The Night Diary

by Veera Hiranandani

  “I know,” said Amil. “I heard them ask when we’d be leaving.”

  “Why would we leave?” I asked.

  “It has something to do with India being free from the British soon,” he said.

  I wondered what that meant, to be free from the British. Why were they allowed to rule over us in the first place? Didn’t they have their own people to worry about? I thought about the men at the door. They seemed calm in that way grown-ups get calm before they get very angry.

  “Remember when Papa used to tickle us?” Amil said, turning on his side toward me.

  “He hasn’t done that in a long time,” I replied. When we were little, Papa would tickle us to wake us up. It’s so strange to think about that now. I remember trying to like it since Amil liked it so much. Amil would throw his head back and squeal for more. I would grit my teeth and try not to push Papa’s hand away. It made me feel like I was falling off a cliff. I asked Amil why he was thinking about that.

  “Because I wish he was still that way,” Amil said, and turned on his back again.

  He closed his eyes and I could hear his breathing slow down. I thought about the old Papa, the one who tickled us. Had Papa changed that much? Or had we just gotten older?

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 19, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  More bad things are happening. When Amil and I walk the mile to our schools, we pass lots of things. First, we walk through the rest of our compound where we live since Papa is the head doctor for the Mirpur Khas City Hospital. The government gave us a large place to live in, much bigger than anyone I know. We have our bungalow, and a coop for the chickens, the flower and vegetable gardens, and the cottages where Kazi and the groundskeeper, Mahit, live. As we walk closer and closer to town, we pass the hospital. Then we pass the jail where all the people have to go when they do things like steal from the markets. Dadi says it’s not a jail for the murderers. The murderers go somewhere else. I always try to catch a prisoner’s eye when I go to school, since I can see them through the fences. I feel bad for them. Usually they stole because they were hungry. But sometimes there are truly bad ones, too, who just want to be bad, who hurt and steal just for fun. I think I can tell who’s bad and who’s not. The bad ones smile real big. The good ones don’t.

  Our schools are right next to each other, the Government School for Boys and the Government School for Girls. Mine is smaller because not all girls go to school, but Papa says it’s important to be educated. Today when we walked to school, two older boys started following us. Sometimes this happens. Sometimes they chase Amil, but usually only to scare him. He runs faster than anyone I know, so he always gets away. This time though, the boys started throwing rocks at us. A small one hit the back of my head. Amil pulled my arm and we broke into a run. Amil led us into an alley. We ran through the alley and some gardens, then back onto another dirt road. We found a cluster of mango trees and hid behind them.

  “Why did they do that? What did you do?” I whispered at him.

  “Nothing! I didn’t do anything,” he whispered back at me.

  I touched the small bump where the rock hit me. We went a different way to school, down another dirt road and through the sugarcane, but it took a long time and we were late. After school we ran all the way home without stopping. When we got home, we stood catching our breath outside the door, so Dadi wouldn’t ask why we were out of breath.

  “It’s because we’re Hindus,” Amil said. He looked around and started to whisper again. “There are lots of places all over India where the Hindus and Sikhs and Muslims fight one another all the time now. Just not here, yet. Kazi tells me what he reads in the papers. That’s why those men came to the house yesterday. They said the Hindus should leave, and they don’t want Kazi to live with us.”

  “Because he’s Muslim?” I asked, but Amil didn’t answer as he ran into the house and to our room where he worked on his drawings until dinner. I thought about those boys. They were Muslim. Everyone knows who is Muslim, Hindu, or Sikh by the clothes they wear or the names they have. But we all have lived together in this town for so long, I just never thought much about people’s religions before. Does it have to do with India becoming independent from the British? I don’t see how those two things go together.

  Sometimes Amil knows things that I don’t. He talks to people more and goes to the market with Kazi. He has lots of friends at school. He doesn’t mind if his words come out right, or not. I wish I were more like Amil. I don’t have any friends except Sabeen. All the kids play together at my school no matter what religion we are. Sabeen is Muslim, and she and I always have lunch together. She doesn’t have many friends because she doesn’t stop talking and never listens. I don’t mind. I’m a good listener.

  Nobody ever mentions the fact that you were Muslim, Mama. It’s like everyone forgot. But I don’t want to forget. The truest truth is that I don’t know any other children whose parents are different religions. It must be a strange thing that nobody wants to talk about. I guess we’re Hindu because Papa and Dadi are. But you’re still a part of me, Mama. Where does that part go?

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 20, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I always do around my birthday. Papa told us once that I came out the right way, but Amil came out the wrong way, feetfirst. Amil once asked Dadi if he was the reason you died. Dadi told him to stop thinking such awful things and close his mouth. But I wonder it, too. I hope Amil doesn’t think about it too much.

  There is one large picture of you that Papa keeps on his bookshelf, with a garland draped over it. Your hair is pulled back into a bun and you have kohl liner on your eyes. You look like a movie star. Amil looks like you with his long nose and wide eyes. I look more like Papa. I have his round face and small mouth, but I wished I looked more like you, Mama.

