“So, peace?” Anu whispers the question.
“Until there isn’t,” Tariq says. And we all know what he means. The line between contentment and envy is thinner than any line on any map.
Lines are funny things. They make us feel safe—at least for a while—knowing where we end and something or someone else begins. But they can also make us want, can make us bitter, wanting what lies on the other side of the line. But whether it’s a border on a map or a boundary between two people, the lines are still only lines. Still something someone made up, decided on. They’re not even real, but so long as everyone agrees to play along, they work fine. But how can lines on a map tell a piece of land what to be any more than lines between one person and another can pretend to be what makes them different? I pause, then look from Anu to Tariq.
They are listening to the singing outside as it drifts away from the compound and begins to fade. And I wonder what that singing means to them. I’ve never asked.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I let it loose. “Well,” I say, “we’ve work to do.” I make to head back to the desk and the typewriter, start thinking of impressive things to say about Tariq, and impressive ways to say them. I wish I’d paid a bit more attention in my composition classes at school.
Tariq lays a hand on my arm to stop me. The touch is so natural and familiar, I feel strangely calm. He looks at my face, then Anu’s. “Why do this for me?”
It looks as if it pains him to ask the question. And I wonder what he’s done to Anu to make him so surprised that she would help.
“You saved my life,” Anu says. It really is simple for her, this transaction. But I worry that if her family learns of the help she gives this boy, they’ll see her as the traitor, like Tariq. I hope they never find out.
But he seems satisfied by her answer. He waits for mine but won’t look at me. But the hand stays on my arm, fingers wrapped around my wrist.
Lightning flashes, washing the room in brief, white light. I hear the first giant drops of rain begin to fall.
“It’s the first thing anyone asked of me since I arrived,” I say, realizing how true it is as I say it. There’s so much trouble here in India, will be even more now with two countries instead of one. But doing something—even if that something is as desperate as trying to save a boy’s life by boxing him up and loading him onto a lorry—is still better than doing nothing, better than packing it in and bailing out, as Alec used to say. I suspect Tariq knows this, what with the way he protected all of us. And something tells me Anu’s known it all along. Maybe I have, too. I just haven’t had a chance to do anything about it, apart from leaving silly little tidbits for the beggar boy.
The rain is really falling now, drowning all other sounds coming in from outside. It feels different already, this rain. We’ve had showers off and on while I’ve been here, even thunder and lightning, but they never lasted. Everyone went on and on about how late the monsoon seemed to be coming. But I know without asking that it has arrived. There’s something unmistakable about the way the rain sheets off the end of the roof, a curtain of water hiding us from the street, announcing its arrival.
We stand there watching, the three of us, for ages, it seems, the cool spray of water misting through the screens. I look at them standing there beside me. They look like they belong together, the two of them, both so beautiful in their own ways. It’s a pity they can’t be.
Will I ever hear from them? Will I ever know what happens to them after I leave tomorrow? Will they? I like to think about Tariq starting over in some place new. Or maybe even making it to Oxford someday. Why not? Why the bloody hell not? He’s smart enough. Maybe I can even bring it up to Father when we get home. Maybe.
And Anu? Will she be all right? Will those men come looking for her when they can’t find Tariq? Mother said more than once that she’d take Anu home with us if she could. Maybe we should. But Anu wouldn’t go. She’d never leave her home. She’ll just have to be careful for a little while, until things settle. And she’ll have her family to look after her. She’ll be all right.
Please, God, let her be all right. Both of them.
Anu goes to see about food for Tariq’s journey. Tariq follows to fetch more crates for the rest of Father’s things. They don’t tell me what they’re going for, but I know all the same. It’s useless now anyhow, trying to talk above the driving rhythm of the rain.
No matter. There’s nothing left to say. Now there is only the work of getting Tariq across one of those lines on the map that maybe shouldn’t even be there.
