thehorrorfaced by those
wholivedand[thosewho
were]murderedby Nazis.
However, many survivors,
theirdescendantsandthe
writers whosawthathor-
rendous crime,haveused
poetryto portraythe terror
anddreadof the Holocaust
intowords.Veryoften, as
we know,poetry servesas
theidealmediumto de-
scribetheemotionaland
personal experiences and
to expressideasthatper-
haps could not be ad-
equately renderedthrough
otherformsof literary ex-
pression. Poetry, in this
case,actsas a powerfulme-
dium in which these
writers could expressthe
inexpressible.”
Expressing the inex-
pressible here are poets
frombothsidesof the geo-
graphical divide. Theyin-
clude luminariessuchas
Akhtarul Iman,Ahmad
Riaz, Agha Shahid Ali, Adil
Jussawala, Sukrita Paul
Kumar, Nida Fazli, Faiz
Ahmed Faiz, Balraj
Komal, Sahir Ludhianvi,
Mohan Rana, Fahmida
RiazandShankhaGhosh,
besides the editors
themselves.
Aftab Husain, incid-
entally, comesup witha
piece of poetry that ex-
presses the widelyheldbe-
lief of Indians and
Pakistanis: they become
onewhen theyleavethe
subcontinent. In “Reunionin a Third Country”, he
talksof Barcelona,where
he metBalbirSingh.“We
hadthreelanguagesat our
disposal to communicate/
But, we found ourselves
speaking Punjabi—our
mother tongue”.Without
shoutingfromthe rooftop,
Husain is ableto point to
language as thebondof
commonality. Religion di-
vides,languageunites.
SaritaJenamanitakes
recourseto melancholyin
herpoem“70yearslater”.
Shewrites:“August does
not let us forget those
maimed and mangled
bodies uprooted and
cleaved fromlife by a verti-
ginous fury/ August is a
month of monsoon and
monsoonbringsa mazeof
hope.”
Particularly unsettling
is the writing of Fazli,
whose ownkithandkin
migratedto Pakistaneven
as he heldsteadfastto In-
dia at the timeof Partition.
Herehe writes, somewhat
laconically:“Onchanging
house,on getting intonew
grooves/many things
break, many things get
lost.”
Leaving onemorefor-
lorn is Komal’s “The
Lonely Girl”:“I’veno one
in the world today, My
mamma, papa,oldersis,/
Mysweet, innocent little
bro,/Theproudraysof my
chastity,/Thesmallhutin
whose lovely shade, I
heardthe tunefullullaby,/
Whilst picking flowers,
singing songs,Andsmil-
ingall thewhile, Nowall
hasgone,I’mleft forlorn/
And nothing stays with
me.”
Thebestworkin the
book, predictably,comes
fromthepenof Fahmida
Riazwhoseoft-read“You
turnedout justlikeus” has
an unusual echo at thistimein India. Thepoet,
who wasuprooted from
her land at one time,
writes: “You turned out
justlikeus/ wherehadyou
beenhidingall thiswhile,
brother?/Thatstupidity,
thatidiocy/ The century
that we whiled away/
knockedat yourdoors at
last/ Congratulations
brother!/Theghostof reli-
gionis dancing/Youwill
establishHindu Raj/You
willmuddleall thethings
up/Youwilldevastateyour
garden/ Youtoo willsit and
thinkit over/All is set I am
sure/Youtoo willpassfat-
was:/Whois Hindu, and
whonot/Lifeheretoo will
be hardto live/Youtoo will
tastethe dust.”
“Silence Between the
Notes”tellsyouonething
loudandclear:the passage
of yearsclears the wayto a
poet’s expression of a
tragedy most profound.
Distancein timeonlyhides
emotions, it doesnotdi-
minish them.
As for Kavita Puri’s
book, shetreadsthepath
unknown, uncharted.
Nobodyhaseverbrought
outthe storiesof South
Asians nowsettledin the
UnitedKingdom. Merely
because their present is
calmandcomposeddoes
notmeantheirpast was
without trials andtragedy.
Kudosto KavitaPurifor
documenting Partition’s
lastinglegacyin Britain,an
ironyin itself.It is a unique
book, onethatliveswith
youlongafterthestories
end.Clearly, whenit comes
to Partition, thereareno
ends, only fresh
beginnings.
As for thosedisplaced
anddispossessedin 1947,
thereis consolation: all of
us are immigrants. All that
mattersis howfar backyou
go in time. $THEPARTITIONOF 1947resultedin thelargest
massmigrationin humanhistory.
THEHINDUARCHIVES