Tag Archives: history

Coventry: A Migrant City in the Making

12/21/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

As we approach another year-end in this season of merriment and reflection, and on the shortest day of the year, when daylight is most precious, many of us find time to catch up on projects long left pending. For me, this has meant returning to research into the city of Coventry.

While working on a chapter that uses photographic history to explore migration patterns, I’ve been reading Life and Labour in a 20th Century City: The Experience of Coventry, edited by Bill Lancaster and Tony Mason (1986). The chapter on ‘Migration into Twentieth Century Coventry’ revealed two significant threads: the presence and influence of the Irish Catholic community, and Coventry’s emergence as home to a South Asian community. At the same time, it also revealed the prevalence of racism then, which is comparable to the anxieties that are expressed today. Pages 71-76 are particularly illuminating in linking the political discourse and public fears of the post-war generation to contemporary shifts in British society.

The Myth of 1930s Cosmopolitanism

Coventry in the 1930s was often described as cosmopolitan, but this characterisation was somewhat misleading. Although the population was mixed, with migrants rising to 40% by 1935, most of these newcomers came from other UK regions. This trend continued throughout the war and the immediate post-war period. By 1951, while the overwhelming majority of Coventry’s citizens were of UK origin, some change was also evident.

The Irish Presence

The 9,993 Irish residents counted in the 1951 census marked a significant new wave of migration after the war. Although Irish regiments were often stationed at Coventry barracks and contributed labour during the early 20th century, the local Irish community remained small—only 2,057 in 1931. Nevertheless, this population grew rapidly during the construction boom of the 1930s.

By the end of the Second World War, the streets around St. Osburg’s and St. Mary’s churches had taken on a unique Irish character. These inner-city neighbourhoods, filled with lodging houses and multiple-tenant buildings, and close to Roman Catholic churches, became popular stopping points for itinerant construction workers or individuals looking for factory jobs.

The growth of Catholicism in Coventry during the 20th century reflects both the expansion of the Irish community and their commitment to preserving their religious identity. Interestingly, two current Catholic churches in Coventry cater specifically to European congregations: the Polish and Ukrainian communities.

The South Asian Community and Racial Prejudice

By 1954, the small wartime Indian community had grown to about 4,000 people. Described as a “quiet, peace-loving ethnic minority,” they mainly settled in the older, rundown housing around Foleshill Road. Like many other migrants, they sought to preserve their culture and identity. In October 1952, Muslim members of the community submitted a request to the Planning and Redevelopment Committee for dedicated burial grounds and land to build a mosque.

Although small in numbers, Coventry’s Indian community was nonetheless affected by the growing racial prejudice across Britain. In October 1954, reports emerged that local estate agents were enforcing a colour bar. The week prior, the Coventry Standard published a troubling editorial — not the work of a biased junior reporter, but the newspaper’s primary editorial position:

The presence of so many coloured people in Coventry is becoming a menace. Hundreds of black people are pouring into the larger cities of Britain, including Coventry, and are lowering the standard of life. They live on public assistance and occupy common lodging houses to the detriment of suburban areas. They are frequently the worse for liquor, many of them addicted to methylated spirits, and live in overcrowded conditions, sometimes six to a room.

Lancaster and Mason observe that by the early 1950s, this racism had spread across a wide range of Coventry society. The Standard also reported that a branch of the AEU had contacted Elaine Burton, Labour MP for Coventry South, about the issue. This hostility is particularly notable given that the “coloured minority” made up less than 1.5% of Coventry’s population and, as Stephen Tolliday demonstrates elsewhere in the book, did not threaten the employment of local factory workers.

A City of Newcomers

By 1951, Coventry was mainly a city of recent arrivals, with estimates suggesting that only 30-35% of its population were born there. Many of the newcomers quickly left due to difficulties in finding housing or employment. A study noted that in 1949, 18,000 new residents moved to Coventry, while 17,000 people left.

Moreover, Coventry was hardly a melting pot. In addition to racial prejudice, residents were often unwelcoming to newcomers. Friendships and social networks usually aligned with regional and ethnic backgrounds, with clubs, pubs, and religious groups serving specific migrant communities. Ironically, Coventry’s long-standing identity as a migrant city since the early century may have reinforced the aloofness of the remaining native population – the latter is still palpable in the city’s streets and people.

The 1961 census revealed that the 1954 estimate of Asians in Coventry was inflated. New Commonwealth migrants made up only 1.5% of the population, whereas 6.1% was from Eire and Northern Ireland. The flow of migrants from the new Commonwealth was minimal rather than overwhelming. However, between the 1961 census and the so-called mini-census of 1966, significant shifts in migration into Coventry occurred, shifts that would help shape the political rhetoric around immigration for decades to come.

