Across the Line

by Nayanika Mahtani

  Humaira stared at the diary in disbelief. She passed it to Habib, who slowly flipped through its yellowed pages and then read from it softly:

  ‘17 August 1947. It is relentless, this madness that continues to possess us all. Javed tells me that we must leave our home, our country and go. “Pack your things, Ammi,” he said. What do I take? What do I leave behind? I will return to Musaafir Khaana, of that I am sure. That is what I told Ghanshyam when I left my things in his care. He says he will keep everything ready for Eid when the family arrives. Until then, may Allah keep my family safe . . . ’

  Habib looked up from the diary, stunned.

  ‘So, is . . . is this Musaafir Khaana?’ he asked. ‘My Daadi couldn’t stop talking about it right up until the very end.’

  ‘Well, I believe Musaafir Khaana was converted into four apartments sometime in the 1950s,’ said Rajan. ‘So, I guess we’re sitting in one quarter of it.’

  ‘She would always say that she would come back to Musaafir Khaana . . . ’ Habib continued in a quiet reverie.

  ‘And in a way she has,’ said Humaira, gently placing her hand on Habib’s. ‘Along with us.’

  ‘Is it all right if I take a photograph of the four of you, I mean the Haider family, with this diary and jewellery?’ asked Jai.

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Humaira. ‘As long as we have another photograph after that with all of us, the whole family, in it.’

  Seeing Toshi’s eyes well up on hearing this, Arathi gave her a quick hug.

  ‘I hate to admit I was wrong, but I was, Ma,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot even imagine why I ever had a problem sitting at the same table as them! They’re so incredibly nice.’

  ‘Can everyone please stop looking so weepy?’ said Jai, noticing the expressions of his grandmother, mother, Humaira and Habib. ‘I have photographs to take.’

  ‘Are you still doing that Peace-ing It Together thing, by the way?’ asked Inaya.

  Jai nodded, bracing himself for her usual withering derision of his ideas. ‘It’s not such a waste of time as you consider it. We’ve had a lot of responses from people across the world and—’

  ‘I actually think it’s a really good idea,’ Inaya cut in.

  Now it is was Jai’s turn to gape.

  ‘In fact, I’m going to request Nabeel Said to help us with spreading the word for Peace-ing It Together. Perhaps we can have an Indo-Pak Food Week at her cafés? And on her website, people could post photographs of food that is eaten on both sides of the border?’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Jai, beaming. ‘And, by the way, my parents have gotten us tickets to watch Ghulan Joswami’s match in Mumbai.’

  ‘It’s Jhulan Goswami! For the hundredth time!’ laughed Inaya, but her eyes shone with delighted anticipation.

  ‘There’s no guarantee that she’ll meet us, but we can try,’ said Jai, not wanting to raise Inaya’s expectations too high, in case it didn’t work out. Especially since he had no idea how he was going to go about this whole exercise in the first place. Reaching Mumbai and going to watch her match was his grand plan so far.

  ‘And after Habib’s art show in Mumbai, we will all go to Ajmer,’ said Toshi. ‘To Chishti’s dargah.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Inaya.

  Toshi smiled at her. ‘Chishti was a Sufi saint, Inaya. He was born in Iran, but he chose Ajmer as his home— so that’s where his shrine is. People called him Khwaja Gharib Nawaz, meaning “patron saint of the poor”. But even the richest came to him. Emperor Akbar would often walk from Agra to Ajmer to seek his blessings and offer thanks. I cannot wait to visit with all of you. I have so many thanks to offer.’

  She took Humaira’s and Habib’s hands and held them to her eyes, just as her father would do with Tarlok and her as children.

  Life had come full circle.

  Travel Companions

  Mumbai, India

  Habib had booked them all into one of the finest five star hotels in the city and wouldn’t listen to Rajan and Arathi’s protests about wanting to pay for their rooms themselves.

  ‘It’s the least I can do for my sister, after all these years,’ he said.

  ‘But you’re . . . ’ Rajan had started to say but then stopped himself from finishing the sentence. A guest in our country.

  Inaya couldn’t wait to attend the cricket match—and perhaps get the chance to meet her hero, Jhulan. It was a day-night game, and she had been ready a good hour before they were supposed to leave, waiting restlessly in the hotel lobby for Jai and the rest.