  Sometimes the sadness about you being gone comes and finds me after not being there for a while. Something makes me think about you and then I get sad for a long time. Dadi never kisses me. She only pats my hand. She braids my hair and gives me cardamom milk when I’m sick. But it’s not the same. Sabeen’s mom walks home with her after school every day. I watch the backs of them as they walk down the road, Sabeen’s mother’s hips swaying, her hand in Sabeen’s, while Sabeen tells her everything about her day. What would your hand feel like holding mine?

  I talk to your picture and you watch me with your eyes. When I ask you if you can see us from somewhere, if you think Amil is smart, or if I’ll be able to talk in front of other people someday, your eyes say yes to it all.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 21, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Kazi tells me stories about you once in a while. I hardly ask him to tell me about you, though, because I’m afraid that the stories might run out. I want to save them, like a treat. This afternoon, I used his mortar and pestle to grind coriander seeds, first crushing them as hard as I could, then twisting the pestle in circles to flatten them and make them into a powder. As soon as they broke under the weight of the pestle, I smelled the warm, soapy scent of them. Kazi chopped onions holding a wooden stick between his teeth so he wouldn’t cry.

  I asked him if you liked to cook. Kazi shook his head, taking the stick out of his mouth. “She never set foot in the kitchen. She liked to paint. She’d go off to the back of the house and paint and paint. She had to be reminded to eat, she was that sort,” he said, and put the stick back in his mouth. Just like Amil, I thought, who always ate the bare minimum in a hurry, hardly tasting it, and then begged to be excused so he could go back to his drawings or watch the older boys in the neighborhood play cricket. I want to be like you, Mama, but I can’t understand anyone who forgets about food. Kazi took the stick out again.

  “It’s your papa who likes to cook. Tha
t’s where you get it from.”

  My mouth dropped open. Papa doesn’t even make his own tea, I thought.

  “Before he hired me, he did the cooking for your mama, and when they had guests, they’d pretend she did the cooking. She’d even dip her fingers in the curry so her nails would be yellowed from the turmeric.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine any of it, Papa cooking, Papa pretending. Papa and Mama pretending together, here in this house.

  “Your papa told me,” Kazi said, reading my mind. He moved on to a pile of green chilies, slicing them into tiny slivers.

  I still didn’t believe him. I’m sure you liked to cook, Mama, even just a little bit.

  “Why doesn’t he hang up her paintings?” I couldn’t say this louder than a whisper. I knew Papa kept her paintings in the corner of his study behind a wooden rocking chair. Sometimes I’d sneak looks at them.

  Kazi looked down at his cutting board. “I think he feels sad when he looks at them.”

  I nodded.

  “They were very brave, you know,” he told me. “I don’t know anyone who did what they did.”

  I tilted my head and paid close attention. I could tell the way Kazi’s voice lowered, he wanted to tell me something important.

  “Their families were completely against their marrying. Papa’s old school friend, a Hindu priest, agreed to marry them in secret. When they first came here, they were ostracized from the community, even though all kinds of people get along here. But marriage has always been different.”

  He sliced a few more chilies, and I twisted and pressed the pestle into my coriander powder even though it was fully crushed.

  “I needed a cooking job since the restaurant I worked at closed,” he said, and paused his chopping again, holding the knife still above the sliced chilies. “I asked at several restaurants and homes, but everyone seemed to have enough help. I was getting desperate, so I decided to knock on the door nobody wanted to knock on. Your papa invited me in and had me cook aloo tikki, your mother’s favorite dish. He presented it to your mama. She tasted it and her eyes lit up. I’ve been here ever since. Your papa is such a good doctor that he quickly earned the respect of his patients in Mirpur Khas, and they began to be accepted in the community. Just as things were getting better, she was gone, your mama. Only three years after they came here.” Kazi looked down and cleared his throat.

  I took in Kazi’s words, let them dance and twirl in my head, replayed them over and over like a beautiful piece of music. I can’t stop thinking about it, Papa having secrets with you. Papa cooking before Kazi came. You and Papa marrying against everyone’s wishes in secret. What would it have been like if you lived, Mama? These things Kazi tells me are the memories I was supposed to have. They explode in my mind like firecrackers.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 22, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Dr. Ahmed came over tonight. He’s Papa’s friend at the hospital. They are the only doctors there. Papa does more of the checkups and surgeries, and Dr. Ahmed helps women have babies. He comes to our house about once a month. He and Papa smoke their pipes and stay up late playing cards. It’s the only time Papa smokes a pipe. Usually I hear them talking loudly, laughing sometimes. Papa also only laughs like that with Dr. Ahmed. But tonight, as I lay in my bed with my mosquito net floating like a ghost around me, I did not hear any laughing. They spoke low. I heard the names again, Gandhi, Jinnah, Nehru, Mountbatten. They talked about bad things in the Punjab, rioting, killing.

  Dadi and Papa are having lots of whispering conversations at night, too. They sit in the kitchen and I can’t hear their words, but I hear murmurs and spoons clinking around in cups and Dadi’s slippers shuffling about as she makes Papa tea.

  Here’s another secret, Mama. I’m jealous of Papa because he has his mother and I don’t. No mother shuffles about in her slippers making me tea. I wonder if Papa’s jealous of me since his papa died a long time ago.

