I said to Amil if we told all the kids at our schools the truth about Mama, maybe we could be friends with everyone. Maybe it would be a good thing now, instead of a bad thing. Maybe we could stay and not have to leave.
“Nisha, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. Maybe you should always keep your mouth shut,” Amil told me.
I know you may not want to hear this, Mama, but I spit on his toes and ran back out to the road and walked by myself all the way home. I held my breath because I was so afraid. But no one chased me, even though I saw some of the boys that don’t like Amil on the other side of the road. Then I realized the only reason they chase us is because of Amil and his ridiculous drawings and his big mouth. The boys aren’t mad at me. I’m safer by myself.
Love, Nisha
* * *
July 28, 1947
Dear Mama,
I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t write to you yesterday and tell you the rest of the story. I needed all the feelings to stop boiling like a pot of dal and be cool enough for me to taste them.
After I left Amil, I came home first and went into the kitchen. I sat on a stool and watched Kazi chop vegetables and grind spices. He asked if I wanted to slice the okra, but I hate okra. I truly don’t know why anyone likes it. When it cooks, it smells like wet dirt. I shook my head no. He asked me if I wanted to grind peppercorns. I shook my head no again. Kazi just shrugged and handed me a chapati to eat. I chewed and stayed silent just like Amil said I should. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s easier that way. An hour went by but Amil didn’t come home. Those boys could have found him, beaten him, and left him lying on the ground. My breathing got faster. What if he was hurt, alone, and bleeding? What if it was my fault?
I started to sweat. I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again, and the words came out slowly. I told Kazi about the boys, Amil’s drawings, our secret path, and how we went different ways today. I didn’t tell him what Amil said.
Kazi put down the mortar and pestle and took off his apron.
“It’s good you told me, Nishi,” he said. Then he took my hand, squeezed it hard, and asked me to show him the path.
We told Dadi we were going to the market, which was probably not a good idea since I never go to the market with Kazi. But before she could respond, we left. We walked on the dirt path and through the sugarcane all the way to school, but no Amil.
Kazi said we had to tell Papa. I shook my head hard and bit my lip to stop the tears. But it didn’t stop them and they fell on my nose, my chin, the ground. Kazi pulled me toward the hospital.
We stepped into the building. I never like going there. First there’s the smell. It smells clean and dirty all at once—rubbing alcohol, flowers, vomit, and pee. Everything is white or brown. The outside is brown brick, and the inside has light brown cement floors, white walls, and white sheets on the beds. I hate to see sick people, old men and women lying in beds moaning, grabbing on to the nurses’ sleeves. Or worse, I’ll see a girl my age, too thin, yellow skin, blank eyes, leaning against her mother waiting to be seen, and I’ll wonder why she is there and I’m here, able to run, smile, and eat. People die there all the time. Amil likes it at the hospital. He runs around and gives all the old lady patients flowers. He’s not afraid of the sick the way I am.
One of the nurses came up to us. Kazi asked for Papa. We stood and waited in the hallway until Papa came. He stood with crossed arms and looked at me before he spoke.
“What brings you here, Nisha?” he finally asked.
“It’s Amil,” I whispered. There was a nurse standing near us, folding sheets.
“I can’t hear you, Nisha,” he said, his eyebrows scrunched together the way they do before he gets really angry.
“He’s lost,” I told him as loud as I could and stared at my feet.
“I see,” he said. “That’s not what he told me. Amil!”
I jumped as Papa called out Amil’s name. Then Amil hobbled slowly out of one of the hospital rooms on crutches. He had a bandage on his leg. I ran up to him and hugged him. He didn’t hug me back.
“Did they beat you?” I whispered in his ear.
“Did who beat you?” Papa said.
Amil and I looked at each other. I wondered what he had told Papa.
“No one!” Amil yelled, and began to cry.
“Who?” demanded Papa.
“Some Muslim boys,” Amil answered through his sobbing.
“Stop crying,” Papa said with disgust. He hates it when we cry. For as long as I remember, crying makes Papa get either angry or just walk away.
I looked toward Kazi, but he wasn’t there anymore. Had he left? I blinked to make sure I was right.
“They didn’t beat me; I ran away,” Amil said, and rubbed his eyes furiously with the backs of his hands. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “I was faster than them. I’m always faster than them.”
“So they’ve come after you before,” Papa said.
Amil nodded.
“Nisha,” Papa said, “is this true?”
“Yes, Papa,” I said.
“Are you doing anything to provoke them?” Papa asked.
Amil’s face reddened. “No, Papa.”
It wasn’t exactly true, but I didn’t dare tell Papa that. This time it was different. The chasing, the rocks. Before it was just stupid things boys do. Now, it all had a mysterious anger to it. I don’t know what’s happening, Mama. I wish you could explain it to me. I’m becoming more and more afraid to ask anyone else all the things I really want to know.
Love, Nisha
* * *
July 29, 1947
Dear Mama,
Last night a few hours after I fell asleep Amil woke me up. He lifted up my mosquito net and crawled into my bed next to me. His body felt hotter than mine, but dry as silk, not sweaty like me.
