The Night Diary

by Veera Hiranandani

  Somehow when we were walking, I couldn’t imagine being alone, would never want to. But now that we’re out of danger I miss sitting in the garden at our old house on the hill watching the sunset or being alone in the bedroom when Amil wasn’t there, or secretly poking around Papa’s room or the kitchen. There was always something to explore, always a place to be alone and quiet. I also miss Rashid Uncle’s house, your house. I miss lying on the couch reading books even if we couldn’t go outside.

  Now there’s a wooden table and chairs and a space for all our bedrolls, that’s it. Nothing is on the sandstone walls. We have a roof. We are alive. We are safe. So how can I complain? How do I dare complain when so many others didn’t make it here? Raj Uncle and Rupesh Uncle and their families live down the block in similar flats, and we all have dinner together at our place or their places, my five cousins, Amil, and I sitting on the floor around a mat with dented metal plates in our laps. It’s good to see them here, but I can only think of everything we lost. Does that mean I’m a terrible person?

  I think a lot about our mango trees, so many of them. I think about the sound of insects and birds at dusk. I think about the sugarcane, and Kazi. I think about Kazi all the time. I want to pretend I don’t miss him, but I do a lot. In some ways, he was my only real friend.

  Jodhpur is a big, hot city. The only thing I like about it is that nobody is trying to kill us here and that many of the houses are painted a beautiful blue.

  Will my bad dreams ever stop? Will I ever not think about the things I saw on the train? It runs through my head every day, like a radio on in the background. Papa told us after we got here, after we settled down and were safe, that thousands of people have died crossing the border both ways. Maybe the gods were watching over us, he said, and Papa never talks like that. He also said that it wasn’t even so dangerous where we were. He said that all kinds of people—men, women, and children—have been killed in unthinkable ways and are still being killed. He said that trains pulled up to stops filled with dead people from both sides of the border. Everyone blames one another. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, they have all done awful things. But what have I done? What has Papa, or Dadi, or Amil done? What has Kazi done? I want to know who I can blame, Mama, for the nightmares that wake me up every night now. It must be someone’s fault. Maybe I’ll blame everyone.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  October 3, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  We have been here now almost three weeks. I haven’t been writing. I don’t know why. My brain is filled with sludge. I feel so sad all the time. Aren’t I supposed to be happy now?

  Amil and I started school last week. I’m learning Hindi now, which helps keep my mind off the things I don’t want to think about. I never speak it out loud, though. Papa found a clinic to work in. Dadi sweeps the flat over and over and sings again and writes letters that she won’t let anyone see. I still don’t talk to anyone, not even to Amil, and he has stopped asking. He will make friends now at school and won’t care so much. I feel terrible that I’ve even shut out Amil, but I just can’t make myself speak. It’s not a choice. The words just won’t come out. When I imagine my words out loud, they seem so deafening, as if the sound could actually hurt someone. At least things are better with Papa and Amil. Ever since we came here, Papa is kinder to him and tries to help him with his schoolwork. I think it’s because Papa really had to imagine Amil being gone forever, and he saw how terrible that would be.

  Papa also keeps begging me to talk. Papa has never done that. He knelt down before me last night with tears in his eyes and told me he was sorry if he treated me too harshly when we left Rashid Uncle’s, that none of it mattered now, that the important thing was that we were safe and alive. He asked me to forgive him. He asked me what he could do. I’ve never seen him like this. What can I tell him? That it’s better for everyone if I don’t talk? That the only words I have left to say are the ones no one wants to hear and even if I wanted to, my body won’t let me? Instead I pat his shoulder. I’m okay, Papa, I write on a scrap of paper and show it to him. He reads it and tells me I don’t have to be so brave anymore. I am so stunned, I drop my pencil. Papa thinks I’m brave? Why on earth would he think that?