  Twenty long minutes later, everyone was finally in the lobby. Humaira, Irfan and Inaya were wearing the Pakistan cricket team’s green T-shirts, while Jai, Rajan and Arathi were in the Indian team’s blue ones. Toshi and Habib were the only two not wearing the team T-shirts.

  ‘Aren’t you coming, Badi Ma?’ asked Jai.

  Toshi shook her head and smiled, ‘While all of you watch the match, I thought I’d take Loki—I mean Habib—to meet some of our cousins. He hasn’t seen them since he was six. And then, when the match is over, we’ll meet you back at the hotel for dinner.’

  ‘If he complains too much about aches and pains, just ignore him, Toshi Aapa,’ said Humaira.

  ‘Good idea, Humaira. I’ll take my hearing aid off, if he starts,’ laughed Toshi. ‘Now go, all of you—the car is waiting—enjoy the match.’

  ‘And say hello to Jhulan for me,’ added Habib, ruffling Inaya’s curly hair.

  The match was completely enrapturing for Inaya. She had never watched a women’s cricket game live before—and to watch Jhulan Goswami play right before her eyes, that too against Australia, was simply beyond anything she could imagine.

  Jhulan was on fire. She managed to get four quick wickets and keep the Aussie scoring under control. At the end of the Aussie innings, Inaya waited breathlessly by the side of the steps, as the players returned to the pavilion for their break. As Jhulan passed by her, Inaya desperately wanted to say something but found herself tongue-tied.

  Jai uncharacteristically jumped into the fray, ‘Er, Jhulan!’ he shouted. ‘Your biggest fan from Pakistan is here and wants to say hello.’

  Jhulan Goswami looked up at Jai. Jai pointed to Inaya. Jhulan sportingly ran back to shake Inaya’s hand.

  ‘Good to meet you. Thanks for coming all the way to watch me.’

  ‘She’s an amazing tape-ball cricket player herself,’ added Jai, since Inaya was still in a dumbfounded state. ‘Her name is Inaya Haider. She was runner-up in the tape-ball league match in the UK.’

  ‘Fabulous!’ said Jhulan. ‘Good luck, Inaya. Keep playing.’

  Inaya looked like she might faint with happiness. Jai was more relieved than anything else that his Jhulan problem had been sorted for now.

  Sitting beside them, Humaira, Irfan, Rajan and Arathi who had started out rather awkwardly, were all getting on quite famously now, animatedly discussing Bollywood films, Pakistani dramas, cricket and food—not necessarily in that order.

  ‘Okay, so it’s settled then. You give us Coke Studio, we give you Katrina Kaif,’ said Arathi.

  Irfan pretended to sign an imaginary document, which he then handed to Arathi with an exaggerated flourish.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said.

  ‘Oh please—that sounds like a very unfair trade,’ protested Rajan. ‘Why don’t you take one of our strapping heroes instead?’

  Humaira smiled, listening to their banter. ‘I’m so glad you made the time to get away from work, Irfan,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, is he a workaholic as well?’ asked Arathi. ‘It must be a family trait then.’

  ‘I’m not a workaholic,’ declared Rajan and Irfan, almost in unison, throwing up their hands.

  Humaira and Arathi exchanged a look and burst out laughing.

  Meanwhile, Habib and Toshi took a cab back to their hotel, exhausted but happy after their day spent together, visiting their cousins. As the taxi drew up outside the hotel, Toshi pointed to the Gateway of India framed against
the inky sea and sky.

  ‘Do you remember we used to buy peanuts from that vendor here?’ she asked, her eyes shining as if she were ten again. ‘How much we’d laugh when he called peanuts “timepass”—we’d never heard that before.’

  Habib laughed.

  ‘Those were good days, Toshi di. And you’re looking as happy as if you’re expecting that he will still be here.’

  ‘You never know—perhaps his son or daughter could be here? Now I can believe that almost anything is possible. I’ll buy us some peanuts for old time’s sake and be back in two minutes.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll book us a table at the restaurant in the meanwhile,’ said Habib. ‘Hopefully, their match should be done soon?’

