“You don’t mean that,” I said. But I know he did.
Amil just rocked back and forth, unfolding and folding his paper. I sat with him for a while and watched his fingers furiously climb over the paper. I could see the anger leak out of him a little bit. I took the soft, wrinkled piece from him. He let me.
“Let’s go be with Kazi,” Amil suddenly said, and got up quickly. I could tell he was trying to shake off his feelings. He didn’t like to be angry. I loved that about him, that he really wanted to be happy. Sometimes I like to hold on to my upsets, like if I let them go I’m admitting they weren’t that important, but Amil isn’t like that. When we fight, he’s usually the first to apologize, the first to lift us out of our hurt. But in the last few days, I could see an anger always behind his eyes, smoldering.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be with Kazi, but I followed. We sat with Kazi for the rest of the day while he packed up the kitchen and made food packages for us. He handed us pieces of radishes and peppers to snack on as he worked. Then we began to help him, scrubbing pots and tying up bags of rice and lentils that Kazi would either pack for us or take with him to his cottage. It felt better to work, to keep my body moving. If I worked in the kitchen I could pretend none of this was happening. We were just making dinner, like always. I wondered if I pretended enough, would it become the truth?
Then this morning while we shuffled outside in the cool air and finished loading up the carriage, we heard the sound of someone running toward us. I think I heard it first because I looked toward the sound and then everyone else looked. The scrape and scratch of sandals hitting dirt moved closer, grew louder. Papa pushed the three of us back in the house. “Go,” he said in a harsh whisper, pushing at our backs. “Hide in the pantry.” Dadi grabbed our arms and pulled us inside. Someone was coming for us.
We crouched in the pantry again, trying not to breathe. It was a lot emptier now. Dadi moved her lips slightly, murmuring prayers to herself. I could hear the low buzz of men’s voices, but they didn’t sound angry or scary. I was worried someone was coming to hurt Papa, but I held on to the sound of low voices, Papa’s and another man’s that sounded familiar but I couldn’t place him. Maybe it was someone telling us we didn’t have to leave, that this was all a big mistake.
I felt Dadi’s warm, misty breath on my shoulder. Amil grabbed my hand. It was cold and dry. Mine was hot and sweaty. We waited for a long time.
Suddenly someone threw open the pantry door letting the first morning sun stream into our blinking, terrified eyes.
“We can’t go today.” It was Papa. I let my breath out. I wondered if that meant we weren’t going at all. A little spark of hope teased at me.
“Why?” Dadi asked.
“That was cousin Nikhil. He said he heard terrible things about some trains trying to cross the border. They’ve decided to stay longer. But we can’t.”
“What terrible things?” Amil said, his voice curious and hungry. I wanted to hear it, too, Mama. I wanted to hear something so bad and terrible it would make me want to run away and never look back.
“I told you. People are being killed,” Papa said in a flat voice, as if he were telling us to go to sleep. He didn’t say what people, where, and how.
Dadi started to murmur prayers out loud now. We all stayed crouched in the closet. Papa yelled at her. “Ma!” She stopped and quietly pressed her lips together.
“What will we do?” she asked. “It’s at least a hundred miles to the border.”
“We will leave on foot tomorrow. It’s too light now,” Papa said. “We need to stay here one more day. We can stop at Rashid Uncle’s on the way. I’ll arrange for a messenger to notify him. It’s about halfway.”
“Rashid!” Dadi said.
“Rashid Uncle?” Amil asked, and my eyes lit up. I had heard the name before. It had to be your brother, Mama. I prayed Papa would answer Amil.
“Hush,” Papa said. “You all must listen to everything I tell you now. Tonight we will sleep at Kazi’s, so it looks like we’re not here. The riots are getting closer.”
“But,” Amil said, and Papa put his hand up to stop him.
“Amil,” Papa said sternly, “enough.”