  After school everyday, I go to the market with Amil and Dadi and we buy our food. I do all the cooking now. Papa and Dadi let me. I even cook for Raj Uncle’s and Rupesh Uncle’s families. Nobody cares anymore if I grow up to be a cook. I should be happy about that, but it’s not a happy or sad feeling. It’s just something I must do. The smell of the rice boiling, the feel of my knife cutting through a fresh tomato, the sizzle of onions and mustard seed hitting the pan. It’s the only thing that makes me feel better.

  Last night Raj Uncle brought a radio with him and we listened to it while we ate dinner. It was Gandhiji’s birthday. The radio announcer said Gandhi spent his birthday fasting and spinning yarn on his wheel. He also said that many people came to visit the Mahatma and offer him good wishes, but Gandhi wasn’t joyous. He was heartbroken because Hindus and Muslims were still fighting and killing one another. I understand how he feels. When Gandhiji spins, maybe he finds some peace like I do when I cook.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  October 5, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  There is a girl at school. She’s very small and wears her hair in two braids, one on either side. She follows me around, but doesn’t say anything, and of course I don’t say anything to her. She sits next to me in the classroom and sits next to me at lunch and we both don’t talk to anyone. Sometimes she looks at me and smiles a little bit, but it makes me scared to look her in the eye, so I quickly look down. I don’t even know her name. I wonder if she’s from Jodhpur or if she came here like me. Did she see anyone die? Did she see worse things than I did? I want to ask her these questions, but I can’t. I am broken. I am broken on top of broken.

  The school is a lot bigger than the one I used to go to. It’s also mixed, boys and girls. I’m glad to be back in school. I like to put my head down and write my words, do my sums, and try not to think about anything else. I keep my pencils very sharp. But then there’s this girl. I wish she’d leave me alone.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  October 15, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  Something has happened. I still don’t think it’s real which is why I haven’t told you. I think I have to wait to write about it because I’m afraid I’m dreaming. If I write about it, I might wake up. I think it’s a gift from you, Mama. How else could something like this happen?

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  October 18, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  It’s been three days and I’m ready to write it down because now I believe it’s real. When Amil and I came home from school, there was a man squatting in our alley on the way to the back stairs that take us up to our little flat. He crouched, skinny and filthy, his hair and beard overgrown and matted. Amil took my arm.

  “Let’s go get Papa at the clinic,” he said quietly, pulling me away.

  I nodded, but was thinking of Dadi inside. What if she came out to go to the market? He looked too weak to be dangerous. The man started to reach his hand out. Amil and I backed away.

  “Amil, Nisha,” the man croaked. How did he know our names? He looked at us, his bony face tilting up, his eyes connecting with mine. I knew those eyes. I knew that voice. It felt like I had been riding on the crest of a high wave and now it tumbled onto shore.

  “Kazi,” I whispered, and sank to my knees. It wasn’t hard to say his name. It was like my voice had been waiting for this moment.

  Amil ran to him and helped him up. He put his arms around him. I was crying, trembling, my face in my hands. I was afraid to look up, afraid I had just imagined it was him, and that it was just someone looking for food.

  “Nisha,” Amil called out. “Help m
e.”

  I raised my head slowly and saw that it was still Kazi. His face contorted like he was crying, but no tears came. I walked over and gently took his hand which was caked with dirt. Through my blurred eyes, I pinched the skin lightly on the back of his hand like Papa did to me when we had no water. His skin stayed in a little bunch.

  “He needs a doctor. Go,” I said to Amil. “Go get Papa.”

  It was strange that I was the one with words suddenly. Amil stared at me for a second.

  “Go,” I told him, and gave him a light push on his chest. “I will bring him upstairs,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Amil asked.

  “Yes, please go fast.”

  Amil touched Kazi’s arm and ran off.

  “How did you—” I started to say, but Kazi stopped me.

  “Later,” he managed to say.

