Ticket to India

by N. H. Senzai

  “This is it, madame,” said the driver. “Lahore Gate, like you asked.”

  Naniamma paid the driver and they stepped down to face the imposing gateway. “This leads to Chandni Chowk, the city’s busiest market,” she said, eyes darting through the arched passageway. “From here we used to walk or take a bullock cart to Sunehri Masjid, the Golden Mosque. My uncle’s house was behind it.”

  “Let’s go,” said Zara, brimming with confidence and optimism.

  They passed through the gate and emerged into the bustling artery that led to the edge of Chandni Chowk. For a long moment they stood in the shadow of the gate, clutching one another’s hands, their senses overpowered by the colorful sights and sounds. A medley of little shops stretched along the road, overflowing with kitchen supplies, stationery, linens, and cell phone accessories.

  A traffic jam played out before them, a cacophony of horns, snarls of scooters, sputtering rickshaws, and sinewy men pulling carts laden with brass pots, electronic parts, and dry goods. Men and women wove between the vehicles, rushing to meetings; housewives carried baskets of vegetables; and street vendors and hawkers sold everything from phone cards to bags of neon-colored cotton candy. Maya inhaled a mixture of car exhaust and the scent of melons from a stall across the street and watched the chaos.

  A tiny figure clad in a light blue sari, Naniamma stood wide-eyed and pale. “It’s changed so much,” she said, her voice a little uncertain. In her hand she clutched the sheet of graph paper—her memory map.

  “Does anything look familiar?” asked Zara.

  Before their grandmother could answer, a young man with a faint mustache stopped in front of them, carrying a tray of plastic combs. “Madame, you want?”

  Naniamma shook her head and said emphatically, “No, thank you.”

  He shrugged and moved on. The vendor was replaced by another one, hawking potato chips. “Where you from?” he said. “You are not from here, no? Where? America? England?”

  Naniamma grabbed the girls’ hands and hurried across the street.

  “How did he know?” Zara asked in surprise, echoing Maya’s thoughts.

  “They can tell from your clothes,” she said distractedly. “They recognize they’re foreign—your shoes, too.”

  Oh, wow, thought Maya, jumping back as a passing cart splashed dirty water in their direction.

  “Now, stay close,” warned their grandmother as she stopped beneath the awning of a spice shop. “Ignore anyone who tries to sell you something or tries to offer you help without you asking for it.”

  Maya nodded as their grandmother stared down at the memory map. “We go up this road until we come to a fountain,” she said.

  “What kind of fountain?” asked Zara.

  “It’s an old Victorian fountain,” explained Naniamma. “Made of carved marble.”

  “Like the ones people have in their garden?” asked Maya softly. “With flowing water?”

  Naniamma paused, doubt flashing in her eyes. “Well, yes, kind of like that. It was just a small fountain. In a park.”

  “So we’re looking for a park, too?” asked Zara.

  “Yes, with benches and a stretch of grass. I remember having picnics there with my uncles and cousins.”

  Led by their grandmother, they plunged into a stream of bodies jostling up the street. They skirted a barber cutting his customer’s hair on the sidewalk and took a left past a tree that Zara nearly ran into, since she was busy trying to take a picture of a cow sitting in the middle of the road blocking traffic.

  “This was once the grandest bazaar in India,” said Naniamma, eyeing the line of drooping shop fronts. “A pool sat at its center, reflecting the moon—that’s what ‘Chandni Chowk’ means: ‘moonlight square.’”

  Squinting past the peeling paint, cracked wooden lattices, and broken balustrades, Maya tried to imagine what it must have looked like once. Her eyes widened as she caught hints of beauty: in the curve of wrought-iron balconies, intricately carved columns, and ornate cornices. She realized that this area must once have been quite posh—filled with ornamented palaces, elegant mosques, coffeehouses, and gardens. But now it had been swallowed up and run down. At the next intersection, Naniamma stood at the corner looking from her map up toward a small hotel across the street.

  “It should be here,” she muttered. She glanced at her memory map, looking confused.