Echoes of the Past

Reading the 1954 Coventry Standard editorial today, with its language about people “pouring in” and becoming a “menace,” makes it impossible not to hear echoes that resonate in British political discourse. Just fourteen years later, on April 20, 1968, Enoch Powell, Conservative MP for Wolverhampton South West, gave his infamous “Rivers of Blood” speech at a meeting of the Conservative Political Centre in Birmingham nearby. Powell heavily relied on letters and anecdotes from the West Midlands, predicting that communities would be “foaming with much blood” because of Commonwealth immigration. His apocalyptic language gained traction in a region that was experiencing real demographic change, even though the scale was often exaggerated by fear and prejudice.

Coventry’s history shows a striking pattern: a persistent disconnect between perception and reality regarding migration. In 1954, ‘coloured’ migrants made up less than 1.5% of Coventry’s population and were described as a menace and a threat to living standards. By 1961, the actual numbers were even lower than the overestimated figures. Despite this, anti-immigrant sentiment gained strength, reaching a peak with Powell’s speech, which appeared to validate fears that years of evidence had shown to be unfounded.

This kind of hostile and often racist political rhetoric continues to thrive today. When Nigel Farage displayed his “Breaking Point” poster in 2016, depicting a line of refugees, or when he claims to feel “like a foreigner in my own country” and warns that migration levels are “unsustainable,” he uses a similar approach: heightening anxiety about cultural change while often distorting the scale and effects. Words such as invasion, being “overwhelmed,” and threats to “our way of life”—these expressions form a continuous thread from that 1954 editorial through Powell to Farage.

Coventry’s historical record is particularly valuable because it allows us to compare predictions with actual outcomes. The threat predicted in 1954 never came true. There was no bloodshed or violence. Despite the panic, racial barriers, and inflammatory editorials, and despite migrants constituting less than 1.5% of the population, Coventry’s diverse communities—Irish, South Asian, Polish, Ukrainian, and others—became an integral part of the city. They did not pose the threats to jobs or living standards that were claimed. Indeed, the post-war boom would not have been possible without this labour migration into the city.

Coventry’s history shows that demographic change is neither easy nor without real challenges. However, the most provocative rhetoric often surfaces during times of economic uncertainty. The true story of Coventry, a city that has been profoundly shaped by migration as it continues to evolve and develop.

As we enter the new year, with migration remaining one of the most contentious political issues in Britain, Coventry’s history offers a lesson worth heeding: our fears of newcomers have consistently proved more destructive than the newcomers themselves. How can we learn from the past without repeating the same anxieties and prejudices?

References:

Ewart, H. (2011). “Coventry Irish”: Community, Class, Culture and Narrative in the Formation of a Migrant Identity, 1940–1970. Midland History, 36(2), 225–244.

Lancaster, Bill and Mason, Tony (eds), Life and Labour in a Twentieth Century City: The Experience of Coventry. Coventry: Cryfield Press, 1986.

Virdee, Pippa. Coming to Coventry: Stories from the South Asian Pioneers. The Herbert, 2006.

India, Short Essays

Rediscovering Kamala Markandaya’s ‘The Nowhere Man’

11/02/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

Kamala Markandaya (23 June 1924–16 May 2004), pseudonym of Kamala Purnaiya, married name Kamala Taylor, occupies a distinctive position in the landscape of South Asian literature. Born into a prominent Brahmin family in Mysore, India, she graduated from Madras University and established herself as a significant voice through short stories published in Indian newspapers. In 1948, shortly after independence, she uprooted herself and moved to London with literary ambitions, and thus straddled between two worlds – East and West – and also the transitional era from the colonial to the post-colonial.

Her first novel, Nectar in a Sieve (1954), introduced readers to her unflinching examination of rural poverty and resilience and became a bestseller. The title of the novel is taken from the 1825 poem ‘Work Without Hope’, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge”

Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live.

This epigraph establishes a thematic preoccupation that would recur throughout Markandaya’s work: the question of what sustains individuals when hope seems futile, when effort appears wasted, and when displacement renders purpose elusive.

A Voice of the Indian Diaspora

According to Sunita Rani’s critical assessment, ‘Kamala Markandaya, a pioneer member of the Indian Diaspora occupies an outstanding place among the Indian women novelists writing in English… In a wider context, she comes under the umbrella of third world post-colonial writers.’ This positioning is crucial to understanding Markandaya’s unique contribution: she wrote from the margins, giving voice to experiences of displacement, cultural alienation, and the psychological toll of migration long before diaspora literature became a recognised genre.

Writing at a time when British literature was still predominantly white and male, and when post-colonial voices were only beginning to emerge, Markandaya carved out a space to explore the immigrant experience with psychological depth and nuance. Her attention to the internal lives of her characters, their negotiations between cultures, and their struggles for dignity in hostile environments marked her as a writer of considerable sophistication and empathy.

