Across the Line

by Nayanika Mahtani

  NAYANIKA MAHTANI

  Across the Line

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  1947

  Drawing the Line

  Paper Boats

  Zero Hour

  The Referee

  Musaafir Khaana

  As if Nothing Had Happened

  No Man’s Land

  2008

  Of Mice and Men

  There’s More to Life than Cricket

  Poster Girl

  Recess

  Talking in Riddles

  Blue-Black Nothings

  Selection Day

  We’ve Got News

  ‘That Voice’

  Winging It

  The Unspoken Code

  Mind the Gap

  Dragon Breath

  Nabeel’s Kitchen

  Sumo Wrestling

  War of the Roses

  Too Much to Digest

  Alphonso Season

  Glorious Uncertainties

  Stalkers

  Empty-handed

  The Bridge

  The High Road

  Houseful

  Acrylics and Oils

  Rukhsana

  Rahmat Bibi

  Threads

  Too Familiar

  Fireflies

  Four’s Company

  Howzat?

  The Little Green Dot

  Touching Distance

  Filter Coffee

  Deadlock

  Unforgotten

  The Envelope

  Highway Robbers

  Travel Companions

  Unseen

  2012

  Pitching It Right

  Epilogue

  What Did I Miss?

  Erasure

  Author’s Note

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  ACROSS THE LINE

  Nayanika Mahtani once harboured dreams of becoming a stage actor, but she followed the proverbial left side of her brain to do an MBA at IIM Bangalore and became an investment banker. A decade later, she followed her heart to live in Africa. Since then, she’s been following the right side of her brain and is now an author and screenwriter. Nayanika’s books include Ambushed and The Gory Story of Genghis Khan (aka Don’t Mess with the Mongols). She has also recently co-written the story and screenplay for a Hindi film based on the extraordinary life of the mathematical genius, Shakuntala Devi. Nayanika lives in London with her family, their dog, hamster and two goldfish named Sushi and Fishfinger.

  Advance Praise for the Book

  ‘This evocative tale of heartache buoyed by hope, travels from 1947 towards the present, tugging at our heartstrings and sweeping us along. A compelling and uplifting story that lingers long after the last page is turned’—Vidya Balan

  In loving memory of my grandparents,

  Ved and Kishori Lal Suri, and

  Indra and Manohar Lal Nanda,

  who lit up my world

  ‘You—you alone will have the stars as no one else has them . . . In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night . . . You—only you—will have stars that can laugh.’

  —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,

  The Little Prince

  ‘There’s always a story. It’s all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything’s got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.’

  —Terry Pratchett,

  A Hat Full of Sky

  1947

  ‘The truth isn’t easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than the soap, and much more difficult to find . . . ’

  —Terry Pratchett, Sourcery

  Drawing the Line

  12 August 1947

  New Delhi, undivided India

  The man looked up from the maps he had been poring over. His hands were clammy, partly from the heat but mostly from the enormity of the task he had been assigned. He mopped the sweat off his brow. Then, Cyril Radcliffe picked up his pen, drew a deep breath—and a dark line.

  He set the pen down. There. The deed was done. Radcliffe surveyed the map. He had carved out parts of India to form East and West Pakistan. Just as they had asked him to do. He lifted the heavy receiver of the telephone and dialled a number.

  ‘Mountbatten speaking,’ answered the viceroy of India.

  ‘I’ve done what you asked, Dickie,’ said Radcliffe.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Mountbatten, euphoric that this damned line had been drawn and done with. He could now head back to Britain. And go down in history as the viceroy who benevolently handed India back her freedom.

  ‘It’s far from perfe—’ Radcliffe began saying.

  ‘Not to worry, Cyril. I’m sure you’ve done the best you could manage, given that you had only five weeks.’

  ‘And given that I knew nothing about India or cartography—and had to work with out-of-date census figures and maps with absolutely no expert help. As you were well aware,’ Radcliffe thought to himself bitterly.

  But what he heard himself say was, ‘I suppose you’re right, Dickie.’

  Lord Louis Mountbatten barely registered his reply. He could already picture himself making headlines. Across the world. The empire’s blue-eyed boy. Dressed in his spotless navy uniform. Rows of medals emblazoning his chest.

  Radcliffe cleared his throat, interrupting Mountbatten’s train of thought. ‘Well, I believe I’ve completed the task I was called to do,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, yes, Cyril, and most importantly, you’ve served your country well.’

  Radcliffe shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I’d like to return to England now, Dickie. I fear there may be violence here.’

  ‘You can leave tomorrow, if you choose to. I’d recommend staying back to watch the whole ceremony, of course. It’s going to be quite a grand affair, I’m told.’

  Radcliffe could almost hear the unctuous smile slide into Mountbatten’s voice.

  ‘Just remember though, Cyril,’ he continued conspiratorially, ‘The line has to remain a closely guarded secret. In fact, I think it will be better if we announce the new borders a couple of days after we officially hand over power.’

