TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY MADHAVI JAIN
Gurgaon, Haryana, India
This story is written in collaboration with The Milap Archives
As a child, one of my favourite hobbies was to sit next to my parents or grandparents as they went through old photographs, letters, objects they had collected or memorabilia that they had inherited, and ask them questions about where it came from, who it belonged to and how it got here.
I was seven years old when I first truly grasped the story of my great-grandparents and their role as freedom fighters, contributing to India’s independence. While I’m sure this story had been discussed around me countless times before, it was at that age when it really sank in. The elders often reminded my cousins and me of the struggles our ancestors endured, struggles that paved the way for us to be raised in an India with a democratic and secular foundation. It served as a reminder that the freedom we experience today as citizens was not always a given, and it hadn’t always looked the way it does now.
On one such afternoon, while looking through keepsakes which my grandparents had stored carefully, my eyes met an object too shiny to be ignored by an ever-curious child growing up in a household full of stories.
With unmistakable pride, my father told me, “This is a mini-Quran from the days of Partition.” While some people today would be surprised by the presence of the Islamic Holy Book in a Jain household, what truly stunned me was its size, for it stood at just about 3 cm tall! The silver case it came in was only slightly bigger than the book itself, and it was beautifully embossed with a floral design on both sides. It made a staccato-clicking sound on being opened and shut. Inside, a red cloth cover with gold calligraphy provided a safeguard to the verses inside. The pages look almost stamped, but in many cases, particularly for miniature sacred texts from the 19th and early 20th century, the verses may have been painstakingly handwritten by expert calligraphers and then reproduced using lithography.
When I first saw it, I could hardly believe my eyes, but understood it was precious, particularly because of the careful way my father handed it over for me to see. He also made me understand why it was significant— that it was an artefact that connected my family’s story to the story of the nation. As a child, I wondered how something that was important to the millions of people in India could possibly be sitting in my father’s cupboard all this time. But I also knew that I’d never before seen anything of such enormous importance be so breathtakingly dainty and beautiful.
Its beauty, however, was the least interesting thing about it. During and after the partition, Delhi had seen violent riots that caused roughly two-thirds of the city’s Muslim inhabitants to leave the capital city. In Delhi, 10,000 Muslims were killed in the riots of 1947 and about 44,000 homes were abandoned. With the arrival of about half a million refugees from Punjab and Sindh, the city had transformed geographically and anatomically.[i] Many refugees arriving on trains, bullock carts and on foot had never seen Delhi before; many who left would never see it again.
Amidst this conflict and catastrophe, my great-grandfather and freedom fighter, Phool Chand Jain, whom we call Babaji, along with other members of his family, took on the task of rebuilding, rehabilitating and rescuing those in dire straits. Born in Delhi, Babaji was the first-born of Milap Chand Jain and Mehtab Devi, who were jewellers in Dariba, Chandni Chowk. But growing up in colonial India, Babaji lost interest in the family business and decided to join the Delhi Congress, inspired by MK Gandhi and his comrades from the Hindustan Socialist Republican Association.
Having witnessed enough turmoil growing up in Old Delhi, from the assassination attempt on Lord Hardinge in Chandni Chowk linked to the Delhi-Lahore Conspiracy Case of 1912 to the torture Babaji endured while imprisoned in the step-well of the Red Fort, he had seen the depths of struggle. But even for him, the Partition riots were shocking and unprecedented. The fabric of Chandni Chowk was largely syncretic, with mosques, gurudwaras, temples and Jain sthanaks co-existing in the area. However, life here – like in many parts of a once undivided India – had changed forever.
Babaji was married to Chameli Devi Jain, or Ammaji, who became the first Jain woman from her neighbourhood to be imprisoned for burning a pile of British clothing in Chandni Chowk. Together, the couple became a formidable part of the freedom struggle. During the riots of 1947, Babaji was a prominent leader of the Delhi Congress and arranged for municipality trucks to clear rubble, debris and dead bodies from the streets of Old Delhi.
