My father told this tale to me as we were driving back from our village to Delhi.
Our's is a small jat Sikh village in Punjab, the next village is a Rajput one and the village after that is the one settled by refugees from Pakistan. Before partition, it used to be a Muslim majority village. All were farmers who had managed to coexist peacefully for so long.
Rumors started doing rounds at the time of partition. Muslims were reported to be collecting with weapons in the house of the richest Muslim landlord. One of the village's idiots, while shitting in the fields, said he had seen a mob getting ready to attack our village. That nincompoop, from then on has been, (as he should be), recognized as a hero in our village. Rumormongering should always be rewarded.
The men of our village started organizing themselves into an armed group as well. A pitched but well matched battle was fought with no side winning.
Then a lone policeman showed up and...he was the only one with a revolver...and again as you should, instead of ensuring law and order, he took up the battle for his co religionists.
The Muslims were slaughtered.
I don't know what happened in the cities but in the villages, it was always about land, never about religion.
I often wonder about all who were caught on the wrong side of the border and choose to fight for their land rather than leave -the confusion, the uncertainty as to how the land that they had been tilling for generations was now no longer theirs.
It was a bad time.