Unbordered Memories

by Rita Kothari

  I heard a gentle knock on the door. Everyone sat up. Amma would not let anyone else go and open the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Hashu. Open the door.’

  Hashu was quiet today. We found it very surprising. Usually he would start chattering incessantly as soon as he arrived home, ‘Rajab ate six eggs today! Fakir held an ice cube for half hour in his hand! The Negro hit a member from the Salat community so badly that he tumbled over. Nanu swung the lathi so well that all of us lay flat on our backs …’ But today, he looked sad. He said, ‘Hyderabad is surrounded on all sides by refugees. Muslims from Lahore slaughtered a cow in the middle of the bazaar.’

  Our bodies were reduced to mere ears. Softly, he said, ‘It has been decided to evacuate the women from Hyderabad. We will first make arrangements for unmarried girls to leave. At midnight, a truck will leave from here for Mirpurkhas. Women will be made to board a train from Mirpurkhas.’

  ‘But where will they go?’ My mother asked.

  ‘That arrangement will also be made. I have sent somebody to Jodhpur. He will rent some kind of a place. Popati and Kamla will be the first ones to leave.’ He faced me and said, ‘By first, I mean tomorrow. Take as few things as possible.’

  I was but a girl. I had a hand-embroidered sari. I had just begun to put sequins on one half of the sari. It was lying on the cot encased in an embroidery ring-frame and Amma had made pleats around it. There was a radio cover with mirrors embedded in the fabric. Colourful ribbons, a beaded cap, collections of coins, a handkerchief with names embroidered on it, notebooks that held the deepest secrets of my heart, books with pictures and images, a marbletopped table for study, a swing, a skirt with beads and buttons, a small temple in the loft … What to carry and what to abandon? Are these things to be left behind?

  I tossed and turned in bed all night. What will my friend Kala say when she comes to know? You didn’t even tell me? Hari was quite reassuring. He did say that if there were any problems, he would come and stay with my family. But once Kamla and I leave, what if something does happen? What will I do then?

  My elder brother worked in Karachi. Apart from Hashu, I had two younger brothers. All of us went to a studio to get a family photograph taken. God knows when we would all be together again, we thought. We must at least have each other’s pictures. I stood with Amma for a photograph, while Kamla stood with my younger brother.

  Amma kept wailing, ‘Scoundrels, such torture they have inflicted upon us.’

  My younger brother tried to console her, ‘Hindustan is like our elder mother, tell yourself that we are going to our senior mother.’

  ‘To hell with the elder mother and to hell with all those scoundrels who are separating us from our children,’ Amma wept.

  When we visited maasi’s home in the evening, we noticed utensils being packed in gunny sacks and members of the family stitching up the sacks. When we informed them that we were leaving Hyderabad that night, they too admitted that they were preparing to migrate. My maasi, that is my mother’s sister, her daughter-in-law, two unmarried daughters, three married ones and their children—all of them were getting ready to leave. Maasi suggested that we leave with them, and have Manghi, my mother, also join us.

  Once we came home, Amma also began to get ready. When she packed her petticoats and covers in a little suitcase, every fibre of her body was moist with tears. All of us began to sob. We neither ate nor slept that night.

  We spent that night going from room to room, looking wistfully at every object. I stood upon the terrace of the house and said goodbye, not only to the house, but the small piece of sky above me. The walls of the mohalla, and sparrows in the little alcoves, the cool breezes that blew over hillocks, the white bitch that lived in the gali, the trough for the horses, the little bird-feeding station for the pigeons—we were losing everything. September 17. It was my birthday, but it felt like the day of my death. We left home at 2.30 in the night. Three of my brothers accompanied us, the three women of the house. Once we left the lane, we kept turning our heads to look back. Only Allah could tell when we would get to rest our eyes on all this again …

  My maasi’s house was not far. There was already a lorry waiting outside her house. We started loading it with small suitcases, trunks and gunny sacks filled with utensils. Then we got into the lorry. The men reminded us, ‘Hurry up, anything can happen on the way. Leave your howling and growling for Mirpurkhas.’

