Across the Line

by Nayanika Mahtani

  The rioters left as suddenly as they had erupted into the house, leaving behind a hiatus of shell-shocked silence.

  Rahmat Bibi went over to Tarlok. He was trembling with fear, having seen the threatening men with their sharp knives and weapons.

  ‘It will be all right,’ Rahmat Bibi said gently. She secured the windows and doors as quickly as she could and took him into the kitchen. She tried to pick him up with her old, feeble arms to seat him on the kitchen counter, but the effort made her wheeze and she doubled up, coughing.

  Tarlok quietly went and got her a cup of water. She took it gratefully from him and drank it. Rahmat Bibi warmed a cup of milk for Tarlok, took out a tin of rusks and offered them to him. He looked hesitant but then took both—dipping the rusk in the milk, just as he did at home.

  ‘When will my Biji and Papaji come to get me?’ he asked Rahmat Bibi.

  ‘They should be here any time now, beta,’ she lied.

  Abrar Ansari headed for his friend, Baldev Sahni’s house, to assure them that Tarlok was safe and to try and get the rest of the family to safety too. The sun was setting and Abrar slipped into the shadows, hoping to make it into the side entrance of the Sahni house, so as to avoid the large mob on the main street.

  He had almost reached the door, when one of the insurgents also entered the lane and spotted Abrar. Seeing Abrar stealthily step into a home with a prominent tulsi plant in its courtyard, he mistook Abrar to be a Hindu. ‘Look, a kaafir!’ he cried, beckoning to the rest of the mob.

  ‘I’m not Hindu; I’m Muslim, believe me!’ Abrar pleaded. But the rioters were in no mood to listen. The man who had spotted Abrar brought his axe sharply down on Abrar’s skull. The crack resonated through the air. Abrar collapsed in a bloody heap. One rioter doused him in kerosene while another set him alight.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’ their triumphant cries rang out while Abrar Ansari burned.

  It was several months before Rahmat Bibi came to know about the death of her brother. She kept expecting Abrar to drop in on her unannounced as he so often did, bringing gulab jamuns or jalebis, but as time passed, she gave up hope that his familiar footsteps would ever approach her door. She continued to wake up every morning with the first call of the muezzin, but, had it not been for the little boy whom Allah had left in her care, she might not have had the will to get out of bed. Three months had passed, and there was no news about Tarlok’s parents either. Rahmat Bibi had made very discreet inquiries about the whereabouts of the Sahnis, but nobody seemed to know where they were. Rahmat Bibi was seriously worried. How much longer would she be able to conceal this little boy in her home? She was getting on in years herself. As she sat for her evening namaz, her only dua to Allah was: Please look after this boy and keep him safe.

  As if in answer to those prayers, Rahmat Bibi had a visit from her closest friend, Suraiya, who informed her of a certain Haider family who had migrated into Rawalpindi from New Delhi, during the wrench of the Partition.

  ‘Poor Rukhsana Haider,’ said Suraiya. ‘Apparently, she lost her baby in the riots,’ Then lowering her voice, she continued, ‘I’ve heard that she can never conceive a child now.’

  Rahmat Bibi looked at the lonely little boy sitting by the window and looking out at the street.

  ‘God works in mysterious ways,’ she said. ‘There is sometimes a bigger plan that we are not aware of. Perhaps she may yet have a child—who knows?’

  Later that evening, Rahmat Bibi took Tarlok on her knee. ‘Beta, you don’t need to hide here anymore. Allah has sent new parents for you. And from today, your name will be Habib. Do you know what that means?’

  Tarlok shook his head. ‘It means “beloved”. You are going to be their very beloved son,’ said Rahmat Bibi, kissing his forehead. ‘But before that, there’s something I need to do to you. It will hurt a little, but this pain will be worth it.’

  After spending a few months in the refugee camps near Rawalpindi, the Haiders were allocated a house that had been abandoned by a Hindu family. It was a very basic home, nowhere near as grand as Musaafir Khaana, the home they had left behind, but they were grateful for a roof over their heads.

  Rahmat Bibi was filled with trepidation as she approached the Haiders’ new home. What if she was found out? What if the Haiders discovered that this child was not born to Muslim parents? She had arranged for his circumcision to be carried out by her nephew who was a doctor, swearing him to secrecy, but what if the truth was somehow exposed?

