Amil gaped at me, his mouth hanging open.
I shot him a mean look. The girl looked back and forth at us, still deciding if she wanted to stay.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Hafa,” she said shyly.
“I’m Nisha. This is Amil,” I said.
Then Amil elbowed me in the ribs. “I think I heard a chair move,” he said.
I looked back and listened.
“We have to go. Come visit us tomorrow in secret. Tell no one,” I said in my most serious voice.
She nodded and skipped away toward her house.
I heard the creaky front door open and close. That meant Rashid Uncle was home.
“Do you think Uncle noticed anything?” Amil whispered in my ear.
“I don’t think you can see the back of the houses from the path. But I’m not sure,” I said, again my pulse racing. But, Mama, can I tell you something? I felt so happy, I didn’t care.
“You talked to her,” Amil said. I just nodded, bits of joy sparking through my limbs.
“Nisha, Amil, come help for dinner,” Papa called from the other room.
We went and watched Rashid Uncle unpack the food. There were several sweet potatoes, green beans, two onions, and two cucumbers. He never got meat, though I was craving chicken or mutton. I don’t know if he didn’t eat it or thought we didn’t. Maybe it was too expensive. My mouth watered at the thought of eating sweet potato, though. I couldn’t remember the last time I had one. I didn’t know any recipes that Kazi made with them, but we could fry them with the onions and the beans. I could taste it, sweet, salty, and spicy all together.
I got to work, rolling up my sleeves and clearing a space for chopping. Rashid Uncle handed me a knife.
After talking to Hafa, I felt different, like maybe I could be a new person. “Thank you,” I said.
Rashid Uncle looked at me, surprised, and I met his eyes. He nodded and his mouth twitched. Then he started to measure the rice. We cooked quietly and afterward I spooned the fried vegetables and rice in bowls.
“Wonderful,” Papa said, taking in the bright orange cubes of sweet potato nestled among the fried green beans and onions. Then he patted his stomach. We all ate slowly, savoring it. Amil normally shoveled his food in so fast, I wondered how he tasted anything, but even he seemed to slow down and enjoy it. We cleared our plates and Amil and I washed everything.
Papa and Dadi were having their last cup of tea for the night and Rashid Uncle sat at the table carving like he usually did.
I took in a deep breath. Amil watched me.
“What are you making?” I asked Rashid Uncle. Then I handed him his little chalkboard that he wrote on.
Dadi and Papa both put their papers down and looked at us. Rashid Uncle stopped and lowered his tool and small piece of wood. He had just started. It didn’t look like anything yet. He took the chalkboard and a piece of chalk, moving slowly, carefully. A doll, he wrote. I thought of my old doll, Dee, and my stomach clenched. I nodded, but then my mouth went dry and I knew the words were stuck. My face grew hot. I shook my head.
Rashid Uncle looked at me carefully, studying my face.
You have your mother’s mouth, he wrote. I looked at Papa and Dadi. They seemed frozen. Amil moved closer to me.
And you, your mother’s eyes, he wrote and held it up toward Amil. Amil touched the corner of his eye.
It makes me so happy to see your faces, he continued.
He knew her. He could see her in our faces. It was like another universe had opened.
“Did you, was she,” Amil stuttered. “Was she good to you?” he asked.
Rashid Uncle nodded.
She loved you both before you were born, he wrote.
I heard a little moan from Dadi, like she was crying. I heard Papa clear his throat. My body felt like it was melting. “Thank you,” I whispered. It was the answer I had always wanted to hear. It almost made everything we had been through worth it. The tearing of India. The tearing of walls. Then opening of something new, of this. You loved us, Mama.
Love, Nisha
* * *
September 8, 1947
Dear Mama,
I woke up early this morning. Amil was still asleep. Amil looked like a very young child when he slept, and it made me want to touch his cheek. Sometimes when Amil slept too long in the mornings at home, I used to poke his cheek so I could watch his puffy eyes open for the first time that day. He would start to move and rub his eyes with curled fists, gazing at me like a much younger child. He was never mad at me for waking him.
