The Night Diary

by Veera Hiranandani

  I stirred the pot which I had put down in the sun and took a spoonful of the uncooked lentils and rice in my mouth. It was like chewing on tiny pebbles. I passed it over to Dadi, who gave it to Amil, and then took a spoonful herself. Papa was fiddling with the stick pile and matches. The water had barely softened it. But still, it was so good to have something in my mouth. I kept biting down slowly and eventually swallowed it. I took another spoonful and then heard Papa yell out.

  “I got it!” he said as small clouds of smoke drifted up into the air and a low flame started blooming on the mound of sticks and leaves. I hurried over with my pot and held it above the flame. The fire crackled and sputtered, but the flame stayed. We stared at the pot of rice and lentils like it was the most interesting thing we’d ever seen. After a few minutes, little bubbles sprouted up in the water. Dadi clapped her hands like a young girl. Papa said, “Aha!” and Amil managed a small whooping sound. I just held that pot as steady as I could over the center of the flame.

  After twenty minutes the rice had swollen enough and absorbed some water. I stirred a bit more. The fire was now a decent size, and Papa kept adding small twigs that had sat in the sun. Finally, we kneeled, huddled together around the fire and passed around the pot, spooning lentils and rice in our mouths, soft and almost salty, big grins spreading over our faces. I would have never imagined it, all of us, shoulder to shoulder, warm and smiling. Papa put his arms around me and Amil again. The sun sank into the horizon and exploded in hot oranges and blues. I swallowed another mouthful and felt Papa’s strong arm on my shoulders. Mama, it’s so strange. At the end of the day we almost died, I was happier than I could ever remember.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  August 25, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  We don’t have much longer to go. We have jugs filled almost to the top and it didn’t rain today. Papa said one more day and we will reach Rashid Uncle’s house, your house, Mama. Did you and Rashid Uncle play together there like me and Amil? Did you climb trees and make pictures in the dirt with sticks and skip rocks in the rain puddles? I think Dadi said something about Rashid Uncle being your baby brother. If you were alive, you would be thirty-five. I wonder how old Rashid Uncle is, but I’m afraid to ask. I just know he’s younger.

  Our belongings dried in the sun. We were not attacked by any people or snakes or desert foxes or scorpions, so I think we’re going to make it. I don’t sleep well at night, though, and my head feels thick and dizzy. The ground is hard under my bedroll. I get sand in my ears and hair. I can hear the buzz of insects, the calling of a wildcat or wolf, and sometimes the voice of a person, a man or a woman calling out a name or yelling at their children. Sometimes I hear crying. We usually find a place tucked away far from others, though it’s mostly sand and dirt as far as the eye can see. As our journey continues, there are more and more people going both ways. We all sleep close together right near the fire. Papa keeps it going most of the night, always on guard. Sometimes I wonder if he ever sleeps at all.

  I got up early and started a small fire by myself. Papa had put a pile of twigs over the old fire the night before. I boiled some more rice and lentils, the smell waking me up and making me feel more normal. We have food for two more meals, but that should be enough. Already, I can feel my hip bones a little more when I lie down flat. It’s only been a few days, but I was a little skinny to begin with, not as bad as Amil, but still too bony. At home, we always had enough to eat, but Papa doesn’t like to have too much of anything, food, furniture, people. I remember looking at Sabeen, her rosy full cheeks and lips. Her mother, with her round belly and easy smile. I would feel jealous watching them together. They spent so much of their time talking and laughing. Maybe someday, after all this, after we find a new life, a new home, with plenty of water and food, then I could grow up and have full rosy cheeks and a soft round belly. Maybe I could walk and talk and laugh with a daughter of my own.

  The water will last us another two days if we’re careful and nobody spills it. Papa has been so nice to Amil since he’s been sick, but another spill could change that. When we’re sick, we get the Papa everyone else gets, the calm, gentle doctor who makes you feel like it’s going to be okay.

  As I was stirring the pot of food while the sun came up, Amil tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped.

