The Night Diary

by Veera Hiranandani

  Rashid Uncle moves around the house so quietly. I worry that he’s angry and wishes we weren’t here. He gets food for us at the market and brings water from the well. I heard Papa ask him to go to two different markets so it won’t look like more people are staying here. He nodded. Then Papa tried to give him money but he wouldn’t take it. I hope that means he wants to help us.

  Amil and I play guessing games and make up little stories and dances to keep ourselves busy. In the stories I always start with a girl or a boy, and he or she is running from something like a man with a gun or a knife or a big fiery torch. I say something bad that happens to the character and Amil says something good. Then I say something bad. Or we do it the opposite way. At the end the character always dies. We try to make the death worse every time. The worse the death, the funnier we find the story. We try to laugh quietly which makes it even funnier. We would have never made up stories like this before, and we would have never found them funny. Amil says it’s because nothing’s real right now. I know what he means.

  Meals are my favorite time because I help Rashid Uncle cook. I just started doing it that first night and no one has told me to stop. We make simple things, dal, rice, spinach cooked with tomatoes, chapatis. I do most of it. I still wonder if Uncle always ate in this simple way. He makes sure I have the right bowls or the proper amount of rice but seems happy for me to cook. I make the same things I watched Kazi cook all my life. But cooking with Rashid Uncle is nothing like cooking with Kazi. He doesn’t look at me and he can’t talk to me, so it’s silent. I want to ask him so many questions about you, Mama, but I’m too afraid. Not being able to ask him questions pains me in a new way. It’s like I’m sick with all the words I hold on to and can’t say. When Papa talks to Uncle, he writes back quickly and doesn’t seem annoyed. Amil and Dadi talk to him, too, sometimes.

  I noticed there was something familiar about Rashid Uncle, his movements, his bent head, the way he holds his shoulders. But I couldn’t place it. Then I noticed the way he took a bowl from the table and circled it carefully with his long fingers. It reminded me of myself. So maybe he’s like you, Mama, which means you and I are alike. I want to tell him this, yet I can’t. I’ve looked through the house, to try and find some signs of you, maybe a piece of jewelry or a scarf, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  How did I get to be this way? I’m just like Rashid Uncle, born with a defect that makes it hard to speak, even impossible, except that you can’t see mine. Or maybe it’s my fault. I’m just not strong enough. If we leave here, I may never see Rashid Uncle again. It is my only chance to find out more about you and I can’t even say one word to him. Amil talks to Rashid Uncle, but Rashid Uncle only nods or writes down a word or two. He seems more comfortable with Papa, but maybe Amil won’t mind asking some questions for me.

  I wish we could go outside and play, then my mind wouldn’t have so much time to think about the bad things. The good thing is that Dadi seems to have gained some strength from the food and rest. She still sleeps a lot, but spends time awake praying and singing her songs softly. She’s eating more. She stayed up with Papa tonight after dinner in the sitting room. Amil and I lay on the couch, and I read him the scorpion section in the encyclopedia. Rashid Uncle sat at the dining room table and carved some wood. It made me feel like we’ve all lived here in this house our whole lives and nothing was wrong at all.

  When Rashid Uncle comes home after working at his furniture business and going to the market, he sits at the table and carves. He’s working on a small bowl and a horse. I secretly watch him. Maybe Uncle will teach us how to carve. He seems to have magical fingers. He makes all the ridges and bumps look so smooth, like they were never even there.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  September 3, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Today I saw something. It was a normal thing to see, but to me I thought I might be dreaming. That’s what Amil means about things not feeling real. A regular person can seem like a vision.

  I was looking out the window. There is a house maybe a hundred feet away. Our bedroom window looks toward the other house’s back patio and garden. I was watching a dry leaf swirl and twist in the wind and she suddenly appeared. Why hadn’t I noticed her before? I closed my eyes for a second wondering if she would be there when I opened them. She remained, even clearer than before, with a glistening black braid down her back, simply playing, not running or hiding, just being. I turned quickly to tell Amil and saw him drawing on some newspaper advertisements that Dadi gave him. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, his back to me hunched over his work, and I decided to keep watching without saying a word.

  The girl lay sticks on the ground in circles. Then she stood and tossed pebbles into them. I squinted and watched her more. She spun around, smiled, and moved her mouth like she was talking to herself until she was called in, probably by her mother. It was hard to tell, but she looked about my age, maybe a little younger. Does she not have any siblings? I never knew anyone who didn’t and I wonder if something bad happened to them.

  As I watched her play, I felt the urge to climb out the window and join her. The desire felt so strong I had to grip the windowsill to keep me in my place. She disappeared as quickly as she appeared. If I were allowed to play with her, I would talk to her, I promise, Mama. I wouldn’t waste it. It’s like the rules are different now. I wonder what would happen if she saw me?

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  September 4, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  I didn’t see the girl today. I probably imagined her or maybe I just dreamed of her and my memory is all mixed up, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Rashid Uncle stayed out most of the day, then carved wood outside under a tree. I really want to be friendly with him so I can find out more about you, but he doesn’t seem to want to be with us. All Papa and Dadi do is read the papers, discuss things in whispers, and drink cup after cup of watery tea. Rashid Uncle brings back food which is the most exciting part of the day. I try to read the papers, but Papa and Dadi don’t let us.

