A Moment Comes

by Jennifer Bradbury

  I touch it. “Anupreet did it.” I don’t rat her out about being the one who wrapped me up in the sari. It wasn’t her idea, after all.

  She nods appreciatively. “The girl is a wonder. I swear I’d pack ten of her to London if I could. And at the pittance we pay her, I could nearly afford to!”

  “Lucinda!” Father says sharply.

  My stomach tightens at the thought of an army of Anupreets marching down London’s streets, bewitching every eye in sight.

  “Mother . . . ,” I begin again. “I was thinking, now that Father has returned, now that things will likely settle down, I’d really like if we could try again at being useful here.”

  Mother’s eyes soften; she smiles at me. “I’m so glad to hear you say so, pet . . . ,” she begins, “but I’ve had no word indicating that the cholera situation is improving in any of the camps nearby.”

  “What about someplace else, then?” I say, kneeling beside her. “An orphanage, maybe.” I’m almost intoxicated with the idea of doing something more, what with leaving the food in the alley for the boy. I’d like more of this feeling.

  She hesitates. “An orphanage,” she says, tilting her head, turning the idea over in her mind. “That might be just the thing. There are hundreds more orphans now with the population exchange in full swing. The poor little things keep getting separated from their parents.” She squeezes my hand. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  I’m too happy to have pleased her that I don’t point out the reason she didn’t consider it: There haven’t been any photos of Lady Mountbatten visiting orphanages in the papers back home. But I’m sure the papers won’t mind a change of venue.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Margaret,” Father says, but the look he gives me is more suspicious than proud.

  I sit. “So long as we’re here and you’re working so hard, the least we can do is mitigate some of the suffering the empire has caused.”

  Mother’s smile melts away. “Keep your politics out of it. We’ll help the suffering—never mind the cause,” she says, adding, “As if we induced them to burn one another’s houses down and kidnap their daughters—”

  She doesn’t finish as the first of several cries interrupts her. A battle cry, like the ones from war films, rises up to the open veranda doors. Then more cries ring out, this time ones of surprise and fear and pain.

  I fly to the veranda, crowding Father’s shoulder even as Mother orders me to get out of view, her hand on my arm to pull me back, but even she freezes at the sight of the street beyond the walls of the compound.

  A mob is moving upon the market—the very one Anu and I visited. Men stream from two narrow lanes like water into the maze of stalls. They wave sticks above their heads, a few rattling kirpans—the curved sword Anu told me the orthodox Sikh men wear.

  “What’s happening?” I whisper. But I know—it is a riot. And I know by the turbaned heads that the mob is mostly Sikh men, and I remember from my visit with Anu that the vendors in this small market are predominantly Muslim. I don’t ask because I don’t know. I ask because I hope I am wrong.

  “We should move away from the windows,” Father advises, but he seems as transfixed as I am. The first thing I’d noticed upon arriving in India were the crowds—the constant crush of people on the streets, in the shops, moving around the city. I’d begun to grow used to them, the throngs, the constant noise and movement. But this is different. It’s shocking to see so many moving together, in one direction.

  And for the first time, I’m a bit frightened. Frightened at the thought of that mob shifting toward our house, of the stream being diverted toward our crumbling wall and the gate with our single guard. What would a guard do against a hundred men or more?

  And I wonder about the truth of why England is giving up India after all these years.

  Can it be because they’re frightened too? There are thousands of soldiers and diplomats still here in the country, but even with better arms and defenses and power and gated homes, there is no shelter from hundreds of millions of people if they refuse to cooperate.

  And I think with a start what it might mean if they disapprove of the lines Father and the other men like him will draw.

  There is movement at the other window. Tariq is peering through the curtain. He sees the turbans and the short blades flashing overhead just as I do. I know precious little about him, but I do know that he is Muslim. I try to imagine what it feels like to watch his own people being overrun. The roofs of the market stalls, most of them canvas tenting or cheap planking, begin to ripple and buckle as the mob cuts its way through. And from the other direction I can see the rush of bodies tumbling out of the market, some clutching parcels and bundles to their chests.

