Toshi almost regretted having come. It was quite unlike her to take up an invitation like this, but the prospect of perhaps seeing Rawalpindi again, even if it was through an artist’s eyes and not in person, had been the clincher.
The only problem was that since the cityscapes were mostly done in the style of abstract art, none of the paintings looked remotely like the Rawalpindi she remembered. To make matters worse, Toshi had already mistaken an art installation for a fire extinguisher and had proceeded to have an excruciatingly embarrassing conversation about it with the artist herself, so her agenda now was to simply blend into the background and wait until Rajan picked her up.
As she reached the far end of the hall, Toshi decided to park herself in front of the paintings there, given that it was comparatively less busy than the other sections of the gallery. There was only one couple stationed there—and they nodded rapturously as Toshi approached them.
‘This is such an enigmatic interpretation of life, isn’t it?’ said the lady, indicating a display. ‘I can see the whole universe in here.’
Toshi saw nothing of the sort, nevertheless she nodded politely. The painting was another of the abstract kind. To Toshi, it merely looked like six circles, piled one on top of the other, with a line running through them. Yet, as she looked at it, she had to concede that there was something about it that seemed to draw her in. Toshi leaned in for a closer look at the painting, hoping to make some sense of it, when someone touched her lightly on her shoulder. She turned around to see Habib.
‘It was very good of you to come,’ he said.
The couple with Toshi seemed entirely overawed by Habib’s presence.
‘Oh, you’re Habib Haider, aren’t you? We absolutely love your art. Could we have a photograph with you please?’ gushed the lady, signalling to her husband to smoothen his hair over his bald patch. ‘We’re such huge fans—in fact, we have four of your early works in our home.’
‘Ah, that’s more than my wife will keep in ours,’ smiled Habib.
‘I’m happy to click your photograph,’ offered Toshi, quite tickled by this scene.
The man quickly handed his phone to Toshi and the couple happily posed with Habib, flanking him with flair. As soon as the couple had dispensed with their effusive raving and left, Toshi turned to Habib.
‘Congratulations! You seem to be quite the celebrity.’
‘As I said, this world is full of deluded people,’ replied Habib, smiling.
‘So, I take it that this is one of yours?’ Toshi asked, pointing to the painting with the circles.
‘Yes, and I’m told that some crazy person has offered to pay an obscene amount of money for that artwork.’
‘Excellent. So, you’ll be an even richer celebrity now.’
‘I would be. Except that this painting is not for sale.’
‘Oh. May I ask why not?’
There was a brief second of silence. ‘Because it completes me,’ said Habib. ‘Does that make any sense?’
‘Not really,’ smiled Toshi. ‘But I guess all you artistic lot are supposed to sound like this. Talking in circles, as they say.’
Habib threw his head back and laughed. Just then, the manager of the gallery, a young woman with a name tag and an officious look about her, rustled up to Habib.
‘Excuse me, Mr Haider, could we have a few words from you please for our guests?’
‘If you insist, Julia,’ said Habib. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Julia half-smiled and bustled off. Habib looked wryly at Toshi. ‘This is the bit I dread the most,’ he muttered. ‘I’m terrified of speaking in public. Please don’t feel obliged to stay. And thanks again for coming.’
Toshi smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll do a very fine job,’ she said.
As Habib walked away, Toshi took one last look at the painting. She put on her spectacles and peered at the little label beside the painting.
It read:
Artist: Habib Haider
Title: TOSHI, 1961
This painting is the artist’s tribute to a childhood game he would play with his sister, Toshi. Pithoo is a game involving seven stones. The artist chose to draw six circles representing six stones because the seventh stone is still in his possession—and has been ever since he was a boy.
The ground beneath Toshi’s feet seemed to shift. The room swerved like a pendulum —and the paintings and people and paraphernalia came crashing in on her. Gradually, the dimly lit art gallery narrowed down to one swinging light bulb, which cast everything in its wavering shadow. Something inside Toshi’s chest was compressing tighter and tighter. Like hope, with its wings tied.
And that was the last thing she remembered before she fell.