  I manage to sneak looks at the headlines. Sometimes I see a string of words: India-Pakistan Officials Discuss New Potential Violence or Communal Strife Continues or Gandhi Fasts for Peace. Then they shoo me away. Papa did talk a little about Gandhi’s fast. He told us Gandhiji said he wouldn’t eat until people stopped fighting. Maybe it will work. Maybe tomorrow will be the day we taste true freedom. At night they take the papers to bed with them and hide them under their mattresses or have Rashid Uncle put them outside. Why don’t they want me to see what I already know now—that the world is broken.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  September 5, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  I did something today, Mama. I’m not sure why I did it after everything that happened with the man and his knife. I know now that this new world is dangerous, but are Amil and I just supposed to live here inside like prisoners? I’m so sorry, Mama. Your house is lovely, but lately I feel so angry and I don’t know why or exactly at who. What would Gandhiji say? Would he be disappointed in me? Papa would. I just want to be free. Wasn’t independence from the British supposed to free us? We’ve never been less free.

  The girl came back when Amil, Papa, and Dadi were in the dining room. Papa now lets Amil sit at the table and draw. Papa knows Amil is not going to try to read over his shoulder. I didn’t mind being alone. I wanted to watch out the window in case I wasn’t dreaming. She didn’t come out all morning, but then after lunch she was there, as if she had been there all along. When I saw her, I felt like someone threw cold water on my face. I’m not imagining things. She is real.

  She sat on the ground braiding and unbraiding her hair, biting her lip with a scowl. Each time she did it, she shook her head and started to undo it. After a while she looked up. I raised my head fully over the window ledge. I waited for her to look in m
y direction. Papa, Dadi, and Amil seemed quiet enough. She turned toward me, and I stuck my hand out the window and waved. She seemed to raise her hand as if to wave back, but then she lowered it and quickly ran inside. My heart beat so fast I thought my chest was going to explode. What if she told her family I was there? Would we be in danger? Would people come after us like the man in the woods did? I spent the rest of the day sitting in the corner staring at my feet. I was probably too far away for her to see me, I tried to tell myself. I was afraid if I moved something terrible would happen.

  “What’s wrong, Nisha?” Amil asked me.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “But something is,” Amil said. “I can tell.”

  “I’m just sad,” I told him.

  He nodded, looking carefully at my face. “You don’t look sad, you look scared,” he finally said.

  “Just go away,” I murmured. Sometimes I hated that Amil knew me so well. I didn’t dare look out the window again and nothing happened.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  September 6, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  This morning I decided to just peek out the window for a second and there she was. Nobody came to talk to us, or hurt us since I waved yesterday. Amil sat on his bed drawing pictures in the air, humming softly to himself. I was glad he wasn’t paying attention. She sat on the ground. I couldn’t see exactly what she was doing. I lifted up the window and leaned out a bit. It looked like she was weaving necklaces and bracelets out of weeds. That was something I always liked to do outside. I remembered the party when we left, weaving necklaces with my cousins. Could it really be so wrong if I played with her?

  After she finished, her head turned toward me again. I moved closer to the center of the open window, and she looked me dead in the eye. After a few seconds, I waved again, holding my breath. This time she waved quickly before running back inside. A tingly feeling ran through my body, like I had opened a gift covered in shiny English wrapping paper and bows.

  “What are you waving at?” Amil asked me, looking up from the floor.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  He got up and looked outside. Then he looked back at me.

  “Did you see someone out there?”

  I didn’t answer. He watched me, hands on his bony hips, squinting harder and harder. We stood there for a minute in a staring war. My nose started to twitch. I broke my gaze.

  “It was a girl who lives in the house next door,” I said, pointing toward it. “But she’s gone now.” I turned my eyes toward the floor, the words falling out of my mouth. “She waved at me.”

  I raised my head and watched his eyes grow wide. Then he smiled.

  “Brilliant,” he said in English.

  I started to laugh and I couldn’t stop. Amil joined me. We laughed until tears began to run down our faces. After a minute, I wasn’t sure if I was laughing or crying. Once Papa brought home a British doctor who was visiting the hospital. After dinner, he and Papa smoked cigars in the living room and spoke in English while Amil and I secretly crouched by the door of our room and spied on them, trying to figure out what they were saying. We only knew a bit of English. The man kept saying the word “brilliant” after Papa spoke. The word seemed to please Papa and made his eyes sparkle. Amil and I figured it must mean something wonderful to make Papa look so happy. Sometimes we say it to each other when no one else is listening. It’s the funniest word. It feels like feathers in my mouth.

  I couldn’t keep the girl a secret from Amil. If Amil doesn’t know about it, it’s like it’s not really happening. And I want it to be real, Mama.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  September 7, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  We waited for her together this morning when Dadi and Papa became absorbed in their reading. The girl came out but didn’t look toward us. She didn’t really do much of anything, just walked around in circles and occasionally squatted down and examined something on the ground.