I went into the kitchen and saw Rashid Uncle tinkering around, lighting the stove and warming a pot of water for tea. He noticed me and his mouth stretched wider. It’s the way I know he’s smiling. Papa already sat at the dining room table reading yesterday’s newspaper. Dadi remained asleep.
“Good morning,” I said shyly, and Rashid Uncle gave me a nod of his head in reply. After the tea was done, he started to heat the oil for poori just like Kazi used to do every morning at home. He gave me a cup of milk, and I sat down to drink it. Then he handed me the bowl of flour. I got up and poured some water in the flour and mixed the dough quickly, forming it into little balls, then flattening them into circles. I handed them to Rashid Uncle, who fried them in the hot oil. I watched each circle puff up and felt a lightness I hadn’t felt in so long. We sat down and ate them warm with dal. I liked cracking the middle of the poori and filling it with dal, and taking a big, messy bite, smooth and crispy all at once. After breakfast, Rashid Uncle tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped a little, surprised. He held up the chalkboard. The doll I’m making is for you, it said. Then he pointed to a small block of roughly carved wood sitting on top of the stool he sat on to do his work. I could see the rough shape of a head and shoulders. I was too old for dolls, but I would never tell Rashid Uncle that. I went over and touched the wood, feeling the bumpiness of it. He hadn’t smoothed out all the edges yet.
“Thank you,” I said, bowing my head a little. “I will keep it always.”
Something has changed. I’m starting to feel happy here. I’m starting to feel like it’s home. We survived the walking, the thirst, the tiredness, the hunger, the man with a knife. Rashid Uncle told us you loved us. I talked to him. I spoke to Hafa. It has made me feel strong, Mama, strong and brave. Now more than ever I hope if we stay long enough, hide long enough, everyone will forget how mad they are and Hafa and I will be friends, real friends. Rashid Uncle will be my real uncle.
Later, Amil and I waited for Papa and Dadi to start reading and Rashid Uncle to go out before we watched by the window. We sang loudly and told stories so Papa and Dadi would think that’s all we were doing. Hafa didn’t come for a while. We started to think that we had scared her off and both slid down below the window, our backs against the wall, staring out in front of us. I looked at our bags and bedrolls neatly stored in the corner. Papa made us pack up every morning and Amil would ask if we were leaving. Papa would shake his head.
“But when?” Amil would say, like he really wanted to leave. I know he hates feeling trapped inside, but did he forget that we almost died out there?
“The longer we stay out of harm’s way the better,” Papa said. “Be thankful we’re here.”
“Then why do we have to pack up every day?” Amil would say, but Papa never answered.
Maybe Papa wants to stay forever, too. I stayed quiet, looking down. All I could think of was talking to Hafa again. We waited until we saw her. She came out and acted like she didn’t notice us. We watched her draw in the dirt, sing, run, cartwheel. She took out her messy braid and rebraided it again. Then she finally turned and squinted toward us. Amil waved a hand outside. She kept squinting and went back to her hair. Why wasn’t she coming over? Didn’t she want to be my friend as much as I wanted to be hers?
She looked aro
und and started walking over and came up to the window. I’ll try to remember everything she said, Mama.
“I know you were watching me, but I was too scared. Now my father is out and my mother is sewing in the back room,” she told us. “She’s not near the window.”
“Why don’t you have any brothers or sisters?” Amil asked. I glared at him. Wasn’t this impolite? But then I turned to Hafa. I wanted to know, too.
“I do,” she said. “Two brothers. They’re a lot older.”
Then we eyed each other in silence. I thought I heard a chair scrape the floor. We stopped, but heard nothing more.
“Where are they?” I asked softly. I still couldn’t speak without my heart pounding in my ears.
Hafa kicked at the dirt with one foot. She raised her head, her eyes sad.
