UNIT 3.

LANGUAGE POLITICS-- HINDI AND URDU

Introduction
This unit offers a glance at the constitution of Hindavi, Hindustani, and Hindi drawing
attention to their various forms, through samples of creative writing. The extract
from Amrit Rai's 'Introduction' to his book A House Divided-- The Origin and
Development of Hindi/Hindavi is included in this unit to show the variety of ways in
which the term Hindi was understood in different historical contexts. A well-known
writer in Hindi, a critic, and a biographer of Premchand, Amrit Rai explores the
various factors that played a role in the emergence of Hindi and Urdu from a
common origin. The extract from Amrit Rai gives an idea of the complex linguistic
intermingling that was a feature of the language known as Hindavi till at least the
eighteenth century. The commonality of origin and evolution of Hindi and Urdu have
been a matter of debate for a long time. Political, historical, and social factors have
played a significant role in examining and also assessing the history of Hindi and
Urdu. While there is a convincing case for the inherent presence of a composite
linguistic culture in Hindi and Urdu, there is also a strong argument to establish
these languages as distinctly different from each other in their temper and linguistic
development.
To quote Mohammad Hassan, the well-known Urdu critic, the Sufi poet Amir
Khusrau (1253/54 - 1325) is 'the first poet to claim to have compiled a diwan or "book
of verses" in Hindawi (as Urdu was then called)'.1 (Mohammad Hasan, 'Urdu', in
Suniti Kumar Chatterjee, ed., The Cultural Heritage of India, vol. 5, Languages and
Literatures, Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture, Calcutta, 1978, p. 643.) The
eminent Hindi critic, Hazari Prasad Dwivedi, too, remarked that 'some beautiful
compositions of Amir Khusro (1254 - 1325), written in Khari-boli, have come down
to us. Khusro was a learned scholar and a great Persian poet.... He composed
verses in Hindi as well as in a mixed form of Persian and Hindi, though their present
forms are not always authentic.'2 (Hazari Prasad Dwivedi, 'Hindi', in Suniti Kumar
Chatterjee, ed., The Cultural Heritage of India, vol. S, Languages and Literatures,
Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture, Calcutta, 1978, p. 491.) It may, therefore,
be noted that though Amir Khusrau is acclaimed for his poetry in Persian, his use of
what was known as Hindavi (Hindi/Urdu) too is recognized by important literary
scholars of both Hindi and Urdu. Hindavi evolved out of Prakrit (i.e. natural or
spoken language as distinct from the classical literary Sanskrit) and the
Apabhramsas (i.e. improvised regional variations). It borrowed words freely from
both Persian and Sanskrit, and its literature was produced in bodi Nagari and
Persian scripts, as also in several dialects. The key feature of Hindavi was its
eclecticism and many poets such as Kabir, Mirabai, Malik Mohammad Jayasi,
Tulsidas as well as Bulleh Shah, unselfconsciously employed a variety of linguistic
and literary traditions in their works over several centuries, from the thirteenth (Amir
Khusrau) till at least the eighteenth (Bulleh Shah) if not later. As mentioned earlier,
Amir Khusrau is credited with a command over both Persian and some dialects of
Hindavi. What is fascinating is his dexterous use of more than one language
(Persian and Brajbhasha, a dialect of Hindavi) in his 'Ghazal' included in this unit.
Unfortunately, this aspect of his writing cannot be completely captured in the
English translation.
By the early twentieth century, Hindi and Urdu are clearly discernible as two
independent languages. However, these languages demonstrate their intimacy with
each other in the way they come together in form and spirit in the fiction of both
Hindi and Urdu writers of the mid-twentieth century. Writers such as Manto,
Rajendra Singh Bedi, Bhisham Sahni, Kamleshwar and others, spearheaded an
important historical phase in modern Hindi and Urdu fiction. Those writing in
Devnagari script came to be known as 'Hindi writers' and those who wrote in the
Persian script were called 'Urdu writers'. Bedi's short story 'Lajwanti', included here,
employs an idiom that cannot be definitively called either Hindi or Urdu, though it is
written in the Persian script. The language of 'Lajwanti' is a good example of what
was called Hindustani. 'Lajwanti' is generally discussed as a 'Partition story' with a
gender perspective.
From Hindavi to Hindustani to issues around Hindi and Urdu, the political decisions
taken on the language issue after Independence, evoked different reactions and
responses in India. Raghuvir Sahay's poem 'Hindi' offers an aesthetic articulation of
one of these reactions in the domain of language politics. The poem is a sharp
critique of the continuation of English as the official language of the Indian State.
Needless to add, while Sahay's poem represents a significant dissent, there was
also an acceptance of the political decision to continue with English as an official
language after the country's independence, for a few more years.
 'Introduction-- A Conspectus' to A House Divided*
(Excerpts from Amrit Rai, 'Introduction-- A Conspectus', A House Divided-- The
Origin and Development of Hindi/Hindavi, OUR New Delhi, 1984, pp. 1-8.)
AMRIT RAI
AMRIT RAI was a prolific Hindi novelist, a critic, and a translator. Although he is
