“Leave the window,” Papa growled behind me. I stole a glance at Hafa before I moved away, her braid coming loose as she ran back to her house.
“Haven’t we had enough trouble? Are you trying to get us killed?” Papa hissed at us, his eyes fierce. Normally he would have yelled, but he knew he couldn’t here.
Amil and I backed up against the wall.
“She’s not going to tell anyone,” Amil said.
“You don’t understand, do you?” Papa leaned in, his face an inch away from Amil’s. A tiny speck of spit flew out of his mouth and landed on Amil’s cheek. Amil didn’t move.
“Please, Papa. Don’t be mad at Amil. It was my fault. I just wanted a friend, someone else to talk to,” I said.
Papa turned his angry gaze to me. “I doubt that. And if that truly was the case, then I’ve been wrong all along telling you to talk more. Maybe we’re all better off when you keep your mouth shut,” Papa said. His words sank in deep, stinging all the way. My throat tightened with shame.
He shook his head. “We’ll have to go now.” He walked out, leaving me and Amil standing there, our arms hanging down at our sides. Then Amil grabbed my hand and held it, and we stood there for a moment before sitting down on my bed. I could hear Papa talking to Dadi and Dadi letting out a moaning “No, no.”
We sat there silently for a long time afraid to leave our room until Papa called us for dinner. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked at us. Did Rashid Uncle know? Only the sounds of chewing and the clinking of bowls were heard. I felt blank, empty. I still do. No more sadness, no more fear. Just emptiness.
Papa is probably right. Everyone is better off when I don’t talk. I’m not going to, Mama, ever again. I will be like Rashid Uncle. When I really need to say something I will write my words down on a chalkboard so they can be erased.
Love, Nisha
* * *
September 11, 1947
Dear Mama,
We left at dawn. Papa said we had no choice, and he didn’t want to wake Rashid Uncle. It was stay here and risk our lives or get on the train and risk our lives, and we might as well try to cross the border. It was our only hope. Papa says Dadi isn’t strong enough to walk the whole way.
Hafa and I will never become normal friends who braid each other’s hair, talk every day, and tell each other our secrets. Rashid Uncle and I won’t spend time together where I could learn real stories about you, not just make up my own imaginary ones. Now it’s all dust behind us.
While Rashid Uncle slept, Papa and Dadi quietly gathered our stuff in a pile. Papa packed a sweet potato, a pepper, and two tomatoes in his bag, all the fresh food that Rashid Uncle had. He also took a stack of chapatis and a big bag of dry rice.
I’m losing a part of you all over again, Mama. It’s like my heart is cracked in half and will never be whole again. Why did I need to talk to Hafa so badly? If we die on the train, that will be our fault, too. If we survive, will I ever live without this shame?
I rolled up my mat and net and picked up my bag. I thought about how I would never say a proper good-bye to Rashid Uncle after everything he had done for us. I thought of him having to be lonely again. I think he was starting to like having us around. Lately I had noticed him humming when he carved at night. Then I saw it, the half-carved doll on his stool, waiting to be finished. A newer, sharper sadness swept over me. I wondered if I should take it, but then he would never finish it. While Papa and Dadi moved around I quickly went to our room like I was looking for something and wrote these words fast and steady:
Dear Rashid Uncle,
It’s my fault we left. I only wanted a friend. Did you ever want a friend so badly you didn’t care what happened to you? I hope we see you again. Thank you for cooking with me. Thank you for telling me about my mother. Don’t worry about the doll. I hope it’s beautiful and that you sell it for a lot of rupees. Please come find us one day. Please forgive me.
Your niece, Nisha
I never got a chance to leave the note for Uncle. Papa found me and told me if I didn’t stop writing in my silly book, he’d take it away. I quickly stuffed it in my bag, and he hurried us out. Maybe I will mail it someday. We stood there outside for a moment, blinking in the dawn. I don’t know what I expected us to do, but it all seemed too easy after hiding for so many days. On my way out, I was surprised to see Papa wrote something for Rashid Uncle on his chalkboard which lay on the dining room table. I remember every word:
Dearest Rashid,
We had to leave suddenly. The girl next door saw us, so be careful. I can never repay you for your kindness, and I hope we didn’t put you in any danger. Faria has been watching. I feel her. Thank you.