  Maya wondered uncomfortably how accurate Naniamma’s memory map was, plus how much had changed in the decades since her grandmother had been gone.

  “Excuse me,” said Zara, taking charge as she called out to a man exiting a television repair shop. “Can you tell us where the old Victorian fountain is?”

  “It was torn down years ago, miss,” said the man. “They built that hotel over it.”

  “Uh, thanks,” said Zara. The man nodded and walked on.

  “Oh, no,” muttered Maya, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She looked at her grandmother, who was staring from the hotel down to her map, looking lost. We need to help, she thought. We promised to find the chest for her, to get the ring for Nanabba. Even Zara looked at a loss for words. Without thinking twice, Maya reached into her backpack and pulled out the guidebook. “Naniamma,” she said, “how about we try to match the landmarks in your memory map to a more current map of the area?”

  Zara gave Maya a rare appreciative smile. “That’s an awesome idea.”

  “Yes,” said Naniamma, the lines around her mouth easing. “That would be very helpful, jaan.”

  Zara reached for the guidebook, but Maya’s finger tightened around its edges. “No,” said Maya, surprising them both. “I’ll navigate.”

  Zara paused, about to say something, but stopped. She stared at Maya, as if seeing her for the first time. “Okay, find Lahore Gate; that’s where we came in.”

  Maya grabbed a colored pencil, forest green, symbolizing good luck, and flipped to a map of Old Delhi. The trio bent over the book, poring over the streets and alleys until Maya pointed out the gate’s location and circled it.

  “Where did you say your uncle’s house was?” asked Zara.

  “Behind Sunehri Masjid,” replied her grandmother.

  Maya examined the map key. “Sunehri Mosque is number seven on the map.”

  “There,” Zara pointed out a second later. Maya ­circled it. “But the old Victorian fountain isn’t on the map,” Zara added with a frown.

  “It’s okay.” Maya grinned with growing confidence. “We just need to find another landmark to orient ourselves. We can trace a route to the mosque from there.”

  “We’ll need to backtrack a bit,” said Zara, turning them around toward the gate.

  “I remember this temple,” said Naniamma excitedly, after they had walked a few blocks. She paused within a cloud of smoky-sweet incense wafting from the doorway of a Hindu temple.

  Maya stared into the vast courtyard, where half a dozen statues stood, dressed in silks and draped with garlands of marigold and jasmine. A bright blue figure at the center caught her attention. “Which god is that?”

  “Lord Rama,” said Naniamma. “Beside him is his wife Sita, who was kidnapped by a demon king.”

  “And that one?” said Maya, pointing at a statue that was part man, part ape.

  “Hmmm,” mused Naniamma, peering past the priests in loincloths chanting over worshippers. “Yes, yes, that’s Lord Hanuman—he helped free Sita.”

  “This is Ram Temple,” said Zara, reading the sign hanging farther down.

  “It’s here,” said Maya, pointing to where the temple was listed on the map. She drew a strong green line from the temple to Sunehri Mosque.

  “Good job, girls,” said Naniamma. “I don’t know how I would have done this without you.”

  The girls glanced at each other, momentarily taken aback. Realization dawned that somehow, it seemed predesti
ned that they come together. Each had a role to play in finding Naniamma’s treasure.

  “Let’s go,” said Zara, giving Maya the nod to navigate.

  Through a maze of narrow, congested lanes, they walked until they stumbled upon a small shop surrounded by a crowd of people, all watching a big-bellied cook who faced a huge pan filled with bubbling oil.

  Naniamma stopped in her tracks, a childlike smile spreading across her face. “It’s still here,” she whispered reverently.

  “What is it?” asked Zara, peering down at the map.

  “It’s Ghantewala,” said Naniamma.

  “A sweet shop?” said Maya, catching sight of the blue-and-yellow sign.

  Naniamma nodded. “My father used to bring us here for jalebis.”

  They joined the crush, watching the cook squeeze squiggles of batter from a muslin cloth bag into the hot oil, hands moving in quick circles. They look like funnel cakes, Maya thought. She’d eaten them in Karachi but had never seen them being made. Once golden brown, they were tossed in a vat of sugar syrup.