  Father looks over to see Tariq staring. “I think—” he begins.

  “It’s all right, sir,” Tariq says, stepping back. “The mob will not come this way.”

  I wonder what makes him sure, what makes him confident enough to make such a pronouncement.

  “No, I don’t think they will,” Father says, though he sounds doubtful.

  “It’s appalling,” Mother whispers. “Really, what makes people behave so?”

  No one answers, least of all Tariq.

  Father and Mother turn back to the windows, but my eyes are still on Tariq. He continues staring out the window, and I watch him for signs of outrage or empathy or anything, but his face is unreadable.

  And then quickly his eyes dart to mine, and he looks at me. Really looks at me, instead of through me or around me as his habit seems to dictate. Those amber eyes lock upon mine, and hold me there.

  I’ve heard there are serpents here that immobilize their prey simply by staring at them, that the strike is almost secondary. And I think I might know now what it feels like for some smaller animal to be caught in the gaze of the cobra.

  Tariq continues to look at me, even as the noise increases outside, as the smoke from the first of the fires rides in on the breeze. And his expression is as impenetrable as ever. He might love me or hate me.

  But he is looking.

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  TARIQ

  Almost before the riots in the market even quieted, I turned to Mr. Darnsley and asked to go home.

  “Are you sure it is safe?” he asked, eyes taking in the damage across the street.

  “They will not trouble with just me,” I said. But the truth was, they might. Or another pack of men might. But I didn’t care. I could only think of Ammi and Abbu and Arish and whether they were all right.

  “Of course you may go,” Mr. Darnsley said, and I bolted from the room.

  I ride fast, faster than I usually do on errands for Darnsley. But it takes me longer to get home, because I keep taking side streets and long-cuts. I don’t want to risk running into a riot.

  Ya Allah, I wish my brain would stop churning. I wanted to feel fury at what I saw the Sikhs doing at the market. I should feel fury. But instead, all I can think about is how I had done the exact same thing at the mosque—the exact same thing. We are all doing the exact same terrible things.

  Maybe I do belong here after all.

  Maybe this is how Allah is punishing me. Maybe Mr. Darnsley refusing to help me is part of that punishment.

  I have to get out of India. Have to get to England. Though I know even England isn’t far enough away for me to escape my shame. But now I know for certain that I will come back. Now more than ever, I believe this. I’ll come back and they’ll have to listen to me. Just as they listen to Jinnah. I’ll help it stop, this fighting.

  Will they listen to me? A man whose hands are as dirty as anyone else’s? I have to hope so. I have to try.

  I have to get to England.

  When I finally make it home, the house is turned inside out. Blind panic seizes me for a second as I think the mobs have come to our neighborhood, but then I see that only our house looks different. “Ammi? Abbu?” I shout, swinging my leg over the seat, barely slowing
down enough to keep from crashing into the gate.

  “Tariq!” Ammi rushes out toward me, and before I can even push the bicycle inside, she wraps me in her arms. I return her hug with one hand, the other balancing the bicycle. The chain presses against the leg of my churidars, and ridiculously I wonder how long it will take me to wash the grease stains from it before I have to present myself to Mr. Darnsley in the morning.

  “I’m all right, Ammi,” I say, resting my chin on top of her head.

  She lets go, looks me over, and decides I am telling the truth.

  “Chalo,” she orders. “Come. We’ve much to do.”

  I follow her inside. The furniture is mostly gone. Wooden crates filled with straw form a maze on the floor.

  “We will store them in the mosque until we can send for them,” Ammi says.

  “Abbu means to go now?”

  “On the Friday train,” she says.

  Friday! Three days?

  “Why so soon? Was the shop looted?” I ask with alarm. Our shop is in the fanciest market, far from where the riots have been so far, but—

  “Nahi,” she says, “but it is only a matter of time. Unless you pay the bribes for protection, they will come. But there is no sense protecting what we must give up eventually. He says Pakistan is the only home for us now.”

