The partition of Bharat and Pakistan was more than just a division—it was a deep wound inflicted overnight by Britishers, the pain of which still lingers. Lacking instant communication, many realised the impact only years later. While some had a choice to migrate, others were forcibly displaced or killed. Those who came to Bharat found freedom, but those left behind in Pakistan faced restrictions, with generations still bearing the burden of that fateful division.
Even today, thousands of Pakistani Hindus migrate to Bharat, seeking dignity and religious freedom. Many endure years of struggle, renewing visas while awaiting citizenship, often leaving family members behind. Over the decades, such migrations have become common, with these displaced families settling in different parts of Bharat. One such place is Jodhpur in Rajasthan, where many families have lived for 40 to 50 years. Those who migrate from Pakistan tend to gravitate towards Jodhpur, making it a hub for Hindu refugees.
Recently, Organiser visited Gangana village, located on the outskirts of Jodhpur. Here, a large settlement of over 2,500 Pakistani Hindu families struggles to rebuild their lives. Many work as laborers in fields, some as masons, while their women also contribute to household incomes by taking up various jobs. But what about their children?
These children are admitted to schools based on their passports, as they lack any other identity documents. This correspondent visited one such government school in Gangana village, run by the Rajasthan Government Education Board. What makes this school unique is that over 99 percent of its students are Pakistani Hindu children. Though it was never meant to be an exclusive school for them, over time, their numbers have grown, shaping its identity.
At first glance, the school resembles any other government school in Bharat. A small playground, sandy ground, and a one-room setup for anganwadi. Inside the compound, trees were watered through drain pipes. When this correspondent arrived, it was almost recess time. Mid-day meals were being distributed—rotla (thick chapati) and a vegetable dish. The classrooms were packed, with some teachers present and others missing. Each classroom could accommodate around 40 students.
The principal’s office was well-equipped with a printer, photocopy machine, air conditioner, CCTV cameras, screens displaying classroom visuals, and computers. Since the principal was unavailable, a teacher named Savita Ji, who has been teaching higher grades for the past three years, agreed to speak.
Savita Ji explained that the school provides education up to the higher secondary level, offering arts subjects for grades 11 and 12. “Students are admitted based on their passports. Their education and results are treated like any other child in Bharat. But for them to work in Bharat, they need citizenship,” she said.
Most students speak Hindi or Marwari, so language is not a major barrier. However, since they come from Pakistan, Urdu is a part of their previous curriculum, and adjusting to Hindi takes time. A bigger challenge, she pointed out, is that many girls were never enrolled in school while in Pakistan. In Rajasthan, students are placed in grades according to their age, making it difficult for some to catch up. But with time and support, they adapt.
When asked if the students face psychological stress due to migration—just as children struggle with even minor relocations within a country—Savita Ji responded, “There isn’t much time to dwell on it. They are very adaptive and have already accepted migration as a part of their reality. So, there’s no significant burden, especially for older students. In lower grades, there may be some issues, but they are managed through a mix of studies and play.”
The school has around 1,200 students, of whom more than 99 percent are Pakistani Hindu migrants.
As the correspondent entered the classroom, nearly 22–25 students were seated. A question was posed by her: “How many students have come from Pakistan?” Out of the twenty-odd students, only six were from India; the rest had migrated from Pakistan. This pattern was not unique to this classroom—almost every class in the school had a similar composition.
Speaking about their experiences in Pakistan versus their new life in India, a male student who had studied there until Class 7 in Pakistan shared, “It was almost the same, but we have more freedom here. The education was similar, things were good, but my family was here, so I came.” Some students recalled their early migration, mentioning that they were as young as five, two, or three years old when their parents moved to India.
In contrast, all the girls in the class revealed that they never attended school in Pakistan. One girl explained, “We had to cover our heads regardless of being Hindu.” She further added, “We weren’t allowed to put bindis. We used to wear hijabs whenever we went to school.” Another girl from Class 9, who once lived in the Sijora Sinjo area, recalled that Urdu was the primary language taught in schools there.
The conversation deepened as the students discussed their past lives. “Do you like it more here or did you like it better there?” the correspondent asked. A girl child responded, “It feels better here. My parents say so too.” When asked what their parents had told them about Pakistan, another student added, “They say there was a lot of suffering there.”
A discussion about their aspirations followed. “What do you want to become when you grow up?” One girl confidently said, “I want to serve India as an IPS officer.” Another added, “I want to become an IAS officer.” Someone else said, “I want to be a doctor.”