The Story of Srinivas

The Nowhere Man tells the story of Srinivas, who embodies the rootless existence its title suggests. After spending two-thirds of his life in England—during which he sacrificed a son to war—this Indian immigrant finds himself heckled by racist hoodlums and ultimately driven to his death. The tragedy of his situation is compounded by temporal irony: he has lived in England for thirty years, yet remains perpetually “foreign,” a restless, rootless individual stripped of both his Indian heritage and denied full acceptance into British society.

As Rani observes, ‘He is bewildered as to where he belongs: he has lived in England for thirty years and yet became a rootless, restless individual disposed of India and disowned by England. He represents millions of men who, for some reason or other leave their own roots and fail to strike roots in alien soil and die as rootless, restless individuals.’

Srinivas’s predicament speaks to the fundamental existential crisis of the immigrant: the loss of one identity without the gain of another, the perpetual state of being in-between. His thirty years in England count for nothing in the eyes of the racist youths who torment him; his decades of contribution, his sacrifice of a son to Britain’s war effort, cannot purchase him belonging. Markandaya captures with devastating clarity how racism reduces a lifetime of lived experience to nothing more than the colour of one’s skin.

Cultural Neglect and Critical Oversight

What makes the novel’s obscurity particularly striking is that it addresses themes that should have resonated powerfully in 1970s Britain. As Emma Garman writes in the introduction to the new reprinted edition, ‘writing ahead of one’s time risks cultural neglect, and The Nowhere Man was all but ignored on its publication.’ The novel confronted uncomfortable truths about race, belonging, and British society’s treatment of immigrants at a crucial historical moment – an era marked by increasing racial tension, the rise of far-right politics, and heated debates about immigration.

The 1970s saw the growth of the National Front, the implementation of increasingly restrictive immigration laws, and incidents of racial violence across Britain. The Nowhere Man spoke directly to these realities, yet British readers and critics seemed unwilling or unable to engage with its challenging portrait of their society. Perhaps the novel was too close to the bone, too unflattering in its depiction of British racism and xenophobia.

Garman picks up the inter-generational tension in Markandaya’s work, when newly-wed Laxman brings his wife Pat to stay at Srinivas’s home for a week, he feels embarrassed by his parents’ perceived lack of sophistication—their appearance, dress, and English. His father’s valiant attempts to fit into an awkward social environment reveal the painful immigrant experience that Markandaya captured so effectively. Garman notes how the ‘conflict and sense of separation that can arise between first and second immigrant generations would, thirty years later, be explored to great effect in Zadie Smith’s White Teeth and Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake. But at the time Markandaya was writing, it was a subject few novelists had confronted.’ Yet her pioneering work went largely unrecognised, until perhaps its re-discovery through the new edition in 2019.

A Precursor to Contemporary Voices

Perhaps the most intriguing element of The Nowhere Man‘s neglect is how its outsider perspective—particularly its diagnosis of British society through the eyes of ‘a woman and a foreigner’—felt disconcerting to 1970s readers. Garman asks whether this dual marginalization could help explain the novel’s commercial and critical neglect?

Better known for her American success, Markandaya found her adopted home, Britain, a tougher market, yet she remained committed to exploring themes of cultural displacement. Garman shows how Markandaya ‘blamed the inevitable snobbishness towards an author from a former, and very recent, British colony.’ Again suggesting someone who was ahead of her time and working on the edges. And ‘perhaps discouraged by the reaction – or rather the lack of reaction – to her harrowing portrait of modern Britian, Markandaya returned to India for the setting of her subsequent four novels.’

Historically, Markandaya occupies a fascinating position: falling between the canonical generation of V.S. Naipaul (b.1932) and later Salman Rushdie (b.1947), and those who came before her such as R.K. Narayan (b.1906) and Mulk Raj Anand (b.1905). It was perhaps Ruth Praver Jhabvala (b.1927) that remained her most literary contemporary.

Her work on diaspora and displacement anticipated the themes that would define the later writers. Her work, particularly The Nowhere Man, deserves recognition as a precursor to contemporary diaspora literature—a pioneering exploration of identity, displacement, and the meaning of home that speaks with renewed urgency to our current moment.

And given the political rhetoric around nationalism in contemporary Britian, this makes for pertinent reading as a story which is set in 1968, the year of Enoch Powell’s ‘River of Blood’ speech, should resonate so much with our times today. Srinivas’s story remains tragically relevant, a reminder that the struggles for acceptance and dignity faced by immigrants are neither new nor resolved.

References and further reading:

Nasta S, Stein MU, eds. Disappointed Citizens: The Pains and Pleasures of Exile. In: The Cambridge History of Black and Asian British Writing. Cambridge University Press; 2020:193-310.

Nasta S. 1940s–1970s. In: Osborne D, ed. The Cambridge Companion to British Black and Asian Literature (1945–2010). Cambridge Companions to Literature. Cambridge University Press; 2016:23-39.