Mid-way through Habib’s speech, a sudden flurry of activity broke out at the far end of the gallery.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Habib, turning to Julia.
‘One of the guests fainted. She’s better now. We’re just making sure she’s okay. Please carry on with your talk,’ she said sotto voce, smiling reassuringly at the bewildered guests.
As soon as his speech was done, Habib hurried over to the back of the room to collect his things, relieved that the ordeal was over. He spotted Toshi, sitting there, looking deathly pale.
‘Ah, you’re still here? Is everything all right?’
Toshi looked up at him. ‘Yes, yes. I’m . . . just waiting for my family to collect me,’ she said.
‘There’s no rush to run away. Please take your time. Actually, I’m waiting for my family too—they’ve gone to the airport to fetch my son, you see. He’s coming in from Rawalpindi today. He has finally managed to get himself some leave from work. He’s a very successful banker.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Toshi absently.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes, I am—I’m sure. I’m fine.’
Habib looked away, unconvinced. Toshi fiddled with the tassels on her shawl, then she turned to Habib.
‘So, your painting . . . ’ said Toshi, struggling to find the right words to phrase her question. ‘How come it’s called “Toshi”? Was she your sister? I mean . . . it isn’t a very Muslim name, is it?’
‘Oh no, she wasn’t. That’s just artistic license. I knew someone—he had a sister called Toshi—and my PR team thought I should give the story a spin.’
‘Ah.’ There was a pregnant pause before Toshi spoke again. ‘And this person you knew . . . Where is he now?’ Toshi was holding her breath, as if even exhaling would extinguish her feeble flicker of hope.
‘He died a long time ago,’ said Habib, shrugging matter-of-factly.
‘I see,’ said Toshi. A door slammed shut inside her and left hope out in the cold.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just that I’m called Toshi too, and I had a little brother and we would play pithoo together in the gully, my brother Loki and I—and he would always hide one stone, the last one . . . ’
Toshi’s voice broke off.
‘I bet your brother always beat you at pithoo?’ said Habib, looking at her strangely. She looked up, smiling at the memory, and was about to say something, but Habib continued. ‘But the only reason he won was because he had three thumbs, right?’
He held up his left hand. Toshi just stared at it, speechless.
‘Tar . . . Tarlok . . . ? Loki?’ she whispered, almost fearful to even give voice to the hope welling inside her.
Habib nodded, tears streaming down his face. He reached into his pocket and took out an oval, olive-coloured pebble that resembled a bulbul’s egg.
‘I’ve carried this with me every day of my life,’ he said. ‘I call it my rock of hope. Do you recognize this pebble from our game of pithoo, Toshi di?’
Toshi sat still as if she were frozen in time, hearing her name being spoken again by her brother, whom she believed to have been dead all these years. She felt something warm and bright rekindle deep within her, though its fla
mes were tentative and tenuous.
‘But . . . but your name is Habib . . . ’
Habib nodded.
‘Today, I am Habib Haider. It’s a long story . . . ’
Toshi felt a dam breaking deep within her. Her grief, held back for a lifetime, finally found its release.
‘I’m listening, Loki,’ she said through her tears.
Habib came over and sat down beside her.
‘I owe my life to some farishtas, two guardian angels, who came into my world—after I lost all of you. One of them was called Rahmat Bibi and the other, Rukhsana . . . ’
Rukhsana
17 August 1947
New Delhi, India
It was Sunday, the day that Rukhsana Haider would visit the orphanage near their home. Three young children crowded around Rukhsana’s knee, almost on her lap, listening wide-eyed as she told them the story of Sabu, the naughty cat. Mrs Rao, the manager of the orphanage came over, smiling at the sight of their rapt little faces.
‘I hate to tear them away from their favourite person, but it’s dinner time,’ she said. ‘Come on, children, give Rukhsana Aapa a hug and go wash your hands.’
The children hugged Rukhsana and skipped off to eat.
‘Thank you so much for bringing in these sweets and presents for the children. You don’t know just how much it means to them,’ said Mrs Rao.