I sucked in my breath when I read your name. I always call you Mama, always think of you as Mama. I didn’t realize that I forgot your name until I heard it. But then, to see your name like that, Faria, written by Papa. It felt like freezing water on my face. Faria, Faria, Faria. It reminds me of the whole person you were, beyond my mama. It gives me chills as I write it.
“Why didn’t we say good-bye to Rashid Uncle?” Amil whispered after we were several feet away. I could hear tears in the back of his voice.
“The less involved he is, the better. If you both hadn’t been so stupid, we would have. I’m trying to keep you safe, don’t you see?” He ran his hands through his black thinning hair streaked with gray. I hadn’t ever seen Papa so upset. I’ve seen him angrier, but this was different. His eyes were unfocused. His voice sounded higher.
Papa said the quicker we could get to the main path without being seen, the better. Then we would blend in more. The miles went by quickly, and we passed around the water, vegetables, and chapatis, never stopping to rest. As we came near the village, the crowds started to thicken. Papa’s eyes widened in fear as we got closer to the crowd. He told us to hold hands and stay together.
Amil and I held hands tightly and Papa held on to both mine and Dadi’s arm. We moved slowly as a linked foursome, pushing into the village by midday. There was a line for the train tickets a hundred people long. We got on it. There were mostly families in front of us, looking dirty and tired. Nobody spoke to one another. I thought about the market and festivals back home, how everyone talked to everyone, chatting about which pepper looked ripe, who was getting married, who had a baby, who was sick, who was moving. Anything and everything, words spilling out of mouths easily.
“There is a train every few hours,” Papa said.
We nodded and stood and stood. The line moved slowly, then stopped. The ticket man yelled out that he was out of tickets and wouldn’t sell more until after the train came. The sun beat down on us and we had small sips of water and shifted our weight from foot to foot. The family in front of us had a baby that the mother held in a sling on her side and two young boys. They stared at us until the father shook them and they turned around.
When the train came, I heard it before I saw it, the sound of metal grinding against metal, the squeal of the brakes. Everyone turned and some started to rush toward it. Many people left the line to try and get on. The train overflowed with people, people sticking their heads out the windows for air, men sitting on the roof and hanging off the sides. Papa lay a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Stay back. We’re going to have to wait for the next one.”
There were angry people waving tickets. Some climbed onto the steps, forcing themselves on. Some younger men climbed on top. The conductor got out and tried to push people away, but there were too many and he couldn’t stop them. We stood back and watched. The man in front of us started yelling to his family. “The next one will be packed, too. Tickets don’t matter at a time like this!”
Then he turned to us. “Save yourselves and get on that train. Who knows when the next one will come.”
“It’s too crowded, too dangerous,” Papa said.
I wondered if we couldn’t get on the next
one, would we sneak back into Rashid Uncle’s house. I hoped we would.
The man ran forward with his wife, the baby, and the two boys. One of the boys fell and the crowds moved over him toward the train. Suddenly I couldn’t see him anymore and the rest of the family didn’t notice. The man found an entrance and ran up to the stairs and waved his family over. He climbed up, pulling one son in with him. The wife then noticed the other boy was missing. She yelled out, turning wildly around in circles looking for him. Other people forced themselves in front of her and the man and boy disappeared inside. The train started to move now. She ran with her baby alongside it, but the other boy had gotten up and found her. He called to her, waving. She stopped and grabbed him and held him to her as they watched the train leave, the man and the other brother gone.
I wanted to tell Papa so badly. I tugged on Papa’s sleeve.
“What?” he barked at me, his eyes flashing.