Rani, Sunita. “Probing Identities Amid Racial and Cultural Conflicts: Kamala Markandaya’s The Nowhere Man and Some Inner Fury.” Literature & Aesthetics 20, no. 1 (2010).

Harrex, S. C. (1971). A Sense of Identity: The Novels of Kamala Markandaya. The Journal of Commonwealth Literature, 6(1), 65-78. https://doi.org/10.1177/002198947100600108 (Original work published 1971)

Manoj Kumar Hemane and Mahindra Kumar H Fulzele. Endurance and Displacement: The Ethical Vision in Kamala Markandaya’s Novels. International Journal Research Engish. 2025;7(1):415-417. DOI: 10.33545/26648717.2025.v7.i1g.365

Short Essays

Exploring the Legacy of William Morris: Art, Design, and Socialism

09/30/2025 Pippa 2 Comments

I first encountered William Morris (1834–1896) during my A-levels when I was studying Art, a subject that was always my first choice before I gradually gravitated toward politics and history. There, among images of densely patterned wallpapers and tapestries, I discovered not just a designer but a complete philosophy about how we should live, work, and create. His influence on my thinking has never waned.

A Victorian Polymath

Morris was born into a wealthy Essex family and discovered his passion for medievalism while studying classics at Exeter College, Oxford. There he befriended Edward Burne-Jones, beginning associations with Pre-Raphaelite artists including Dante Gabriel Rossetti and architect Philip Webb. Webb designed Red House for Morris and his wife Jane Burden, where they lived from 1859 to 1865.

Morris was a Victorian polymath, designer, poet, novelist, translator, and socialist activist, but what makes him extraordinary is how seamlessly he wove these identities together. For Morris, there was no separation between art and life, between beauty and utility, between the aesthetic and the political. This holistic vision, radical in the 1880s, feels remarkably relevant today.

Beauty and Utility

His central belief was disarmingly simple: have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful. This wasn’t about minimalism or austerity. Rather, Morris argued for a world where everyday objects, the chairs we sit on, the curtains at our windows, the cups we drink from, should be thoughtfully crafted and beautiful. He despised the shoddy mass-produced goods flooding Victorian Britain, seeing them as symptomatic of a deeper malaise: a society that had separated workers from the joy of creation.

John Ruskin profoundly shaped Morris’s thinking, particularly through “On the Nature of Gothic Architecture” in The Stones of Venice, which Morris called “one of the very few necessary and inevitable utterances of the century.” From Ruskin, Morris adopted the rejection of industrial manufacturing in favour of hand-craftsmanship, elevating artisans to artists and advocating for affordable, handmade art without hierarchies between mediums.

The Arts and Crafts Movement

The Arts and Crafts movement that Morris championed was fundamentally about human dignity. He believed that factory production degraded workers, turning them into mere cogs in a machine, repeating mindless tasks divorced from creativity or pride. His vision of craft-based production wasn’t nostalgic romanticism, it was a radical reimagining of labour itself. Work, he insisted, should be a source of fulfilment, not merely survival.

In 1861, Morris co-founded Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Co. with Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Webb, and others. The firm revolutionized Victorian interior design through Morris’s tapestries, wallpapers, fabrics, furniture, and stained glass, becoming hugely fashionable. Morris took sole control in 1875, renaming it Morris & Co.

His nature-inspired designs, those sinuous stems, intricate flowers, and medieval-influenced patterns, remain ubiquitous, adorning everything from Liberty fabrics to contemporary homeware. But beyond their aesthetic appeal, they represent Morris’s deep respect for the natural world, another aspect of his thinking that speaks urgently to our moment.

Socialism and Community

Morris’s socialism was no drawing-room affectation, it was passionately lived. In 1883, he joined the Social Democratic Federation before founding the Socialist League, throwing himself into street-corner speeches, organizing meetings, and even facing arrest for his activism. He surrounded himself with radical thinkers and artists: Eleanor Marx, daughter of Karl Marx, became a close comrade; Edward Burne-Jones remained his lifelong friend and artistic collaborator despite occasional political tensions; and his Kelmscott Press brought together craftspeople and intellectuals committed to beautiful, accessible books.

Morris’s utopian novel News from Nowhere painted his vision of a future society without class distinctions, where work was voluntary and joyful. For Morris, socialism and craft were inseparable, both were about human liberation, about creating conditions where everyone could develop their creative capacities rather than being crushed by poverty or soul-destroying labour.

An Enduring Legacy

What captivates me most is how Morris’s ideas transcend their Victorian context. Today, as we grapple with fast fashion, planned obsolescence, and the environmental costs of endless consumption, Morris’s call for quality over quantity resonates powerfully. His emphasis on sustainability, making things that last, that can be repaired, that connect us to makers and materials, feels prescient.

Morris wasn’t without contradictions. His handcrafted goods were often too expensive for ordinary people, despite his socialist convictions. Yet his fundamental questions endure: What is good work? How do we create a society where everyone can flourish? How do we balance beauty, utility, and justice?