  She knocked timidly on the door, but as she waited, she lost her nerve and turned to leave. Just then, Javed Haider opened the door.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’ he said, rather surprised to see old Rahmat Bibi on the doorstep, holding a little child by the hand.

  ‘Is Rukhsana Bibi home? I’m Rahmat Azam, an old friend of her family.’

  Javed looked perplexed, never having heard the name earlier, but he invited her in all the same.

  ‘Do have a seat. I’ll let Rukhsana know you’re here.’

  As she waited for Rukhsana, Rahmat Bibi’s fears resurfaced. But when Rukhsana entered the drawing room, one look at her gentle face set Rahmat Bibi’s apprehensions at rest. She knew she was doing the right thing. There was a kindness in Rukhsana’s eyes—the tenderness with which she looked at Tarlok filled Rahmat Bibi with hope.

  ‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, uninvited . . . ’ she began.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Rukhsana. ‘In fact, all of you are the ones who have taken us in, uninvited, into a new city, a new country . . . ’ She broke off as her voice faltered.

  Rahmat Bibi took Tarlok by the hand and drew him into her lap.

  ‘Rukhsana Bibi, I hear that you have a loving heart—and this child here, Habib, needs compassion more than anybody else. He lost his parents in the riots—had I been younger, I would have gladly reared him as my own . . . ’

  Rukhsana knelt by the sofa, with arms outstretched, ‘Come to me, Habib. Come, my child.’

  Tarlok clutched Rahmat Bibi’s shalwar and sat glued to her lap.

  ‘Come to me, Habib,’ Rukhsana repeated.

  ‘My name is not Habib, it’s Tarlok,’ said the little boy.

  Rahmat Bibi’s face went pale. Flustered, she rose and made to leave the room. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you . . . We’ll take our leave.’

  ‘One moment,’ Rukhsana’s voice stayed them when Rahmat Bibi was almost at the door, Tarlok’s little hand in hers. ‘You’ve visited our home for the first time—please don’t leave empty-handed.’

  Rukhsana picked up a handful of nuts from a salver on the teapoy and approached Tarlok. She knelt and offered these to him.

  ‘Do you like pistachios and almonds?’ she asked. ‘They make you big and strong, you know.’

  A teardrop rolled down Tarlok’s small face. Through his blurry eyes, he could almost see his Biji sitting, hand extended, telling him to have his pistachios and almonds if he wanted to grow up and be big and strong. He could hear her call after him, as he ran off to catch the school bus with Toshi, thrusting the nuts into his hand as he clambered on.

  He blinked his tears away and saw that this lady was not his Biji. Rukhsana held out her arms to him.

  ‘I know I’m not your mother, but I would be the happiest person alive if you were to be my son.’

  Rahmat Bibi’s eyes filled with grateful tears. She gently unclenched Tarlok’s fist from the folds of her shalwar and gave his hand into Rukhsana’s.

  Rukhsana kissed his plump little hand and hugged the little boy. It was as if destiny had been defied and she had been given what she had been denied.

  ‘Habib Haider, my son, I will love you with every breath I take,’ she whispered.

  Threads

  London, United Kingdom

  ‘And that’s how I grew up as Habib Haider.’

  Toshi was too overcome to say anything. It seemed to her like a latticework of fragmented memories had found a thread that bound them together, and she held o
n to it tightly, too scared to let go.

  ‘Loki, did you ever see Biji and Papaji again . . . ?’

  Habib shook his head.

  ‘I was told that all of you had died . . . ’ he began, his voice thick with feeling, the words stuck to the back of his throat.

  ‘But didn’t Zulaikha Baaji tell you that Bade Papa, Badi Ma and I had gone to India?’ asked Toshi. ‘It was she and Khalid Chacha who helped us get on that train. Did you not meet them again?’

  Habib shook his head again.

  ‘All I heard was that they had disappeared. Some people thought that they had also been killed. For helping kaafirs,’ he said quietly.

  Toshi’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘I still cannot believe that life has brought us together again, Loki. It has been over sixty years. We have so much lost time to catch up on. I can’t explain the thrill of saying your name—and knowing that you’re there. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t regretted that day when I left you out in that gully all by yourself, Loki,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  Habib looked at his sister and saw beneath her greying hair, the same ten-year-old girl neatly piling the pebbles.