My shoulders sank. Then I felt the pang of guilt I always did when I wanted Amil to push Papa for answers. I wanted to see if I was right about Rashid Uncle. We had hardly ever been inside Kazi’s cottage. Kazi only went there to sleep and spend his Sunday there, his day off. We were not to bother him then. But a few times when we were bored, Amil and I didn’t listen and visited Kazi anyway. Once, about a year ago, Amil found a strange tomato in the garden. It looked like three tomatoes stuck together.
“Let’s show Kazi,” he said, holding it up, then balancing it on his head.
“We can’t,” I answered, and took it from him so it wouldn’t fall and bruise. I wanted to know what a three-headed tomato tasted like.
“You always listen to the rules,” Amil said, and crossed his arms.
“Well, you never do,” I shot back. “And that’s why you make Papa upset.”
Immediately I felt bad for what I said. That wasn’t really why Papa got frustrated with Amil. It was because Papa didn’t understand why Amil was so bad at school and was worried he’d never become a doctor.
But Amil didn’t get mad at me. He just sighed. “Why don’t you talk this way to anyone else? You leave all the rule breaking to me. You like it that way.”
I didn’t know what to say. Then he took the tomato from me and ran to Kazi’s house before I could do anything. I followed after him, stunned, wondering if I did like it that way. But I think he liked it that way, too. I felt the things he couldn’t feel and he said the things I couldn’t say, except to him. That’s how it worked.
Kazi never let us stay long—just took our gift and shooed us off. I don’t know what he did there all day long on Sundays. Mama, my eyes are drooping, I will finish when I can.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 19, 1947
Dear Mama,
There are two rooms in Kazi’s cottage, a front room with a small kitchen, and a little table with two chairs in the middle. Then there’s the back room with his bed, a rug, a chair in the corner, and a small chest of drawers. There’s a small tapestry that hangs on the wall of the front room and that’s it.
We spent yesterday staying in the back room being quiet, reading and drawing and hoping no one came to hurt us. Our house stood dark and empty. Now we had no carriage and could only take what we could carry on our backs. We would have to leave your painting with Kazi. Papa was worried about the water. Dadi said it was too heavy, that she didn’t need much. Papa made us take extra anyway.
We sat on the floor with our backs against the walls. Amil and I sat on one side, Papa and Dadi on the other. It was strange, not being allowed to speak. Suddenly all I wanted to do was talk. I wonder if that’s how normal children feel all the time. I wanted to ask how Papa felt about leaving this house and the hospital. I wanted to ask him if he was scared. I wanted to ask him if we were ever coming back. Amil and I had short, whispering conversations, but then Papa would put his finger over his mouth and an hour would go by and we wouldn’t speak. My mouth itched with words. Would people really hear us talking? But I didn’t dare cross Papa.
I kept hoping we would somehow get to stay. We would sleep in Kazi’s cottage for a few days and then quietly move back into our house. The hope I felt made the hours a little shorter and pulled me along. Kazi sat outside guarding the house. I longed to sit with him.
Kazi and Papa made a plan. Kazi would knock three times on the door if he sensed danger, and we were all supposed to climb out the back window and run to the garden shed behind Kazi’s cottage. I couldn’t imagine Papa and Dadi climbing out the window. Thinking about it made the corners of my mouth turn up and twitch, even though I knew I shouldn’t smile at
such things.
Every few hours, Dadi would give us a bit of roti and lentils to eat with a few radishes and a slice of mango. I saved my mango slices wrapped in a cloth napkin so I could eat them all at once before bed. Every time I ate a mango slice, I felt happy for that moment. The more slices, the longer the happiness. When I got my mat ready for sleep, I still tasted the syrupy mango juice on my tongue. Amil whispered in my ear.
“This was the longest day of my life,” he said. I nodded hard and leaned against his bony shoulder. Dadi sat cross-legged and hummed prayers very softly. Papa did stretches. If I thought the quiet was hard, Amil must have been ready to explode.
I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I was waiting for a chance to talk to Kazi. I was also listening for rioters, for the scrape of shoes on the dirt, the first sounds of yelling growing closer, or the crackle of a torch. I listened for Kazi’s knocks. I thought of you, too, Mama. I thought about your painting of the hand with the egg. Maybe you painted it when you were pregnant with us, your belly big, all the windows open, the breeze blowing through the house. Maybe when you painted that picture you were happier than you’d ever been, would ever be.