Nearly 130 years after his death (3 October), William Morris remains an important figure for many, reminding us about sustainability, equity, compassion, and the beauty of the everyday objects that surround us.

Pakistan, Partition, Poetry Corner, Short Essays

Reimagining Punjab Through Ustad Daman’s Poetry

08/15/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

During the writing of my book, “From the Ashes of 1947: Reimagining Punjab,” I endeavoured to incorporate some of the poetry and literature that encapsulated the emotions and sentiments of the aftermath of the Partition of Punjab. My intention was to highlight the contributions of Ustad Daman, a lesser-known figure in certain regions of South Asia but a significant figure for many, particularly in Lahore, the city of his birth. As another year passes and we inch towards the 80 years of the Partition, his work assumes a heightened relevance in the contemporary context.

Ustad Daman, whose real name was Chiragh Din, hailed from Lohari Gate within the historic old city of Lahore. His father was a tailor who owned his own small shop. His elder brother, Feroz Din, joined his father in managing the business, but young Chiragh had no inclination to pursue the family trade. Instead, he harboured aspirations for education and a clerk’s position. He attended school, but this did not result in a clerk’s job. Disappointed, he returned to tailoring and established his own shop. However, his heart was truly captivated by poetry. He would abandon his shop to attend poetry readings. Inspired by his mentor, Ustad Hamdam, he adopted the pseudonym Damdam, but later changed it to Daman. (Source: Apnaorg)

The pivotal moment came when he received his first payment for reciting poetry in a public gathering. This marked the commencement of his journey as a poet. Initially, Daman composed poetry on conventional subjects, such as matters of the heart. However, as the independence movement gained momentum prior to partition, political themes began to permeate his poetry. Daman was a member of a group of traditional Punjabi poets who would recite poetry extemporaneously, while their pupils maintained the records. This tradition earned them the title of Ustads (mentors). (Source: Apnaorg)

Below are some references and material that highlight the significance of Ustad Daman.

Folk Punjab has a digital archive of his poetry including ‘Es mulk di wand kolon yaro’.

Ustad Daman, ‘The Poet Laureate of the Twentieth Century Punjab’ Fowpe Sharma, Revolutionary Democracy

Ustad Daman lived and wrote poetry as someone always on the wrong side of the establishment By Dr. Afzal Mirza, Apanorg.

Rammah, Safir. “West Punjabi Poetry: From Ustad Daman to Najm Hosain Syed.” Jounral of Punjab Studies 13, no. 1&2 (2006): 216.

Below the opening of Chapter 10, Virdee, P., 2018. From the Ashes of 1947. Cambridge University Press.

India, Short Essays

Dhurries: the Woven Threads of Memory

07/28/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

Earlier this year, I visited Ludhiana, Punjab, a place I try to make time for whenever I have an opportunity or a slight reason. As is often the case, no visit feels complete without visiting Mau Sahib, my father’s ancestral village near Phillaur. Although no immediate family members live there anymore, Mau Sahib holds a special place in our hearts, especially for my sister. She remembers it with warmth and nostalgia, as a place of her childhood.

Our visits have become something of a ritual—paying respects at the historic Gurudwara, partaking in the langar, and then visiting the nearby Sufi shrine. It’s a quiet pilgrimage that connects us with both our heritage and the memory of those who came before us.

During this visit, the Gurdwara was undergoing renovations. Amid the scaffolding and signs of change, we made our way to the basement area; a large, echoing hall that was mostly empty and only partially completed. The Guru Granth Sahib rested there with solemn grace in the middle of the hall, surrounded by an assortment of vibrant dhurries scattered across the floor. The scene was simple yet striking. I couldn’t help but take photos of the colourful, handwoven patterns.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by these beautiful pieces of craft, I was instantly transported to my study back home. There, in the middle of my room, lies a black-and-white dhurrie—a treasured piece handmade by my mother. The rug, is now a relic and a reminder of her remarkable talent, one of many handcrafted creations she lovingly produced over the years.

A close-up of a vibrant yellow and black dhurrie featuring geometric patterns, along with a colorful woven bag partially visible in the frame.

At the time, I must admit, I didn’t fully appreciate the time, effort, and skill that went into these works of art. But today, that dhurrie is a cherished heirloom. It reminds me not only of her hands at work but also of the deeper cultural traditions that she carried within her.

For those unfamiliar, a dhurrie is a handwoven rug or flat-weave carpet, traditionally made in India and Pakistan. They were mostly made from cotton or jute and thus accessible for all. Dhurries are often lighter, reversible, more versatile and useful for everyday use; they can be used as floor coverings, bedding, or even wall hangings. In rural Punjabi households, you often find these dhurries spread out for meals, prayers, weddings, and community gatherings, making them silent witnesses to the everyday rituals and rhythms of life.

