I was 13 years old the first time something from history left a deep impression on me.
At the head of the class was a boisterous woman from south India, describing the Revolt of 1857, the first call for Indian Independence. Tucking the pallu of her sari firmly in at the waist, chalk in hand, she moved swiftly alongside the extent of the blackboard, scribbling notes. She didn’t read aloud from any textbook, but what she did was paint a picture of the Mutiny for us. She spoke with her eyes, her hands and her body. Her voice was passionate, recounting historical events to us the same way one would a bedtime story of great excitement, and we all listened, transfixed.
That was the first time I realised that history could move me, that it belonged to every single one of us sitting in that classroom, that it belonged to me. History was more than fact; it was experiential, it was storytelling. Before that, I had thought it to be an inaccessible realm, one whose web was unravelled only by the elite few who wrote heavy books decorating the shelves of important libraries. And though this is true, what became clear to me then was that I too was a part of that web. I, too, could trace history, that it was available to me. There was no age to being its keeper.
The fading past
And so, in 2013, many, many years after the Revolt of 1857 had been retired to memory, I began my Master of Fine Arts thesis at Concordia University, Montréal, dealing with the Partition of India, whose research would come to span the twin cities of Delhi and Lahore. Being two generations removed from The Great Divide, my project, Remnants of a Separation, grew into the first ever study of the objects that people took with them when they left their homes on either side of the border in 1947. But I was not a historian or anthropologist, nor an expert in the field of Partition studies. I was an artist, a writer. I was interested in what was never taught to us in our textbooks – memories that were never recorded, objects that were forgotten and stories that likely were buried under years of pain, displacement and a carpet of silence. I was a young researcher, curious and interested in keeping memory alive, in archiving it.
I hold this term “memory keeper” close to me now in a way that I never did before. I pour myself into it, empower it with my experiences. During the first few months of my fieldwork in Delhi, I arrived at a realisation that both saddened and inspired me. We live in a fast-paced world and its sheer rapidity makes every moment transient. In some ways, it has conditioned us not to linger, not to delve, but rather to continually progress. However, what has also happened as a by-product of the process, is that the fine balance between future and past has not been retained in the present. We have found ourselves in a moment where the past is slowly fading, the future is fast approaching and our heritage is paying the price.
A man I once interviewed who moved from Lahore to Delhi put it simply and elegantly: “Modern man has gained the world but lost his soul.” The more I observed, the more convinced I became about this premonition – perhaps we are forgetting about this very heritage, this gloriously rich culture, this long history. Maybe we take it for granted, but we are forgetting how to hold onto the minor aspects of life inherent to society; those that bind us to others – conversations, feelings, memories, family, collective histories, community. We no longer spend time with the elders in our house, no longer are interested in folk tales, myths, even language is something that is now largely diluted.
But the realisation inspired me because if there was ever a time to remedy this, it was now. Our past is sacred to us, and coming from a culture of oral tradition and history, it becomes increasingly important to retain every bit of it. And though this is true for every one of us, it is especially true for my generation – those in their 20s and 30s – and for children in schools and colleges. It is important for us to actively participate in the preservation of culture. Not just to learn about and research it via academia, but to become memory keepers of our everyday, to chronicle the passing of time, the banal, the changing nature of society. We are the generation of today – we have a voice and it needs to speak. Not just for what kind of country or culture we aspire to be in the future, but to also celebrate what we have evolved from, the richness of that heritage and to realise how much of it is holding on for dear life.
Historic preservation
The most encouraging step in my advocacy of young memory keepers was when I was introduced to the Citizens Archive of Pakistan. One glance at their website will tell you that they’re a non-profit organisation dedicated to historic preservation, fostering an awareness of history and instilling pride in Pakistani citizens about their heritage.