  “Do you want one?” asked Naniamma.

  At their eager nods, she purchased three and handed them out. Maya sank her teeth into the crisp surface, releasing warm, gooey sweetness. She closed her eyes with pleasure.

  “It’s still delicious,” sighed Naniamma. “Three hundred years ago, the emperor’s elephants would stop here and wouldn’t budge until they got their treats!”

  “This store has been here that long?” said Maya in wonder.

  “Wow,” added Zara, grinning at Maya before taking another bite. “I can’t say I blame them.”

  Maya looked back at the map. Still eating, they paused in the shade of a tall, Gothic-style sandstone pillar, capped by a crucifix. As Maya probed the map for a detour, her sister read out the plaque at the pillar’s base:

  In memory of the officers and soldiers, British and native, of the Delhi Field Force who were killed in action or died of wounds or disease between the 30th May and 20th September 1857 . . .

  “What’s this?” asked Zara.

  Maya paused and matched the landmark to the page in their guidebook. “It’s the Delhi Mutiny Memorial.”

  Naniamma grimaced. “Yes,” she murmured. “Indian soldiers rose up in mutiny against the British. They wanted to restore the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, to power. So the British invaded Delhi in response. They razed much of the city and exiled the emperor and his family to Rangoon. The people of Delhi, both rich and poor, were evicted from their homes and massacred.”

  Zara inched away from the pillar, frowning.

  “We’ll go this way,” said Maya, pointing down at the map.

  They entered an alley where gold and silver ­jewelry sparkled from shopwindows. A few blocks down, they slipped into a narrower alley, barely two feet wide. Zara took a left turn into a wider passage and they stumbled into a sprawling market that seemed to go on for a mile.

  “Wow,” muttered Maya, transfixed by the sight.

  Embroidered silks, delicate lawns, rich velvets, heavy brocades, dyed cottons, soft wools, stiff linens, airy chiffons, jeweled taffetas, sparkling sequins, and delicate lace extended in all directions. Spools of fabric were stacked by color. There was an entire section of pink, from the palest blush to eye-jarring fuchsia—and so many shades of red, orange, yellow, green, violet, indigo, brown, white, and black that it would take years to figure out the range of hues. It reminded Maya of a similar place in Karachi, where her mother and aunts went to buy fabrics to take to their tailor. But nothing compared to the scale of this place.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” said Naniamma.

  • • •

  As they reached the other end of the bazaar, Naniamma pointed in excitement. “There!” she said. Maya looked and spotted a glimmer of gold in the distance.

  They emerged a block down from the mosque, a delicate building with a faded golden dome, overshadowed by the newer, clunky additions. Barely glancing at the building, Naniamma ran on, past old, decaying mansions.

  “Naughara Lane, it should be here,” muttered Naniamma, stopping at the third street. She froze, ­staring at a large house on the corner. “This is my uncle’s house,” she said, her voice hoarse, filled with excitement. She walked to the house next door and stood shaking at the crumbling steps.

  The girls followed her up to a faded and scarred set of double doors, where their grandmother took a deep breath and knocked. When no one answered, she thumped again. Finally, they heard feet running up from the other side of the door.

  “Who is it?” came a child’s voice, speaking Hindi.

  “I’m looking for the family of Mir Hayat,” responded Naniamma.

  There was silence.

  “Please open the door,” said Naniamma.

  The door creaked open, and a small boy stood at the entrance. Maya peered over his head and glimpsed a vaulted passageway that led to a dusty courtyard.

  “Salaam Alaikum,” said Naniamma. “Is your mother here?”

  The little boy frowned and looked at them ­suspiciously. Then he pivoted and ran back through the open-air veranda and disappeared into the house. As Maya eyed the lone, stunted tree growing in the ­middle of the courtyard, the boy came back, a woman trailing him, dressed in a faded cotton sari, and with a red bindi marking her forehead, the sign of a married Hindu woman.

  “What do you want?” she asked, approaching the door with a frown.