What makes them so striking are the geometric patterns, vivid stripes, or sometimes floral designs, each inspired by the region and culture from which they originate. The bold designs are usually in bright colours such as red, blue, yellow, as well as using black and white.

A close-up view of a handwoven dhurrie featuring intricate geometric patterns in vibrant colors, including blue, black, and red, with a decorative fringe at the bottom.

Historically, dhurrie weaving was a thriving cottage industry in rural India. But it was also something more intimate and symbolic, especially for women. Young brides-to-be were often taught the art from a young age. Many dhurries formed part of a woman’s dowry, and their patterns weren’t just decorative. They carried stories—symbols of personal, familial, and spiritual identity, passed down through generations, like a family recipe.

In many villages, it was common to see women sitting on charpoys under the shade, rhythmically working on pit looms while chatting about daily life. Though machine-made textiles are now more common, the tradition of handwoven dhurries survives in some artisan clusters, supported by cultural preservation efforts and a renewed appreciation for handmade goods.

As I stood in that hall, looking at the scattered dhurries beneath my feet, I realised how deeply woven this craft is into the fabric of our collective memory. These are not just utilitarian objects; they are vessels of heritage, art, and emotion. Each thread, each motif, tells a story.

In many ways, my mother’s dhurrie now tells mine. And you may well be wondering about the one I have? This was prized away from my sister my years ago. She had a number of them, given to her when she got married, and I convinced her to part with one which then travelled with me to England!

Short Essays

Notes from Lagos (Portugal): from Punjab to Lagos part 2

01/26/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

On a recent trip to Lagos, Portugal, I was struck by the presence of Indians, particularly young students, some were perhaps tourists and migrants who appeared to be seeking opportunities, others looked more settled and part of the local community.

The Indian diaspora in Portugal is diverse and can be broadly divided into three distinct regional groups:

Gujaratis – The largest group, encompassing both Hindus and Muslims, reflects the deep-rooted trade and migration links between Gujarat and Portugal.
Goans – Predominantly Christian, this group traces its heritage to Portugal’s colonial past, when Goa was under Portuguese rule for over four centuries. This historical connection has shaped their language, culture, and religious practices.
Punjabis – Predominantly Sikhs, this community has migrated more recently, seeking opportunities in industries like hospitality and retail.

While walking around the streets of Lagos came alive with a rich tapestry of languages, including Gujarati, Punjabi, Hindi, Portuguese, and English, mingling seamlessly. This linguistic and cultural interplay highlighted the adaptability and integration of these communities within the Portuguese society.

Historical Roots and Migration Patterns

Historically, Portugal’s connection to India dates to the early 16th century when Vasco da Gama’s expeditions established trade and colonial links. [Read Lagos to Goa Part 1] Goa became a Portuguese territory in 1510, fostering a flow of people, goods, and cultural exchange between the two regions. Even after Goa’s annexation by India in 1961, ties between the two nations have persisted, enabling migration and cross-cultural connections.

Kristina Myrvold notes that significant Indian migration to Portugal began in the 1970s after the collapse of the Portuguese Empire and the 1974 democratic revolution. During this period, many Portuguese-speaking Hindus and Christians from former colonies like Mozambique and Goa migrated to Portugal. Later, in the 1990s, Portugal’s entry into the European Union and Schengen Zone made it an attractive destination for immigrants from India, including those with no prior cultural or linguistic ties to the country.

The Growing Sikh Community

Among the broader Indian diaspora, the growing number of Punjabi Sikhs particularly stood out during my visit. Many Indian restaurants appeared to be run by Sikhs, though ownership could belong to others. Myrvold explains that Sikh migration to Portugal began in the early 1990s, coinciding with a construction boom that created a high demand for labour. Many Sikhs initially worked in construction and agriculture, industries that required significant manpower. Over time, they expanded into other sectors, opening shops and restaurants, particularly in hospitality and retail.

Portugal’s relatively relaxed immigration policies and labour shortages during that period encouraged migration. Many Sikhs used Portugal as a stepping stone to secure residency or citizenship, drawn by the affordable cost of living and accessible legal pathways. This trend has driven the growth of the Sikh community in Portugal, which was estimated at 5,000 in 2007 and doubled to 10,000 by 2010. By 2024, the Indian Embassy in Portugal estimated the Sikh population at 35,000, highlighting their increasing settlement in the country.

Settlement and Challenges

Many Sikhs initially arrived in Portugal via other European countries, attracted by Portugal’s relatively lower cost of living and accessible legal pathways to residency and citizenship. Geographically, the Sikh community is spread across Portugal, with significant populations in major cities such as Lisbon and Porto, as well as in Albufeira and other towns along the Algarve. These regions have not only offered economic opportunities but also served as hubs for community life, where Sikhs have built places of worship, such as gurdwaras, and organized cultural events to preserve their traditions and strengthen community bonds.