  “Sorry,” he whispered.

  I smiled and shrugged. He had more color in his cheeks. I could tell even in the low light, and his eyes shone again. Amil was back.

  “You were really sick,” I whispered to him.

  “I know,” he said.

  “I almost thought that—” But before I could say anything, he clamped his hand on my mouth.

  “Shut up. Don’t say it,” he said.

  He was right. I promised myself I would never speak of Amil almost dying again. I brushed his hand away. “Your hand is disgusting,” I said, feeling joy being able to tease my brother again.

  “So is yours,” he said, his eyes dancing around, a grin spreading across his face. He grabbed my hand that wasn’t stirring and held it up to my eyes. I looked at my hand, the dirt creating little roads in the creases of my palms, like a map.

  I pulled my hand back and took the pot off the fire. Papa sat up. Dadi was still sleeping. Usually Dadi was the first up. She probably needed some extra rest. How was she even okay? We passed the pot around, spooning in our warm breakfast, and again I couldn’t believe how good the plain undercooked lentils and rice were. It was like I had a new tongue.

  Dadi got up slowly and told us to have all the food.

  “No, Ma, you have to eat,” Papa said, and held a spoonful in front of her lips.

  “We each had five spoonfuls,” Amil said. “You have the rest, Dadi.”

  I was surprised he knew how much we each had. I wasn’t counting. My stomach felt warm and not like a big, empty cave, but nowhere near full. I could have eaten two pots myself.

  “You each have one more,” she said quietly. “My stomach today . . .” She touched it and turned her eyes to the ground.

  “Ma,” Papa said. “What do you mean?”

  She waved his comment away. Papa held the spoon to her. She shook her head and her eyes hardened.

  “Give it to them first,” she said, looking at me and Amil. “I only want the last bite.”

  Papa hesitated. “Suresh,” she said, and he did what he was told.

  We packed up and joined the ever growing path of people going in two directions, with a big dip in the middle of paths set about fifty feet apart. I fell back into the pattern of my footsteps. I liked to listen to the rhythm. Dadi stood next to me, and Papa stood by Amil and we followed closely behind. Today Dadi was even slower.

  “Are you okay, Dadi?” I asked her. I turned and saw my grandmother, her back looking a little more hunched in her dirty sari. Her gray hair fell out of her bun in pieces around her dull face. She glanced at me, her eyes not quite focusing on mine, and gave a little nod. I took her hand. She squeezed it and I squeezed back.

  “Is Rashid Uncle nice?” I asked, surprising myself. The words had started slipping from my mouth a little more easily. We were different here on this path, our hard cracked feet pounding the hard cracked earth. Nothing mattered here. Nothing was real. We didn’t have neighbors. We didn’t have a home. It was in-between living.

  “Nice?” Dadi looked and blinked at me. She shook her head, not really saying yes or no. “We’ll see, we’ll see,” she said, and squeezed my hand again.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  August 26, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Every night, except on the really bad day, I sit by the fire and write. The more I write, the clearer you get. I’m glad I brought three pencils. Papa helps me sharpen them with his knife, and he doesn’t question me about my writing. He just lets me do it. I wonder what he would say if he knew I was w
riting to you.

  Sometimes I hear you talking to me. You have a sweet, low voice. “Nisha, just one more step,” you say. And I take it. You said to me when we were so thirsty, “Pretend the air is water. Drink it in.” I did. Mama, I wouldn’t ever say this to anyone else but if we died, would that mean we could be with you? But I’m not even sure if dying would mean that, so I keep going. I wouldn’t hear your voice in my head if you didn’t want me to keep going, right?

  I see you now, walking with us, a red and gold scarf blowing behind you, just like the one I saw hanging in Papa’s closet that he kept all these years, the one still in the closet waiting to be taken by strangers. You are the most beautiful person here on this dry, sad path. It’s like we’re all the color of dust and you are gold, and rich brown, in red and purple with dark-lined eyes and shiny red lips. You glow. I see the flash of your golden earrings. I hear the jingle of your bangles. You are here and I’m following you, Mama. You will take us to Rashid Uncle and you will take us to our new home.