  Our hearts cried but our eyes shed no tears. The windows of the lorry were shut, it picked up speed and raced into the darkness. We were like thieves fleeing our own nation in the dead of night.

  We reached Mirpurkhas before sunrise. My cousin’s husband lived in Mirpurkhas and he was an influential man. He said he would book an exclusive compartment in the train for us and advised us to take food grains with us. On the following day my mother’s first cousin and her daughters as well as daughters-in-law arrived at the railway station. We occupied two railway compartments. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. The train started but within the next thirty minutes a bunch of Muslim officers stopped the train. They entered our compartments. One of my relatives was carrying a fan with her. She sat on one of the wings, while another relative had removed a handle from a sewing machine and was carrying that in a box. The officers tapped every object with their sticks and took away all the bags including those with the food grains. We were left with neither food nor clothes.

  We reached Jodhpur in the morning. We were fifty in all, women and children. We waited in the retiring room at the station because we didn’t know where we had to go. In the afternoon, a boy came and took us to a bungalow in a tonga.

  We reached the bungalow safely, but what were we to eat and wear? Two women from the group left to seek help from neighbours. A Rajasthani neighbour said that she would feed only the children. An hour later, she and her daughter-in-law brought food. The children were made to sit in a row and served food on scraps of paper. The same women also brought dinner for the children. The adults fasted that day. We did not have mattresses, beds or pillows to sleep on. We covered ourselves with our saris and tried to sleep, but how do you sleep on an empty stomach?

  The following morning someone came to sell fried moong dal. We bought half a ser each and downed a few fistfuls of moong dal. The bungalow was far away from the centre of the city. We did not know the roads and streets well. Of course, we had some money, but we also feared using it up. So we were reluctant to spend it.

  On the third day, we bought some soap and washed our clothes, or rather a sari or blouse—only one thing a day. We were crying and laughing at the same time. We had an old woman amongst us, with years of experience to her credit—Sundri. She took money from us, made a list of things we needed and went to the shops. She bought wheat and had it ground into flour. She also brought some vegetables. We were eating wheat after two days, but Sundri stood at the kitchen door and rationed the number of rotis. The children got one each and adults got two, with a spoonful of sabzi, nothing else.

  Once we had had some food, we indulged in the luxury of thought. We were all worried about the family we had left behind. We wrote letters and sent telegrams. Seven days later, my maasi’s eldest son arrived in Jodhpur along with news from home. Our anxieties got worse. A train with thousands of Punjabi Muslims has arrived in Karachi. Sindhi Sikhs were made to assemble in a temple. Muslims doused the entire area around the temple with kerosene and set it ablaze. About a hundred and sixty Sikhs were burned inside the temple! Muslims had been knocking each and every door in Hyderabad. Locks were simply broken and homes appropriated.

  When the women heard such things, they regretted their migration. What was the point of living when their men might meet a brutal and premature end? My cousin had come to check on us. When he was leaving, two days later, we pleaded with him, ‘Please tell our families to come to us as soon as possible. They can come barefoot and empty-handed, we want only them and nothing else.’

  Twelve
days later, a lorry arrived with food grains. My cousin’s husband had also sent some clothes. For twelve days we had lived on a single meal a day and in the same clothes. On the thirteenth day we could bathe and eat without restraint.

  Gradually, both the young and old men of the family began to join us. But they were all empty-handed. My brother Hashu had gone to Delhi. He sent money and clothes from there. Meanwhile, my elder brother was left behind in Karachi. When we came to know that he too had left Sindh, we rejoiced.

  Now there were sixty- six people in the bungalow. With makeshift doors we had carved out bathrooms and kitchens, and each family occupied half a room. At nights we would have festive moments together telling stories, reciting proverbs, singing songs, inventing riddles and laughing at children’s jokes. In all this we would forget the agony of having left our motherland. The children were blissfully unaware anyway, but the grown-ups felt, all too often, a sharp pain stirring within them and nagging at their very being. A word, an anecdote, a memory related to Sindh or Sindhi and a fresh stab made our wounded feelings bleed with renewed pain.