Rukhsana smiled. ‘It means far more to me, Jayaji. Children are such a joy.’
Quite subconsciously, she tenderly patted her expectant belly.
‘When is the baby due, Rukhsana?’
‘Just one month to go, Jayaji,’ she smiled. ‘I had better head home now. Javed and Ammi will be waiting for me. I’ll see you next Sunday.’
Rukhsana emerged from the orphanage building and had barely taken ten steps when she was caught up in a turbulent wave of angry rioters, charging down the street, armed with axes, swords and staffs.
‘Har har Mahadev! Har har Mahadev!’ they roared. As they rushed past her, one of them roughly shoved her aside.
‘Ya Allah!’ cried Rukhsana, instinctively, as she tried to regain her balance.
A member of the mob overheard her and walked towards her menacingly. ‘She’s one of them!’ he roared, his bloodshot eyes spewing hatred.
He grabbed her arm and viciously pushed her, face down, into the gutter by the side of the road. As she fell, she felt something wet and warm seeping out. A dull ache throbbed in her heart. A yearning for something that should have been hers to hold and love but which she now knew was not to be. All she felt was an emptiness. A clawing, hollow emptiness. And then, everything went dark.
Javed jumped out of the taxi and knocked on the orphanage door. He couldn’t wait to get Rukhsana and Ammi to safety, away from this chaos. Ghanshyam had said that a mob was headed to Azad Nagar. Things were getting worse with each passing hour. They needed to leave New Delhi as soon as possible.
‘Is Rukhsana here, Jayaji?’ he asked, as Mrs Rao opened the door.
‘No. She left a while ago. Is everything all right, Javed?’
Javed left without another word. He walked in a daze, desperately trying to keep his worst thoughts at bay. Javed was spotted at this moment by Raghu, Ghanshyam’s son, on his way home after his shift at the nearby government hospital. Jumping off his bicycle, Raghu rushed over to Javed’s side.
It was half an hour before they found Rukhsana, still lying in the ditch, barely conscious. Javed stood rooted to the spot, unable to come to grips with what he was seeing. Raghu immediately bent down to help Rukhsana. He felt her pulse—it was still present, although very faint.
‘Dr Khurana is on duty at the hospital,’ said Raghu. ‘I used to be his compounder. I’m sure he’ll see Rukhsana Bibi on priority.’
Javed nodded, his mind still unable to wrap itself around what had happened. He just sat there holding his wife’s hand.
Twenty minutes later, they were outside Dr Khurana’s consulting room. Upon seeing Javed and Raghu carrying Rukhsana, Dr Khurana’s eyes widened in alarm. He quickly ushered them in, glancing nervously around to ensure that no one had seen the Muslim couple. In these dark times, even giving medical attention to Muslims could cost him his job—or life, even.
Dr Khurana carried out a quick examination of Rukhsana and motioned to his staff to prepare for surgery.
‘We need to operate immediately,’ he told Javed. ‘The baby is almost at full term.’
‘Yes, our child is due next month,’ said Javed, almost to himself. The clock in the nearby church’s steeple struck six.
‘I’ll go and bring Arjumand Bibiji here,’ said Raghu. ‘The hospital is probably the safest place for all of you to spend the night, Javed Sahib.’
Javed nodded absently, anxious eyes on the doors of the operation theatre, just waiting for Dr Khurana to emerge. After what seemed like an eternity to Javed, Dr Khurana walked out. Javed stood up as he saw him.
‘Her vitals are stable now; she’s going to be all right,’ said the doctor. ‘But I’m sorry. Although we tried our best, we couldn’t save the baby.’
Javed stared at the floor, his senses felt scrambled. He could almost taste the metallic bittersweet emotion coursing through his veins. Rukhsana was alive. That was the only thing that mattered. But this was the second child she had lost. The grief would devastate her. He shut his eyes, as if to shut out the thought.
‘Thank you for saving Rukhsa—’ he started to say, when Dr Khurana cut him off.