I pointed to the woman who was still near the tracks about thirty feet away crouched down on the ground, crying with her baby and her son. I could see through the spaces between crowds that the boy had his arm around her trying to comfort her. But Papa didn’t see.
“What?” he said again.
“What is it?” Amil said. I couldn’t speak, not even to Amil. It was like my brain had shut that part of me down completely. I searched for my diary and pencil to write him a note. There were so many people rushing around now, yelling and pushing, but we stayed in the line. How could Papa not have not noticed the family? How was I going to explain it all? I swallowed. Another family went over to comfort her—a father, mother, two older girls, and two younger boys.
I pointed again.
“Nisha,” Papa said impatiently, looking out at the sea of bodies all around us. “Please tell me what you’re pointing at.”
It looked like the woman was being helped by the other family. They were talking to her, helping her up. I guess there was nothing Papa could do.
I just shook my head and stared back down at my feet. What if there wasn’t anyone to help her and I couldn’t explain? I was a useless girl. I should let them all get on the train without me. Then they wouldn’t have to worry about another body, my useless body, to fill with water and food anymore.
We finally got tickets and a few hours later, another train came. By this time, we had moved forward and stood near the tracks.
Papa circled us with his arms, holding us close together. “Don’t wait for anyone to get off! Just get on!” he yelled over the noise.
I held my breath. I wasn’t brave enough to run away. Papa, Amil, they would only look for me and we’d never escape. Then I would be even more useless.
Maybe if we get to a new home, I could slip quietly out the door one morning. They would search for me, but would soon realize it was easier without me. I am just a small, silent drop of nothing who attracts angry men and wants to be friends with the wrong girl and can’t even make herself speak in order to save a mother and her children.
The train stopped. Papa eyed it quickly. It looked as crowded as the other train, but it was too late now. I saw the mother, sitting again, rocking her baby, huddling her other boy to her. No one was around them. What was going to happen to them?
“Go,” Papa said, and shoved us toward the opening doors. I held Amil’s hand tight, Dadi holding my other arm, Papa behind us pushing. We spilled up the stairs and flooded into the car. All the seats were filled. The corners were filled. We moved into the aisle.
The hot, soggy air hit my nose, and I scrunched my eyes closed at the sting of the horrible smell. I glanced around me as we jostled into the middle. Everyone looked dirty, hungry, and scared. Some of these people had probably been on the train for more than a day. I could hear yelling and crying from the people outside who couldn’t get on. The conductors were trying to block the train and then it started moving. Good-bye, Kazi; good-bye, Rashid Uncle; and your house, Mama; good-bye, Hafa; good-bye, old India.
Love, Nisha
* * *
September 12, 1947
I have seen things I never thought I’d see. There were men fighting. There was blood. I don’t know if the train will stop and more fighting will happen and more people will be killed, including us. If anyone finds this, please send it to Kazi Syed in Mirpur Khas. Please remember us. Please remember the way it used to be when India was whole.
* * *
September 26, 1947
Dear Mama,
It has been two weeks since I last wrote. At first I couldn’t write and tell you what happened, but now I must. Maybe if I put it in here, you can help me carry it. When I last wrote we were on the train. We had traveled for about an hour or so and then the train started to slow down. I couldn’t see out the window because I was sitting on the floor, but I saw lots of people looking out.
“Why are we slowing down?” Dadi asked.
“They’re stopping the train!” a man called out.
Papa grabbed us by our arms and made us stand up. Then he pushed through all the people and looked out, too.
I noticed Dadi’s hands, the soft blue-gray of her veins resting under her thin, dry brown skin. I follow her veins to the tips of her fingers. They shook. That’s what I remember before everything changed—her fingers shaking like a picture on a wall just as an earthquake happens. Mama, I can’t tell you yet. I thought I could but it’s making me feel sick. I’ll try again tomorrow.
Love, Nisha
* * *
September 27, 1947
Dear Mama,
This time I will tell you as best I can, I promise. I don’t remember all of it. There are places where my memory goes blank. Maybe I even saw more. But I will tell you what I remember.