  Pakistan. I can’t go to Pakistan. I can’t leave. Not now. Not while there is still a chance.

  Margaret will help me. Please, Allah, make her help me.

  I have to tell them. I’ve waited so long not because I’m afraid of disappointing them or scaring them, or that they’ll forbid it, or any of that. All those are givens. Those things won’t change no matter what moment I choose to tell them.

  No, I haven’t told them yet because I know it will hurt. Hurt them. And me. Already I feel my heart breaking a little and have to clench my fists to keep my hands from shaking. But there’s nothing for it. I have to tell her now. No way out but through, Abbu would say.

  “Ammi . . . ,” I begin, swallowing hard. “I do not want to go.”

  Her eyes soften; she lifts a hand to my cheek gently. I don’t think I can get through this if she tries to comfort me now.

  “It is hard, Tariq,” she says, looking from my eyes to the boxes, the crates, “to leave so much behind.” She knows as well as I do that the chance of these things she has spent a lifetime collecting and using probably won’t make it to Pakistan. “But at least we will be together.”

  I shake my head, her hand falls away. Just tell her! Just say it! “I will not go.”

  Now Ammi looks at me, eyes narrowing. “Tariq?”

  “Pakistan has nothing for me,” I say. And as I say it, I realize how hard it sounds. The shock in my mother’s eyes betrays how much I have hurt her.

  They will be in Pakistan. All my family will be.

  “Tariq,” she repeats, unsure of what else to say.

  I hear my father at the gate, hear him call my name. He carries a paper bag in his hand. “I saw your bicycle outside. . . . ” He sounds relieved.

  “There were riots in the market across from the Darnsleys’ house.”

  “Riots everywhere—” Abbu says, shaking his head.

  Ammi interrupts. She cannot help herself, cannot keep the words inside any longer. “Tariq refuses to come west with us.”

  Abbu drops the bag on the floor, the contents rattling and shifting inside. It sounds like he has a pile of pebbles within. His eyes are wide, worried. “What is this she says?”

  I feel all the careful arguments I’ve prepared abandoning me. When I rehearsed them in my mind, I wasn’t staring at Abbu’s stricken face, or Ammi’s tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  “I have a chance,” I manage, my voice breaking, “to fulfill Daadaa’s dream.”

  “Daadaa?” he says, confused for a moment before I see understanding wash over him, and then something like grief replaces that as he says, “Oxford?”

  I take a deep breath, nod. Abbu thought I’d given it up.

  “Oh, Tariq,” Abbu says. Ammi wails softly.

  I shake my head. His voice is too gentle. It would be easier if he didn’t pity me now. Easier to stand my ground.

  “I know you want to honor your grandfather’s memory. But if he were alive now, he would already have taken us to Pakistan.”

  “But I—”

  He steps closer. “You can go to the university in Lahore after we settle. Already you have more than enough learning to run the business or be a teacher, to be respected. You will do us all great honor—”

  “I will do us more if I can get the education that forces men to listen to me.” I wish I could make him understand that enough in his mind is a scant portion in my own.

  “My beta.” He steps closer, lowers his voice. “You won’t need it. Pakistan will be different, you see? We go to a place where a man can start a life for himself, free of oppression, free of the threat of an ignorant majority. A place where work will equal success.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “Not yet.” Tears sting at my eyes. I’m almost as sad that I can’t see Pakistan as he chooses to as I am to be hurting him and Ammi.

  He turns, speaks to Ammi, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice.

  “I should not have allowed this job,” he says. “The poison of the Britisher! It eats at him! He cannot return to that house.”

  “I have to!” I say. “They need me.” And I need them.

  He looks at me again, softer this time. “We are khandaan,” he pleads. “There is no need greater than that, is there?”

  I hang my head, study the fraying edge of the rug under our feet.

