Seventy-four years on, how has India dealt with Partition? The cleave, which many an idealist had thought would be an amicable one with the two countries co-existing in peace and tranquillity, has been marred by violence - of a military kind, certainly, but also, on a very basic level, of a popular kind, the variety that had its roots in events like Jinnah's Direct Action Day in 1946. Popularly told stories talk to us about how Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs all lived together in bonhomie pre-Partition; the truth is slightly more complicated, if one exists at all: they co-existed peacefully and happily in most cases, and in very specific circumstances. Rioting was always a popular sport in India, and mixed marriages weren't accepted gracefully (so we all know where the Hindu and Muslim radicals of India in 2021 get their ideas).
In Manreet Sodhi Someshwar's Lahore, the most admirable quality is its desire to locate some element of truth to what happened in the weeks and months leading up to August '47. In the times we live in, Someshwar would have found it easiest to just lump the violence on the RSS and HMS, with the Sikh groups thrown in for good measure, or on the Muslims - basically assign exclusivity to who was responsible. What we get instead is a measured depiction of violence as perpetrated by the Muslim League, spurred on by their leader's proclamations of the previous monsoon. That isn't to say that the book is Islamophobic, or that it berates only the League, but it seeks to place the blame as it should be placed.
It's a daring thing for a writer to do, especially in an atmosphere where people are quick to label you, where a contrarian view is not entertained (applies to both sides).
The novel, straddling common-people activities in Lahore and politicking in Delhi, is a packed piece - the sprawling cast of characters goes from the likes of a demobilised Johnny and a railway clerk to Nehru, Patel, and Mountbatten.
It's in the former narrative that it works best - ordinary people from different walks of life, in different stages of age, combatting a situation that is almost incomprehensible. You feel a sense of urgency in the narrative, the push-pull nature of a situation that is worsening not day-by-day but hour-by-hour, of the multiple characters who are all, to some extent, trying to put off a fate you know awaits them purely because you - the reader - know what happened.
In writing the politicians, Someshwar is on steady footing whilst tackling Patel, an enigmatic realist of a politician if there ever was one, the foil to Nehru. She has the deftness of Patel down pat, and the man himself was such an interesting anomaly among the numbers who formed our political crux in the 40s that a sense of literariness is almost natural to him. Tougher to execute is Nehru, perhaps because so much has been made of the man, so much has been read of him. Nehru's domination over India's political scene for the 50s was such that he feels stale, and the writing doesn't serve him as well as it does Patel. This is still okay, considering the deal Mountbatten gets: the narrative really unravels in dwelling upon this figure of history, India's last Viceroy and first Governor General. It's quite boring, really, and Mountbatten's obvious interest in Edwina and Nehru's relationship is poorly written.
I also wish Someshwar had found a better way to weave the multiple Mahabharata references into the narrative; as they sit in their present state, they're far too on the nose, constantly calling attention to themselves.
Whenever the book steps away from Lahore, it feels like a history lesson. When it stays in the city from which it takes its title, it flourishes. And that's what it really should have done because it's in the struggles of Beli Ram and Pammi that Lahore's real narrative lies, not on the lawns of the Viceroy's House and in the bungalows of Lutyens'.