There were men, probably about four of them. They must have blocked the tracks. I just know the train slowed and the brakes screeched and we were all thrown forward on top of one another. There were bodies tumbling, feet in people’s faces. Amil and Dadi fell on top of me in a heap. After a few moments we righted ourselves.
I heard the yelling before I saw them. I watched Dadi’s hands shake, and I heard the sounds getting louder and louder. The sounds of angry feet hitting the ground, denting the earth. The women in our car held their children close. Dadi, Amil, and I huddled together as low as we could, and Papa watched out the window.
“Get back,” Papa suddenly yelled, moving us away from the main door, pressing us toward the middle. Two conductors pushed passed us, not yelling but screaming, waving knives. One had a gun. Have you ever heard a grown man scream, Mama? It’s so strange. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion and that I wasn’t in my body, like the way I felt when the man pressed the knife against my throat. I hoped it was a dream and I had fallen asleep on the floor of the train.
The men had climbed up the stairs, had started to enter our car, but our conductors managed to force them back down the stairs. They all waved their weapons, making high-pitched and deafening sounds, beyond human. I covered my ears. One conductor stepped on my bare toe, crushed it, as he trampled past. I looked down and saw blood by the nail. I watched it run down my toe until Amil pulled me toward him and Dadi.
Papa stood in front guarding us, his hands out. Dadi, Amil, and I crouched with other women and children. There was a mother right next to us, clutching her three children, a baby and two young girls. I could feel one of the girl’s breath on my cheek. It smelled sour. The women murmured prayers. Amil and I squeezed each other’s hands and this is what I thought: If I die, I’m glad I’m here with my brother, the other half of me.
They fought outside. At that point, Papa and many other passengers rushed to the window to see. Amil pulled me to a bottom crack of one of the windows and we watched, our heads pressed against strangers’ heads. The men punched and sliced at each other. A man yelled out that the Hindus were murderers. The men from our train accused Muslims of t
he same. Some of the passengers started to respond to the accusations and rush out to join the other men, their wives pulling on their arms begging them not to go. There was blood. A lot of blood. A man’s leg slashed, a man’s throat slashed. A man stabbed in the chest. Then a gun shot. There were Sikh men, too, everyone trying to kill one another. A Muslim man fell. A Hindu man fell. A Sikh man fell, his turban unraveling. I saw a Muslim man lying on the ground, his throat slashed, his eyes rolled back. He had fallen right next to a Hindu conductor whose chest was bleeding heavily. They lay close together, hands touching. They would die like that. And I watched them, Mama. I watched them die like that.
The train started to move. The Hindu men who were still alive jumped back on. I looked at the dying men on the ground. For what? I did not know. More revenge? I shook all over. I had never seen anyone kill before. It has changed me. I used to think people were mostly good, but now I wonder if anyone could be a murderer. Who was the first one, Mama, the first to kill when they decided to break apart India?
Shortly after we rolled away, my head felt light and everything went dark. I don’t remember anything else until Papa shook me. Amil and Dadi were huddled next to me. Had I fainted? Had I fallen asleep on the floor of the train? How much time had passed?
Papa shook my shoulder gently, his eyes glassy. “Amil, Nisha, we’re here,” he said.
Love, Nisha
* * *
September 28, 1947
Dear Mama,
I didn’t even tell you where we are now. We’re in Jodhpur. We’re in the new India. The old one is all gone. We are staying in a one-room flat over a spice shop that Raj Uncle and Rupesh Uncle arranged for us. It has a small kitchen area with a sink and a stove. Cracked green and yellow tiles cover the floor. There is a washroom with a drain in the floor, and a chain attached to the shower spout that dumps blasts of cold water on you, and a toilet room at the end of the hallway outside our flat. The water only runs a few hours a day, but at least there is running water. When we first arrived, there were sand and ants everywhere, but we cleaned it up as best we could. Still, it’s not easy to live in one dark, dusty room. I don’t know how long we will be here.
The Night Diary Page 14