  I had spoken enough for someone to stop me, for Kazi to stop me. If he didn’t look so weak and sick, I would have jumped up and down for joy. This couldn’t be real, I thought. Maybe we had died on the train and we were reincarnated and living a different life now. He put his arm around me. His sharp, sweaty smell was familiar. It smelled like the walk we took to get here. It smelled like pain. We struggled up the stairs to see Dadi.

  “Oh!” Dadi exclaimed, and put her hand to her mouth as we came in.

  “It’s Kazi, it’s Kazi,” I said, not believing my words.

  Dadi nodded and cried a little and helped him over to a chair. He slumped in it. I knelt before him as Dadi got some water and a bowl of rice.

  I held the cup to his lips. He sipped slowly. I fed him small bites of rice, then bigger.

  “Go slow,” Dadi said, her tears still spilling out, patting his hand over and over.

  Kazi’s here, with us.

  When Papa came back, my voice retreated. He checked Kazi from head to toe, listened to his heartbeat, measured his blood pressure. Kazi ate and drank a little more, and Papa took Kazi into the washroom to help him clean up. Then Papa got Kazi set up on his bedroll. We all knelt around him.

  “I had to come and find you. You are my family. I don’t have my own, you know. I have no siblings. My parents are dead. Dadi wrote me and told me where you were,” he said before he fell into a deep sleep.

  “It’s a miracle,” she said as she cried softly and held his hand.

  That night, Papa slept on a thin blanket on the floor with only a shirt rolled up as a pillow. Amil and I both offered Papa our pillows. But he turned them down.

  “Is Kazi going to be okay?” Amil whispered before we all fell asleep.

  “I think so,” Papa said, shaking his head.

  “Is Kazi allowed to stay with us, you know because he’s—” Amil started to ask.

  “He’s family,” Papa only said.

  As I went to sleep that night, I felt peaceful in a way I never had before. We were put back together. To Nehru, Jinnah, India, and Pakistan, to the men who fight and kill—you can’t split us. You can’t split love.

  Sometimes I think about why we get to be alive when so many others died for no reason walking the same walk, crossing the same border. All that suffering, all that death, for nothing. I will never understand, as long as I live, how a country could change overnight from only a line drawn.

  But at least I didn’t have to wonder anymore what would happen to Kazi or if he would live with another family. That feeling is so new, like a brilliant jewel I can’t stop staring at. At least this hole in my heart is filled. I can cook with him again. I can talk with him. For some reason he is the only person I want to talk to.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  November 10, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  There is something else I haven’t told you yet. Kazi brought a piece of one of your paintings, just a folded square of canvas ripped from its frame, the paint chipped. It’s the hand holding the egg. I almost fainted when he showed it to us. How did he know how special it was to me? My mind went swirling back to our home, back to the place where Papa kept your paintings. Here was a piece of you, brought to us from the ashes of our old life. Papa walked forward and took it.

  “Thank you,” he said, his hand on Kazi’s shoulder. It looked liked tears had formed in Papa’s eyes, but he blinked and they were gone. That was a few weeks ago. Yesterday, Papa came home and hung a picture on the wall. He had gotten the piece of your painting reframed. It’s much smaller than it was, but the important part is there. The hand. The egg. He hung it on the wall over our table.

  Kazi is cooking again, and I’m not just his helper. We cook together, Kazi and I, in this little kitchen. He went to the market with Amil as soon as he felt well enough and brought back ingredients for sai bhaji, the dish that will always remind me of home. We lined up the spinach, tomatoes, onions, chilies, and other ingredients on the table. Then I got the mortar and pestle I had been keeping in my bag by my bedroll. I hadn’t wanted to look at it since we got here. It was too sad. I had been wrapping our spices in a thin towel and crushing them with a rock.

  I brought it to him and held it out. Kazi smiled wide at me and nodded.

  “Good girl,” he said. “It’s yours now.”