  Are you happy that we will be staying with Rashid Uncle? I wonder if he is happy we are coming? Why didn’t he ever try to see us? Is it because Papa told us we are Hindu and not both Muslim and Hindu after you died? Can you be both? Sometimes I don’t really feel like anything, not Hindu, not Muslim. Is that a bad thing to feel? Papa told me Gandhiji believes we are everything anyway. I guess that makes the most sense to me. If everyone felt that way, we would have stayed in our home, a whole country, safe and truly free. I want to know what Rashid Uncle thinks of us, Mama. Tell me, soon, somehow.

  Dadi is very tired now. She’s lying by the fire, asleep before anyone. She drinks water, but eats no food. Amil asked Papa if she was sick, and I leaned in to hear the answer.

  “She’s old. This trip’s too hard for her,” Papa said in his way that isn’t really answering anything. Then he turned and went back to shaking sand out of his bag. He’s been checking her often, her pulse, her eyes, pinching her skin. She just waves him away, but she does not suck her teeth. She does not sing and she does not pray. There is so much silence I almost can’t bare it. Amil doesn’t even say much lately. I don’t even hear much speaking from anyone walking around us. I need other voices. They fill me up. It’s like we’re all underwater, holding our breath until we can rise again into the air. Anything too loud, and we might all drown.

  But I do hear the Azan, just like we heard everyday in Mirpur Khas when the Muslims stopped and prayed. Back in Mirpur Khas, I didn’t think about it. It was part of the sounds of the day. The call would ring out from the village on loudspeakers at the mosque, and we could hear it trickle in through the windows. Kazi would stop what he was doing and get his prayer mat that he kept rolled up in the corner of the kitchen. He would wash, put the mat by the window, and stand, bend, kneel, touch his forehead to the ground, and stand again while he said his prayers.

  We knew never to bother Kazi when he was praying. Sometimes I thought of you, Mama. Did you pray five times a day? I’ve never seen Papa pray or sing. He says all we have is the here and now. I wonder if that’s true. As we get closer to the border, I see more and more Muslims on the opposite path from India seeking new homes. Someone calls out the Azan and they stop and pray, and the people on our path keep moving. It makes me think of Kazi and I get sad, so I don’t look. I just walk, my eyes on the back of the person in front of me.

  Today, though, you know what I did? When I heard the Azan, I said a prayer in my head. I made it up, combining what I’ve heard Kazi say and Dadi say. I don’t know if it counted because I didn’t know the exact words and I didn’t kneel down, but I thought it couldn’t hurt. I would never tell anyone this. They might be mad at me, mixing it all together and not being proper about it. But someone has to pray for Dadi. You would have prayed for her, right, Mama?

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  August 27, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Papa told us tonight is the last night before we get to Rashid Uncle’s. After we ate our mangoes, he handed us pieces of kaju katli. I turned the diamond-shaped candy over and over in my filthy hand. Why had he kept this from us? I wanted to throw it at him. What else was he holding on to? But my mouth watered at the thought of biting into it, enjoying the second of happiness it would give me. So I popped it into my mouth and held it there, letting it dissolve on my tongue. I watched Amil eat his. He had decided to nibble it like a tiny mouse. Our eyes met as we chewed. We didn’t smile and we didn’t speak. Was he thinking the same thing about Papa?

  Our trip to Rashid Uncle is taking a day longer because Dadi needs to go slow. Papa, Amil, and I take turns helping her walk and she leans on us, her papery arm resting across our shoulders. Her bones feeling no heavier than a bird’s. She finally ate some mango and has been drinking water, but she needs to rest often. We will get to Rashid Uncle’s or we won’t. Dadi will get better or she won’t. We will get to our new home. Or we won’t.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  August 30, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  I’m sorry I couldn’t write the last two nights, but now I can, lying here in an actual bed. Mama, why didn’t Papa tell us about Rashid Uncle? It all makes more sense now and yet is only more confusing.

