Perhaps 100,000 people live in the enclaves, which cover a total area of about 120 square kilometres. It’s hard to be more precise, because enclaves may themselves have enclaves. The latter are known as ‘counter-enclaves’ and are, in effect, bits of India that lie within bits of Bangladesh that are themselves within India – or vice versa. In the Bhalapura Khagrabari complex of enclaves, the largest archipelago of Indian territory in Bangladesh, one such Bangladeshi counter-enclave contains a smaller counter-enclave of Indian territory. This is Dahala Khagrabari, which van Schendel calls ‘the world’s only counter-counter-enclave’. From here an Indian citizen wishing to reach India proper, a distance of around ten kilometres, has to cross the frontier four times – from India to Bangladesh, Bangladesh to India, India to Bangladesh and finally Bangladesh to the Indian ‘mainland’. Luckily Dahala Khagrabari comprises just 6.9 hectares and is currently uninhabited, being mostly jute fields. But envy not its farmer.

With their promise of sanctuary, enclaves have attracted unsavoury elements. Criminal gangs have tended to take up residence, and smuggling has become a way of life. Under cover of darkness or along paths tunnelled through the three-metre-high jute crop, everything from armaments to cattle, pharmaceuticals and people is channelled through the enclaves. In recent years criminal activity has reportedly been on the decline; life, though, remains ‘insecure’ and social amenities non-existent. The only obvious advantage of being an enclave-dweller is said to be ‘the absence of tax’.1

Something similar could be said of another anomaly of the Indo–Bangladesh border, namely the chars. These are mid-river mudbanks deposited principally by the flood-prone waters of the wide Brahmaputra. A quarter of a million people live on chars; the riverine soil can be very fertile and the river itself is rich in fish. But they do so at the risk not only of inundation but of involuntary migration; for such is the landscaping power of the monsoon-swollen flood that chars may shift. If the centre of the current happens to be the recognised border – as it is for several hundred kilometres – a char that was in Bangladesh one year may well end up in India the next (or vice versa).

‘[M]ost of the islands vehemently either move forward or backward across the international riverine border,’ complains an observer concerned with the problems of policing these errant landmasses.2 Though still at the same address, several thousand people may suddenly find themselves unaccredited immigrants in a different country. Border markers get washed away, rivers change course. In some areas the painful business of border negotiation and demarcation, a process that was supposedly concluded soon after Partition in the late 1940s, is still being repeated every year.

In 2006 the Indian authorities, spurred on by the prospect of cross-border infiltrators bent on terrorism, began ring-fencing Bangladesh (not forgetting its enclaves). The new fence has steel stanchions and razor wire and is actually two fences, so creating a caged corridor along which laundry can be hung out to dry. The fence stands three metres high, and when completed will be around 2,500 kilometres long. But its march is halted by every river and, as per a previous agreement not to construct contentious facilities on the border itself, it runs a hundred to a thousand metres behind the actual line of demarcation. Thus ‘a huge quantum of precious Indian land is becoming a no-man’s land’, complains one politician. Within this strip lie villages, farmland and uncounted residents. One quite short stretch of the fence is reported as having alienated, or ‘practically disowned’, 149 villages and 90,000 people. Indian citizens are being rendered stateless and their property worthless. The issue has been raised in the Indian Parliament and aired in the press, but without eliciting any promise of compensation or resettlement.3

All this is in striking contrast to the nearby border between India and Nepal. Here there are no fences, no patrols and minimal formalities. It is an ‘open border’. Although Nepal never came under direct British rule – and was therefore unaffected by Partition – an agreement had been reached whereby people and goods might cross at will. This still stands, albeit often amended. Immigrants from India already make up a substantial percentage of Nepal’s population, while Nepalis settled in India constitute an overall majority in parts of the Indian state of West Bengal. A Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF) represents the latter’s interests. Demanding the recognition of Gorkhali, Nepal’s main language, as one of India’s official languages – and so qualifying its speakers for the educational and job opportunities that go with recognition – the GNLF strives, not without occasional violence, for an autonomous enclave within West Bengal or even a separate Nepali state within the Republic of India. Migration, in other words, is here an accepted phenomenon. National identity (‘Nepali-ness’) is being officially downgraded to a linguistic identity (‘Gorkhali-ness’), which is something that can be accommodated within the accepted limits of protest and concession afforded to India’s other language groups.

Language remains a contentious issue throughout polyglot South Asia, but in modern India its explosive potential has been steadily tamed by concessions and circumstance. It plays no part in the plight of the enclave-dwellers and the migrants along the Indo–Bangladesh border; all of them speak Bengali, whether Indians, Bangladeshis or not exactly either. The same goes for Tamil-speakers flitting between Sri Lanka and south India. In both cases a shared language in fact serves as a camouflage, making the detection of illegal or undesirable incomers that much more difficult.