  “Let’s give her a note somehow, ask her to come over to the window,” I whispered to him.

  He looked at me in surprise, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “What if she tells on us?” he asked as we looked at her as she now sat cross-legged on the ground, scraping the dirt with a rock.

  I told him she wouldn’t. I believed that she would have already told on me if she wanted to.

  “We could tell her we’ll all be killed if she does,” he said plainly.

  My mouth hung open. Would we? Maybe it was too dangerous. We should just leave her alone, but then I felt a growing rage deep in my chest. It was okay for a strange man to put a knife at my throat, but it wasn’t okay for us to speak to a little girl playing in the back of her house? I put my hands on Amil’s shoulders. “Everything is dangerous now anyway. All we want to do is talk to a girl. It’ll be okay.”

  Amil thought about it. “Let’s check and see what Papa and Dadi are doing.”

  We headed down the hallway, through the sitting room, and into the dining room, where Dadi and Papa looked up from the table. “Why are you two sneaking about?” Papa said in a low, hoarse tone.

  “We’re just playing around,” Amil said.

  “Playing around?” Dadi asked. I shrugged and Amil ignored her. Her color was back. That made me feel better. I sat down next to her. She patted my shoulder and folded the paper. Amil started pacing around the table, skipping a bit. Amil used to spend hours running around the gardens, playing with friends, skipping and hopping to and from school. It was awful to say, but in some ways walking in the desert, at least when we still had water, might have been easier for him than being cooped up like this.

  Just as Papa looked up at Amil, the annoyance flickering in his eyes, I heard something. It was a faint sound, but not a bird. I listened closer and I realized it was a song being sung by a child. By the girl. We all raised our heads and listened. It was the sweetest sound I had heard in so long. I think Papa, Dadi, and Amil thought so, too, because we all remained quiet and still until she stopped. But I was afraid somehow they’d know what we were about to do, that they’d want to look out the window toward the sound. The girl might see them and somehow that would be much worse than her just seeing us.

  After a few minutes, the song ended and Papa and Dadi started reading again, as if nothing had happened. I wondered why they did this, but maybe they were afraid of our questions. Amil drifted away to our room and I followed him. We watched her again. Now, she was digging a hole with a stick.

  Amil held out the torn edge of a newspaper in his palm.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “From the pages Dadi gave me. We can wrap it around a little rock and throw it near her.”

  “It wouldn’t go that far,” I said. Then I imagined her coming over. We could talk to her out the window in whispers. We could find out things. Maybe she was as lonely as we were.

  I told Amil to get me a pencil after a few seconds. He quickly got one from his bag. I thought for a moment and wrote Come to our window. We want to meet you. But don’t tell anyone or bad things could happen.

  Amil nodded. Would Rashid Uncle’s neighbors even be mad that we were here? What if Uncle was friends with them? Maybe they even knew we were here. I wondered again what the rules were exactly.

  “Guard me,” Amil said, grabbing the note and starting to climb out the window.

  “Wait,” I hissed at him. “You’re going outside?”

  He stopped. “How else am I going to get her the note?”

  I pushed my head out the window and looked around. I couldn’t see anyone else. Before I could say anything, Amil lifted both legs over the sill and suddenly he was standing on the ground outside. My heart pounded so hard my face throbbed. He picked up a small rock and wrapped the note tightly around it, walked a few feet closer, and threw the r
ock toward the girl. She quickly glanced at it when it landed and then looked up toward the direction it came from, startled. Amil scrambled back inside. We ducked under the window for a few seconds until we got the courage to peek over the ledge. We watched her as she slowly walked over to the rock and picked it up. She squinted in the direction of our window, unwrapped the paper, and read our words. She gazed out again toward us and narrowed her eyes. We poked our heads up farther.

  “We’ve done it now,” Amil said.

  I nodded. The girl looked around and slowly walked in our direction. We held our breath as she came closer and closer. She stepped over the low stone border and onto Uncle’s property. When she stood about ten feet away, I could see she was younger than I had thought. Maybe only nine. Amil put his finger over his mouth.

  “Whisper,” he said.

  She nodded and came closer. “Who are you?” she asked. “Where did the man with the broken face go?”

  Amil looked at me with questioning eyes. He didn’t know what to say. I opened my mouth, but I felt like I would faint. I closed it. I shook my head.

  “She doesn’t like to talk,” he said, pointing to me. “We’re from Mirpur Khas.”

  “Are you staying here for a long time?” she asked.

  “No,” Amil said. “We’re on our way to the border.”

  “Oh,” she said, and her eyes widened with understanding. “So are you hiding here?” she asked, her face growing worried.

  I swallowed.

  “That’s why you can’t tell anyone we’re talking to you,” Amil said.

  She looked around quickly in fear and started to back away.

  “Don’t go,” I said in a whisper, and reached out as if to grab her hand, but she wasn’t close enough. “Nobody is going to do anything if they don’t catch us,” I said, my voice a little bit louder.