“Want to know what it felt like?” he asked. A low, full moon glittered in the sky, and the light spilled through our window like a silver sun. He held his big, swollen scorpion bitten foot up in the air. I nodded, trying to shake the sleep away.
“I ran through an alley to get away from the boys, and my foot slipped out of my sandal. I saw the scorpion on my ankle. I tried to shake it off and then it stung me. It felt like an electric shock throughout my whole body. I thought I was going to die, but for some reason I wasn’t scared.”
“Did it hurt?” I asked him.
“Only after, when it started to swell.” He lowered his foot down carefully.
I turned to face him. “I’m sorry I left you. Do you think those boys would really beat you?”
Amil shrugged. “I’ll just keep running. Hopefully Papa will let me stay home until my foot gets better.”
I nodded and made a silent promise to myself that I would somehow convince Papa to let Amil stay home until he could run.
“Don’t ever leave me like that,” I said, turning away from him toward the wall.
“Where would I go?” he said, and we both fell asleep under my mosquito net. We used to sleep like that all the time, but when we turned eight, Papa said we had to sleep in our own beds. When we have bad dreams or I guess if someone’s foot is swollen because of a scorpion bite, then we don’t listen to Papa. We quickly move to our own beds in the morning, so no one ever knows. Sometimes I wonder if we would have different rules if you were around, Mama.
Love, Nisha
* * *
July 30, 1947
Dear Mama,
When we came out for breakfast this morning Papa sat at the table. I can’t remember the last time Papa had breakfast with us on a weekday. We ate our chapatis and dal quietly. I took a sip of my milk. Papa took a sip of his tea. Then Dadi sipped, and then Amil, really loud. We were making strange music. I had to hold back a smile.
After we were finished, Kazi took away the
plates and went back into the kitchen. Papa cleared his throat, a big rumbling sound. This is what he said: “You won’t be going to school for a little while. Things are not safe. Dadi and I will give you your lessons.”
I couldn’t believe my ears! Dadi never reads anything but a newspaper once in a while and Papa’s never home. How could they possibly give us our lessons? But that’s what Papa said. When Amil heard, he jumped up and laughed and then gave out a yelp because he stepped on his swollen foot. He sat down quickly, and I thought I saw a little smile sneak out from the corner of Papa’s lips. Then Papa rubbed his hands together the way he always does before he gets up and pushes his chair away. I wasn’t going to let Papa walk away without explaining more. Was this only because of the boys chasing Amil?
I took a very deep breath and spoke loud and clear so Papa would not ask me to repeat it.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Papa said, already starting to get up.
My words were stuck. I pressed my lips together. My heartbeat started to race. I took another breath. He now stood tall, looking at me, waiting. I had to keep going. I wanted to know more than I wanted to be silent. “Why isn’t it safe? Is it because the British are leaving?” I asked, and felt my body relax a little now that the words were out.
Papa sat back down. He rubbed his chin for a second and then he spoke. “Soon, India will be independent from British rule, which is a good thing. They have ruled over us for almost two hundred years, treating us like second-class citizens in our own country. But it looks like this country is going to be split in half like a log, partitioned down the middle,” he said, drawing a line through the air. “Mirpur Khas won’t be in India anymore. This land will be in a new country called Pakistan.”
Amil and I looked at each other. Amil said the word Pakistan out loud.
Papa went on. “Jinnah, the leader of the Muslim League, wants a place for Muslims to be fairly represented. Nehru, the leader of the Indian National Congress wants to be the first Prime Minister of India. Gandhi wants everyone to stay together, which is what I want, but most people aren’t like Gandhiji. When you divide people, they take sides. There’s a lot of confusion and fear out there. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t take in all that Papa was saying. Were we just at the mercy of leaders who couldn’t agree? Who would people listen to? I thought about Gandhi. I had seen lots of pictures of him in the newspaper, the thin man who wore nothing but a dhoti and glasses. Papa said he was a great man who believed India was a place where people of all religions could live together in peace. When people made him unhappy with their stupid fighting, instead of yelling at them or fighting with them, he wouldn’t eat until people were peaceful again. And Papa told us a lot of people listened to him. But I guess not everyone.
When we were nine, Papa took us on an overnight train ride to Bombay to see Gandhi. I remember how Amil hated that train ride. Dadi and I tried to keep him busy with songs and card games and snacks so he wouldn’t keep jumping up or trying to talk to everyone. Papa just read his papers and books. But when we got there after many hours, the crowds stood so thick, thousands of people from many villages, that I only got a small glimpse of him, far away in his white dhoti, waving. Now I wonder if I had only imagined it. Could Gandhi fix things? Would we really have to leave? Amil opened his mouth to say something, but Papa put his hand up.
“That should answer your questions,” he said. Then he rubbed his hands together one more time, got up, and set out for the hospital. Dadi told us to stay at the table, and we did some simple addition problems on the abacus until Dadi started making her funny teeth-sucking noises and waved us away. The thought of not going to school made my body heavy with sadness. I’m going to miss school. I like being around different people even if I don’t want to talk to them. I like having tasks set before me so I can busy myself without thinking too much. I don’t like thinking about things I can’t understand.
