When We Lit Lamps Together: Interfaith Participation Before Partition

 

Hello, everyone. I want you to close your eyes for a moment and imagine a landscape. We are in the plains of the Punjab or perhaps the dusty stretches of Sindh, three centuries ago. You see a grand festival approaching. There are lights, music, and a sea of people. Now, let me ask you: Who do you think is celebrating?

If you looked at the modern map, you might expect a clear answer—a Muslim festival, a Hindu rite, or a Sikh gathering. But if we stepped into that pre-colonial world, that question wouldn't just be hard to answer; it would almost be meaningless. You would see a Muslim merchant lighting lamps for Diwali, a Hindu peasant beating his breast in a Muharram procession, and a Sikh devotee seeking a blessing at the tomb of a Sufi saint.

Today, we are going to explore a lost world—an "entire civilization of co-existence," as the historian Mushirul Hasan called it. We will trace how the fluid, porous boundaries of the past were systematically hardened into the rigid, often exclusionary identities we see today. We are going to look at how "fuzzy" identities became "enumerated" ones, and how a culture of shared sacred spaces was fractured by the tools of the modern state.

 

The Pre-Colonial Landscape: A World of "Fuzzy" Boundaries

To understand where we are, we must first understand where we were. Before the arrival of British colonial administration, religious identity in South Asia was not the "zero-sum game" we often assume it to be. The anthropologist Harjot Oberoi describes this period as having "fuzzy" religious identities—identities that were not monolithic, homogeneous, or unitary.

Imagine religious practice not as a set of fenced-off boxes, but as what Richard Eaton calls a “cultural complex” where multiple traditions interfused. In the everyday life of a Punjabi or Sindhi villager, ritual worlds overlapped constantly.

Was there a place where everyone met on common ground?

Absolutely. The dargahs (Sufi shrines) were the ultimate pluralistic spaces. Take the shrine of Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai in Sindh. Historical records from the early 20th century show that Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs all met there, especially during anniversary celebrations. Or consider the shrine of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar in Sehwan Sharif. The poet Sachal Sarmast famously described it as a place where "Hindu and Muslim, there is no difference... all drink from the same cup".

This wasn't just limited to Muslim spaces. In Balochistan, the Hinglaj Mata temple—a Hindu site—attracted Muslim devotees who would make vows to the goddess and fulfil them with offerings side by side with Hindus.

How was this possible? How could people participate in the "other’s" rituals without losing their own identity?

The answer lies in the conceptual framework of the time. The elite practiced religious accommodation, but for the common person, it was about unneighborly affection and community harmony. As historian Muzaffar Alam notes, the ethical universe of that era allowed for multiple affiliations; a person could be a devotee of a Sufi saint while still maintaining Hindu ritual practices.

Listen to the words of the Punjabi Sufi poet Bulleh Shah:

"Destroy the mosque, destroy the temple... But do not destroy the human heart, for that is where God resides".

When the poet Kabir asked, "If God lives only in the mosque, then to whom does the rest of the world belong?" he wasn't just being poetic; he was reflecting the lived reality of millions.

 

The Festival as a Shared Stage

Perhaps the most vivid evidence of this syncretism was the way people celebrated. In pre-colonial Punjab, Diwali was a community affair, not just a Hindu one. Mughal court records show emperors from Akbar onwards participating in Holi, throwing rang (colored powder). In the towns of Punjab, Muslims weren't just spectators at Diwali; they were active participants, lighting lamps alongside their Hindu neighbors.

Conversely, the mourning rituals of Muharram were deeply inclusive. In the 1830s, the traveler Alexander Burnes observed Hindus in Sindh joined in the mourning, even beating their breasts in the processions. In cities like Lucknow and parts of Punjab, Hindus even built and maintained tazias—the decorative structures used in the processions.

What changed? Why does this sound so alien to us now?

 

The Colonial Transformation: The Hardening of Hearts and Boundaries

The shift didn't happen by accident. It was the result of a fundamental epistemic shift brought about by the British colonial project.

The British arrived with a desire to categorize and control. They brought with them the Census of India, starting in 1871-72. This wasn't just a simple count of people; it was what Nicholas Dirks calls the "ethnographic state". For the first time, Indians were required to identify with a single religious category.

Can you imagine the confusion?

In the 1881 census, the colonial administrator Denzil Ibbetson admitted it was "impossible to draw a hard and fast line" between Hinduism and Sikhism, but he insisted that "for administrative purposes we must classify people". By demanding a single choice, the British transformed a fluid landscape into rigid communal identities. This is what Bernard Cohn calls the "colonial knowledge project"—the British didn't just describe Indian society; they changed it through the very act of describing it.

But the state wasn't the only actor. In response to colonial categorization and Christian missionary activity, internal reform movements began to emerge. In the Sikh community, the Singh Sabha movement sought to define a "pure" Sikhism, purged of Hindu elements. They argued that practices like participating in Hindu festivals were "un-Sikh". This culminated in Kahn Singh Nabha’s 1898 tract, Ham Hindu Nahin (We Are Not Hindus)—an argument that would have been almost incomprehensible just a century earlier.

Simultaneously, the Arya Samaj promoted "shuddhi" (purification) campaigns, seeking to reclaim converts and defining Hindu practice in direct opposition to Muslim customs.

What was the result of this "purification"?