  Toshi nodded and wandered off in search of the peanut vendor. She inhaled the warm sea breeze laden with happy childhood memories. She couldn’t find the peanut vendor she was looking for, but she did get the peanuts. She tried one and shut her eyes happily as a wave of nostalgia washed over her.

  Toshi looked up to the sky. There were an uncommon number of crows flying over the red domes of the hotel. Biji always said that crows brought messages from loved ones who had died. Perhaps Biji and Papaji were sending Tarlok and her a message today, she thought with a smile.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of fireworks. Toshi turned around. The sound seemed to be coming from the hotel—a wedding celebration, possibly. It was November after all, the season for weddings, and the concierge had mentioned that there was to be a ‘big fat Indian wedding’ that night.

  Then she heard it again. This sound was definitely not fireworks. It was more like the crackle of machine-gun fire.

  Tarlok.

  The packet of peanuts fell from her hand. The people around her started running helter-skelter. The panic was palpable, descending on them like a shroud.

  ‘Terrorist attack!’ shouted someone.

  ‘Run!’ shouted another man. He grabbed his young daughter by the hand, and as he did so, her doll fell to the ground. Within seconds, it was mangled under the feet of the stampeding crowd.

  Toshi felt emptied to the pit of her stomach. It was as if the same nightmare born of hatred was replaying itself. Toshi’s doll, Nanhi, lying on the ground trampled underfoot by a frenzied mob. Toshi could almost see her six-year-old brother standing amidst the chaos, alone. Except, this time, she wasn’t going to let him be alone.

  She started running towards the hotel, as fast as her arthritic legs would carry her.

  ‘Don’t go that way,’ shouted a well-meaning vendor, who was hurriedly collecting his wares and fleeing the scene.

  Toshi took no heed. Whatever this was, this time around she would not leave Tarlok’s side. She rushed through the hotel lobby and towards the restaurant where Tarlok had headed to make the booking. The smell of gunpowder hung ominously in the air.

  As she entered the restaurant, from the corner of her eye, Toshi saw a man being gunned down. She stopped—rooted to the spot in a stunned stupor. A familiar terror uncoiled like a sludge to pulse through her veins, as the man collapsed in a pool of blood. Slowly, Toshi forced herself to turn around to look at him.

  What struck her first was that it wasn’t Tarlok. What struck her next was that the man’s eyes were wide open, his mouth forming an oval as if he had been abruptly cut off mid-sentence. The blood from his temple dripped in a steadily increasing pattern on to the napkin that was still on his lap. Like a tap that hadn’t been fully shut off. Around him were bodies of other people. Women, men. Just stacked on top of each other in a tangle of limbs.

  The image of a train went through Toshi’s head. The blood-drenched platform at Rawalpindi when she was ten. That was what this reminded her of. She recoiled from that memory, as if someone had physically struck her in the face. Her breath became laboured. She could hear her heartbeat pound against her eardrum. But one thought eclipsed everything else.

  Tarlok.

  She had to find Tarlok. Getting down on her hands and knees, Toshi made her way behind the tables, crawling slowly through the room, pushing past lifeless bodies, her eyes searching for Tarlok. There was the sound of gunshots again. The gunmen were in the room. Toshi shut her eyes and lay flat on her stomach, not knowing where or whom the shots would hit. And then, as she opened her eyes, she spotted Tarlok sitting at the far end of the room. Her spirits soared. Tarlok was alive and safe. He saw her too and smiled. Toshi waited for the gunshots to subside, and then she quietly crawled towards her brother and sat beside him, careful not to make a sound.

  It was then that she noticed the crimson crater in the side of his stomach, which left his insides hanging out.

  Toshi’s heart seemed to stop beating. Instinctively, she reached for the tablecloth to stem the blood flow. And it was that movement that attracted the attention of the gunman.

  As best as she could, Toshi wrapped the tablecloth around her brother’s wound. Which was when the first bullet hit her leg. She reached for Tarlok’s hand and that was when the second bullet hit her chest.

  Toshi feebly took her brother’s hand and touched it to her eyes.

  Just as their father would do.

  Holding on to Tarlok’s hand, Toshi’s mind drifted far away to a leafy gully in Rawalpindi. Only this time, she didn’t leave his side.

  Unseen

  Humaira didn’t shed a single tear. All she did was pray. And when she finally spoke, all she said was that she wanted Habib to be buried not in Rawalpindi, but near the Ajmer Sharif Dargah. Irfan looked at his mother in shock. But her jaw was set firm.