renowned in academic circles for his definitive biography of Premchand, it is his
novel, Qalam ka Sipahi, which won him the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1963 and
later, the Soviet Land Nehru Award in 1971. He also wrote several other novels,
such as, Dhuan, Sargam, Hathi ke Dant, etc. He translated Shakespeare's play
Hamlet into Hindi, and wrote critical works such as Nai Sameeksha, and
Vichardhara aur Sahitya. Versatile in many languages, he also wrote one of the
most significant works on the Hindi-Urdu debate in English, A House Divided-- The
Origin and Development of Hindi/Hindavi.
THE PRESENT WORK proposes to be a study of the earliest origins of the
language Hindi/Hindavi, and an investigation into the causes that led to its division
into two separate languages, modern Hindi and modern Urdu.
Sometimes this word 'Hindi' is also used in a general sense, as noted by Grierson -
It is a Persian, not an Indian word and, properly signifies a native of India, as
distinguished from a 'Hindu' or non-Musalman Indian
In this sense Bengali and Marathi are as much Hindi as the language of the Doab.1
(Sir George Grierson, Linguistic Survey of India, vol. 9, Part 1, 1st edn, 1916; rpt,
Delhi, 1968. Hereafter LSI.)
However, at various places Khusro (AD 1236—1324) uses the word 'Hindi' in the
specific sense of the language, and that, naturally, the language of North-Western
India with which the Muslims first came in contact in the Panjab and then in Delhi.
Speaking of this Hindi language Khusro had occasion to comment--
I shall be wrong if I do not say what I know to be true-- the Hindi word is in no way
inferior to the Persian. With the exception of Arabic, which is ahead of all languages,
it is better than all the others. For example, the languages of Ray2 (A city in western
Iran.) and Rum3 (Turkey, with its capital at Constantinople.) are, after careful
thought, found to be inferior to Hindi.4 (Syed Sabahuddin Abdul Rahman, ed.,
Hindustan-- Amir Khusro ki Nazar me, Azamgarh, 1966, p. 72.)
Then, further reinforcing his opinion --
If you ask me about the expressive power of this language - do not think of it
as less than that of any other.5 (Ibid., p. 73.)
Elsewhere, referring to Masud Sad Salman, an earlier poet, Khusro says -
No other prince of poetry, before now, had three divans. I am the only one who has,
and so I am verily the king of my domain. True, Masud Sad Salman too, is credited
with three divans, one each in Arabic, Persian and Hindavi, but I am the only one
who has three such collections in Persian alone.6 (Amir Khusro, quoted in Mahmud
Shirani, Panjab me Urdu, Lucknow, 197S, p. 65.)
Speaking of the same poet, Masud Sad Salman, Mohammad Aufi says -
He has three big collections of poems — one in Arabic, another in Persian,
and a third in Hindi.7 (Muhammad Aufi, ibid., p. 65.)
It is to be noted that Khusro and Aufi refer to the same language as Hindi and
Hindavi. It would thus be safe to assume that the two words are interchangeable.
Therefore I shall also, in the course of this study, use the terms Hindi/Hindavi for
the language under review; and if in the interest of brevity 'Hindi' alone is used, it is
clearly to be understood that I use it in exactly the same sense as did Aufi and
Khusro, and that it is not intended to mean modern or standard Hindi, or what
Grierson calls High Hindi.8 (Grierson, op. cit., p. 46.)
It would seem that this use of the word Hindavi is much the same as Gilchrist's
‘Hinduwee' -
Hinduwee I have treated as the exclusive property of the Hindoos alone and have
therefore constantly applied it to the old language of India, which prevailed before
the Moosulman invasion and in fact now constitutes among them the basis or
groundwork of the Hindoostanee, a comparatively recent superstructure composed
of Arabic and Persian.9 (John Gilchrist, The Oriental Linguist, Calcutta, 1802, p. iii.)
I advisedly say 'much the same' because Gilchrist's basic characterization of the
language as 'the old language of India which prevailed before the Moosulman
invasion' is acceptable but with some important reservations. First, it does not seem
right to describe Hinduwee or Hindavi as 'the exclusive property of the Hindoos
alone'. Some of the greatest poets of Hindi-Hindavi are Muslims. Secondly, to refer
to Hinduwee as 'the old language of India which prevailed before the Moosulman
invasion' seems to imply that the development of Hinduwee or Hindavi came to a
stop after the 'Moosulman invasion'. This was not so. As we go along and trace the
development of this language, we shall see that it had a natural and quite
uninterrupted growth until several centuries after the Muslim invasion.
In the light of the foregoing remarks the present study is, in the first place, a research
into the earliest origins of Hindi/Hindavi and, secondly, a socio-linguistic inquiry into
the causes that led, at some point in time, to its division into two separate languages
— standard or High Hindi and standard or High Urdu as we know them today, and
as they are known in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution.
However, even their recognition as two separate languages under the Constitution
need not deter linguists from questioning the scientific validity of their separation.
For example, Cyan Chand, a noted Urdu scholar, says--

