Jo bolega sukhi hoyega bol Sada Shiv! This chant signaled the end of the pooja and aarti, and also meant it was time for that very special Prasad made by her- thaadal. But I had to wait, till I broke my fast.

In those hot, sticky August days a cold glass of thaadal was like nectar to parched souls. It didn’t help either that I was a young girl of 13 doing her very first chaumasa fast. And to top it off it was Naanis thaadal.

Chaumasa poojas were always special. Held every Monday afternoon in our colony temple it felt like a festival. The shiv ling would be given a bath, and then decorated with pretty flowers and chandan by equally well dressed ladies. Katha would follow and then we would go into the aarti which would be sung with so much gusto( or hunger) that even the rain Gods would send us a little rain to cool us off.

In my little mind the temple bells that rung during the aarti were a sign for every household that thaadal was on the way. Sure enough a line would form outside of maids with containers and glasses in their hands eagerly waiting for their share.

And naani would begin her process, washing the buckets, pouring milk out of the the plastic thelis into the buckets,(cut very carefully so they could be used for storage again) and then creating magic.
Naani always kept all her thaadal making utensils separately. She had a special cheesecloth potli for her thaadal masala, the scent of which brought promises of something delicious everytime. Into the milk the potli would go, flavouring, infusing, settling into every little drop as if mocking all those waiting dabbas and glasses with glee. Finally those dabbas and glasses would be filled and satisfied the crowds would return home.

Back at Naanis home, we would get ready to break our fast. Along with all of Naanis delicious cooking we would each get a glass of thaadal. Even though I would fill up on the feast, I always had place for a glass, for that glass was filled with love that was unlike any other- Naanis love for bholenaath. Milky, sweet, delicately flavoured with a mix of unique spices, lightly colored with a hint of saffron- thaadal- no one made it the way Naani did!

Bol Sada Shiv!!

I was instructed to call her “Badi Mummy”—I was told this directly translated to “Big Mom”—a concept I understood solely in English as “Grandmother.”

I met Badi Mummy, my paternal grandmother, for the first memorable time when I was five. I had heard that she was really nice but I remember her being mostly mean, at least from my first impression of her. Of course, I could not understand a single word she spoke, so whether there was kindness in the meaning of words was negligible to me because somehow I managed to hear only frustration in her tone.

Neither could Badi Mummy understand me. Being raised in an English-only household for most (if not all) of my life has created a disconnect between me and what this entire blog initiative represents. This disconnect needs to be mitigated. My parents—both (proudly) Bhagnari—used Hindi and Bhagnari while I was growing up for one of two purposes: when they didn’t want me to know what they were saying, or, on long distance phone calls home to their birthplace.

Meeting Badi Mummy felt abrupt mostly because it was. A new person, a new language, a new culture, a new city, a new country, a new face, a new place. Everything new, everything unfamiliar. At the age of five, suddenly being told the unfamiliar person in front of you is your grandmother—and then not being able to communicate with her—is a fact of my past that has always felt unsettling and guilt-inducing.

Everyone is supposed to like their grandmother. How could I like my grandmother if I couldn’t even understand her? They say love is a universal language but what does that actually mean to a confused, wide-eyed five year old?

Most of my stories of my Bhagnari identity, in actuality, are stories of my not being Bhagnari (enough) and are therefore stories of my attempts to approximate myself to an unknown. An unknown that I am somehow supposed to naturally relate to because it runs through my veins.

Today what runs through my veins is endangered and thus, my contributions to this blog are equally in the hopes of preserving our community’s collective memories as much as in the hopes of preserving bits and pieces of myself.

The first time I came to India was when I was conceived, of which I have no recollection.

The second time I came to India, I also have no recollection of. I was one or two and I had come because my maternal grandmother had passed away and my family needed to pay a visit. I never acquired a term to regard my maternal grandmother because I unfortunately never needed language for that purpose. She died before I could speak, before I could meet her, before I could speak to her, before I possessed a concrete identity—more facts of my past that have always felt unsettling but less guilt-inducing.

The third time I came to India was when I was five and I remember a few things. But not everything. This prose comprises a (funny) story of Badi Mummy and I getting lost in translation:

I had walked with my dad from Kataria Colony in the morning to a place called Govind Nivas which was apparently where my dad had grown up. He dropped me off at Govind Nivas and I found myself in a room within an unknown place—apparently referred to as a flat—suddenly under Badi Mummy’s sole care. I remember some of the interactions that transpired but only vaguely. She didn’t seem to smile much and everything she said confused me, in a frightening way because she clearly wanted me to understand what she was saying. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t fulfill my grandmother’s desire. Her language confused me. Not knowing what she was saying made me fearful. I felt trapped. I felt alone.