  ‘I know,’ he said softly.

  They sat there, talking about the paths their lives had taken them on, trying to fill in the gaps of six decades.

  ‘Where do I begin? There’s so much I want to ask,’ said Toshi.

  Habib smiled, ‘My turn first. So, Jai is your grandson. Who did you marry, Toshi di? How many children do you have?’

  Toshi sighed, ‘I wish you had met my husband. His name was Prakash Puri. He was kind and good-hearted, just like you, Loki. And I have a son, Jai’s father—his name is Rajan.’

  ‘Is he here, in London? Is this where you live? When can I meet him?’

  Just then, Rajan walked up to them. ‘Sorry, Ma,’ he apologized, his quizzical smile flashing over the old gentleman seated by his mother. ‘There was a really long queue to get into the museum. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long.’

  ‘Not at all, Rajan. The wait was well worth it,’ replied Toshi, smiling.

  Too Familiar

  ‘So, what is this big lunch about, Ma?’ asked Rajan. They were seated in a Chinese restaurant, decorated in bold reds, with a swan motif on practically every imaginable surface.

  ‘It’s just a small celebration as a family—and besides, it was Arathi’s birthday, so we need to mark the occasion,’ said Toshi. She looked happier than Rajan had seen her look in a very long time.

  ‘Shall we order?’ asked Jai. He found all these discussions rather pointless. Big lunches were meant for eating. Period.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ said Arathi, smiling indulgently. ‘Try and catch a waiter’s attention please, Jai.’

  As Jai turned around to try and catch the waiter’s eye, his attention was drawn to someone else instead. He groaned. This could not be happening. Pesky Girl and her family were in the same restaurant—and as if that weren’t bad enough, they seemed to be heading towards their table.

  ‘Hello,’ said Habib, ‘We meet again.’

  Toshi smiled at him. ‘What a coincidence,’ she said—which it certainly wasn’t, as Habib and she had decided to ‘bump’ into each other at this restaurant with their families, so that they could break their news to them. In stages.

  Arathi stiffened at seeing the Pakistani family again.

  ‘We’re all in attendance now—the whole khaandaan,’ said Habib, with a smile. ‘I’d like you to meet my son, Irfan. And this is my wife Humaira and her sister Adeela.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to meet you all,’ said Toshi. ‘And this is my son, Rajan—you met him briefly at the art gallery—the rest of us probably look familiar.’

  ‘Too familiar,’ muttered Jai, under his breath.

  ‘Are you talking to yourself?’ asked Inaya.

  ‘Er, no,’ said Jai. ‘You must be imagining things.’ Okay, not the greatest comeback, thought Jai, but it was a start.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Habib. ‘So, we’ll let you get on with your lunch. But perhaps we could all have dessert together later. We might as well plan it out this time since we seem to be bumping into each other everywhere?’

  He looked around at the group’s stunned faces, quietly amused. No one seemed to be displaying any enthusiasm whatsoever.

  ‘We’re leaving for Pakistan in a few days, so it’s unlikely that we’ll see each other again,’ he continued, ‘And Inaya and I have discovered this fabulous little gelato place, which is less than five minutes away . . . ’

  Jai perked up visibly at the mention of gelato. ‘Gelato sounds good,’ he said, and regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

  Arathi gave him a withering look.

  ‘Perfect, it’s decided then,’ said Habib. ‘Enjoy your lunch.’

  Humaira was positively seething as they walked to their table.

  ‘What were you thinking, Habib?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘Yes, Abba, what were you thinking?’ echoed Irfan.

  ‘That was pretty random, Daada,’ said Inaya.

  ‘I think it was a lovely gesture, Bhaijaan,’ trilled Adeela.

  Humaira clucked her tongue, making her displeasure known, loud and clear. ‘Well, you can go ahead then, I won’t be joining this merry get-together,’ she said.

  Adeela shook her head sadly. ‘It’s all right, Bhaijaan—Inaya and you carry on. Humaira Aapa won’t let me hear the end of it if I go with you. We’ll see you at home after you’ve had your gelatos.’