It is absolutely clear that Urdu and Hindi are not two separate languages. To call
them two languages is to believe all principles of linguistics and to deceive oneself
and others.... Even though Urdu literature and Hindi literature are two different and
independent literatures, Urdu and Hindi are not two different languages....
Enumerating Urdu and Hindi as two languages in the Indian Constitution, is political
expediency, not a linguistic reality.10 (Gyan Chand, 'Urdu Hindi ya Hindustani',
Hindustani Zaban, Jan-April 1974.) [italics added]
The reasons that impel Gyan Chand to make this categorical statement merit
perusal at some length--
I admit that Urdu writings have more Arabic and Persian words and Hindi writings
have more words of Sanskrit origin; but can this feature, the individual words,
change a language into some other language? If it be so, then what we call Urdu
literature is itself a literature of more than one language.
Is it not true that the basic vocabulary of Hindi is the same as that of Urdu?
Likewise, difference of script cannot make one language out of two languages (C.F.
Grierson, 'The written character does not make a language. If it did, when we write
Hindostani in English characters we should have to say it was the English language,
and not Hindostani; but not even our fanatics would go so far as that.' See LSI, vol.
9, part 1, pp. 49-50.). Malaysia and Indonesia have one language called Malay. In
Malaysia it is written in the Arabic script and in Indonesia in the Roman script;
despite this they are not two languages. If before Partition, Panjabi Muslims wrote
Panjabi in the Urdu script, the Sikhs in Gurumukhi, and the Hindus in Devnagari,
this did not mean that they wrote three languages. (Gyan Chand, Hindustani
Zuban, Jan-April 1974.)
However, the eminent Indian linguist Ghatage urges the serious student of
languages to exercise 'the necessary caution and reservations' in respect of setting
up 'families of languages' and goes on to say -
The resemblances must not be mere chance similarities but exact phonemic
correspondences which may recur in a large number of items and thus show
regularity., (A.M. Ghatage, Historical Linguistics and
Jndo-Aryan Languages, University of Bombay, 1962, p. 16.) Further on, elaborating
his point, he says -
The similarities due to a common origin pertain not only to the items of the
vocabulary or words of a purely lexical nature but permeate the whole of its grammar.
The similarities among the languages of a common origin are bound to and do
become greater and greater as we look into their earlier forms, while the reverse is
the case with those due to a common symbiosis (Ibid., pp. 24-25.). [italics added]
It should be fair to presume that the many eminent Indian and European linguists
who hold that Urdu and Hindi are the same language do so with the same caution
that Ghatage speaks of. For example, here is Ehtesham Husain, noted Urdu scholar
and literary critic--
The truth is that from the standpoint of linguistics, it is not correct to say that Hindi
and Urdu are two languages. No linguist has expressed that opinion (Syed
Ehtesham Hussain, ed., Hindustani Lisaniyat ka Khaka, Lucknow, 1948.).
W Yates, however, expresses exactly that opinion--
It must be observed, that the Hindoostanee or Oordoo differs essentially from the
Hindee or Hindooee, the former derived principally from the Arabic or Persian, and
the latter from the Sanscrit. The inflections of both being the same, and the strange
admixture of them that frequently obtains, where both are spoken in the same city,
have led to the erroneous conclusion that they are the same language-- whereas
the Oordoo is peculiar in its application to the Moosulman population in every part of
India, while the Hindooee applies only to the Hindoos in the Upper Provinces (W
Yates, 'Preface', Introduction to the Hindustanee Language, Calcutta, 1827.).
But this is very much a minority opinion. Ram Bilas Sharma, noted Hindi scholar,
says -
Hindi-Urdu are not two separate languages; they are basically one and the same.
Their pronouns, verbs, and basic vocabulary are the same. There are no two other
languages in the world whose pronouns and verbs are one hundred per cent the
same. Russian and Ukrainian are much akin to each other but even they are not so
closely alike (Ram Bilas Sharma, Bhaiat ki Bhasa Samasya, New Delhi, 1978, p.
288.).
Arnot and Forbes, after talking of the intermingling of the language of the Muslim
invaders and that of the native Indian inhabitants, go on to say -
Thus arose two principal dialects of the modern languages of India, bearing to each
other the same relation as two ships, of which the out- works of the one may be
formed of oak, and most of the other of teak; but of which the internal construction,
rigging, size, etc., are the same (Sandford Arnot and Duncan Forbes, An Essay on
the Origins and Structure of the Hindustanee Tongue, London, 1928, p. 16.).
Amrit Rai quotes Gopichand Narang and Abdul Haq, two well known Urdu scholars,
both of whom comment on the shared lexical base of Hindi and Urdu and the large
number of Sanskrit and Prakrit words that constitute Urdu.
[Rai also quotes John Beames who takes a similar position on the proximity of the
two languages. Beames points out that among the various dialects of Hindi, a
common universal form of speech or dialect used by educated people originated
from the Hindi spoken in the neighbouring countryside of Delhi. This particular
dialect of Hindi was adopted as the basis of a new phase of the language, in which
a large number of Persian, Arabic and Turkish words found a place. But Beames
also privileges Hindi by referring to Urdu as 'the Urdu dialect of Hindi' or the 'Urdu
phase of Hindi'. Editorial note]
This plethora of quotations will give the reader some idea of the complexity of the
problem. It is indeed difficult to conceive how two languages so closely akin have
drifted so far apart in their modern standard or 'high' forms as to become
incomprehensible to each other. When was it that they came to adopt their rigid and
mutually exclusive positions — of Arabo-Persian purism on the one hand and
Sanskrit purism on the other? In other words, when did Hindi/Hindavi split or start
splitting? May we understand the split as a natural course of its development,
governed by the internal dynamics of the growth of a language, or as the result of
extraneous, divisive forces not really intrinsic to the language and its growth? This
is a highly pertinent question because if the answer is the former the inquiry
becomes one of merely academic, philological interest; but if the latter, the findings
may have some contemporary social import, and an understanding of the past may
hold some light for us today.
The way linguistic passions are working at the moment, dividing protagonists of
Hindi and Urdu into two enemy camps, is, to say the least, alarming. Therefore, the
subject struck me, both as a student of literature and as a writer of Hindi prose, as
one of exceeding importance. On the one hand linguistic purism blocks the way to
the healthy and natural growth of the two languages by denying their essential unity,
and on the other creates a dangerous social tension. This seems to further underline
the need for such an inquiry.
However, before we embark on substantive linguistic research on this subject it
seems advisable to first look for the 'extraneous divisive force' in the British colonial
policy of divide and rule. This is particularly necessary because of a general feeling
among protagonists of both Hindi and Urdu, from their respective angles, that the
divisive process started with Fort William College, where Sir John Gilchrist, the bete
noire of the Hindi world, set up Urdu (in the name of 'Hindoostanee') against Hindi
(Bhakha) and took due care that they ran on two parallel, mutually exclusive lines.
Therefore, the first clue for the probe lies in the direction of Fort William College —
in why it was founded and what its language policy was.
Notes
Conspectus - a general survey of a subject, a synopsis.
Hindi - Amir Khusrau (quoted by Grierson in the first reference) referred to the
natives of India as 'Hindis'. Both Hindus and Muslims are called 'Hindis', a term that
refers to people of India. In a similar sense, Hindi is also a general term for the
language of the 'Hindis' and could be used for Bengali or Marathi or Punjabi or Sindhi
or any other language spoken by the 'Hindis'.
Masud Sad Salman - (d. AD 1130) One of the earliest Persian poets from India, he
composed verses in Arabic, Persian and Hindi.
Divan - collection of poems.
Multan before coming to Delhi with Iltutmish. He wrote several major works on the
battles of his times and brought out a collection of poems.
Hindustanee - John Gilchrist noted that Hindustani had three styles-- the High or
Persian style, the middle or genuine Hindustani style and the vulgar or the
Hinduwee style. The first style was pedantic and drew on Arabic and Persian for its
vocabulary, the second had a mixed vocabulary of words derived from Sanskrit and
Prakrit as well as Arabic and Persian, and the third was the vulgar rustic style of
Hinduwee. Gilchrist favoured the middle style and wanted it to be adopted as the
standard. For more details, see Vasudha Dalmia, The Nationalization of Hindu
Traditions - Bharatendu Harischandra and Nineteenth-century Banaras, OUP, New
Delhi, 1997, p. 164.
Phonemic - From phoneme, a small set of basic units of sound that are unique to
each language.
Farhang-e-Asafia - a famous Urdu dictionary.
The similarities among - Ghatage is making a distinction between languages that
have a common origin and those that have come very close to each other over a
period of time in a symbiotic relationship.
Vocables - a word considered as a combination of certain sounds or letters without
regard to meaning.
Ghazal (Amir Khusro, 'Ghazal', tr. Ahmed Ali, in Ayyappa Paniker, ed., Metheval
Indian Literature, vol. 4, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 2000, p. 846.)
AMIR KHUSRAU (1253-1325)
AMIR KHUSRAU (1253-1325) was born in Patiyali (Etah District, Uttar Pradesh).
Khwaja Nizamuddin Auliya, his preceptor, gave him the title of Turkullah (Solther of
God) and he was also called Tuti-i-Hind, Parrot of Hind. With him, the seeds of Indo-
Persian culture were sown in India. 'I am an Indian Turk and can answer you in
Hindi', he wrote in the Preface to his divan, Ghurrat-ul-Kamali. In his famous Persian
masnavi (narrative poem) Nuh Siphir, Khusrau celebrates the diversity of languages
spoken in 'Hind', its flora and fauna and seasons. While he is famous for his Persian
verse, he is also considered to be one of the earliest poets of Hindavi.
Forget me not, the sorrowful,
Talk to me with your eyes; dear heart, I cannot bear the sorrow of parting,
Keep me well within your heart.