We left this morning when the sun was just starting to peek through the clouds. Amil looked at me nervously. He bit his lip. Dadi patted our hands. “It will be okay,” she said. “Your Papa will get us to the other side.”
I didn’t want to go to the other side. It reminded me of dead people. The people in the hospital that Papa couldn’t save. You, Mama. You are on the other side. We’re still here.
“Where’s Kazi?” Amil whispered to Papa as we filed out the door.
“One good-bye is enough, I think,” Papa said in a hoarse tone. Then we walked out on the dirt path past our house. I couldn’t look at it straight on, only out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to see Kazi’s face one last time. Would he be mad at me because I never properly said good-bye? I should have. How stupid of me to think I’d have another chance. I pressed the lump of the mortar and pestle in my bag. This is all I was left with. I cried softly, making no sound. Only my shoulders shaking. Then I swallowed it all down.
We didn’t walk through town. It was too dangerous. We walked through shaggy fields of prickly grasses until we found a clearer path toward the desert. There were people behind and in front of us. Some people had oxcarts filled high with belongings. Some people rode camels. We carried less than everyone else around us except for the water. We each had a large jug that would last us a few days before we would need to fill it. Papa carried two.
Papa told us before we left to keep our heads down, not to talk to anyone no matter who they were. Dadi walked close to me. She told me I must keep myself as covered as I could with my shawl, that I’m bigger now and strange men can’t be trusted. I didn’t tell Dadi this, but I only trust four people in the world anyway. I trust Papa, Dadi, Amil, and Kazi. And you Mama, I trust you.
It feels like we’re really in a story now. I’ve heard about stories like these, about people who flee their homes in a war with nothing but the clothes and food on their backs. Now that’s who we are, even though there’s not a war here, but it’s like a war. It seems almost like a made-up war. It makes each footstep I take feel numb, like my foot isn’t actually touching the ground, like I’m not in my body. We had to leave our chess set. We also had to leave my old doll, Dee. Deepu Aunty gave it to me when I was two, so I called the doll Dee to remind me of her. While I walked I thought about Dee, thought about her frayed orange and gold sari and the red color painted on her tiny lips. She even had little gold earrings dangling from her ears and a green jeweled bindi on her forehead. I suddenly missed her so much that my chest hurt, even though I hadn’t played with Dee since I was ten. She had sat in the corner of my side of the room to keep watch over me and Amil. Now she would probably be taken by a new girl who would find her.
We walked all day carrying our packs. Dadi couldn’t walk that fast, so we went slowly. Papa said we had to cover at least ten miles a day, more if we could, and it should take about four hours, but with breaks it would probably be closer to five or six. Today, our first day, we walked seven hours slowly with breaks, so we probably did around fifteen miles. Papa told us we could only have a small drink of water every hour, which was hard, but I only sipped when Papa told us to. I saw Amil sneaking a sip or two, but I didn’t say anything.
Tonight, Papa found us a place next to a big rock near clumps of desert brush. It’s kind of like a cave. He didn’t want to be too near the other families who were also stopping for the night. Papa likes to be private. At home, we didn’t have many people come over. I think his only close friend was Dr. Ahmed. Papa always liked a good party, but he said when he came home after the hospital he just wanted to have some peace and quiet. I think Papa likes to doctor people more than he likes to enjoy people.
We put down our packs and Papa asked us to help him make a fire to keep away the animals and insects. I helped Amil find the right sticks and dead leaves. Then Papa arranged the sticks into a pile with the dried leaves under and lit a match from the box he brought. We all sat and watched the fire eat the leaves, little lapping tongues of flame climbing up the branches. What is it about fire? I can’t take my eyes off it.
After a good blaze got going, we warmed our dinner on it, more roti and dal. We only have one pot with us. We have a stack of roti, dal, nuts, dried fruit, and a few bags of dried peas, lentils, and rice.