I settle in at Father’s desk and place my fingers across the keys of the Corona. I can’t even hear the hammers strike as they flip up into the ribbon and the paper, but it doesn’t matter. In my head I’m hearing a new song, sung in the lovely, humming voice of the vaja. The rain is steady on the roof like hands on a tabla, perfect accompaniment as I play a new kind of song on this typewriter. A song I know I’ll never repeat, never even hear again, but I’m dead sure I’ll never forget.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 2005 I participated in the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program, which sent me to Chandigarh, India, a city created after the partition. I loved my time there, fell in love with Punjabi culture and food, music and literature, and the Punjabi people themselves. All of those things I expected. What I didn’t expect was the way this story would find me.
One day a friend drove us north to see Amritsar, and a little farther up the Grand Trunk Road to the border closing ceremony in Wagah. Wagah was a village that was bisected by the Radcliffe Line in 1947. Until 1999 the Grand Trunk Road was the only road linking India and Pakistan, and Wagah the only point one could drive between the two countries. Elaborate gates mark the boundary, dozens of colorfully dressed soldiers stand guard. And every night thousands of people gather on both sides of those gates to observe the lowering of the flags and closing of the gates between the two countries.
While the tensions between India and Pakistan remain very, very real, the border closing is something of a pageant. The soldiers put on wonderful displays—drilling and high-kicking and performing for the crowd. And the crowd participates: chanting, cheering, singing, both sides trying to outdo each other. The atmosphere is something like a sporting event, with both sides rooting for their teams, trying to make the most noise, all culminating in a carefully coordinated lowering of the flags on both sides.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering what it was like before. How long did it take for the border closing to evolve into entertainment? How long before people stopped mourning the way the village had been cut in half, the country split in pieces?
So I began asking questions. Over and over, I ran into people who had stories like the ones you read in this novel. India in 1947 was an amazing place, full of possibility and hope and the new thrill of sovereignty after the British were convinced to give up the jewel of the empire. But it was a dangerous place as well. I heard countless stories that helped me understand that. And I was struck by how fresh the wounds of partition still were for so many people.
And I began reading. Books like Alex Von Tunzelmann’s Indian Summer: The Secret History of the End of an Empire and India Remembered: A Personal Account of the Mountbattens During the Transfer of Power by Pamela Mountbatten, as well as countless websites and articles. The more I read the more I became convinced that there was another story I wanted to try to tell.
Finally, I began writing, attempting to capture the perspectives of three different people caught up in these events. The story is fictional, and while I’ve been as careful as I can to honor the events and people and places, my purpose was not so much to recount the history, but rather to let it live through the characters. To that end, there are noteworthy differences between this book and the events that inspired it.
First, the setting. I chose to set the story in Jalandhar because it is located in the Punjab near the modern Pakistani border. The tragedies that take place in the story are ones that h
appened all over the Punjab and Bengal, but not necessarily in Jalandhar.
Second, the characters. While many historical figures are mentioned in the novel, the principal characters—Tariq, Anupreet, and Margaret—are all fictional. Margaret’s presence in the story was inspired by that of Pamela Mountbatten, who did accompany her parents, the last viceroy and vicerine of India. But the Darnsleys are purely my invention. There would have been many civil servants in India at the time, but sadly very few of them were cartographers like Mr. Darnsley. The work on the border was done remotely, overseen by Cyril Radcliffe and a committee composed of four men, two representing the Muslim League and two representing the Indian National Congress. Predictably, the committee often ended up deadlocked, leaving Radcliffe—a man with almost no practical experience of India—the unenviable task of randomly deciding where the border should fall.
Third, people did begin moving even before the borders were finalized as they do in the story, but the greatest of the “population exchange”—the largest human migration in history—happened after the announcement of the Radcliffe Line. As the characters in the book indicate, violence and unrest increased in the days after the August 15 handover and after the border was established. In fall 1947 the first formal conflict between the two nations erupted into war over the Jammu and Kashmir regions. Three more wars followed. Tension still persists between the two countries, despite sharing so many commonalities and so much history.