But this is not all that they are doing. During my short-term research visit to their Lahore office, I became acquainted with the very variety of historian that I had been striving to cultivate through my efforts. Every single person that was either employed or volunteered there appeared to be roughly in the age group of 20-35 years. On interacting with them, I learnt that most of them came from diverse backgrounds and had a real passion for their history. But the most endearing part about this unique institution was that it was truly dedicated to conserving the identity of Pakistan for Pakistani citizens.
Theirs was not a private archive, though it was accessible to all – online, in print, through various social media. Here was a group of people striving to genuinely collate all aspects of culture – be it personal interviews, memories of the Partition, archiving family photographs relevant to the country’s history, documenting private and public libraries, exploration of historical facts and official documents, academic research and developing new systems to seamlessly integrate history into the everyday. Needless to say, I felt at home almost immediately.
What I also felt so strongly about was their work towards minimising the gap between Indians and Pakistanis. More similar than different in our shared histories, there are various projects of Indo-Pak amity on their agenda. One of these programmes is Exchange for Change, which aims to improve relations between students of different countries, thereby reducing prejudice towards the other. And another is the Oral History Project, under which my own research can be categorised, which records memories and testimonials of Pakistani citizens about the past, changing nature of history and, in particular, post-Partition times. Through my travels, I felt the similarity, the shared history, and after my work with them, I was inspired to encourage people to explore these parallels.
On moving back to India from Montréal early this year, I decided to use social media to do the same. As small an effort as it may be, through my blog The Hiatus Project and Instagram I began to post about an array of aspects from the history of the subcontinent – excerpts from books, a short story about, say, the seemingly haunted Tughlaqabad Fort, a note on the dying art of Lippan murals, the making of ancient Indian frescos, some extracts and images from my MFA, the fading nuances of language, obscure words, and many other things. In this fast-moving world, if one can dip one’s toes in history for five minutes out of the whole day, that was enough for me. Soon, people began reading, following, commenting and taking the initiative to do the same – exploring their personal and collective histories. In some ways, what Citizens Archive of Pakistan was doing on a collective, organised level in Pakistan, I began to on a very small scale in my hometown of Delhi.
I am an advocate for the democratisation of history, but on that note, I must add that it is important to understand the nature of collected memory. When it comes to collating this information, it is necessary to imbibe it within a theoretical framework of the social, political and economic context of the time. Memory becomes a driving force in preserving the history of a place, but its very nature is malleable – it changes with the passing of time, becomes romanticised, and at times, fictionalised.
It’s true, we must own our history, we must delve into it, explore its expanse and share it. But we must also understand that the experiences of one do not always make the experiences of many. And so, as we learn about our personal narratives, we must also learn to develop ways to assign them to a larger collective context. The word research often claims the scholarly and pedagogical, and though some forms of it are, research can also be conducted in other, more informal ways.
Since the inception of my project is within the parameters of the Partition, I am inclined to take it as an example – if every grandchild sat with their grandparents and talked about their story of migration, recorded it, preserved it, wouldn’t that inevitably address the notion of silence around 1947? Wouldn’t we be able to appreciate and understand the sacrifices that our ancestors made for us to be where we are today? Wouldn’t it automatically create an incredible database of raw memory that is the very foundation of post-Partition entrepreneurship, migration, resilience, and incredible strength? Wouldn’t that bridge the generational gap, if only for a few hours, if only for one conversation between a grandparent and a grandchild? Wouldn’t it aid the construction of first-hand experiential knowledge for children in school only beginning to be acquainted with our past? Wouldn’t it make every one of us empowered by being the keepers of our own history?
Every single one of us, young or old, have a responsibility towards our history. We must act as its reservoirs, fill ourselves with the memories of ancestors, their stories, their longing, their lessons and their triumphs. Furthermore, we must endeavour to add to that database with our perceptions of the world, binding our memories to theirs. One day, we will be history and these records will become our legacy, an archive of our lives, all that will remain for subsequent generations to piece together their lineage. For our lives have never been our own, they belong so much to the world around us, to those that come before and those that come after.