  Radcliffe clenched his jaw. It was excruciatingly infuriating dealing with Mountbatten’s whimsy and utter disregard for due process. He had been picked for this infernal job of drawing the line because he was considered the most brilliant barrister in England. But Mountbatten made it almost impossible to function. Radcliffe drew a deep breath.

  ‘Dickie, you do realize that doing that would mean that India and Pakistan will not know their borders when they get independence . . . ’

  ‘Yes, yes. But they will get to know, just a couple of days later. And then, the natives can handle their own mess.’

  Radcliffe dabbed his damp forehead. ‘Are you saying that our troops will not help with the relocation of people? There will be an absolute bloodbath if this isn’t handled properly.’

  ‘Our troops are going home, Cyril. The Indians have long wanted us to leave. Let the new Indian and Pakistani governments take on this challenge themselves,’ said Mountbatten, darkly amused.

  Radcliffe felt a dull, cramping ache grip his stomach. ‘I frankly fail to see the point of this exercise. Butchering a country like a leg of lamb—it’s madness!’ he said through gritted teeth.

  The static in the telephone line crackled. Lord Mountbatten leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, there is method to the madness, Cyril. Don’t quote me, but this Partition idea was Churchill’s brainchild, helped along by my predecessor, Lord Wavell.’


  ‘But why . . . what’s in it for them? We’re leaving anyway.’

  ‘Aha! This is where the plot thickens,’ said Mountbatten. ‘You see, it’s a clever ploy to protect Britain’s strategic interests. Churchill felt that the creation of Pakistan would allow England much-needed control over the port of Karachi, even if we could no longer have all of India. Besides, with India and Russia’s growing closeness, he reckoned that it would be useful to have a “friendly” government in Pakistan that hadn’t done jail time under British rule. Stroke of genius, if you ask me.’

  Radcliffe pushed his spectacles higher up the bridge of his nose, as if that might help him see things clearer. None of this made any sense to him.

  ‘But I was told this Partition was being done because the Hindus and Muslims hated each other so much that they wanted separate countries?’

  ‘Ah, that’s just the old Divide and Rule tactic. It never fails. And frankly, it makes my job much easier.’

  Radcliffe shook his head, utterly disenchanted with the whole affair.

  ‘By the by, I’ve suggested we hand over power on 15 August, Cyril. It’s the date that Japan surrendered to the Allies, when I was supreme allied commander. It’s a lucky date for me.’

  ‘What better reason could there be?’ Radcliffe muttered under his breath.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t catch you there? Awful lot of static in the telephone connection.’

  ‘Erm, it was nothing. I’ll be in touch, Dickie.’

  Radcliffe put down the receiver and slumped forward on his desk, kneading his forehead with his fingers. The ceiling fan overhead whirred slowly, helping neither the heat nor the throbbing in his head.

  He looked at all the papers spread out before him. Reams and reams of paper. Survey maps and census figures about the millions who lived in the Punjab and Bengal—the two states that the line would cleave through. In a fit of rage, he swept his arm across the desk, flinging the files across the room.

  As the documents lay scattered on the floor, Radcliffe’s eyes fell on the papers at his feet. Staring back at him was the map of undivided India and the line he had drawn through her. As he watched, the wretched line seemed to swell up like a river of blood. A bloody river that rose off the page to engulf him. Radcliffe averted his eyes, unable to face what he’d done.

  The Radcliffe Line, it would be called.

  It was this line that would cause a million deaths and cause fourteen million people to become refugees. It was this line that would alter the course of history, festering like a wound that one keeps picking the scab off.

  And it was this line that would cut through the heart of ten-year-old Toshi’s life.

  Paper Boats

  12 August 1947

  Rawalpindi, undivided India

  If there were to be held a worldwide contest for making paper boats, Toshi Sahni would win. Hands down. It’s what she did when she was bored in class. Which happened a lot. Which was probably why she was so good at it.

  It wasn’t just the speed of making the paper boats. It was also the little touches she would add—like chiselling chalk into the shape of oars with Papaji’s razor blade, which she had secretly borrowed for the task.

  Funnily enough, it was a piece of chalk that interrupted her current efforts. It hit her right in the centre of her forehead.

  ‘Ouch!’ said Toshi, looking up.

  Looming large on the horizon was her geography teacher, Sharma sir, peering at her, from under a very furrowed brow.

  ‘Toshi Sahni, why is it that you are spending your school life making paper boats instead of paying attention to our discussion on the rivers of India?’

  ‘Er . . . ’ mumbled Toshi, scrunching the little boat in her fist and burying the blade into her pocket.

  ‘Maybe she wants to ride down the Indus in that boat, sir,’ offered her classmate Adil.

  This caused a few giggles that only angered Sharma sir further. His forehead now crumpled into deep ravines, much like those he had been teaching the class about in the last lesson.

  ‘Adil, is your name Toshi?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Adil replied. And then mumbled, ‘Thankfully not,’ to the boy sitting next to him, who ducked under his desk to laugh and stay out of Sharma sir’s field of vision.

  Sharma sir turned back to Toshi.

  ‘Can you tell the class why the River Indus is important to us, Toshi?’