A student who studied in Pakistan until third grade mentioned the name of her school: “Citizen School System,” located in a village called Ghodo. “Now that you’re studying here, what differences do you see?” the correspondent asked. She replied, “Over there, they taught Urdu and Sindhi, but here, Hindi is more important. I like it better here.”
Another girl shared her experiences of school in Pakistan. “Over there, I had to cover my head when going outside.” When asked why, she said, “If we didn’t cover our heads, people would say it wasn’t proper. Also, they used to teach a lot of Islamic prayers in school.”
Correspondent: “Did you celebrate Holi there?”
Student: “No, never. On Holi, we usually had exams.”
Correspondent: “Exams on Holi?”
Student: “Yes, and there was no concept of colors or festivities in school. But here, Holi was amazing! We celebrated at home too, and it was great fun.”
A girl who had studied at Aga Khan School in Karachi shared, “My father was a driver there and used to drop me off at school. My brother also studied there.” When asked if she was required to cover her head, she said, “No, not there, but in many places, it was compulsory.”
Another student mentioned that Hindu and Muslim girls alike had to cover their heads due to the risk of kidnapping. A girl named Yasmeen, when asked about studying with so many Pakistani children in India, said, “No, they’re all good kids.”
When asked about temples in Pakistan, a student said, “There weren’t many temples, mostly mosques. We hardly ever went to temples.” Another child added, “We saw videos on Facebook showing temples being destroyed. Over there, Muslims are in the majority, and they made us recite the Kalma. I still remember it—’La ilaha illallah Muhammadur Rasulullah.’”
The children were also asked if they would have had the same dreams if they had stayed in Pakistan. One girl hesitated before saying, “I don’t know. Probably not. My elder sister is still in Pakistan. Half my family is there. She was married off when she was just 13 years old. My father saw our future and brought us to India so we could study.”
Another girl added, “My mother and father used to tell us that in Pakistan, girls were not sent for higher education. That’s why they brought us here. I don’t remember much about Pakistan because I was only two years old when we left. But I am grateful to be here. Now, I can fulfill my dreams.”
The correspondent also spoke with parents of the students, one of them Sujaan Ji, a Bhil by caste, came to India in 2010 from Pakistan and was granted Indian citizenship in 2021. His ancestral village was located near the border, just three kilometers away.
Sujaan Ji explained that he and his family endured immense hardships in Pakistan. As Hindus, they were subjected to relentless pressure to convert, often hearing, “Come to our religion; it is the straight path to paradise.” They were not allowed to practice their faith freely—children couldn’t be educated in regular schools, and even Hindu girls had to wear hijabs in public. Festivals like Holi and Diwali had to be celebrated in secrecy, as even an accidental splash of color on a Muslim could lead to accusations of disrespecting their religion. If India won a cricket match, they would face beatings.
He recalled an incident from his childhood when he witnessed the destruction of the Rama Pir temple in Tando Allahyar. “It was a grand temple, housing idols of all deities, including Hanuman Ji and Hinglaj Mata. The entire structure was demolished, and we, the local Hindus, were the ones who cleared the rubble,” he said with pain in his voice.
Despite these struggles, leaving was not an easy decision. He had built a livelihood in Pakistan, running a small grocery and vegetable business. He also traded dried red chilies, buying them directly from farms and selling them in larger markets. However, all his assets—worth crores in today’s value—remained unsold and abandoned when he left for India.
When asked if he ever considered returning to Pakistan, he firmly responded, “Not even once. Life here is far better. Following Hinduism and living as a Hindu in Pakistan is nearly impossible. The situation there is so dire that I cannot even openly talk about it because I still have relatives there who could suffer consequences. People are abducted, silenced—anything can happen.”
As the correspondent stepped out of the school, the midday meal was being served. The children, warm and welcoming, invited the correspondent to join them. Seated among them, it was evident how deeply they had embraced their new home. These children now proudly sing India’s national anthem, calling Bharat their land, a choice their ancestors had longed to make decades ago.
Their parents, however, shared the painful reality of migration. Even today, moving to India is not easy. The Pakistani government, they said, plays cruel tricks to prevent families from leaving together. If a family of five applies for visas, only four will be granted permission, often leaving behind an elderly member or an infant. The purpose? To make migration as difficult as possible and to silence those who have left, ensuring they cannot speak freely about their experiences.
Despite these challenges, many families and their children still dream of coming to India, waiting for the day they can finally live with dignity, in a land where they can see their temples standing tall, in all their true grandeur.
As the correspondent took leave, the students came together to sing Albelo India, a folklore sung by those departing Pakistan for India—an emotional farewell, a promise that they would never return to the land they once called home.
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