‘She is lucky to have survived that, but neither of you is safe outside. It isn’t advisable for you to return home tonight. I suggest that you both stay the night in the hospital.’
Javed looked defeated, like nothing mattered any more. ‘May I see Rukhsana now, doctor?’
‘She’s sleeping off the effects of anaesthesia. Give it a little while, son.’
When Arjumand walked into the hospital, she took one look at Rukhsana and Javed and realized she had lost her unborn grandchild. The child for whom she had made a pilgrimage to Ajmer Sharif.
Rukhsana broke down in tears upon seeing her and collapsed in her mother-in-law’s arms. Arjumand squeezed her eyes shut as she held Rukhsana. She could feel the dampness of Rukhsana’s tears on her shoulder; the body that had been counting down to joy, now heaving, heartbroken. She fought back her own tears, willing herself to be strong for the grief-stricken girl in her arms.
‘If it is God’s will, you will have many more children, my Rukhsana,’ she said. Arjumand’s eyes met Javed’s. The emptiness in his eyes chilled her to the marrow. She enveloped Javed in her embrace, holding both her son and her daughter-in-law. And in that moment of grief, the decision that she never thought she would make, was made.
Arjumand Haider would leave her home, her India.
Rahmat Bibi
17 August 1947
Rawalpindi, Pakistan
While Tarlok waited for Toshi to return with her doll to referee their game of pithoo, he picked up the green pebble from the ground, expertly tossing it in the air and catching it. In the distance, he could hear the chants, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ The sound seemed to be drawing closer.
From the other end of the road, Tarlok could see his father returning home. Relieved, he started to call out to him, but before he could say a word, someone swooped him up and started running. Tarlok tried to scream, but a large hand covered his mouth and most of his face.
‘Shhh . . . Be quiet!’ the man hissed.
With his one partly uncovered eye, Tarlok could just about make out that the man who was bearing him away was wearing the lace skullcap worn by Muslims.
The man looked around furtively and dived into a small alleyway. He went through a maze of narrow alleys before finally slowing down. The man peered through the window of one of the houses where an elderly woman knelt on a prayer mat, offering namaz. Pushing the door open, he gently lowered Tarlok to the floor. Tarlok was all set to scream for help but then, much to his shock, realized that he recognized t
he man. It was Abrar Chachu, his father’s childhood friend. Abrar bent down to Tarlok.
‘Go inside, beta,’ he said. ‘Rahmat Aapa will take care of you. And I’ll bring the rest of your family here as well. You just wait with her quietly, all right? And here, keep this with you.’
He drew off his skullcap and handed it to Tarlok who hesitantly took it. Abrar gave him a quick hug and left.
Five minutes later, Rahmat Bibi finished her namaz and looked up to find a frightened little boy standing by the door. Tarlok flinched as she hobbled towards him.
‘You’re Baldev’s little boy, aren’t you, beta?’ she asked, gently. ‘How did you get here? Is Baldev outside?’
Before Tarlok could respond, there came a loud banging on the door. Rahmat Bibi went over to the window, drew back the curtain and peeped out. It was a crowd of angry insurgents. She looked around in panic and noticed Abrar’s skullcap in Tarlok’s hand.
‘Put the cap on, beta, and sit there on the prayer mat,’ she said.
She opened the door, adjusting her headscarf as she did so. The mob almost knocked her frail body down as they charged inside, looking around like rabid animals. One of them burst into her kitchen while another went towards her bedroom. They searched the whole house—behind the curtains, under the beds.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Rahmat Bibi.
‘There are kaafirs among us. Some of our own people are hiding these godforsaken Hindus and Sikhs. We have to find them and finish them off.’
The leader of the mob looked around the house. He saw Tarlok seated on the prayer mat, Abrar’s skullcap on his little head.
‘Apologies, Aapa. It looks like we disturbed your namaz. I hope Allah will forgive us,’ he said.
Rahmat Bibi shook her head sadly. ‘I hope so too for what you are doing is certainly not Allah’s bidding.’
The man glared at her.
‘We’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Let us know if you see anything or anyone suspicious.’
Across the Line Page 11