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At the head of the class was a boisterous woman from south India, describing the Revolt of 1857, the first call for Indian Independence. Tucking the pallu of her sari firmly in at the waist, chalk in hand, she moved swiftly alongside the extent of the blackboard, scribbling notes. She didn’t read aloud from any textbook, but what she did was paint a picture of the Mutiny for us. She spoke with her eyes, her hands and her body. Her voice was passionate, recounting historical events to us the same way one would a bedtime story of great excitement, and we all listened, transfixed.
That was the first time I realised that history could move me, that it belonged to every single one of us sitting in that classroom, that it belonged to me. History was more than fact; it was experiential, it was storytelling. Before that, I had thought it to be an inaccessible realm, one whose web was unravelled only by the elite few who wrote heavy books decorating the shelves of important libraries. And though this is true, what became clear to me then was that I too was a part of that web. I, too, could trace history, that it was available to me. There was no age to being its keeper.
The fading past
And so, in 2013, many, many years after the Revolt of 1857 had been retired to memory, I began my Master of Fine Arts thesis at Concordia University, Montréal, dealing with the Partition of India, whose research would come to span the twin cities of Delhi and Lahore. Being two generations removed from The Great Divide, my project, Remnants of a Separation, grew into the first ever study of the objects that people took with them when they left their homes on either side of the border in 1947. But I was not a historian or anthropologist, nor an expert in the field of Partition studies. I was an artist, a writer. I was interested in what was never taught to us in our textbooks – memories that were never recorded, objects that were forgotten and stories that likely were buried under years of pain, displacement and a carpet of silence. I was a young researcher, curious and interested in keeping memory alive, in archiving it.
I hold this term “memory keeper” close to me now in a way that I never did before. I pour myself into it, empower it with my experiences. During the first few months of my fieldwork in Delhi, I arrived at a realisation that both saddened and inspired me. We live in a fast-paced world and its sheer rapidity makes every moment transient. In some ways, it has conditioned us not to linger, not to delve, but rather to continually progress. However, what has also happened as a by-product of the process, is that the fine balance between future and past has not been retained in the present. We have found ourselves in a moment where the past is slowly fading, the future is fast approaching and our heritage is paying the price.
A man I once interviewed who moved from Lahore to Delhi put it simply and elegantly: “Modern man has gained the world but lost his soul.” The more I observed, the more convinced I became about this premonition – perhaps we are forgetting about this very heritage, this gloriously rich culture, this long history. Maybe we take it for granted, but we are forgetting how to hold onto the minor aspects of life inherent to society; those that bind us to others – conversations, feelings, memories, family, collective histories, community. We no longer spend time with the elders in our house, no longer are interested in folk tales, myths, even language is something that is now largely diluted.
But the realisation inspired me because if there was ever a time to remedy this, it was now. Our past is sacred to us, and coming from a culture of oral tradition and history, it becomes increasingly important to retain every bit of it. And though this is true for every one of us, it is especially true for my generation – those in their 20s and 30s – and for children in schools and colleges. It is important for us to actively participate in the preservation of culture. Not just to learn about and research it via academia, but to become memory keepers of our everyday, to chronicle the passing of time, the banal, the changing nature of society. We are the generation of today – we have a voice and it needs to speak. Not just for what kind of country or culture we aspire to be in the future, but to also celebrate what we have evolved from, the richness of that heritage and to realise how much of it is holding on for dear life.
Historic preservation
The most encouraging step in my advocacy of young memory keepers was when I was introduced to the Citizens Archive of Pakistan. One glance at their website will tell you that they’re a non-profit organisation dedicated to historic preservation, fostering an awareness of history and instilling pride in Pakistani citizens about their heritage.