Long as tresses the night of parting,

The day of love is short as life, If I see not my love, O friend, How can I
spend dark nights of grief?

Two magic eyes with a hundred charms Have put my sad heart's rest to
flight; Now who would care to go and tell Dear love of my sad and lonely
plight?

As a candle lit, as an atom struck

No sleep in my eyes, no rest in my heart Banished, alas, from that moon's
grace He sends no news, nor shows his face.

On the day of love, for truth, Khusro

The loved one tricked me and went away If I could find him, I will keep
Him in my heart with love always.
(Translated from the original Persian and Braj)
A Note on the Poem
According to Ayyappa Paniker, the editor of Medieval Indian Literature, this is the
only surviving Urdu ghazal by Khusrau that is accessible to us. Containing both
Persian and Brajbhasha in alternate lines, the poem demonstrates Khusrau's
versatility in multiple languages and dialects. Here he brings together a language
of the classical higher tradition, Persian, with the language of the common people,
Braj. Unfortunately, such a unique feature of bilinguality cannot easily be captured
in translation.
A love poem in the Persian tradition, it recalls the relationship between Khusrau and
his contemporary poet-friend Amir Hasan Sanjari. It is popularly narrated drat Prince
Muhammad of Multan got Hasan whipped when they defied his order to separate.
As proof of their love, Khusrau showed the Prince the marks of the whip on his arm,
at the very spot where Hasan was whipped! Their attachment is also interpreted as
mystic love by some.
 Lajwanti
(Rajinder Singh Bedi, 'Lajwanti', tr. Muhammed Umar Memon, An Epic Unwritten--
The Penguin Book of Partition Stories from Urdu, Penguin Books, New Delhi, 1998,
pp. 14-29.)

RAJINDER SINGH BEDI

RAJINDER SINGH BEDI (1915-84) was one of the leading Urdu writers of the
twentieth century. Primarily a short story writer, he was also the author of the well-
known novel Ek Chadar Maili Si, which won him the Sahitya Akademi Award in
1962. He wrote film scripts and dialogues in Hindustani for over forty films including
classics such as Devdas, Mirza Ghalib and Madhumati. He was awarded the Padma
Shri in 1972 and the Ghalib Award in 1978. Bedi, Krishan Chander, Ismat Chughtai
and Manto spearheaded the Progressive Writers' Movement.
Touch the leaves of the lajwanti, they curl and wither away.
(From a Punjabi song)