Nobody was there to translate so I kept listening to her to no avail. Suddenly, I heard a familiar word that every child would naturally get excited about. My eyes lit up. “Tum cookie chaiye?” I had no idea what “tum” and “chaiye” meant but my recognition of the word “cookie“ (spoken through an accent) inspired a smile to spread across my face. I don’t remember if I also produced the word “yes” or maybe even “haan” but Badi Mummy vanished into the kitchen. I happily awaited the arrival of Oreos or Chips Ahoys.

After a few minutes, Badi Mummy emerged with something that looked nothing like any cookie I had ever known. It was flat, really big, warm, and tasted salty. Yuck. I had wondered why she had brought me a tortilla and I moved the steel plate to the side and said a universally-understood “no.” Badi Mummy made a sincere frown and pressed her hand against the air in my direction—a universally-understood gesture to wait. She turned on the TV and disappeared into the kitchen again.

I sat there watching Tom and Jerry and this time, she emerged after ten minutes with a proud smile on her face and presented me with the exact same tortilla, except this time, it was not warm but hot. I started to cry and around this time my dad came back. He seemed concerned and asked me why I was crying.

“Badi Mummy promised me cookies and she keeps bringing me these instead.” My dad, the translator, started to laugh and said something quickly to Badi Mummy who also started to laugh. Them laughing, me crying, and these strange, flat cookies occupied the room—this flat called Govind Nivas.

“Sahil, these are called ‘khoki,’” my dad explained, “I used to eat these for breakfast.” He looked at my face and continued, “But we can get you cookies. in India we call them ‘biscuits.’”

Badi Mummy got up and brought from the kitchen a slew of biscuits.

In this trip, I learned what khoki was (something which I wouldn’t like until becoming older). I learned about Parle-G, Marie, Hide and Seek, Bourbon and Nice biscuits…cookies that I would rarely encounter when back in the US. In this trip, I learned the translanguaging of love, from my grandmother to her grandchild. It’s an experience I’ve been processing and reprocessing even after Badi Mummy’s death.

I was nearly a teenager and my family was in our home in San José, California. We were watching a Bollywood movie in our living room that rainy night. (I was reading the subtitles throughout.) My sister and I were seated on the carpet and each parent on one couch. It was late at night, yet the phone rang. My dad paused the movie and left to answer it. His tone was sober and the call seemed short. He returned and said something in Hindi (or Bhagnari?) to my mom. She acknowledged what he said and he promptly pressed play and then my sister leaned towards me and out of nowhere whispered, “I think Badi Mummy died.” I’ve never understood what force of intuition existed for my sister to perceive this. Maybe she had understood their interaction.

I glanced at my dad’s face as I thought about how Dada, his dad, had passed just the year prior. It all felt so recent, but also so distant. I analyzed my dad’s face and he looked like someone who was sitting in a very warm room. His skin looked moist and red and his eyes looked somewhat in-between dry and moist.

“Dad?” He paused the film. My tactless pre-teen self blurted out, “Did Badi Mummy die?” I asked, echoing my sister’s words, now to my dad, in the form of a question. As if it were my question to own. As if it were his question to field. I remember him nodding stoically and returning to press play.

I can’t remember what film we were watching. I don’t know if he can either. But every time I eat khoki today, since it is something I enjoy more than I should (considering I don’t yet know how to make it) I remember to honor Badi Mummy who whipped up a fresh batch just for me. She’s not someone I knew well and quite honestly, not someone I ever grew to like (a guilt that will die with me) but I come from her and she loved me the way she could best.

The story of our migration has been traced down from panchayat reports dated between 1948 and 1955. Our forefathers  were natives of Bhag and Nari of Kalat province, Baluchistan. For economic and religious reasons, they migrated during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.  This was their first migration, they dispersed – north to Punjab, east to Jacobabad and Sukkur, south to Karachi and Hyderabad Sind. Our ancestors were firm believers of Dharam and Freedom these became the cause of early migrations. Early migrants had to face numerous hardships due to lack of modern transportation. They then came to be known as ‘Kutchiwals’, a lingo that has continued for the residents of those places to date.

Those that stayed at Jacobabad kept up their entity and those that stayed at Shikarpur, Sukkur and Punjab merged into local population. Those that came to Hyderabad Sind and Karachi called themselves “Bhagis” as they were mostly from ‘Bhag’. Some that came from ‘Nari’ called themselves ‘Nariwais’. Ultimately, both joined and called themselves ‘Bhagnaris’.