  ‘Er, because our country is named after it?’ Toshi offered hopefully.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s one reason . . . ’ Sharma sir began.

  ‘So, if our country’s name changed, would the Indus not be important any more, sir?’ interjected Adil, forever on the lookout for opportunities to divert the class from whatever agenda the teacher had in mind.

  ‘Adil Qureshi! I’ve had enough of your silly questions,’ said Sharma sir, raising his voice and yet another piece of chalk.

  He glanced at his watch as he did so. Fifteen minutes to go before the bell rang. Fifteen long minutes before he could have a cup of tea and a cigarette. He sighed and turned his attention back to his notes on the rivers of India.

  Zero Hour

  13 August 1947

  New Delhi, undivided India

  Edwina Mountbatten looked out of the imposing windows of the viceroy’s palace, as she sullenly sipped her tea.

  ‘It’s going to be difficult to get used to living without all this, Dickie. I’m going to miss it.’

  ‘Hmm. It certainly will be hard to get by in England without a home that is larger than the Palace of Versailles and has eight tennis courts, a swimming pool, billiards rooms, a nine-hole golf course, a cricket pitch, stables and kennels. Do you think we’ll cope?’

  Edwina sighed deeply, unmoved by her husband’s attempt at humour.

  Lord Mountbatten took a look at his watch. ‘I’m late,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem with the handover date that needs sorting, apparently. I’ll see you at supper.’

  His wife sighed again and returned her attention to the magnificent view of Raisina Hill from her window seat.

  ‘Cheer up, darling. I’ve managed to get my hands on the Bob Hope film that we wanted to watch,’ said Lord Mountbatten. ‘My Favourite Brunette—how does that sound?’

  Edwina gave her husband a watery smile, ‘That makes it all so much better, Dickie.’

  Fifteen minutes later in a conference room nearby, the handover date was being sorted rather animatedly. A small, mousy looking official pointed to some charts that he had laid out on Mountbatten’s desk.

  ‘Sir, our pundits say that 15 August is an inauspicious date. According to the alignment of the planets, it’s a very bad mahurat, sir,’ he said, shaking his head in disapproval.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. That’s a load of waffle!’ exclaimed Mountbatten. ‘We honestly can’t be deciding dates based on luck or other such hocus-pocus! Please say something to help me here, Jawahar.’

  Seated across him, Jawaharlal Nehru nodded wearily, ‘Don’t worry, Dickie. We’ll work something out.’

  The creases in the official’s forehead seemed to sharpen, as his mind ticked. He looked around the table and hesitantly cleared his throat. ‘Sir, perhaps we can time the hand over for midnight? Because, according to the English calendar, the day starts after midnight, but according to the Hindu astronomical calendar—the panchang—the day starts at sunrise. That way, we could perhaps mitigate the inauspicious nature of events?’

  This suggestion was met with a murmur of assent from all present. The official jumped to his feet, relieved to finally have something that everyone agreed on, especially in these tediously fickle times. He was tired of the endless submissions and rejections of proposals, which merely added to his paperwork, with little being achieved. What with the Mahatma having vehemently opposed the very idea of Partition and with Mohammad Ali Jinnah and Nehru in deadlock about most issues.

  ‘I’ll start making the necessary arrangements, sir,’ he said, quickly exiting the room.


  As expected, Lord Mountbatten wanted to be present in both Karachi and Delhi to hand over power (and face the shutterbugs, as the world watched). But even a viceroy couldn’t be in two places at the same time.

  ‘I could transfer power to Pakistan on 14 August,’ he suggested. ‘And then I could fly back to Delhi to do the honours on the 15th.’

  And so it was. Mountbatten flew out to Karachi on the 14th to keep up his glorious charade of largesse, as he presided over the peaceful transfer of power to Jinnah, the first governor general of Pakistan.

  The viceroy then took the flight back to New Delhi.

  As midnight neared, members of India’s Constituent Assembly listened in silence to the chimes of the hour. A member blew a conch shell in Parliament right after, as if to summon the gods to witness a great event.

  But the events that followed were far, far more ungodly than anyone had predicted.

  The Referee

  17 August 1947

  Rawalpindi, Pakistan

  In the little gully outside her home, Toshi tied her dupatta securely around her waist, so it wouldn’t trip her up when she ran. Then she bent down and carefully arranged stones in a pile, counting them as she went.

  ‘Four, five, six and . . . ? Where did the seventh stone go?’ she asked, looking around.

  Her six-year-old brother, Tarlok, sheepishly extracted an oval, olive green quartz pebble from his pocket and held it out in his closed fist.

  ‘Can I have this back after we finish playing?’ he asked. ‘It looks like a bulbul’s egg, see!’ He unfurled his fist with the flourish of a magician performing the grand finale of a magic trick.

  Toshi sighed. ‘Yes, yes—you can have the silly stone back. Why don’t you collect better things instead, Loki?’

  Without waiting for his answer, she turned away and placed the seventh stone on the wobbling tower, balancing it with some difficulty given the quartz’s irregular shape.