AFTER THE PARTITION, when countless wounded people had finally cleaned the
gore from their bones, they turned their attention to those who had not suffered
bodily but had been wounded in their hearts.
Rehabilitation committees were formed in every neighbourhood and side street and
the campaign to help the victims acquire business, land, and homes for themselves
got underway with much enthusiasm. There was one programme, though, which
seemed to have escaped notice. It concerned the rehabilitation of abducted women.
Its rallying cry was 'Rehabilitate them in your hearts!' It was bitterly opposed by
Narain Bawa's temple and the conservatives who lived in and around it.
A committee was formed in the Mulla Shakur neighbourhood near the temple to get
the programme off the ground. Babu Sundar Lai was elected its secretary by a
majority of eleven votes and the Vakil Sahib its president. It was the opinion of the
old petition writer of the Chauki Kalan district — in which other well-regarded
individuals of the neighbourhood concurred with him — that no one could be
expected to work more passionately for the cause than Sundar Lai, because his
own wife, Laju — Lajwanti — too had been abducted.
Early in the morning when Sundar Lai Babu and his companions Rasaloo and Neki
Ram used to make their rounds through the streets singing in unison, 'Touch the
leaves of the lajwanti, I they curl and wither away!' Sundar Lai's voice would fade.
Walking along in silence he would think about Lajwanti — who knows where she
might be? In what condition? What would she be thinking of him? Would she ever
come back? — and his feet would falter on the cobblestone pavement.
But by now things had reached a point where he had stopped even thinking about
Lajwanti. His pain was no longer just his; it had become part of the world's anguish.
And to spare himself its devastation he had drawn himself headlong into serving the
people. All the same, every time he joined his companions in that song, he couldn't
help wondering at how delicate the human heart is. The slightest thing could hurt it.
Exactly like the lajwanti plant, whose leaves curl up at the barest touch. Well, that
may be. But for his own part, he had never spared any effort in treating his own
Lajwanti as badly as possible. He would beat her on the flimsiest pretext, taking
exception to the way she got up, the way she sat down, the way she cooked food
— anything and everything.
Laju was a slender and agile village girl. Too much sun had turned her skin quite
dark, and a nervous energy informed her movements, which brought to mind the
fluid grace of a dew drop rolling mercury like on a leaf - now to one side, now to the
other. Her leanness, which was more a sign of health than its absence, worried
Sundar Lai at first, but when he observed how well she could take all manner of
adversity, including even physical abuse, he progressively increased his
mistreatment of her, quite forgetting that past a certain limit anyone's patience is
sure to run out. Lajwanti, too, had contributed her share in obscuring the perception
of such a limit. By nature, she wasn't one to hold on to her anguish for too long. A
simple smile from Sundar Lai following the worst fight, and she was unable to stop
her giggles-- 'If you beat me ever again, I'll never speak to you!’
It was obvious she had already forgotten all about the fights and beatings. That's how
husbands treat their wives - she knew this truth as well as any other village girl. If a
woman showed the slightest independence, the girls themselves would be the first
to disapprove. 'Ha, what kind of man is he? Can't even keep his little woman in line!'
The physical abuse men subjected their wives to had even made it into the women's
songs. Laju herself used to sing -
Marry a city boy? — No sir, not me.
Look at his boots, and my waist is so narrow.
Nonetheless, at the very first opportunity she had fallen in love with just such a city
boy, Sundar Lai, who had first come to her village as part of a wedding party and
had whispered into the groom's ear, 'Your sister-in- law is pretty hot stuff, yaar! Your
wife must be quite a dish too!'
Lajwanti had overheard him. She took no notice at all of his large, heavy boots, and
forgot all about her own narrow waist.
Such were the memories that Sundar Lai recalled during his early morning rounds
with his companions. He would say to himself, 'If I could get another chance, just
one more chance, I'd rehabilitate Laju in my heart. I'd show the people that these
poor women are hardly to blame for their abduction, their victimization by lecherous
rioters. A society which is unable to accept and rehabilitate these innocent women is
rotten to the core, fit only to be destroyed.'
Sundar Lal would plead with the people to take these women under their roof and
give them the same status which any woman, any mother, daughter, sister, or wife
enjoyed. He would urge the families never to mention, even to hint at the things the
poor women had to suffer, because their hearts were already wounded, already
fragile, like the leaves of the touch-me-not plant, ready to curl up at the merest
touch.
The Mulla Shakur Rehabilitation of Hearts Committee took out many early morning
processions to put its programme into effect. The wee hours of the morning were
the most feasible time for their activity-- no human noise, no traffic snarls. Even the
dogs, after an exhausting night- long watch, would be asleep at this hour, as they
lay curled up inside their beds, would wake up to mumble drowsily, 'Oh, that group
again!'

People listened to Sundar Lai Babu's propaganda, sometimes with patience,

sometimes with irritation. Women who had made it safely to this side of the border
lay loosely in their beds, while their husbands, lying stiff beside them, mumbled
protests against the noise kicked up by the morning rally, or a child somewhere
opened its eyes for a moment and fell back to sleep, taking the doleful petition of
'Rehabilitate them in your hearts' for a lullaby.
Words which enter the ear so early in the morning rarely fail to produce an effect.
They reverberate in the mind the whole day and evert if their underlying meaning is
not readily apparent, one nonetheless finds oneself repeating them. So, thanks to
this effect, when Miss Mardula Sara Bai [sic] secured the exchange of abducted
women between India and Pakistan, some people in the Mulla Shakur
neighbourhood willingly took their women back. They went to receive them outside
the city at Chauki Kalan. For a while the abducted women and their relatives faced
each other in awkward silence. Then with their heads bent low they returned to pick
up the pieces of their lives and rebuild their homes, Meanwhile Rasaloo, Neki Ram
and Sundar Lai rooted for them with cries, now of 'Long Live Mahendar Singh!' now
of 'Long Live Sohan Lai!' They kept it up until their throats went dry.
But there were some abducted women whose husbands, parents, or siblings
refused even to recognize them. As far as their families were concerned, they
should have killed themselves. They should have taken poison to save their virtue.
Or jumped into a well. Coward — to cling to life so tenaciously!
Hundreds, indeed, thousands of women had in fact killed themselves to save their
honour. But what could they know of the courage it took just to live on? What could
they know of the icy stares it took for the survivors to look death in the face, in a
world where even their husbands refused to recognize them? One or another of the
abducted repeats her name to herself-- 'Suhagwanti' - she who has suhag, the
affection of her husband. She spots her brother in the crowd and says only this one
final time, 'Even you, Bihari, refuse to recognize me! I took you in my lap and fed you
when you were small.' Bihari wants to slip away, but he looks at his parents and
freezes, who steel their hearts and look expectantly at Narain Bawa, who in turn
looks in utter helplessness at the sky — which has no reality, which is merely an
optical illusion, the limit beyond which our eyes do not function.
Laju, however, was not among the abducted women Miss Sara Bai brought back in
the exchange. Sundar Lai, balanced precariously between hope and despair, saw
the last girl come down from the military truck. Subsequently, with quiet
determination, he redoubled his efforts in advancing the work of his Committed No
longer only in the mornings, the Committee took out an evening rally as well, and
now and then also held meetings at which the old barrister Kalka Parshad Sufi, the
Committee's president, held forth in his raspy voice, with Rasaloo always tending
his duties beside him, holding the spittoon. Strange sounds would pour out from
the loudspeaker-- 'kha-ba-ba-ba, kha-kha. . .'. Next Neki Ram, the petition writer of
the Chauki, would get up to say something. But whatever he said or quoted from the
Shastras, or Puranas served only to contradict his point. Just then Sundar Lai would
move in to salvage the situation. But he couldn't manage more than a couple of
sentences. His voice would become progressively hoarser, and tears would roll on
his cheeks. He would give up and sit down. A strange silence would sweep over the
audience. Sundar Lai Babu's two sentences, which sprang from the depths of his
heart, affected them more dian all the oratory eloquence of the old barrister Kalka
Parshad Sufi. But the people shed a few tears then and there, which eased their
hearts, and returned home, as empty-headed as ever.
One day the Committeewallahs started out on their preaching mission early in the
evening and ended up in an area long known to be a conservative stronghold.
Seated on a cement platform around a peepul tree outside the temple, the faithful
were listening to stories from the Ramayana. Narain Bawa was narrating the
episode in which a washerman had dirown his wife out of the house saying, 'I'm no
Raja Ramchandar, who would take Sita back after she had spent so many years
with Ravan.' Which led Ramchandarji to order the virtuous Sita out of the house
even though she was with child.