All those who stayed in Hyderabad gradually moved to Karachi leaving none behind. In Karachi the clan was spread over Pamoo Dalai Street, Soldier Bazar, Camp Karachi and Dhobi Ghat. Gradually they all shifted to Pamoo Dalai Street, Napier Quarter which later came to be known as Bhagnari Street. The population gradually spread to Chainamal Street and Mohmed Shah Street.

Our ancestors worked very hard to establish themselves. Starting from petty businesses they rose to become big businessmen and contractors. There were 4 Justices of Peace and more than eight gun and revolver license holders in the community. The language which we speak at our homes is called ‘Bhagnari’. This language is also spoken with very slight change in several parts of upper Sind and is known as ” Siraykee “. It is also spoken in Bhawalpur, Multan, Dhera Gazi Khan, Dhera Esmail Khan, parts of Baluchistan and Kandhar. It is known in some places as ‘Multani’ or ‘Dherayee’ language.

In 1947, when our community was well established and most of our people were happy and contented, we were hit by the unfortunate partition of Mother India. This time the migration was swift and en masse. In January 1948, dazed, utterly shaken and uprooted, we marched on to our new destination leaving behind us, our ancestral pro­perty, our homes, businesses, Mandirs, schools, everything.

As all Hindus wanted to migrate at the same time, passage became difficult. People were getting butchered in the trains and air passage was limited. The only route left was sea. Obtaining tickets for this route was an expensive affair. The Panchayat organized help and distributed tickets to batches, helped some with money and ultimately succeeded in complete migration leaving only 3 to 4 souls out of a population of 2,000. It was a critical time when each one   thought of himself. There had been 2 deaths of our members having been murdered in cold blood (Seth Seth Newandram Issardas and Janglimal Gulumal). On 8th January looting had begun in our area, Pamoo Dalai Street, but by good luck and tactful handling by some of the Panchayat Office-bearers it was curbed in time.

At Karachi, we had built up Panchayat properties such as Hall, Bathing Ghat, Shiva Temple, Gum Nanak Darbar, Laxmi Narayan Temple and ‘Kanyashala’. We were able to dispose off through untiring efforts of our President all but only one Panchayat building used for our ‘Kanyashala’. It will not be out of place to mention that Shri S. T. Gehl helped the then President to his best of ability to execute this task. With a last sad look towards Sindhu Desh and particularly Karachi—we began our journey halting at places like Baroda, Rajkot, Naysari, Anand, Surat, Ahmedabad, Nagpur, Delhi, Allahbad, Poona and Jodhpur but most of us turned towards Bombay. It appeared as those we were making Bombay our permanent home, Bhagnaris from all other settlements had started flocking to Bombay.

As far as the Panchayat was able to ascertain, about 2,000 bhagnaris reached Bombay, 2 members of the community had gone missing in transit. No trace of them was found. Some Bhagnaris had put up outside Bombay. About 6 families had rooted themselves in Rajkot. While some settled in Kurla, some in Chembur, Matunga and Kalyan Camps. Post the early days of the partition death rates were heavy. This was attributed to various reasons such as: mal-nutrition due to poverty, unemployment, fear and worry and camp life and altered unsuitable conditions leading to nervous breakdowns.

While settling down at Bombay-in the early days-we thought our day of Deliverance had come. But our hopes and aspiration and dreams were shattered to bits. Instead of sympathy, tolerance and warmth, we were met with cold stares, heavy prejudice and even hatred. Surrounded by difference of language, customs, tradition, local culture, manners, behaviour and socio-moral and economic environments, we had to pay heavy and unbearable price for rehabilitation in the form of Pugree, goodwill-rent-allotments, ejections and etc. Let us not unfold this sorry chapter. The community is forever greatful to Late Shri T. H. Kataria (may his soul rest in peace) and others who saved many of us from ejectments. Relief was organized in money and material to those in need.  

As the bulk of Bhagnaris settled up at Mahim, Bombay, the tradition of our Panchayat life began to revive. In the beginning of 1948, Panchayat system was inaugurated and after holding several unofficial meetings, the first large representative gathering was held on 24th April, 1948. Education for the youth started to come back on track, they settled into matrimony and the population steadily grew. There was an increasing number of male students completing their secondary education and a growing eagerness for higher education amongst the females. The ‘Panchs’ of the Community played a crucial role in organising events and funds to keep people together.

In the years that came, God was kind and from a mere 2,000 that came from Karachi, we are as the world sees us today, a multifacted family spreading it roots globally. We stand tall, proud of our traditions (and of course KHATTI DAL), always ready to lend a shoulder to one another! Asaan Bhangari!