The historian Kenneth Jones tells us that communal festivals, once sites of cooperation, became sites of competition. By the late 19th century, Muharram processions and Ram Lila performances began to follow competitive routes, with each community seeking to demonstrate its numerical strength and territorial control.

The political system added fuel to the fire. The Morley-Minto Reforms of 1909 introduced separate electorates, meaning Muslims voted for Muslims and Hindus for Hindus. This institutionalized religious identity as the primary basis of political life. Now, if you were a politician, you didn't need to appeal to everyone; you only needed to mobilize your "own" community.

The tragedy of this shift is best seen in the "music before mosques" controversy. A practice that was once tolerated—Hindu processions playing music while passing a mosque—became a flashpoint for bloody riots in the 1920s and 30s. As Gyanendra Pandey notes, these weren't "ancient hatreds"; they were products of colonial constructions of community.

 

The Case of Muharram: A Microcosm of Change

Let’s look at a specific case study to see how this played out. If we compare Muharram in the 18th century to the 20th century, the transformation is staggering.

In the early period, it was a community event with cross-communal mourning and shared maintenance of sacred structures. By the 1940s, it had been transformed into a marker of distinct Muslim identity. Reformist movements actively discouraged Hindu participation, and the very routes of the processions became contested territory. It was no longer a shared ritual of grief; it was a political statement of presence.

 

Partition: The Final Rupture

All of this—the census, the reform movements, the political divisions—culminated in the Partition of 1947.

Partition wasn't just a political border; it was a violent rupture of cultural memory. In Punjab, the violence was horrific. Neighborhoods where people had celebrated festivals together for centuries were transformed into "killing fields" where religious identity became grounds for murder.

What happened to those shared sacred spaces?

They became symbols of communal ownership. Families fleeing to India spoke of the heartbreak of no longer being able to visit the Sufi shrines they had frequented, while Muslims in Pakistan mourned their lost access to Hindu temples.

In the newly formed state of Pakistan, especially in the Punjab, the near-complete population exchange made the pre-colonial pattern of interfaith participation structurally impossible. You cannot have a shared festival if your neighbors are gone. As Ayesha Jalal points out, the demographic homogeneity of Pakistani Punjab severed the cultural memory of shared celebrations.

 

Post-Partition Pakistan: The Minority Experience

As Pakistan moved forward, its legal and constitutional framework further shaped these dynamics. The gradual Islamization of the legal system, particularly under Zia-ul-Haq in the 1980s, marginalized minority participation in public life. The introduction of the Hudood Ordinances and stricter blasphemy laws created an atmosphere of caution.

Where did the festivals go?

They became privatized. Hindu and Christian celebrations moved from public processions into the safety of homes and private temple courtyards. The vibrant, public intermingling of the past was replaced by a quiet, cautious existence.

Are there remnants of the old world left?

Despite the overwhelming pressure of the modern state and communal politics, some syncretic traditions have proven remarkably resilient. In Sindh, the shrine of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar still attracts Hindu devotees, even if in reduced numbers. In rural areas, some traditions of participating in each other’s festivals continue at the local level, though they are often hidden from official view. At Uderolal, a shrine complex houses a mosque and a temple within the same premises, attracting Hindus and Muslims together.

Consider Navroz, the Persian New Year. Historically, it was celebrated by Parsis, Muslims, and Hindus alike in Sindh. While reform movements like the Deobandis issued fatwas declaring it "un-Islamic," it persists today among Ismailis and Shias, and in places like Gilgit-Baltistan, it still attracts some Sunni participation at the community level.

Then there is Data Darbar in Lahore, the shrine of Ali Hujwiri. Once sacred to Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs alike, it remains a site of immense popular devotion. While it has become overwhelmingly Muslim due to demographic changes, it still represents a thread of continuity in a landscape of rupture.

Analytical Conclusions: Why Does This History Matter?

As we conclude, we must ask ourselves: What does this history teach us about the present?

First, it proves that religious boundaries are not primordial or fixed. They are historically contingent and politically constructed. The "distinct" Muslim, Hindu, and Sikh communities we see today are not ancient categories that have always existed in this form; they are products of specific historical processes—census ledgers, reformist tracts, and political electorates.

Second, it highlights the powerful role of the state. The colonial census didn’t just count people; it created the communities it claimed to count. State projects of classification shape how we understand our very selves.

Third, we see the dialectic of reform and tradition. Many religious reform movements, while trying to resist colonialism, actually internalized colonial logic. They accepted the idea that "purity" meant separation, and in doing so, they suppressed the very syncretic practices that had allowed for peace.

Finally, we must acknowledge the tragedy of lost memory. The violence of Partition didn’t just kill people; it killed a way of being. The idea of shared festivals in Punjab became "literally unimaginable" after 1947.

So, is the past a blueprint for the future?

Perhaps not. We cannot simply jump back to the 18th century. However, this history serves as evidence that other configurations are possible. It reminds us that communal division is not an "ancient hatred" or an inevitable destiny.

The regions of Punjab and Sindh once hosted a culture where participation in another tradition’s ritual didn't negate your own identity; it expressed the multivalent nature of lived religion. Religious identity was once just one of many overlapping loyalties—to a caste, a region, or a saint—rather than the primary political marker it is today.

Understanding this history is a powerful tool. It allows us to look at the rigid walls of the present and realize that they were built by human hands—and that which was built can, perhaps, be reimagined.