'Can you find a better example of Ram Raj?' asked Narain Bawa.
'True Ram Raj is one in which a washerman's words too receive the utmost
consideration.'
The rally had by now reached the temple and stopped to listen to the Ramayana
story and pious hymns. Sundar Lai caught the last few words and retorted, 'We don't
want Ram Raj, Bawa.'
Angry voices shot up from the throng of the faithful-- 'Be quiet!' 'Who do you think
you are?'
'Shut up!'
But Sundar Lai, undaunted, moved forward. 'Nobody can stop me from speaking!'
he shouted back.
To which he received a fresh volley of equally angry words — 'Quiet!' 'We won't let
you speak!' — and from a corner, even the direct, 'We'll kill you!'
Narain Bawa said to him gently, 'Sundar Lai, my dear, you don't understand the
rules and regulations of the Shastras.'

'But I do understand one thing, Bawa. And it is that even a washerman could be
heard in Ram Raj, while its champions today won't even listen to Sundar Lai.'
The very people who a minute ago had gotten up determined to put him in his place
quickly sat down, sweeping away the peepul fruit which had meanwhile fallen on
their seats, and said, 'All right, let's hear him out.'
Both Rasaloo and Neki Ram spurred Sundar Lai on, who said, 'No doubt Shri Ram
was our great leader. But why is it, Bawaji, that he believed the washerman but not
his own wife, the greatest Maharani ever?'
Narain Bawa explained, putting a novel spin on it. 'Sita was his own wife. It would
appear, Sundar Lai, that you have not realized the importance of this fact.'
'Yes, Bawa,' Sundar Lai Babu said, 'there are many things in this world that I don't
understand. But as I look at it, under true Ram Raj, man wouldn't be able to oppress
even himself. Injustice against oneself is as thrown Sita out of his house, just
because she was compelled to live with Ravan for some time. But was she to blame
for it? Wasn't she a victim of deceit and trickery, like our numberless mothers and
sisters today? Was it a question of Sita's truth or falsehood? Or of the stark
beastliness of the demon Ravan, who has ten human heads, but also has another,
bigger one, that of a donkey. Today our Sita has been expelled once again, totally
without fault, our Sita ...Lajwanti ... He broke down and wept.
Rasaloo and Neki Ram raised the red banners on which the school children had
that very day skillfully cut out and pasted different slogans for them, and the
procession got going once again, all shouting 'Long Live Sundar Lai Babul' in
unison. Then someone yelled 'Long Live Sita - the Queen of Virtue!' and someone
else 'Shri Ramchandar . . .'
'Silence! Silence!' a joint cry went up. Within seconds months of Narain Bawa's
labour went down the drain, as a good portion of his congregation got up and joined
the procession, led by barrister Kalka Parshad and Hukm Singh, the petition writer
at Chauki Kalan, both triumphantly tapping their old walking sticks on the ground.
Sundar Lai walked along with them. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks.
His heart had been hurt very badly today.
The people were shouting with great gusto-- Touch the leaves of the lajwanti,
they curl and wither away.
The song was still reverberating in the ears of the people. The sun had not yet risen
and the widow in house number 414 in Mulla Shakur was still tossing restlessly in
her bed. Just men Lai Chand, who was from Sundar Lai's village and whom the
latter and Kalka Parshad, using their influence, had helped to set up a ration shop,
rushed over to Sundar Lai's. He offered his hand from under his thick, coarse shawl
and said, 'Congratulations Sundar Lai!'
'Congratulations for what, Lai Chand?' Sundar Lai asked, putting some molasses-
sweetened tobacco in his chillum.
'I just saw Laju Bhabhi.'
The chillum fell from Sundar Lai's hand and the tobacco scattered on the floor.
'Where!?' he asked, grabbing Lai Chand by the shoulder, and shaking him hard
when he didn't answer quickly enough.
'At the Wagah border.'
He abruptly let go of Lai Chand's shoulder. 'Must be someone else.'
'No, Bhaiyya, it really was Laju,' Lai Chand tried to convince him. 'She was Laju all
right.'
'Do you even know her?' Sundar Lai asked as he gathered the tobacco and ground
it between his palms. 'Well men,' he said, removing the chillum from Rasaloo's
hookah, 'tell me, what are her distinguishing marks?'
'A tattoo on her chin, another on her cheek.'
'Yes yes yes!' Sundar Lai himself completed the description. 'And a third one on her
forehead.' He didn't want there to be any doubt.
Suddenly he recalled all diose tattoos on Lajwanti's body he had known so well,
tattoos she had gotten as a little girl, which resembled the light green spots on the
touch-me-not plant and caused it to curl up its leaves at the slightest hint of an
approaching hand. Exactly the same way Lajwanti would curl up from modesty the
instant anyone pointed at her tattoos. She would withdraw into herself and
disappear, afraid that all her secrets had been let out, that she had been made poor
by the plunder of a hidden treasure ...and ...Sundar Lai's entire body began to burn
with an unknown fear, with an unknown spirit and its purified fire. He grabbed Lai
Chand by the shoulder once again and asked, 'How did Laju get to Wagah?'
'There was an exchange of abducted women between India and Pakistan,' Lai
Chand said.
'What happened then?' Sundar Lai asked, as he squatted down on the floor. 'Tell
me, what happened then?'
Rasaloo too sat up in his cot and asked, coughing as only smokers do, 'Is it really
true? Lajwanti Bhabhi's returned?'
Lal Chand continued. 'At the Wagah border, Pakistan handed over sixteen women
and received sixteen in exchange. But an altercation developed. Our volunteers
objected mat there were too many middle- aged, old, and useless women in the
contingent Pakistan was handing over. A crowd quickly garnered on the scene. Just
then, volunteers from the other side pointed at Laju Bhabhi and said, "Here, you call
her old?
Have a look. None of the girls you have returned can match her." Meanwhile Laju
Bhabhi was frantically trying to hide her tattoos from the people's probing eyes. The
argument got more heated. Each side decided to take back their 'goods'. I cried out,
"Laju! Laju Bhabhi!"
But our own military guards beat us up and drove us away for making a racket.'
Lal Chand bared his elbow to show where he had been struck by a lathi. Rasaloo
and Neki Ram remained silent, while Sundar Lai gazed far away into space. Perhaps
he was thinking about Laju, who had returned, but then again had not. He looked
like someone who had just crossed the scorching sands of Bikaner and now sat
panting in the shade under a tree, his parched tongue hanging out, too exhausted
even to ask for water. The realization struck him that the violence of the pre-Partition
days still continued even after Partition, only in a different form. Today, people didn't
even feel sympathy for the victims. If you asked someone about, say, Lahna Singh
and his sister-in-law Bantu, who used to live in Sambharwala, quick and curt would
come the answer-- 'Dead!' and the fellow would move on, unaware of death and the
difference it made.
Worse even than this, there were cold-blooded people who traded in human
merchandise, in human flesh. Just as at cattle fairs prospective buyers pull back the
snout of a cow or a water-buffalo to assess its age by examining its teeth, these
human traders now put up for public display the beauty of a young woman, her
blossoming charm, her
most intimate secrets, her beauty spots, her tattoos. This sort of violence had sunk
right down to their very bones. In former times, at least, deals were struck at fairs
under the protective cover of a handkerchief. Fingers met, negotiated, and
concluded in secrecy. Today, however, even the mat screen had been pulled up.
Everybody was bargaining shamelessly in the open, with no regard for decorum.
This transaction, this peddling, recalled an episode straight out of Boccaccio — a
narrative depicting the uninhibited buying and selling of women-- countless women
stand lined up, baring themselves before the Uzbek procurer, who pokes and prods
them with his finger. It leaves a pink indentation where it touches the body, a pale
circle forms around it, and the pink and the pale rush to meet. The Uzbek moves
on, and the rejected woman, crushed by humiliation and shame, sobs
uncontrollably, holding the waist cord of her loosened lower garment with one hand,
hiding her face from the public's gaze with the other. Later, even the feeling of
shame departs. Thus, she walks nude through the bazaars of Alexandria.