That history is too complicated for me to try to do justice to in the brief span of these pages. Even estimates regarding exactly how many people relocated vary widely, most falling within the range of 10 to 14 million. Likewise, the exact figure regarding the loss of life is impossible to cite definitively, with figures ranging from 200,000 to more than one million people losing their lives in the months leading up to and after the partition.
There are plenty of reasons for the differences in these numbers—lack of accurate census data from the early 1940s, lack of cooperation and communication between India and Pakistan post-partition, and of course the confusion and chaos of the partition era itself. Ultimately, that range of numbers is more haunting than a definitive number might be. Because among the countless tragedies and casualties of the partition, perhaps one of the greatest is not knowing how many voices were silenced, how many stories were cut short and lost forever. I can only hope this story does honor to theirs.
GLOSSARY
ABBU—Father
ALOO GOBI—Punjabi dish consisting of potato and cauliflower
AMMI—Mother
AMRITSAR—Important city in northern India, and home to the Golden Temple, one of the most holy sites for Sikhs. At the time of partition, it was home to equal numbers of Sikhs and Muslims, and therefore sought after by both sides. It eventually was included in India.
BENGAL—State in eastern India. Along with the Punjab, Bengal saw the worst of the violence during the partition. East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) was carved out of Bengal.
BETA—Son
BEWAKOOF—Idiot
BHARA—Cousin
BIJI—Mother
BUDHOO—Stupid
CHAI—Tea made with milk, sugar, and spices
CHALO—Hindi phrase meaning “let’s go.”
CHANA SAAG—Punjabi dish made with spinach and chickpeas
CHAPATI—A type of flatbread, often used to scoop up food
CHOLERA—A bacterial infection of the small intestine, frequently contracted through contaminated drinking water
CHOLI—A blouse worn underneath the sari
CHURIDARS—A type of pant worn by both men and women in India. Churidars are cut wide and loose at the waist and upper leg, but fit very snugly over the calf.
CHUTIYAA—Mild expletive
CHUTNEY—Any of a variety of mixes of spices, vegetables, or fruits used as seasoning or as a condiment to Indian cooking
CURRY—Any of a wide range of traditional stewed dishes. Curries may be made with vegetables, meat, or both.
DARAUNA—Dangerous
DAADAA—Grandfather
DACOIT—A robber
DHOTI—Traditional male garment. A single piece of cloth wrapped around the waist and legs. Gandhi was often photographed wearing a dhoti.
DIWALI—The Hindu festival of lights. It is widely celebrated across religions in India, celebrating the triumph of good over evil. It also coincides with the Sikh festival of Bandi Chhor Divas.
DOGRI—Language spoken in portions of northern Punjab, as well as Jammu and Kashmir
DUPATTA—A long multipurpose scarf that coordinates with a salwar-kameez.
GANDHI—Important political and ideological leader of the Indian Independence movement. His nonviolent protests rallied millions to the cause of independence, earning him the title Father of the Nation. He was deeply grieved by the partition of India along religious lines. He was assassinated in 1948 by a Hindu nationalist who thought him too sympathetic to Muslims.
GHADDA—Impolite word to call someone
GHEE—Clarified butter used in cooking
GIDHHA—Traditional Punjabi women’s dance
GURDWARA—A Sikh house of worship
GURU GOBIND SINGH—Tenth of the eleven Sikh gurus. Was responsible for formalizing many of the tenets of the Sikh faith.
HAAN/HAAN JI—Phrase meaning “yes”
HARAMZADA—Bastard
HARMONIUM—A freestanding keyboard instrument, played like a piano but relying on reeds to produce the sound
HEY, RABBA—Oh, god!
HINDU—A follower of Hinduism, the most widely practiced religion in India. There are upward of three hundred million recognized deities in the Hindu pantheon, but all are believed to be manifestations of Brahman, the guiding, creative force of the universe. Hindus are free to pick which manifestation of Brahman to worship.