The Sikhs community in Portugal is relatively new compared to other Indian groups with longer-established connections with the country. While travelling from Lagos to Faro, I had the chance to speak with a Sikh taxi driver who had been living in Albufeira for over 10 years. Despite the initial linguistic and cultural challenges, according to the taxi driver, the quality of life is much better in Portugal. They maintain their links with family back home in Jullundur but work and home is here.

The work is also seasonal and dependent on tourism, the summer being peak time to work long hours and earn double or triple the earnings to compensate for the winter periods when tourism drops. Looking into the future with rising living costs and increasing restrictions on settlement according to the taxi driver, it will make be harder for future migrants to establish themselves in Portugal.

Sources

Kristina Myrvold, ‘Sikhs in Portugal’ Religious Studies Commentaries, 11 August 2012. https://religionsvetenskapligakommentarer.blogspot.com/2012/08/sikherna-i-portugal.html

Inês Lourenco, From Goans to Gujaratis : a study of the Indian community in Portugal, Migration Policy Centre, CARIM-India Research Report, 2013/01 – https://cadmus.eui.eu/handle/1814/29463

Jennifer McGarrigle, and Eduardo Ascensão. “Emplaced mobilities: Lisbon as a translocality in the migration journeys of Punjabi Sikhs to Europe.” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 44, no. 5 (2018): 809-828.

Pamila Gupta, “The disquieting of history: Portuguese (De) Colonization and Goan migration in the Indian Ocean.” Journal of Asian and African Studies 44, no. 1 (2009): 19-47.

Misc

What makes you feel nostalgic?

12/31/2024 Pippa Leave a comment

Carefree Days with Pran Nevile, April 2016. © Pippa Virdee

Today’s daily prompt on WordPress was “What makes you feel nostalgic?” I of course immediately started thinking and letting my mind wonder into the past. The past that is often nostalgic and romantic; it is after all the 31 December! Immediately one memory came back like a flash.

I recall the numerous times that I went to visit Pran Nevile at his home in Gurgaon, where we would have meet, chat, drink and eat. And almost always there would be music playing in the background, the kind of music that transports you to a bygone era, along with the conversation. These “Carefree Days” are no more, but those precious memories remain.

Beyond the nostalgia I remember I wrote a tribute for Pran, which was supposed to have been published but I suspect it never was. I most likely didn’t follow up because of work distractions. Upon a keyword search (thank goodness for that!) I found the tribute on my laptop straightaway. I sat there with the melodic voice of Begum Akhtar in the background and re-read the piece, feeling sad but happy to have met someone like Pran at the beginning of my own journey. It makes a fitting post for today’s prompt, as I will always associate Pran with the nostalgia of a pre-partitioned Punjab that is no more.

Pran Nevile (1922-2018): A Tribute

I first met Pran Nevile in 2001, when I embarked on a new journey in my life of pursuing a PhD. He was recommended to me by my supervisor, Prof. Ian Talbot. We met, like on many subsequent occasions, at his favourite place in New Delhi, the India International Centre (IIC). I was beginning my research into the impact Partition had on Punjab, exploring this through first-hand accounts of people, who were forced to abandon their homes and leave during that tumultuous and violent time. Pran was born in Lahore in 1922 and thus could recollect stories from the colonial period thereby contextualising this impact on Punjab following Partition. At the time I didn’t know much about Pran, beyond that he had written a book on Lahore and that he had a previous career in the Indian Foreign Service. In many ways, I was an outsider to both the intellectual Delhi circle and academia, more generally. We sat in the café at the IIC and had tea, while chatting about an array of subjects. Almost straightaway we bonded as he radiated with an old-school genteel charm that belongs to a by-gone era; certainly not of the India and Pakistan today. He paid me a wonderful/witty compliment, by saying that when I speak in Punjabi, I sound like a Punjaban and when I speak in English, I am a mem. He would repeat this on numerous occasions. This was the beginning a friendship, which endured until he passed away on 11 October 2018. He was my connection to the pre-partitioned Punjab, and I was his connection to Lahore, exchanging notes and comparing the-then and now.

Growing up in Lahore

Pran’s family lived in Nisbet Road in the walled city of Lahore, where his father had migrated to in the early 1910s from their ancestral village of Vairowal, in neighbouring Amritsar district. Following his education at the DAV School, he was successful in getting a scholarship and got admission to the prestigious Government College Lahore, from where he graduated in 1943 in MA Economics. He recollects many of his early memories of growing up in Lahore in his autobiography, Carefree Days (2016), recounting the days of “pastimes, fairs and festivals”, which would keep them amused all year round. His favourite pastime though was kite flying, as he writes: “I cannot recall anything more thrilling than kite flying in my boyhood” (pp. 10-11). Pran, like many others, lamented the later ban on kite flying in Lahore, which has seen the demise of the popular Basant festival.