Sundar Lai was getting ready to go to the border town of Amritsar. when the news
of Laju's arrival overtook him. Its suddenness unnerved him. He hurriedly took a step
towards the door but, just as swiftly, stepped back. A sudden feeling to give in to his
unhappiness overwhelmed him. He felt he wanted to spread all the placards, all the
banners of his Rehabilitation Committee out on the floor and sit on them and cry his
heart out. But the situation was hardly proper for such an expression of emotion. He
bravely fought back the turmoil raging inside him and picked his way slowly toward
Chauki Kalan, the venue for the delivery of the abducted women.
Laju stood straight in front of him, shaking with fear. If anyone knew Sundar Lai, it
was she. She had forgotten none of how badly he had treated her before, and now
mat she was returning after living with another man, there was no telling what he
might do. Sundar Lai looked at Laju. She had draped the upper half of her body in
a black dupatta, one of its ends thrown over her left shoulder in the typical Muslim
fashion, but only out of habit. Perhaps it made it easier to socialize with the Muslim
lathes and finally to make her escape from her captor. Then again, she had been
thinking of Sundar Lai so much and was so mortally afraid of him that she scarcely
had the mind to change into different clothes or even to worry about draping herself
with the dupatta in the right fashion. As it was, she was unable to distinguish the
basic difference between Hindu and Muslim cultures — whether the dupatta went
over the right or left shoulder. Right now, she stood before Sundar Lai, trembling,
balanced between hope and fear.
Sundar Lal was shocked. He noticed that Lajwanti was fairer and healthier
than before; indeed, she looked plump. Whatever he had imagined about her
turned out to be wrong. He had thought that grief would have emaciated her, that
she'd be too weak even to speak. The thought that she had been happy in
Pakistan wounded him, but he said nothing to her, for he had sworn not to quiz
her about such matters. All the same, he couldn't help wondering-- why had she
chosen to return if she lived a happier life there? Perhaps the Indian government
had forced her to, against her wishes.
But he was quite unable to see the pallor on Lajwanti's tawny face, or to fathom that
it was suffering, and suffering alone, that made her firm flesh loosen and sag from
her bones, making her look heavy. She had become heavy with an excess of grief,
though superficially she appeared healthy. But hers was the kind of plumpness
which made one pant for breath after taking only a few steps.
His first gaze at his abducted wife had a disturbing effect on him. But he fought all
his thoughts back with great manliness. Many other people were also present and
one of them shouted, 'We're not about to take back these Muslim leftovers!'
But this voice was drowned out by the slogans of Rasaloo, Neki Ram, the old petition
writer of Chauki Kalan. Above them all rose the loud, cracking voice of Kalka
Parshad, who somehow managed to speak and cough at the same time. He was
absolutely convinced of this new reality, this new purity. It seemed he had learnt a
new Veda, a new Purana, a new Shastra, which he desperately wanted to share
with others. And surrounded by all these people and voices, Laju and Sundar Lai
returned home. It seemed that after a protracted moral exile, the Ramchandar and
Sita of an age long past were entering Ayodhya, while the people both celebrated
by lighting lamps of joy, and at the same time showed regret for having put the
couple through such incredible misery.
Sundar Lai continued his, 'Rehabilitation of Hearts' programme with the same
ardour even after Lajwanti's return. He had lived up to it both in word and deed.
People who had earlier taken his involvement for just so much sentimental idealism
were now convinced of his sincerity. Some were truly happy at this, but most felt
disappointed and sad, and many women of the Mulla Shakur neighbourhood, except
for the widow, still felt uncomfortable stepping into Sundar Lai's house.
To Sundar Lai, however, it made no difference at all whether people recognized or
ignored his work. The queen of his heart had returned and the yawning emptiness
in his chest had been filled. He had installed the golden image of Laju in the temple
of his heart and diligently stood guard at its doorway. Laju, who used to be so afraid
of him, now began slowly to relax under his unexpectedly gentle and caring regard.
Sundar Lai no longer called her Laju, but 'Devi', which made her go mad with
unnamable joy. How much she wanted to tell him what she had been through, and
cry so profusely that the tears would wash away all her 'sins', but Sundar Lai deftly
avoided listening to her. And so, she still carried a trace of apprehension in her new-
found ease.
After he had fallen asleep, she would simply gaze at him. If he caught her watching
him and asked for a reason, she wouldn't know what to say beyond 'Noting' or 'I
don't know'. Sundar Lai, exhausted from the day's gruelling work, would go back to
sleep. Once, though, in the beginning, he did ask Lajwanti about her 'dark days'.
'Who was he?'
'His name was Jumma', she said, lowering her eyes. Then, fixing her eyes on his
face, she wanted to say something more, but couldn't. He was looking at her in a
strange way, as his hands caressed her hair. She lowered her eyes again. Sundar
Lai asked, 'Was he good to you?'
'Yes.'
'He didn't beat you?'
'No', Lajwanti said, dropping her head on Sundar Lai's chest. 'He never hurt me.
And yet I was very afraid of him. You used to beat me, but I never felt scared of you.
You won't beat me ever again, will you?'
Tears welled up in Sundar Lai's eyes. He said, feeling deep shame and regret, 'No,
never again, Devi.'
'Devi!' Lajwanti drought, and she too broke down in tears.
She felt overwhelmed by a desire to tell him all, holding back nothing, but Sundar Lai
stopped her saying, 'Let's just forget the past. You were hardly to blame for what
happened. Society is at fault for its lack of respect for goddesses like you. In that it
doesn't harm you a bit, only itself.'
And Lajwanti couldn't get it all out. It remained buried inside her. She withdrew into
herself and stared at her body for the longest time, a body which, after the partition
of the country, was no longer hers, but that of a goddess. Yes, she was happy,
indeed very happy, but it was a happiness marred by a nagging doubt, a misgiving.
She would sit up in bed with a start, like someone surrounded by a surfeit of
happiness who suddenly hears an approaching sound and looks anxiously in its
direction, waiting.
Ultimately, the nagging doubt replaced happiness with a chilling finality. And not
because Sundar Lai Babu had again started mistreating her, but because he had
started treating her with exceeding gentleness. She din’t expect that from him.
She wanted to be the same old Laju once again, the one who would quarrel over
trifles and then make up in no time at all. Now, though, there was no possibility of
even a quarrel. Sundar Lai had convinced her that she was in fact a lajwanti, a glass
object too fragile to withstand the barest touch. Laju would look at herself in the
mirror, and after thinking long and hard would feel that she could be many things but
could never hope to be the old Laju ever again. Yes, she had been rehabilitated, but
she had also been ruined. Sundar Lai, on his part, had neither the eyes to see her
tears, nor the ears to hear her painful groans. How fragile the human heart can be
— this escaped even the most ardent reformer of the Mulla Shakur neighbourhood.
The early morning processions continued and, machine-like, he joined in the refrain
with Rasaloo and Neki Ram--
Touch the leaves of the lajwanti, They curl and wither away.