  ‘It’s what Habib would have wanted,’ she said with quiet resolve.

  As the family prepared to leave for Ajmer, Inaya picked up her grandfather’s coat and held it close. She sat there in silence, like one would with an old, familiar friend, where no conversation was necessary. She dug her hands into the large pockets, trying to feel the warmth and safety of her grandfather’s embrace, one last time. Her fingers came across something hard in one of the pockets. She took the object out—it was the oval, olive-coloured pebble that her grandfather always carried with him.

  ‘Why do you carry this around with you, Daada?’ Inaya had once asked him.

  Habib had smiled at Inaya and sat her down, holding the quartz pebble out for her in his palm.

  ‘Do you know how long this pebble has been around, Inaya?’

  ‘Since the time you were a little boy?’

  ‘Even longer. A few hundred million years perhaps. Inside it is folded a story of survival that we cannot even imagine. It’s my rock of hope,’ he had said.

  If only she could hear his voice again. Just one more time. Just to say goodbye even. Inaya’s cheeks were wet with the tears that quietly rolled down.

  She slipped the pebble into her own pocket. His rock of hope would be hers now. For always.

  Wrapped in centuries of wondrous reverence, the Ajmer Sharif Dargah of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti came into view.

  Holding the urn of his grandmother’s ashes close to his heart, Jai followed the slow shuffle of hundreds of feet, as they made their way towards the Sufi saint’s final resting place. His attention was drawn by a heady fragrance and he turned to see the bathing ritual of the tomb being carried out by its custodians, the khadims, as they doused the mazaar with rosewater infused with saffron and sandalwood. Lamps with ghee were lit in the four corner niches, peacock feathers were used to sweep the floor. Fresh flowers and exquisitely embroidered covers were laid on the tomb. It was the strangest combination of Hindu and Muslim customs, and yet, somehow, it seemed just right. Jai felt a stirring in the stillness; a cool breeze that caressed his moist forehead. Almost like Badi Ma would. He blinked back his tears and held the urn closer.

  A few paces behind them, Inaya quietly sidled up to Humaira and held her hand. She looked around her and saw people in deep meditation, some on a prayer mat facing Mecca, others chanting Vedic scriptures, turbaned Sikhs in silent contemplation.

  ‘Do you think
Allah is here Daadi, along with all the other gods that these people are praying to?’ she asked.

  Humaira looked at her granddaughter’s earnest face searching for answers.

  ‘I don’t know, my kishmish. I have never seen Allah. I don’t know if anyone has seen their gods. But Gharib Nawaz reaches the divine without any of these imaginary boundaries. He will make sure that Habib is in good hands,’ she replied, with moist eyes. ‘And Toshi Aapa too.’

  Inaya tightened her clutch around the little pebble in her pocket and swallowed the lump in her throat.

  2012

  ‘I’ve tried to become someone

  else for a while, only to discover

  that he, too, was me.’

  —Stephen Dunn,, Here and Now: Poems

  Pitching It Right

  In a leafy gully in Rawalpindi, where a young girl once played pithoo with her brother, another young girl played tape-ball cricket, sixty-odd years later.

  The month she turned nineteen, Inaya Haider made her debut in Pakistan’s women’s cricket team, opening their batting. Watching his daughter walk out on to the pitch, Irfan fought back his tears of joy. Standing beside him, Humaira wept copiously.

  In that very match, Inaya scored her maiden fifty. As the stadium erupted into thunderous applause, Inaya reached into her pocket, took out an olive green oval pebble, held it in her outstretched arm and gave the sky a huge smile. From behind the clouds, she could almost see her mother and grandfather smile back at her.

  Meanwhile, eighteen-year-old Jai Puri started an online cooking channel, which he named ‘Toshi’s Kitchen’. It gained quite a fan following and was even endorsed by Nabeel Said, thanks to a little help from Inaya.

  Despite his apathy for cricket, Jai now knows a thing or two about the game, never misses a single match that Inaya plays in—and wildly cheers her on.

  However, if it is an India-Pakistan match, things are different. Then Jai roots for India. And after the match, Inaya and he have heated debates about which team deserved to win.