But this is not all that they are doing. During my short-term research visit to their Lahore office, I became acquainted with the very variety of historian that I had been striving to cultivate through my efforts. Every single person that was either employed or volunteered there appeared to be roughly in the age group of 20-35 years. On interacting with them, I learnt that most of them came from diverse backgrounds and had a real passion for their history. But the most endearing part about this unique institution was that it was truly dedicated to conserving the identity of Pakistan for Pakistani citizens.
Theirs was not a private archive, though it was accessible to all – online, in print, through various social media. Here was a group of people striving to genuinely collate all aspects of culture – be it personal interviews, memories of the Partition, archiving family photographs relevant to the country’s history, documenting private and public libraries, exploration of historical facts and official documents, academic research and developing new systems to seamlessly integrate history into the everyday. Needless to say, I felt at home almost immediately.
What I also felt so strongly about was their work towards minimising the gap between Indians and Pakistanis. More similar than different in our shared histories, there are various projects of Indo-Pak amity on their agenda. One of these programmes is Exchange for Change, which aims to improve relations between students of different countries, thereby reducing prejudice towards the other. And another is the Oral History Project, under which my own research can be categorised, which records memories and testimonials of Pakistani citizens about the past, changing nature of history and, in particular, post-Partition times. Through my travels, I felt the similarity, the shared history, and after my work with them, I was inspired to encourage people to explore these parallels.
On moving back to India from Montréal early this year, I decided to use social media to do the same. As small an effort as it may be, through my blog The Hiatus Project and Instagram I began to post about an array of aspects from the history of the subcontinent – excerpts from books, a short story about, say, the seemingly haunted Tughlaqabad Fort, a note on the dying art of Lippan murals, the making of ancient Indian frescos, some extracts and images from my MFA, the fading nuances of language, obscure words, and many other things. In this fast-moving world, if one can dip one’s toes in history for five minutes out of the whole day, that was enough for me. Soon, people began reading, following, commenting and taking the initiative to do the same – exploring their personal and collective histories. In some ways, what Citizens Archive of Pakistan was doing on a collective, organised level in Pakistan, I began to on a very small scale in my hometown of Delhi.
I am an advocate for the democratisation of history, but on that note, I must add that it is important to understand the nature of collected memory. When it comes to collating this information, it is necessary to imbibe it within a theoretical framework of the social, political and economic context of the time. Memory becomes a driving force in preserving the history of a place, but its very nature is malleable – it changes with the passing of time, becomes romanticised, and at times, fictionalised.
It’s true, we must own our history, we must delve into it, explore its expanse and share it. But we must also understand that the experiences of one do not always make the experiences of many. And so, as we learn about our personal narratives, we must also learn to develop ways to assign them to a larger collective context. The word research often claims the scholarly and pedagogical, and though some forms of it are, research can also be conducted in other, more informal ways.
Since the inception of my project is within the parameters of the Partition, I am inclined to take it as an example – if every grandchild sat with their grandparents and talked about their story of migration, recorded it, preserved it, wouldn’t that inevitably address the notion of silence around 1947? Wouldn’t we be able to appreciate and understand the sacrifices that our ancestors made for us to be where we are today? Wouldn’t it automatically create an incredible database of raw memory that is the very foundation of post-Partition entrepreneurship, migration, resilience, and incredible strength? Wouldn’t that bridge the generational gap, if only for a few hours, if only for one conversation between a grandparent and a grandchild? Wouldn’t it aid the construction of first-hand experiential knowledge for children in school only beginning to be acquainted with our past? Wouldn’t it make every one of us empowered by being the keepers of our own history?
Every single one of us, young or old, have a responsibility towards our history. We must act as its reservoirs, fill ourselves with the memories of ancestors, their stories, their longing, their lessons and their triumphs. Furthermore, we must endeavour to add to that database with our perceptions of the world, binding our memories to theirs. One day, we will be history and these records will become our legacy, an archive of our lives, all that will remain for subsequent generations to piece together their lineage. For our lives have never been our own, they belong so much to the world around us, to those that come before and those that come after.