  A month or two passed by in this manner. We kept hoping for a message that would say things were now calm, the dust had settled and that we could now go back. But why would such news arrive?

  We got ready to take the nest apart. Only one family stayed behind in Jodhpur. They decided to enter the bus service business, while others left for Bombay and Delhi. Some went to Baroda, while some others started lives anew in Calcutta. My sister and two of my brothers had yet to finish their education. Baroda was affiliated with Bombay University, so we went to Baroda.

  While boarding the train, I felt as if I had witnessed my death during my life and now I stood facing yet another life.

  Excerpted from the Golden and Silver Chapters of Life

  Bhoori

  SUNDRI UTTAMCHANDANI

  ‘Arre … arre … how can you just barge in like that?’ ‘Bahen … I sell papads …’

  ‘You can sell what you like, what do I care? How can you enter somebody’s house like that, doesn’t it occur to you that someone might be changing clothes … arre … can’t you hear me? Why are you rooted there? And you, my dear husband, why are you staring at this papad-seller? You might want to change your clothes.’

  ‘You are Nenu, aren’t you? Didn’t you recognize me?’

  …

  ‘You are surprised to see me selling papads, right?’

  ‘Come, sit down. I am certainly Nenu, but I am still trying to figure out whether you are Bhoori or Rukki.’

  ‘Rukki is my elder sister. I am Bhoori. Wah, what a comfortable chair this is! This is your wife, no?’

  Nenu nodded.

  ‘You are well, I hope. You don’t look the same, the lustre of Hyderabad days is no more. But Bhoori why don’t you …’

  ‘Yes, go on. Why did you fall silent?’

  ‘Sushila, this is Bhoori, you remember I had told you that she was the beauty of our neighbourhood.’

  ‘I see! So this is Bhoori. This was the beauty you were raving about …’

  With this, Sushila primly pushed back her lock of hair, although her face acquired a tinge of turmeric yellow.

  Sitting comfortably in a chair, Bhoori watched the room with interest, especially the photographs. She began to speak, unselfconsciously, ‘I had three babies, obviously that took energy and time. How can one look the same always? Also, I go around in the scorching heat … Nenu, you tell me, do you have children?’

  Nenu’s eyes had welled up with tears, he could neither hold them back nor let them flow. Finding his voice with some difficulty, he said, ‘But Bhoori, why has your face changed so much?’

  ‘First answer her question, she is asking you how many children you have. My dear woman, we also have three children. Now, do you wish to sell papads or not?’

  Sushila didn’t go further than that. She pursed her lips in anger.

  ‘Arre … Dhiru! Putta, where were you? Bring the weighing scale please.’

  ‘You made your sons stand outside in the corridor?’ Sushila asked.

  ‘What else could I do? Wretched fellow he is. Look at his feet, he loafs about all day. Put these scales on the floor, it’ll be easier to measure.’

  ‘But, woman, how much are you selling them for?’

  ‘Sushila, don’t call her woman, please.’ The word ‘woman’ jarred on his ears, and he looked up, shocked.

  Sushila scowled at her husband, as if she were saying, ‘If “woman” is not acceptable, should I call her the Sohini of Mehar?’

  Nenu swallowed a bitter pill. His face contorted, as he sat down on the chair Bhoori had used earlier.

  Bhoori sat on the floor, busy weighing the papads, oblivious to the conversation between the husband and wife.

  ‘One ser, two, three, three and a half … I have four papads extra, you can keep them. Eat the papads, and you’ll know how crunchy they are.’

  ‘First tell us, how much do you charge for a ratal?’

  ‘Eleven annas per ratal, you think I would overcharge you? I barely earn half an anna, not a paisa more.’

  ‘What lies, woman, how do you manage to raise three children with such low profit?’

  ‘No, bahen, long live my husband, he also contributes a few rupees every day.’

  ‘Is that all he earns?’

  ‘What does your husband do, Bhoori?’ Nenu asked.

