Riots and the bloodbath of hatred
The trains carrying refugees between the two nations would arrive with corpses, their passengers killed en route. They were called blood trains. The soil had soaked so much blood that it was believed that even the fruits on the trees seemed to have the taste of blood.
am the proud granddaughter of the freedom fighter Dr. Lehna Singh Sethi, who fought for our country’s freedom.
Courting arrest for the freedom of the country was as much an honour for the family as for the freedom fighter. The Britishers arrested people at random.
Anyone associated with the freedom movement, even in a small way, could be arrested at any time. Out of the seventeen years that my grandfather participated in the freedom movement, thirteen were spent in jail, though not consecutively.
Dr. Lehna Singh Sethi just before his arrest for his participation in the freedom movement. (1942)
When the announcement about Independence and consequent partition of the country into India and Pakistan was made, not many thought about its implications. Some shifted to India by aeroplanes and trains, carrying only a few of their belongings, certain that they would come back soon when things settled down.
My grandfather was appointed Liaison Officer to evacuate Hindus from Sargodha and the surrounding areas, and send them safely to India. He was offered a salary of Rs. 800 per month, but he refused to accept any remuneration for his work. He said that until now he was in jail and couldn’t do much for his country; now it was his opportunity to serve people. His service would not be a service in the true sense if he accepted money for it.
Migration from both sides of the border started. Every day, military personnel would go with the convoy of trucks to the villages to evacuate the villagers and put them in camps in Sargodha until arrangements were made to send them across the border.
Hindus and Muslims who until now had lived in complete harmony became each other’s worst enemies. Once the carnage started, it was unstoppable and turned out to be the worst bloodshed of all times. It was the biggest movement of people in the history of mankind.
There was unimaginable destruction everywhere. The houses were burned and looted. The rioters dragged people out of their houses, killed men and children, and raped or abducted their women. Mothers handed small packets of poison to their daughters, to be taken if the situation demanded.
The trains carrying refugees between the two nations would arrive with corpses, their passengers killed en route. They were called blood trains. The soil had soaked so much blood that it was believed that even the fruits on the trees seemed to have the taste of blood.
The abducted women were raped or killed. Those women who managed to escape their abductors were forced to live a life of hell because their own families wouldn’t accept them.
On one of the evacuation operations, a Hindu teenage girl was evacuated from a village. Her parents were killed by the rioters, her elder sister was abducted, and the younger sister was missing. She was too shattered to stay alone in a camp. With nowhere else to go, she was given shelter in my grandparents’ house.
Once the carnage started, each day mattered.
The authorities on both sides of the border tried to make this transition a smooth affair. The passes were issued to the residents to cross the border by train. People would start queuing up early in the morning at my grandparents’ house for passes.
The number of passes varied each day depending on the capacity of the train. Everyone wanted a pass at the earliest, each one’s plea more urgent than the others. Widows and children were the first in the priority list. Some women would fake being widows to get the travel pass on priority. When there were more stories of bloodshed in the neighbouring areas, people panicked, their wails filling the house.
My grandfather took a vow that his own family would be the last to leave Sargodha after every single person had left. ‘And they would leave in the same manner as others,’ he said. Despite having government paraphernalia at his beck and call, he didn’t want any special treatment for his family.
Later, the evacuated families were taken to Lahore and finally to Amritsar. One day, on the way to Amritsar, a convoy of trucks carrying the refugees stopped on the GT Road for a few minutes.
One of their neighbours’ eldest son, Amrik Singh, a handsome newly married man, got down in search of water, but he didn’t come back. People in the convoy searched for him for some time, but they couldn’t wait for long. It could be dangerous for everyone, so they left without him. Later, it was learnt that he was killed by hooligans.
Refugees reached Amritsar penniless and homeless. In Pakistan, they had lived in palatial houses, owned properties and had flourishing businesses. Here in the new land, they had to start their life from scratch. How difficult it is for anyone to start afresh in middle age, but there was no choice.
—Sujata Rajpal, Author and Columnist
This post was published on August 14, 2026 7:30 pm