His son and my grand-uncle L.C. Jain wrote about this experience of the riots in Delhi in his book Civil Disobedience. This poignant and impactful instance narrated in the book captures the everyday horrors which my family members and those around them, confronted — “There were more dead bodies to be removed, but we could not do it. We used to get nightmares. We had to wash our hands 3-4 times before we ate. From time to time, there were soul-shaking experiences. On one occasion, we had loaded a body onto the truck. The people watching from above shouted that they saw a hand moving. So we climbed up and watched. For a while, nothing happened, just the buzzing of flies over the dead bodies. Then, suddenly, one hand moved. It turned out to be a man who had pretended to be dead because he feared that we had come to kill. He said, ‘Don’t kill me.’ We said, ‘No, we are friends.’ We brought him down . . . put a chaddar on him . . . We gave him water.”[ii]
My family was threatened for being non-communal during this highly communal period. Even though there were attempts to intimidate us, Babaji refused to yield to majoritarianism and unnervingly stood his ground. Another excerpt from L.C. Jain’s book recalls an incident where a mob demanded a gun from him to kill Muslims (Some local leaders, including Babaji, were given guns for protection). Even though the mob threatened to burn down our house if we did not hand over the gun, he didn’t budge.[iii]
It was during this time of turmoil and unrest that Babaji came into the possession of this beautiful Quran. From the stories passed down from him, we know that he was given this by someone whose identity has been lost to time. But what is certain is that it was a symbol of faith amidst the tragic loss of lives and the pain of separation from one’s homeland and family. Perhaps whoever gave it to him was going into hiding or to the refugee camps, maybe even across the newly-made border, and they believed that in handing this one precious object over to Babaji, it may be kept safe, when life itself was uncertain.
I wonder about this sometimes, whether they had hoped to come back when it was safer, whether that was why Babaji kept this object safe and regarded it with such reverential value. While it is difficult to answer these questions today and find out who bequeathed him this mini-Quran for safekeeping, it reminds us of a time when camaraderie had more to do than just one’s religion. This mini-Quran was one of millions of such objects that were left behind with chosen caretakers, sometimes for decades and sometimes, forever.
For many years, my parents and grandparents have kept this holy book safe from damage and treasured it as an heirloom. I will admit, they were even skeptical of handing it to me to take pictures. “You must keep it very carefully, and wrapped in cloth,” my grandmother instructed. “Do not let it get any scratches,” my father warned. This made me realise what this mini-Quran has come to mean for my family — it is a reminder of the many ordinary lives, including my great-grandparents as well as the original owners of this Quran, who courageously stood against the oppressive colonial rule in India and fought to retain its syncretism. It is a reminder of the cost of hatred and the power of standing against it.
When I turned 25 last year, I took on the task of preserving the oral history of my family and launched Milap Archives, named after Babaji’s father, Milap Chand Jain. Here, I write about a rich tapestry of items that bring our family’s history to life: cherished books and letters, invaluable memorabilia, old photographs and videos, televised interviews, and remnants from the partition era. These pieces, each with its own story, collectively paint a vivid picture of a time that shaped not only our family’s identity but also the identities of countless others whose lives were intertwined with the struggle for independence.
This mini-Quran holds a unique place in the Milap Archives — a testament to the syncretic character of Delhi, the city where my cousins and I were born and raised, studied and worked, and which continues to shape us every day. Along with the other artefacts in the collection, this mini-Quran serves as a way for me to understand my family’s history and my own story. It helps me reflect on where we come from and provides a sense of direction for where we should go next. More importantly, it enables me to preserve the rich oral history of my ancestors, of fighting for syncretism and freedom, ensuring that when my niece and nephews grow up, they will have a tangible connection to their roots and a legacy that shapes who they are.
[i] Deborah Ruth Sutton, Masjids, monuments and refugees in the Partition city of Delhi, 1947–1959. Published online by Cambridge University Press: 19 January 2022. https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/urban-history/article/masjids-monuments-and-refugees-in-the-partition-city-of-delhi-19471959/72CF91AB4678C508FE897F92284442B2
[ii] L.C Jain, Civil Disobedience: Two Freedom Struggles One Life.The Book Review Literary Trust (1 January 2011), p. 59
[iii] Ibid, p.62