  ‘While we were in Baroda, he had a small cloth shop. He rolls beedis now. He is not able to earn much by rolling beedis, so I have to make up by going to Peddar Road, Colaba, Dadar, here, there, everywhere. I manage to sell thirty sers of papad every day. With my earnings added to his, we live comfortably. Look at this boy, now. Arre, why are you eating a raw papad? Wretched boy, you know, Nenu, he’s surfaced after two days.’

  ‘Where had he gone for two days, woman?’ Sushila asked brusquely.

  ‘He says he had gone to Dadar station.’

  ‘And pray where did he eat?’

  ‘Menial labour.’

  ‘I hand it to you, woman. Our heartbeats stop if our children disappear even for a moment. Just look what you have done to him. How good looking he is, his lips are nice and pink, eyes brown, but so unclean! You’ve allowed him to remain so dirty, there’s dust smeared over his body. Check out our children when they return from the garden now. They are spotless.’

  ‘Bahen, why wouldn’t they look spotless? Were I sitting pretty at home all day, I would have also fawned and fussed over them. I just about manage a hasty meal in the morning, and leave for the papad rounds. Despite that, I drop the girls off at the school. This useless fellow doesn’t even want to study. He says, “I want to come with you and earn money.” The other day, when I refused to take him, he disappeared altogether. But tomorrow I’ll make sure he gets a sound thrashing from his teacher, so that he learns to stay put in school.’

  ‘It’s better not to be out of house then. As it is, you earn a measly amount, not millions.’

  ‘That measly amount is enough for us. At least we don’t depend on anybody.’

  ‘Enough? Woman, I find my husband’s salary of three hundred rupees little,’ Sushila said this with such snootiness, hoping to arouse Bhoori’s jealousy.

  But Bhoori did not react. Her behaviour registered no understanding of the difference between three hundred on the one hand and a few rupees on the other.

  ‘All right, bahen, here you go. That’s three sers of papad. If you wish, I can bring more tomorrow.’

  ‘What will I do with more tomorrow? Bring them after some days. Here’s the money.’

  ‘All right, Nenu … arre Dhiru … pick up the scales … it is already sundown.’

  ‘Change your clothes, at least. You’ve been sitting here in just your trousers and your vest.’

  ‘Oh my God … I just forgot to change my clothes … but why are you so irritable?’

  ‘I could be irritable, although you seem pleased with life.’

  ‘It’s
so late, and you are still awake?’

  …

  ‘What has come over you today?’

  …

  ‘Tell me honestly, here, look at me! You are thinking of Bhoori, right?’

  ‘It’s true that I am thinking about Bhoori, but why are you so anxious?’

  ‘I guessed as much, and also know what that is.’

  ‘You will not be able to understand.’

  ‘How would I if you don’t explain? I must be foolish to ask you. Never mind, don’t tell me. I’ll simply go to sleep.’

  Sushila turned the other way.

  ‘Arre … arre … listen to me … tell me what … what had you guessed?’

  ‘Leave me alone. Bhoori has left you enchanted, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘All right, I am mad then. You look so clueless as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. I say, never marry a poet, who can’t see beyond beautiful women.’

  ‘You are not in your right senses today, otherwise even a child can see that at this point you are far prettier than Bhoori.’

  ‘Enough, enough, don’t I know that even the best-looking wives are taken for granted, they are like homemade chicken, no better than dal.’

  ‘What nonsense, it is not just poets, every human being seeks beauty. Do you shut your eyes when you see a beautiful flower?’

  ‘Anyway, what was so special about Bhoori? I noticed, didn’t I, that when she was going away, you couldn’t take your eyes off her.’

  ‘Sushila!’ His tone was like a rebuke.

  ‘I know, I know. Home truths hurt, don’t they?’

  ‘You fool … she is a married woman, and a mother of three children!’

  ‘So? You were ready to marry her when she wasn’t married, weren’t you? It’s a different matter that your father convinced you to marry an educated woman since you were educated. You are feeling sorry now.’