“We don’t know. They left when the men came with fire to get all the Hindus and Sikhs out of the village. My brothers went with them, to fight for Pakistan.”
We were all quiet again. Then Amil spoke.
“So you’re not supposed to like us,” Amil said.
I sucked in my breath. Why was he saying this? I wanted to clamp my hand over his mouth, drag him away. Papa told him not to speak about these things.
“And you’re not supposed to like me because I’m Muslim,” Hafa said.
“But it’s so strange,” I said. I couldn’t explain the aching I felt deep in my stomach when I watched her, like all I had ever wanted to do was be friends with this girl.
“All my friends left the village. They were Hindu and Sikh,” she said, glancing down again.
We were quiet. I knew what I wanted to say. I practiced in my head. Four words. Just four words. The blood flowed. There was a pounding in my chest, in my ears. I cleared my throat, licked my lips. I opened my mouth, and closed it again. Then I opened it and pushed out the words.
“My mother was Muslim,” I said. “The man who lives here is our uncle.”
Amil stared at me.
“Oh,” Hafa said, a little smile sneaking onto her face.
“Yes,” Amil said. “That means we belong on both sides.”
“You’re lucky,” Hafa said.
“I guess so,” Amil said. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Does that mean you’re staying here?” Hafa asked, standing on her toes for a second and lowering her feet again.
“I wish we could,” I said.
Amil looked at me and shook his head. “But we can’t.”
“Why?” Hafa asked.
“Because our mother is dead,” Amil said, “and as far as other people know, we’re only Hindu and have to go.”
“Oh,” Hafa said. “That’s sad, about your mother.”
“It is,” Amil said. I nodded.
“Can I come inside for a minute?” asked Hafa. “I’ll just climb in the window. My mother won’t notice right now. She doesn’t notice anything else when she’s doing her sewing.”
Amil and I looked at each other. If we heard Papa or Dadi walking down the hallway, we’d have enough time to get Hafa out. Amil closed our bedroom door quietly.
“They’re just reading,” Amil said. “They won’t suspect anything.”
Hafa hopped easily through the open window.
My breathing immediately quickened. “I don’t know,” I said in a shaky voice.
“We’ll have a signal,” Amil said. “If anyone hears a chair move or footsteps or a voice, they should put their hand on their head and Hafa will jump out the window.”
Hafa and I nodded gravely. Hafa’s long braid, longer than mine, had started to come loose and she didn’t have a tie. Thick pieces fell around her face. She reached her hands backward trying to collect it all.
“Can you help me?” she asked, her eyes bright and clear.
“Me?” I asked pointing to myself, jolted upright with surprise.
“Do you know how to braid hair? I can’t do it well on my own head. My mother didn’t do it tight enough today, and we couldn’t find the tie. I won’t put twine in my hair, only my green ribbon, but it’s lost.” Her smile turned to a frown.
“Okay,” I said a little too loud. She turned around and I carefully gathered her hair into my hands. Dadi taught me how when I was little. Her hair felt soft and smooth, not coarse and wavy like mine. I sectioned it into three bunches. Amil watched us in silence. Then I slowly wove each outside section in between the other as tightly as I could.
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” I said.
“No, that’s good. Make it tight.”
As I finished the last weave, she turned around.
“How does it look?” she asked.
I studied her face, her hair pulled back neatly now. Thick eyebrows framed her dark eyes and her small mouth curved up into a smile.
“Beautiful,” I said. She laughed and touched the braid.
“Want me to do yours?” she asked, and I let her. She moved through my hair slowly, undoing the knots as she went. My face colored.
“I don’t have a brush since we—”
“It’s okay,” she spoke over my words. “It’ll look nice this way.”
She finished and admired her work. “Much better.”
I smiled shyly.
“I hear them,” Amil whispered, putting his hand on his head. Hafa scrambled out the window before we could say anything else. Dadi opened the door and eyed us.