  Abbu goes on. “You know what we have done for you? For your brother?” He holds up his finger, retrieves the bag from the floor. The bottom sags, the contents rattle as he reaches for my hand.

  “Abbu—”

  He hisses, cuts me off, and into my hand he pours a mixture of gleaming stones. Even in the dim room, they catch the light, twinkling like stars against my palm. There are diamonds, small ones, chunks of gold like clumps of rice, and rubies.

  “It is the only way to move our wealth to Pakistan.” He glances about as if the walls have eyes and ears. “And it is dear enough and unsafe enough as it is. But we take everything so that you and your brother may prosper, may find good wives—”

  I bite my lip as I pour the stones back into the bag, but still I say, “No, Abbu.” I think of my brother, wonder why he isn’t here to see this. Maybe all this wealth will make some father look past his half a leg and give him his daughter, anyway. It will be easier if he does not have to share it. And Arish—he can run the shop on his own.

  As if he reads my thoughts, my father says, “He cannot do it without you.”

  “Arish is stronger than you think.”

  Abbu suddenly looks as if he wants to strike me. I edge backward. “And you?” His voice is a challenge. “Are you stronger than I think? Do you know what it will be like to be on your own?”

  I say nothing. I’ve thought about it. But now, with telling them, it starts to become even more real. Distance seems to spread out between us even while we stand here. And it hurts. It hurts much more than I thought it would.

  My doubts start to scream louder inside my head. The scale of what I’m planning threatens to overwhelm me. It would be easier to go with them. So much easier to obey.

  But I know I’m right. I know one day Abbu will be proud of me for standing up to him. And prouder still when I come back.

  “I have to try for Oxford.” It feels smaller and more foolish each time I say it aloud. Like I’ve said, I’m going to fly to the moon.

  He throws up his hands. “Your grandfather was an old man, Tariq. His dream of Oxford—”

  “My dream,” I say.

  He lets it pass, shakes his head. “And what will you do when you reach England? How you will pay for Oxford? I don’t expect they give degrees away—”

  “There is Daadaa’s mon
ey—”

  His hands tighten into fists. “His money?” he says. “The money he left wouldn’t be enough for passage on a ship! I told you before. He was an old man. His mind was not right. He had no notion of how great the expense was.”

  “But . . . ” I am stunned, but the way Abbu says this, I know he is telling the truth. He wouldn’t lie, not even to get me to come with him.

  “There is not enough,” he says more gently, sensing an opening. “There is enough there for a year, perhaps two at the university in Lahore, but certainly not enough for England—”

  He reaches out a hand and places it on my shoulder, consoling me. But I shake it off, angry, furious. Why won’t anything work out as I plan? I needed more time, time for Abbu to get used to the idea of going to Pakistan without me. And I’d counted on the money my daadaa left being enough. But there are other ways, I tell myself. I cling to the thought like an anchor before I speak again.

  “I will work. Mr. Darnsley will help me find a position,” I lie. I do not tell him he has already refused me, that my only prayer now is that he will not refuse his daughter.

  “Darnsley?” he spits. “This man presumes to help you? Against my wishes? To break up a family?”

  I can’t say more, don’t dare let him see how full of holes my plan is.

  His expression shifts from anger to grief, his shoulders fall. “Khandaan, Tariq,” he begs. “It is all that matters, is it not?”

  I swallow hard. “Abbu, I can’t go,” I repeat.

  And now there is fear in his eyes. “But it is not safe—”

  “Neither is the journey to Pakistan,” I point out. “Anything can happen on the way—”

  “But we will protect each other.” He reaches for my mother, whose tears fall freely now. He holds out an arm to me.

  Part of me wants to give in. All of me wants to hold them, tell them everything will be fine.

  But it won’t. Either way, there are risks. Pakistan is no surer than England.

  I could make them feel better. For the moment. I could pretend to let him win. I could go along with their preparations to move, and then just slip away at the end, duck out of the train as it leaves the platform. It would be easier.