(Translated from the original Urdu)

A Note on the Story
'Lajwanti' is a major classic among Partition stories. A woman - centered narrative,
it sensitively and subtly records the pain of Partition. Though written in Urdu, in the
Persjan script, Bedi's language is Hindustani, close to the spoken tongue of ordinary
people in north India. This aspect of his language unfortunately does not get
reflected in translation.
Notes
Rehabilitation committees -- Millions of people including women and children were
rendered homeless, uprooted, and forced to migrate, and thousands were reported
missing by family members in both India and Pakistan during and after the Partition
riots. The governments of both countries launched a massive operation to recover
abducted women and organized relief and rehabilitation programmes to provide
succour to fleeing and incoming refugees. Mridula Sarabhai, a Gandhian and an
eminent social worker, headed the committee for the recovery and rehabilitation of
abducted women.

Boccaccio-- (1315-75), Italian poet and storyteller, author of the famous

Decameron, a book of a hundred tales.
Hindi (Raghuvir Sahay, 'Hindi', tr. Harish Trivedi and Daniel Weissbort, in
K. Satchidanandan, ed., Signatures-- One Hundred Indian Poets, National Book
Trust, New Delhi, 2000, pp. 167-8.)
RAGHUVIR SAHAY
RAGHUVIR SAHAY (1929-90) a versatile Hindi poet, translator, short story writer
and journalist is best known for his five collections of poems including Log Bhool
Gaye Hain (They Have Forgotten, 1982) which won him the Sahitya Akademi
Award. The poet of the common man, Sahay dealt with topics hitherto unexplored
by other Hindi poets. His treatment of women in his works is extraordinarily
sensitive. The marginalization of the average person, hypocrisy of the powers that
be, and the brutish violence that has crept into human life are some of his principal
themes.

We were fighting
a language battle to change society.
But the question of Hindi is no longer simply a question of Hindi — we have lost
out.

O good solther,
know when you're beaten.
And now, that question
which we just referred to in connection with the so-called language battle,
let's put it this way--
Were we and those on behalf of whom we fought the same folk?
Or were we, in fact, the agents of our oppressors — sympathetic, well-meaning,
well-schooled agents?

Those who are the masters are slaves. Their slaves are those who are not
masters.

If Hindi belongs to masters,

then in what language shall we fight for freedom?

The demand for Hindi is now a demand

for better treatment — not rights —
put by the agents
to their slave-masters.
They use Hindi in place of English, while the fact is
that their masters
use English in place of Hindi — the two of them have struck a deal.
He who exposes this hypocrisy will dispose of Hindi's slavery.
This will be the one who, when he speaks Hindi, will show us what simple folk
really feel. (Translated from the original Hindi)

A Note on the Poem

In the poem 'Hindi', written soon after Independence, Sahay expresses his
unhappiness with the political rulers for not assigning the status of the national
language to Hindi. The strong reaction of the poet is representative of the anti-
English sentiment that existed among some groups of people during the period. This
poem is political in nature and is open to different responses and reactions.