  “I am looking for Mir Hayat’s family,” said Naniamma, her voice a little uncertain.

  The woman shrugged. “There is no one here by that name.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Naniamma.

  “Yes, yes. We’ve had this house for over twenty years,” said the woman, her tone brusque. “My father-in-law bought it from an old man.”

  “The old man, where is he now?” asked Naniamma.

  “Gone,” said the woman. “I can’t help you.” Then she shut the door.

  “This is not good,” said Zara, a frown settling over her brow.

  “But Mir Hayat said they would never move,” said Naniamma.

  7

  Days Long Gone

  TWO HOURS LATER, AFTER meandering through the back streets of Old Delhi, they finally stumbled upon what they were looking for: a storefront with a dusty green awning. After getting the door to Mir Hayat’s old house shut in their faces, they’d stood on the steps, bitterly disappointed. Naniamma, pale and exhausted, had been about to say something, when they heard guttural singing from down the street.

  “Come, examine my lovely, plump eggplants and sensational squash,” warbled a grizzled old man, pushing a wooden cart piled with vegetables. “My tomatoes are incomparable and my okra divine!”

  A hopeful smile lighting her face, Naniamma hurried down the steps—it was a known fact back in Karachi that vendors knew all the local gossip, since they came through the neighborhood every day. As Naniamma purchased a bag of limes from the man, she asked what had happened to the Hayat family. With a sigh, he told them that they had to move after their business fell on hard times. Although he didn’t know where, he knew they still ran their bookshop in Urdu Bazaar, near Jama Mosque.

  Maya found Urdu Bazaar on the map and off they went, passing yet another crumbling mansion, ­encircled by a protective metal gate. “This one’s listed on the map,” she said. “Haksar Haveli, where Nehru, the first prime minister of India, got married.”

  “Yes,” said Naniamma, recollection animating her weary features. “Nehru’s daughter, Indira Gandhi, became the second woman to rule India, after Razia Sultana. And when the Pakistani president came to Delhi for peace talks, he passed by here on the way to the house where he’d been born.”

  “The president of Pakistan was born in India?” asked Zara, surprised.

  “Yes, his family left Delhi after Pa
rtition when he was a baby. He came back for the first time with his mother.”

  Maya gazed at the forlorn building with a pang of sadness. It had been a critical part of India’s history and now it was just another ruin, home to wandering goats rummaging through the rubbish. The girls and their grandmother traveled east, past sizzling kebab stalls, a shop specializing in birds—homing pigeons, partridges, and songbirds—and a warehouse crammed with fireworks. A group of kids paid for a bagful and ran off, whispering and giggling with excitement.

  “What are these used for?” Maya pondered out loud.

  “They are set off during religious celebrations,” explained Naniamma. “There is Muslim Eid, Zoroastrian New Year, Christmas, and the many Hindu holidays.”

  “Kids must be off from school for vacation all the time,” said Maya, as they encountered a stall of garland makers preparing flower necklaces that brides and grooms wore at their weddings. Nanabba should be here with us, she thought glumly, trying not to trample the stray rose petals littering the ground.

  “We’re nearly there,” said Zara, turning onto a quiet street. A jumble of bookshops lined both sides, including the one they were seeking. It was located beside Rizwan Book Depot. The crooked sign in Urdu, Hindi, and English, announced: HAYAT’S BOOKSHOP AND HOUSE OF CALLIGRAPHY. Past the cracked glass Maya spotted a wizened old man in a crisp white kurta pyjama hunched over a desk, running his hand through his silky white beard as he read a newspaper. On either side of him stretched rickety bookshelves crammed with books, manuscripts, and journals.

  “This is it,” whispered Naniamma, pausing to smooth her sari before entering.

  “Can I help you?” asked the old man eagerly, folding away the paper. “I have rare tomes that may interest you: poetry by Faiz or Ghalib, newly printed novels—Umrao Jan Ada. Or I can prepare a letter in Urdu if you need.”

  “Uh, no, thank you,” said Naniamma nervously. “I’m looking for Mir Hayat’s family.”