  I asked Amil today what he thinks is happening. He says Kazi told him it’s true. The British people are going to free India, but there’s talk of India being separated into two countries, where Muslims have to go one place and the Hindus, the Sikhs, and everybody else have to go to another place. I told him that sounded insane. Why would India suddenly become two countries?

  “I don’t know why but it’s true,” Amil said.

  I swallowed hard so no tears would come. “Kazi would never leave us. We’re a family. We’ll stay together.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Because of Mama. We’re part Muslim, too.”

  “Shush! We’re not supposed to talk about that,” Amil hissed at me.

  I wanted to smile because nobody ever tells me to shush, but I didn’t, and it’s not true either. No one ever told us not to talk about it. What if I want to talk about it, Mama? What if it’s the only thing I want to talk about?

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 23, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Today I woke up thinking about Kazi and followed the smells of breakfast into the kitchen. I stood by the door and watched him frying pooris. He turned and saw me and motioned me over. I came and he handed me a lump of the soft dough. I squeezed it and squeezed it. I breathed in a big gulp of air, let it out, and asked him if he would have to leave us soon, when everyone goes in different directions. He looked at me and smiled, then bent down and held my face. His hands were greasy and coated in flour. I could see his eyes get big and glassy like he might even cry. He told me I was like a daughter to him and that I’d always be with him in his heart. Then he told me not to knead the dough too hard or it would fry up like a rock. I didn’t say anything else. It took a lot of energy to ask that question. I wished he had answered it. I don’t know when I’ll be able to ask it again.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 24, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  I used to think of people by their names and what they looked like, or what they did. Sahil sells pakoras on the corner. Now I look at him and think Sikh. My teacher, Sir Habib, is now my Muslim teacher. My friend Sabeen is happy and talks a lot. Now she’s my Muslim friend. Papa’s friend, Dr. Ahmed, is now a Muslim doctor. I think of everyone I know and try to remember if they are Hindu or Muslim or Sikh and who has to go and who can stay.

  Amil said it’s good that we will be free from the British, but what does that mean? Doesn’t freedom mean you can choose where you want to be? Maybe Amil was making up things. He does that sometimes. Once in a while he tells me Kazi has a sweet for us when he doesn’t or that Papa’s home early when he’s not. Amil thinks he’s being funny.

  I want to ask Dadi, but she never tells me anything, at least anything important. She just tells me to go off and get my chores or schoolwork done. I have a plan. I’m going to wake up early and catch Papa in the morning before he leaves for the hospital. If I wait for him at the table before the sun comes up, look right at him, and speak loudly, he’ll be so surprised, he’ll have to answer me.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 25, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Today nothing went right at all, and I’m so glad I have this diary now to tell you about it. I slept too late and Papa was already gone. Amil told me that at his school a Hindu boy called a Muslim boy a very bad word that I can’t even write down. They got into a big fight, and now they’re both suspended from school for a week. Amil said when they were fighting, all the Hindu boys chanted on one side and the Muslim boys chanted on the other. Everything is different now, even though it’s exactly the same. I can see it all around us, but I don’t know what to call it. It’s like a new sound I can hear in the air.

  Amil and I went our secret way again so nobody can chase us. We’ve done this before. I hate to tell you, Mama, but lots of boys like to pick
on Amil because he’s very skinny, has hardly any muscles in his arms, isn’t that good at cricket, and sits in the corner and draws everyone. There are some boys who like him because he’s so funny, but the tougher boys don’t. Sometimes Amil will draw those boys looking mean and monster-like and leave the drawings on the ground for people to step on. The boys always come after him, but Amil is too quick for them. He likes to draw the girls, too, and makes them extra beautiful with very long eyelashes. His favorite is Chitra. She’s the tallest, prettiest girl I know. After school he’ll find her, hand a drawing to her, and run away. She always drops it on the ground, but I see her smile when he gives it to her. She always looks before she lets it go. I think the girls like him better than the boys.

  Papa didn’t get home until late and went to his room without any dinner. Kazi only made dal and paratha stuffed with potatoes. I lie on my bed and wonder what the air will sound like tomorrow. You know what I wish, Mama, more than anything in the world? That I could spend just one day with you, so I’d know what your skin looks like up close and the sound of your voice. I’d know the scent of you, like I know how Papa always smells like hospital soap, smoke, and the pistachio nuts he carries in his pocket. Then I could think about that when I write these words, and when I try to fall asleep.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  July 26, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Amil says we have to go through our secret path every day. It’s too risky to walk on the street now. I told him it was his fault because he drew too many angry pictures of the boys who chase him. He just laughed. Amil laughs when he doesn’t know what to say. I hate cutting through the sugarcane. My legs and arms get all scratched up. When I walk I like to think of dinner and what Kazi might be making. It distracts me. Sometimes I think of new things to make. I wonder how pistachios crushed with rosewater syrup and sweet cheese would taste. I think of a stew made with lamb, tomatoes, cream, and apricots. I think of how garlic and gingerroot smell sizzling in ghee or the way dry rice feels falling through my fingers.