  It was almost dusk when we finally walked close to where Papa said Rashid Uncle lived. He said we were several miles outside the city of Umerkot. We passed through a village and across some dusty farmland. After several minutes in the low light I could see a cluster of homes, fairly large in size, all white. Papa turned to us and said, “This was the home your mother grew up in.” Amil and I quickly looked at each other. Even though I had known it before, actually standing in front of your house was like having the wind knocked out of me. I could barely breathe. Papa said we should sit behind some bushes and wait until dark, then Papa would go see Rashid Uncle and make sure it was safe. He told us he didn’t want anyone to see us go into the house.

  “If a person comes up to you,” he whispered, looking harshly at Amil, “tell them your grandmother needs to rest. Don’t say more or less. But in the dark I don’t think you’ll be noticed. Many of these houses are empty now.”

  Amil nodded.

  “When I whistle once,” Papa continued, “then you come quietly and quickly and run right in that one,” he pointed to a house in the middle of the cluster. “Don’t talk and don’t take off your packs. Be ready at any moment.”

  Amil and I glanced at each other.

  “Understand?” Papa whispered.

  “Yes, Papa,” Amil and I whispered back.

  We waited until nightfall and then Papa walked to the door. There was a full moon and a cloudless sky. The air smelled of burning wood. I could see Papa knock, and his tapping sound drifted out into the night followed by the whine of a hinge from the opening door. I could hear the murmur of voices and then the door close. We sat down holding our packs. Dadi lay against hers, propping her head up. I stared toward the direction of the door. A part of me hoped you’d be inside. Could you have been hiding there all along?

  Amil started to play with the thin, frayed leather on his sandals. I elbowed him and pointed through the bushes to keep him focused on the task. We waited and waited. I heard a rustling and my body froze, but when I turned nothing was there.

  “Did you hear something?” I whispered to Amil.

  “Yes,” Amil said. We waited again, very still. The rustling grew.

  “We need to move,” Amil whispered. “Now.”

  We helped Dadi up and moved farther away from the bushes toward a dirt road we could see dimly outlined in the moonlight.

  “We shouldn’t go too far,” whispered Dadi. We both held her by an arm helping her walk faster. The rustling had formed into footsteps, rushing closer and closer.

  Someone grabbed my shoulder. I screamed. The sound burst painfully from me like blood. The person, a man, I could tell
from the size of his hand, covered my mouth and held a knife up to my throat. The metal felt strangely smooth and warm. Dadi started crying.

  “You killed my family,” he spoke in my ear through gritted teeth.

  I couldn’t see him, only hear him, smell the scent of old sweat, and dirt, and sour breath. I could hear my breathing echoing in my ears. The side of the knife pressed harder. Dadi sank to the ground on her knees, her head bending toward our feet. I wasn’t scared, only numb, and felt as if I was floating upward, toward the sky.

  “Please, we didn’t kill anyone,” Amil kept yelling over and over, spit flying out of his mouth. Dadi was bending herself at his feet, praying. I stood absolutely still, trying to hold my neck back from the blade’s edge. I wondered if I had stopped breathing, but somehow I kept on standing. The man’s hands shook.

  “My children, my wife. They’re gone,” he said, his voice breaking. “You killed them. You all killed them. They were only trying to get water and you killed them.”

  “No, sir, please. We are just walking to the border. My grandmother needed to rest. We didn’t do anything to your family,” Amil said as loud as he could. “We’ll give you food, water, anything you want.”

  Then I heard the hinge and Papa’s whistle.

  We were all silent. He whistled again. The man pressed the flat side of the knife harder against my neck.

  “I beg you. She’s an innocent child,” Dadi called out, her hands pressed together.

  The man trembled, the knife shaking against me. “My family is dead and no one is innocent.”

  “My father and uncle are coming,” Amil said, now in a lower tone. “They have guns.”