  Things weren’t too different at the Puris table either, where Arathi and Rajan turned on Jai.

  ‘Really, Jai?’ said Arathi. ‘After all that moaning about “Pesky Girl”, you subject us all to sharing ice cream with them?’

  Rajan looked to his mother. ‘If it’s okay by you, Ma—can you take Jai and join them for this gelato thing? Arathi and I had planned on doing some shopping for gifts after lunch.’

  ‘All right, it’s just us then, Jai,’ said Toshi. ‘Brace yourself.’ She smiled to herself.

  Little did Jai know what he was in for.

  Fireflies

  As soon as the four of them had got a table at the gelato café, Toshi took a deep breath and looked at her brother as a signal to say she was going to launch into the story. With the slightest nod of his head, Habib told her to go ahead.

  Toshi turned to Jai, who was examining the menu card with the single-minded focus that Roger Federer displayed before serving an ace.

  ‘Jai, do you remember the story I told you about Tarlok?’ asked his grandmother, gently touching his arm. Jai looked up at her. He remembered it vividly. After his encounter with Ansh and the gang, he had often thought about Badi Ma’s brave little brother, who lost his life in the Partition.

  ‘Yes, Badi Ma, I do remember.’

  ‘Well—this is Tarlok, my younger brother.’

  Jai looked at Habib and then at his grandmother.

  ‘Good one, Badi Ma!’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘I’m not joking, Jai,’ said Toshi. Something about her voice made Jai sit up straighter.

  ‘So, you’re saying that Pesk—Inaya’s grandfather is your brother?’

  Both Toshi and Habib nodded.

  Both Inaya and Jai were struck speechless. Jai was the first of the two to recover.

  ‘But you said your brother was . . . dead, Badi Ma.’

  ‘Hold on—did you just say that you two are sister and brother?’ Inaya butted in, her reaction slightly delayed.

  Habib and Toshi looked at each other and nodded again, amused by their grandchildren’s startled expressions.

  ‘That’s right, Jai. I was mistaken all my life. Tarlok is alive and well,’ said Toshi.

  ‘Who’s this Tarlok? My grandfather’s name is Habib,’ said Inaya.

  ‘It’s a long story, Inaya,’ said Habib.

  ‘Badi Ma, you do know that he is Muslim right?’ whispered Jai conspiratorially,
although he was loud enough for everyone to hear. He could just about picture his parents having a hissy fit when they would learn about this new development.

  ‘Yes. He is Muslim,’ said Toshi. ‘And I have grown up as a Hindu. But the bond we share is far stronger than the faith we practise.’

  A lightbulb seemed to come on in Jai’s head. He let out a long, satisfied sigh, ‘Ah, now I get it. This is some kind of candid camera joke that you both have planned, right?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Jai,’ said Toshi.

  ‘In fact, if anything, life has played the biggest joke on us, all these years,’ added Habib.

  Jai looked entirely flummoxed. So, Badi Ma now apparently had a Muslim brother who was alive and tucked away in Pakistan, who then turned out be the grandfather of Pesky Girl.

  Meanwhile, Inaya was processing her thoughts, in the context of what this meant to her. ‘Hold on a second—how come you never mentioned that you had a sister, Daada?’ she asked. ‘Or am I the only one who doesn’t know about this?’

  ‘You’re the only one who knows, Inaya,’ said Habib.

  ‘But how come your sister is from India, Daada?’ she said. ‘Do you think we’re related to Jhulan Goswami too?’ she added, as an appealing afterthought dawned on her.

  If her grandfather was going to suddenly spring long-lost relatives from across the border at her, he might have chosen better, she thought to herself. This Jai was a complete waste of space, in Inaya’s opinion. All he did was think about food and eat it. No interest whatsoever in cricket—or any sport for that matter.

  ‘No, Inaya, I don’t think we’re related to Jhulan,’ said Habib, smiling. ‘Inaya’s a champion cricketer, by the way,’ he added, turning to his sister.

  ‘Ah, that’s wonderful,’ said Toshi, reaching forward to give a startled Inaya a hug.

  Jai glowered at his grandmother. Why was she being so affectionate towards Pesky Girl?

  ‘Jai is a budding chef—and he draws really well too—just like you, Tarlok,’ said Toshi proudly.