“Were you talking to someone?” she asked.
“Who would we be talking to besides each other?” Amil said quickly.
“I don’t know,” Dadi said, still squinting at us.
“You braided your hair,” Dadi said.
I touched my braid and nodded.
“I helped her,” Amil said, puffing up his chest. I gave him a quick sideways glance. Why did he have to say that? Dadi would know he was lying.
“I see,” she said, and slowly shuffled away.
Once she was gone, Amil and I sunk to the ground.
“Don’t ruin it,” I whispered.
“Well, then you talk. Don’t leave it all to me. You don’t seem to have trouble talking to Hafa.”
I shrugged and leaned my head back against the wall. A smile crept onto my face. Why didn’t I have trouble talking to Hafa? I could still feel the silkiness of her hair in my hands. Maybe if Papa finds out and her parents find out, they will see that we’re just two lonely girls who want to be friends. How could a friendship be dangerous?
Love, Nisha
* * *
September 9, 1947
Dear Mama,
Hafa came again today.
“I brought you something,” Hafa said at the window.
Amil and I stuck our heads out.
“Give me your hand,” she said, looking my way.
“Me?” I asked pointing to myself. When had another girl ever given me anything? I stuck my hand out slowly.
She thrust a bit of thin red ribbon into it.
“My mother brought me a new one, but it was too long, so I cut it in half.” She turned and showed me the tiny ribbon at the end of her tight shiny braid. Her mother must have done it for her. “And you can have the other piece.”
I closed my hand around it and felt like I was going to cry.
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
“Why do you look so sad?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m not,” I said. “I’m very happy.”
“I’m so glad you’re both here,” she said, looking at Amil now. “I was so lonely. Please stay?” she asked.
“Sometimes things can happen like that,” Amil said. “Grown-ups just do things and no one knows why.”
I nodded and so did Hafa. Maybe we could ask Papa. People do stop fighting, eventually, don’t they? Amil asked if he could see my ribbon, but
then we heard the scrape of a chair and Amil whispered “go,” to Hafa and off she ran. I wanted her to braid my hair and tie it with the ribbon, but then Dadi would ask me where I got it. Papa probably wouldn’t notice, though. It was a false alarm. No one came to check on us, but Hafa didn’t come back today. I clutched the ribbon in my sweaty hand for a long time, then put it in the little pouch with your jewelry. I won’t be able to wear it here. I hope that doesn’t hurt Hafa’s feelings. I’ll explain it to her tomorrow. Mama, I have a real friend who I can talk to. Can you believe it?
Love, Nisha
* * *
September 10, 1947
Dear Mama,
The next day, we popped our heads out the window and waited a long time. As we waited, a panic started to take hold of me. What if I never saw her again? Finally, Hafa came running, her braid swinging from left to right. I bounced on my toes. The day was hot and dry. Dust swirled all around her. I’m going to try to write down the whole conversation again. I never want to forget it.
“Sorry,” she said, her chest going up and down as she reached the window. “My mother wanted me to help her sweep and do the washing this morning.” She focused on me. My hair hung lose and knotted around my face.
“Why don’t you have your ribbon in?” she asked, grabbing hold of her woven hair, smoothing it.
“I want to wear it so much,” I said. “But I’m afraid my papa will ask me about it.”
Hafa cast her eyes down. “I understand.”
“It’s the best thing anyone ever gave me,” I blurted out.
“It is? It’s just a scrap of ribbon,” she said, lighting back up.
“She didn’t have any friends back home,” Amil said.
At first I glared at Amil, but he was only telling the truth. Maybe it was hard for him to have friends, knowing I didn’t. I guess he didn’t count Sabeen. Maybe he always felt like he was abandoning me. I was so in my own thoughts I didn’t hear any footsteps, just a small yelp from Amil. Then a hand clamped down on my shoulder. Hafa turned and ran before anyone said anything.
The Night Diary Page 13