Love, Nisha
* * *
July 31, 1947
Dear Mama,
Kazi has been behaving differently. He let me sort the lentils yesterday and soak some beans, but when I asked him if I could grind the peppercorns he told me it would make me sneeze like last time and that I should spend more time with my books since I wasn’t in school.
The day went so slowly without school. It felt like a Sunday which is normally a treat, but now it’s too much and we are sick with our freedom. Amil and I went outside after Dadi made us write the alphabet ten times even though I’ve been writing my alphabet since I was six. This is not so easy for Amil, though. He says letters to him are like bugs and grass waving in the wind. They are not flat. They move and change in his mind. He says he writes what he sees in the moment. I look at his paper. He doesn’t do a list, he just puts each letter in its own place on the paper, sometimes it’s the right way, sometimes it’s upside down, sometimes it’s only part of the letter, and sometimes it’s facing the opposite direction. He decorates them with swirling snakes and hungry scorpions. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but Dadi comes over and sucks on her teeth.
I bet, Mama, that’s why you liked to paint. Because you could see things that no one else could, just like Amil. I wish I were like that. I see exactly what’s in front of me. Sometimes it’s so clear, it hurts my eyes.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 1, 1947
Dear Mama,
This is what I did today: I got up, had a chapati and a bowl of yogurt, and sat at the table helping Dadi fold the linen napkins. Then she made me do my alphabet. I told her I can write the alphabet backward a hundred times in my sleep. She slapped my hand and told me to run and play with Amil, who was nowhere to be found. But I didn’t care. I just didn’t want to sit at the table with Dadi anymore.
I spotted Amil sitting in the garden among the cucumbers. He was counting them. We have twenty-seven new ones, he told me. We each picked a cucumber and ate it. It was crunchy and slightly warm and sweet from the sun. Now we have twenty-five.
As we ate, I could hear Amil chewing. I hate listening to people chew, especially crunchy things. I hate hearing their tongues smacking around. Swallowing is the worst part. It makes me think of the chewed-up food going down their throats slow and wet, and I want to scream. I chewed louder so I couldn’t hear him anymore. Then we went inside because it was so hot and took a nap. Dadi woke us a little later and told us to sweep. Amil said no and ran out the door before Dadi could even call him. He’ll probably hide in the garden shed etching pictures on the soft wooden walls with sharp rocks. He once said if we ever moved, he would leave our story on the walls. I always thought we’d never leave, but now who knows? I thought of a stranger, a boy or a girl, finding Amil’s pictures and wondering what they meant.
Sometimes I go look and see what he’s added. There’s Papa with his stethoscope and Kazi stirring a pot of something. There’s Dadi sewing. There’s me and Amil sitting in a garden. They are simple, rough pictures. There is one where Amil is looking up at me, and I look much bigger than he does. I wonder if Amil really feels so much smaller. If I could draw, I would draw Amil like a long branch, tall and thin, but breakable. I would be small and curled up, hiding somewhere in the shade.
I didn’t mind sweeping. I like the soothing brush brush sound. After sweeping I went into the kitchen, sat on the stool, and watched Kazi stir and chop. I sniffed the air. Coriander. Garlic. Spinach. The tangy scent of chickpeas soaking in a bowl. I felt hungry and grabbed a few radishes I saw sitting by the windowsill, cut them up, sprinkled them with cayenne pepper and lemon juice, and popped each piece in my mouth enjoying the sour heat.
I stood after I finished my snack. Kazi pushed a pot of lentils to be sorted toward me, his head still down.
“Are you mad at me, Kazi?” I whispered. I’ve found that whispering gets people’s attention even bette
r than being loud.
He looked up and stared for a moment. Then his face turned soft.
“No, no. I could never be mad at someone as sweet as you. I’m just mad at the world,” he told me.
I wanted to ask him why, but then I thought of how the answer might make my stomach hurt. So I kept quiet and went through the lentils, making sure there were no little pebbles or grit and rinsed them off with water. I slipped a shiny one in my mouth and tried to chew it, but it almost broke my teeth.
We had my favorite spinach dish for dinner, sai bhaji with poori, and I ate up every last bit. I think Kazi made it just for me. He even made gulab jamun for dessert, as if it were a party.
I remember when we used to have parties. Papa would have his brothers over with my aunties and cousins. Some of our neighbors would come, and Papa would smoke cigars or his pipe with the other men outside on the veranda. The women would sit in the main room, drink tea, and pass around samosa and kebab. Then we’d all have a huge feast with mutton biryani, dal, curries, poori, paratha, and pakora. We hardly ever ate meat except for parties. My mouth watered at its richness.
Afterward, Papa would turn on his record player, and all the kids would have a cricket game outside until we came in exhausted and lay our heads on the floor. Someone would pop a sweet in my mouth and send me off to bed. There was so much noise and laughter that late at night I’d start talking to my cousins without even thinking. My voice would slip into all the other voices. It was the me I was underneath, the me that usually stays inside.
Ever since Amil and I have gotten a little older, Papa doesn’t like to have parties. I’m not sure why. Papa used to be happier. Or maybe Amil and I used to be happier. I’m not sure which.
The Night Diary Page 3