  I washed it out and put a handful of cumin seeds in the bowl. I pressed them down with the pestle, the white marble cool and heavy in my hand. I’ve never thought I could feel so happy crushing spices.

  Papa is trying to find us a bigger flat so we can have more rooms and furniture, but I kind of like it here now. This will always be the place where we started to live again. This is where Kazi came back and made me feel loved. He risked his life to be with us. Would I have done the same?

  Still, it will be good to have more space and real beds. I think about our old compound, the main room, the hallways, our bedroom, Papa’s room, the study, the gardens, Kazi’s own cottage. I didn’t know we were so rich until we became poor. But Papa is working hard at the clinic and I don’t think we will be poor forever. Jodhpur is okay, very hot, but the people are friendly. Nobody asks about Kazi. They just go about their business. Kazi doesn’t wear his topi outside anymore. I wonder if that bothers him. He shares Papa’s clothes. He still does his prayers on a little mat that Papa found for him. When I hear his low chanting words, it fills me up. Sometimes I hear Dadi’s high-pitched singing in the background, her Hindu songs and Kazi’s Muslim prayers, a sweet, rich music together.

  I’m sorry I’m writing less. It could be because life has become more normal, but I’m so happy I made this space for you—this space for us. It’s where I can go to find you whenever I need to. I will always tell you the important things and I promise, Mama, no matter what happens, you will never be alone.

  Remember that girl at school? She finally talked to me. She asked me my name, but I couldn’t answer her. I just looked down at my lap. Then she did something amazing. She leaned in. She put her hand on my shoulder. She told me it was okay, and she told me I didn’t have to talk. I felt tears swelling in my eyes. I wrote her thank you on my notepad and held it up. Then I wrote, my name is Nisha. She told me her name was Sumita. No girl at school has ever been so kind to me.

  I have decided something. I will try to speak to Sumita, if it’s the last thing I do. I want you to see me have a real friend, and I want to feel the way I felt with Hafa. It may take me a long time, but I will try because Sumita is the first person who ever told me that it’s okay to just be myself. I want to be brave, but Mama, maybe I already am.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  Author’s Note

  During the days of August 14 and August 15, 1947, India gained independence from British rule and was partitioned into two republics, India and Pakistan. The partition came after centuries of religious tension between Indian Hindus and Indian Muslims. There were many people who did not want India split into two countries, but it was ultimately agreed upon b
y the leaders in charge.

  In certain places across India, conflicts would break out periodically. However, before partition there were areas where people of many religions, including Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, and smaller religious populations such as Parsis, Christians, and Jains, lived side by side harmoniously. During the crossing of borders, tensions greatly increased and fighting and killing took place between Muslims entering Pakistan and Hindus and people of other religions entering India. Much of the violence happened in places where it had been peaceful before. It is estimated that over 14 million people crossed the borders and at least one million people died during this exchange (some say more, some say less). It is the largest mass migration in history.

  The fictional family depicted in this novel lived in one such area, and their experiences are loosely based on my father’s side of the family. My father, with his parents and siblings (my grandparents, aunts, and uncles), had to travel across the border from Mirpur Khas to Jodhpur just like the main character, Nisha, does in this book. My father’s family made the journey safely, but lost their home, many belongings, and had to start over in an unfamiliar place as refugees. I wanted to understand more about what my relatives went through which is a big reason why I wrote this book.

  The major figures in power during this time were Mohammed Ali Jinnah, leader of the Muslim League; Jawaharlal Nehru, leader of the Indian National Congress; Lord Mountbatten, the British Viceroy who was sent to India to lead the transition toward independence; and Mahatma Gandhi, the former leader of the Indian National Congress and a nonviolent antiwar activist. Jinnah felt that the Muslim minority would not be fairly represented in the new Indian government and wanted a separate state. Nehru and Gandhi did not want to see India split and believed that a united India would be a better India. All those in power wanted peaceful relations between the groups, but disagreed on the best way to make that happen.