IBALISA—Devil
IMLI—A reddish-brown fruit. Also known as tamarind, the sweet and sour flavor is widely used.
JAMMU—A region of Jammu and Kashmir, the northernmost state in modern India. At the time of partition, Jammu was a princely state, meaning it was not under the control of the British. The leadership was advised to accede to either Pakistan or India. After settling with India, it became part of Jammu and Kashmir, an area that remains a focal point of conflict between India and Pakistan.
JODHPURS—Riding pants, similar in style to churidars
JINNAH—Muhammad Ali Jinnah, leader of the Muslim League in India before partition, and the first governor general of Pakistan
JUTIS—Traditional Punjabi shoe
KASHMIR—Like Jammu, Kashmir was a princely state in India at the time of partition. Its borders are still disputed by India and Pakistan.
KHANDA—The emblem of the Sikh faith. It consists of a double-edged sword, a chakram (a round traditional throwing weapon), and two kirpans with handles crossed.
KHANDAAN—Family
KHEER—Traditional rice pudding dessert
KIRPAN—The short, curved sword worn by Khalsa Sikh men
KITNA HAI?—Phrase meaning “how much?”
KURTA—Long shirt worn by men
LAHORE—Important city in modern-day Pakistan. Like Amritsar, it was highly contested by both sides at the time of Partition.
LAKH—Unit of numbering equal to one hundred thousand
LANGAR—Traditional meal shared after a service at a gurdwara. All are welcome to join, regardless of faith or background.
LOHE KE CHANE CHABANA—To chew iron pellets, i.e. to do the impossible
LYCHEE—Fruit with delicate white pulp
MAJRA—Town
MARGH—Road or path
MOGHUL—Name given to the Muslim conquerors and empire that invaded India in the sixteenth century and controlled much of the subcontinent until the early nineteenth century
MONSOON—Rainy period falling between May and September
MOSQUE—A Muslim place of worship
MUSLIM—A follower of Islam, India�
�s largest minority religion, and the majority religion in Pakistan. Islam arrived in the Punjab in the sixteenth century with the invading Moughul armies.
NAAN—Leavened bread traditionally cooked in a tandoor
NAHI—No
NEHRU—Jawalharal Nehru was an Indian statesmen, elected leader of the congress in 1929. He became the first prime minister of free India.
NILLA—Blue
PAGAL—Crazy
PAGRI—A turban worn by a Sikh man
PAISA—1/100 of a rupee
“PAKISTAN ZINDABAD”—“Long live Pakistan.”
PALLU—Loose end of a sari
PANI—Water
PAPAJI—Father
PARATHAS—Flatbread cooked on a tawa
PARTITION—Name given to the separation of India from Pakistan
PATTHAR—Small stones
PUNJAB—Region of northern India and eastern Pakistan. Once united, it was the region most changed by the partition.
RAB RAKHA—Parting phrase meaning “May God protect you.”
RAGAS—Similar to scales in music
RAJ—Means “reign” in Hindi. The British Raj refers to the period between 1858 and 1947 when the British ruled India.
RANGOLI—Folk art patterns made on floors of homes to celebrate festivals and welcome Hindu gods. Rangoli are often made with colored rice, flour, grains, or flower petals.
RICKSHAW—A sort of taxi used to transport people around. Cycle rickshaws are pulled by bicycles.
ROGAN JOSH—Spicy lamb dish
ROTI—Bread
RUPEE—Basic unit of Indian currency
SAHIB—Master
SAL—A type of tree
SALWAR-KAMEEZ—Traditional suit of clothing for Punjabi women. A salwar is a pair of loose-fitting pants like pajamas but gathered at the ankle. The kameez is a long tunic worn over the salwar.
SAMBAR—A type of deer native to South Asia
SAMOSA—A stuffed, deep-fried pastry. Samosas are often filled with some combination of spices, vegetables, potatoes, and ground meat.
A Moment Comes Page 20