Writing Lahore: A Sentimental Journey (1992), a book that instantly resonated with many Lahoris, enabled Pran to visit the city of his childhood. He was one of the lucky ones because he was able to visit Lahore with ease, a romance that he rekindled with this tribute to the city of his birth. He often recited, Jine Lahore nahin Vekhya oh Jamya hi Nahin (One who has not seen Lahore is as good as not having been born at all) (p. 193). Like many other people who left their ancestral homes (thinking they would be back), he had a photographic imprint of the city in his mind, remembering every nook and cranny of the congested Androon Shehr. Professor Tahir Kamran organised a two-day conference at GC University on ‘Punjab and the Raj’ in 2006 and Pran was invited to speak at this conference. I distinctly remember a moment from then, when another friend from Lahore, Bilal Ahmed was driving the car, and Pran was seated in the front and me in the back. We were in the walled city, trying to locate a venue and unsure about the exact location. Immediately, Pran started to navigate and provide directions. He said he can never forget the streets of his Lahore, despite all the changes since his he was a student in the city. It was a heart-warming and amusing moment we never forgot.

Never-ending Retirement

Pran graduated during the political and international upheaval of World War Two. His desire was topursue a PhD at the London School of Economics, but the uncertainty of that period prompted him to take up an opportunity at the Bureau of Public Information in 1944 as an assistant journalist. After a series of different posts, he was selected for the Indian Foreign Service Board in 1955 as second secretary (commercial) (Carefree Days, p. 46). He joined the Ministry of External Affairs as an attaché in March 1959 and subsequently was posted in Warsaw (1962), Belgrade (1966) and Moscow (1969). By 1974, he was back at the Ministry of Commerce as deputy secretary (East Europe). After that came the opportunity to go to Chicago in 1977, which he recalls ended his “eventful official link with the socialist world of East Europe” (p. 148). During this period, he also had a short stint in Geneva which allowed him to develop his links with the UNDP, which ultimately paved the way for a second career. Soon after in May 1979, he took premature retirement, leaving after 35 years of professional life. He was now the programme coordinator for the UNCTAD, based in Geneva and this allowed him to rekindle his relationship with East Europe until 1985, when he returned back to India. One of the highlights of this stint surely was when he took on the role of a priest and performed the marriage rites for one of his friends in Geneva; a story he often shared with relish.

For a conventional diplomat, Pran was more austere and radical in his personal life. As he recalls in his autobiography, he developed an “abhorrence for this ostentatious tamasha and meaningless jubilation” (p. 49) that surrounded elaborate engagements and wedding ceremonies. In this endeavour, he developed a friendship with Savitri (daughter of an uncle who was married to Pran’s father’s first cousin!), often acting as her mentor and encouraging her towards the pursuit of knowledge and education. He first noticed her in July 1941, as a young man discovering his own self, and by January 1947, they had eloped and had a civil ceremony in Delhi. Early reservations against this marriage were put aside by their families, and he remained with Savitri until she died in 2013. A spark in him went after that.

The Last Calling

After his retirement from work, he decided to embark on yet another career, but this time, it started as an unplanned script. It was in 1987, when he first started making frequent trips to the IIC, spending his days in the library and often using this as office space for his writing. Initially, he only ventured towards his expertise area and wrote on economic matters, but it was not long before his real passion emerged and he turned his gaze towards other subjects, which included his hometown Lahore, nautch girls, dance and music. Feedback from these early forays in small articles gave him confidence to continue with this newfound passion; although one of his earliest writings dates back to 1949, when he wrote ‘Problem of the Mother-in-Law’ which was published in Caravan magazine. His first full-length literary work was inevitably on Lahore, as he recalls: “My desire was to take the reader on a pilgrimage to my Lahore of a bygone era of peace and plenty” (p. 171). The idea for the book was actually conceived way back in 1963 in Hotel Astoria, Geneva. On his seventieth birthday he received the advance copy from the publisher of his first book, Lahore: A Sentimental Journey.

This journey led him to write prolifically on the era of the British Raj. Being a product of that era, he imbued the character of the Brown Sahib and carved out a niche for himself, focusing on the social and cultural history of the British Raj. His fascination for visual and performing arts led him to unearth a vivid and richer history, which he energised many around him with. During the last few years of his life, he reserved his love for K.L. Saigal, the “immortal singer and superstar” (p. 189). My own recollections of Pran were always of visiting him in Gurgaon, chatting at length while nibbling on namkeens, and with the nostalgia of 1940s and 1950s music playing in the background. Those days are no more nor are those, which is his own words read:

“I belong to the vanishing generation of pre-partition days who were forced to leave their homeland but carried ‘Lahore’ in their hearts like the memory of a first love. Overpowered by nostalgia, we still recall the days when Lahore had attained the reputation of being the ‘Paris of the East’ where people of different communities live in harmony in the sunshine of their common heritage, historic bonds and flamboyant Punjabi culture.” (Carefree Days, p. 194).

BAGICHA

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