“Papa,” Amil said as he sat on the ground and chewed the dry roti, “is that all the food we have?” He pointed to the bag Papa had carried. “And what if we run out of water?” Amil asked.
“Sip carefully. One drink an hour. We will find a place to fill it back up.”
“But what if,” Amil started to say. Papa put his finger on his lips.
“One drink an hour,” Papa said. “Then we’ll find a place to get more.”
“In the middle of nothing?” Amil said, swinging his arm around.
Papa glared at him, the light from the fire dancing in his eyes. Amil finally closed his mouth and tended the fire. We checked for scorpions before we sat down. For sleep we had a huge mosquito net that would cover all of us. We needed to keep all our belongings around us, the water, the food, packed tightly in bags and jugs so no animals or people would steal it. We sat for a while around the fire and Dadi sang, her high-pitched voice winding around the air like a butterfly. Amil drew some pictures in the sand with a stick. I didn’t want to take my diary out in front of everyone and have Papa see, but it’s a habit now, a jumpy feeling that starts in my fingers at night. I was getting that feeling, as darkness fell all around us. I got it out from my bag with my pencil. Papa watched me. I sat back down and started to write.
“What is that, Nisha?” Papa asked.
“My diary,” I said in a tiny voice.
“Your diary?” he asked, looking more serious than ever.
My fingers tightened around it. “Kazi gave it to me.” Now I know what Kazi meant about writing down all the things the grown-ups won’t be able to.
Papa turned his head to the side. His face softened.
“Carry on, then,” he said. “But only for a few minutes. You need to rest.”
“Yes, Papa,” I said, and pressed my pencil to the paper, feeling an electric tingle go up my arm. Then I wrote this.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 20, 1947
Dear Mama,
We’re almost out of water. We wouldn’t have been so soon, but Amil spilled both his and Dadi’s when he tried to carry the two jugs as we packed up this morning. Papa rushed him, telling him he should carry more stuff, that he was almost a man and he should carry Dadi’s pack, too. But Amil is so wiry and thin, like a twig you could easily snap in half. I’ll bet Dadi could carry more. He did what he was told and as he slung both his and Dadi’s pack on his back, and a
s he was carrying the water jugs and the bedrolls, the jugs fell to the ground, the caps popping off. He didn’t even notice at first, but I did. I heard it before I saw it, the water making its glug, glug noise, creating a little stream in the dry ground.
“Amil!” I yelled, and ran over to the water. I righted them in the sandy dirt, picked up the caps, and screwed them on quickly, as if moving fast would reverse the damage. Dadi and Papa just stared. I looked up at Amil’s face. His mouth hung open. His eyes seemed so wide and helpless, it made my chest hurt. Amil looked at Papa like a little dog about to be kicked. I stood up, holding the almost empty jugs and stood in front of Amil, facing Papa, putting myself between them.
Papa slowly walked toward us. Amil lowered his eyes. Papa’s mouth was a straight, thin line. He took the jugs from me and placed them on the ground. Then he silently lined up our other jugs and poured a bit of water from each and evened them out. He handed them back to us.
“Don’t spill it again. There’s life in here. Treat it like that,” he said to Amil with gritted teeth.
Amil kept his head down and nodded. “I’m sorry, Papa.” Amil’s eyes started to well up. My whole body tensed. Don’t cry, Amil, please don’t cry, I wished. Amil always cried more than I did. When he was little, he threw lots of tantrums. Papa’s face would grow redder and redder as Amil would stomp around and cry because he broke his toy or because Dadi wanted him to sit and finish his dinner.
I always wondered why Amil wasn’t scared of Papa like I was, but maybe Amil just couldn’t help it. Eventually Papa would take him over his knee and give him a swift hit on his bottom. I knew it didn’t really hurt Amil, but it always stopped him. Then Papa’s face would collapse, and I could see the regret in his eyes. Amil would stand up, rubbing his behind and sit back down, finally eating, or picking up his toy. But that was years ago. Now Amil knew better than to throw a tantrum.
“Why do you do that?” I once asked him when we were still little enough to be sleeping in the same bed.
The Night Diary Page 7
