Nimita's Place

  Dad called the buas over for dinner and insisted I explain my project to them. “Haan, pesticides persist that much around us? See, Pritty, what you’ve been doing,” Itty-Bua said and Pritty-Bua clicked her tongue. She likes to spray her rooms with Baygon every evening. “How did I know? Okay, we will try coils instead in monsoon,” she said.

  I smiled and felt on top of the world while my right hand kept opening and closing on its own, as though it were missing something.

  Vicky’s palm.

  We touched often, passing specimen nets, test tubes, reagents but something about that handshake awoke strange feelings.

  When I returned to Pune, it turned out my lab partner felt the same.

  It happened after a movie. Vicky was staying in an up-market flat on Fergusson College Road so he said he would walk me back to the hostel. On the way, our hands brushed, and brushed again and met. Usually I was scared to walk on the road with its blinking street lights, but that evening I was very happy with the dark.

  The gate to my hostel was between two streetlights, one working, one not. We looked at each other, our heads tilted in opposite directions. Nose to nose we were the same height, which meant a little adjustment when our lips touched. “Try that again?” Vicky suggested, holding my hand tightly.

  We got better at the kissing thing the second time. And the third. And after that, until finally we heard the watchman making his rounds and we had to stop. “See you,” I said and he nodded and then we stood there like two idiots, neither wanting to be the first to leave. Finally I did it, and in true filmi style, I looked back to see him smiling in the streetlight.

  Such a smile. Like the sun beaming on the world, like a yellow star with a gravitational pull that nearly sucked me back towards him right there and then. I wanted to run back and press myself against him so there wouldn’t be even a single molecule of air between us.

  It was the right hand he held, I remember it now. I remember he squeezed it so tightly it hurt even afterwards, but when he was holding it, I didn’t care how painful it was.

  Part Six

  1947

  1.

  Partition is a reality now. Even Congress leaders have given in to the Muslim League and are talking about dividing the Punjab and Bengal along religious lines. But upper-class Lahorias are confused. How can the country be divided when temples and mosques are within an arm’s length of each other in the old city, when what is and should be most important is the school you went to, the language you speak, the food you eat. Not the religion you were born into, surely.

  “Lahore cannot go to Pakistan,” says Shireen Damania at tea with Mrs Kaul, Mrs Malhotra and Mrs Khosla. “Look at who owns all the industries, the factories and businesses, the land.”

  Mrs Kaul clucks. “But that’s it, na. Those people are jealous. They are just waiting to get their hands on all our wealth and property.”

  Mrs Malhotra says: “I’ve been telling Him, what is left for us here? Our children are all in Hong Kong.” Her daughter has received an offer from a very respectable Punjabi trading family settled there as well.

  “You would leave Lahore?” asks Mrs Khosla. She cannot imagine it, not after twenty years in this city. And to leave the Malhotras’ beautiful bungalow for Hong Kong, that city of fear and fighting, which the Malhotra family barely escaped two years ago? To settle there?

  “Sharadaji, you don’t know. Hong Kong is still under British rule. Say what you want, the British have discipline and there was law and order under them. None of this blood and fighting on the streets.”

  Lahore will go to Pakistan, of course, says Feroze Damania over lunch at the Punjab Club with his cousin Rustum Batliwala. “It’s too far west for India to control and that Jinnah is smart, he’ll want our courts, our buildings, the railway.” He takes a drink of soda.

  “Farah is saying we should leave,” Rustum says. “You know her family is in Bombay and they have a very strong Parsi association there. Good community, lots of opportunities.”

  Feroze shakes his head. “I should have been like you, Rustum. At least as a lawyer you can work anywhere. What shall I do, carry the bottle factory on my back?” He puts his glass on the table. “This Partition is nonsense. What about the practical realities? Am I supposed to take on a Muslim partner in the factory or can I still run it as a Parsi in Pakistan? What about the bottles we send to Karachi on the railway, who will maintain the transport system? Who will return my back taxes—which government, that of India or Pakistan?”

  “More likely they will tell you to pay double tax,” Rustum says. “Have another cutlet while the chicken is still Indian.”

  Who is in charge now? The British no longer want to be. They will leave this year. With no enemy to unite Indians in cries of “Inquilab Zindabaad”, the pent-up anger of millions impoverished over years of famine and wartime vents itself in religious riots.

  In Bihar, Hindu villagers advance with knives and sticks on Muslim settlements. In Rawalpindi of the Punjab, a Muslim headman and a Sikh headman agree on a peaceful detente but the next night, a band of men from the Muslim village advances on the Sikhs, killing, maiming, raping and ravaging.

  India is burning. Not the yearly scorch of summer heat, but a red-hot wind of rage blowing from the north to the south.

  Years later, the madmen of today will weep and moan and shiver at night, unable to reconcile their daily lives with the crimes they committed when swept up in mob fury. But today, neighbours who have lived for years within shouting distance of each other turn savage. One horror story bleeds into the next like the summer dust-storms brought by the Loo winds, choking and temporarily blinding people to common sense.

  The Malhotras begin to sell off their land, readying to move to Hong Kong. The Tribune is filled with advertisements from enterprising families offering to exchange homes in Lahore for those in Delhi, Simla, Kalki, cities that are bound to be in India and most importantly have Hindu or Sikh majority.

  But there are still many who cannot imagine leaving Lahore, even if it becomes a part of Pakistan. Where will they go? Whether they own two rooms in the narrowest streets of the old city or live with twenty people in one-lakh-rupee bungalows in Model Town, they are bound to these immovable assets.

  Property is not just wealth. Property is identity. This is where I was born, married, saw my parents die, watched my children grow up. Where would I go? Why would I go?

  Lahore has weathered religious upheaval before. Lahore was founded by the son of Rama, then it became a Mughal city and the pride of Muslim rulers for centuries. It went over to the Sikhs when Maharajah Ranjit Singh invaded it. He lost the city to the Christian British and now it will revert to a people who are Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Christian, Parsi, Jain or something else. The city will survive no matter who rules it. The people too will survive if they put their heads down and wait. Surely.

  In the first week of January, Shanti-Bhabhi, belly round, face grave, sits Nimita down and tells her that it is time for her and Dilip-Praji to move to Delhi. “You know He needs to be seen by that specialist. In my condition too, I’ll be more comfortable with my mother.”

  “Bhabhi, if I have done anything wrong—”

  Shanti-Bhabhi takes Nimita’s face in her hands. “My little sister. How can you say that? It is because of you that we have been this comfortable even after Urmila-Mummyji passed away. But let’s be practical. Can you run around and take care of all of us all the time? No, just listen.” She strokes Nimita’s cheek. “When you came here, you were so young, like a china doll and now see, you are doing everything for the house. If not for you and Sharadaji, who knows whether Roshna would have married so well? It is true. But we cannot continue to be a burden on you.”

  “What is this talk of burdens?”

  “My little sister.” Shanti-Bhabhi starts crying.

  “What is this talk? Would Urmila-Mummyji have wanted us to separate?”

  “No,” Shanti-Bhabhi says. “But she is not here. We are. And we
have to take the decision for ourselves, about what is best for the family.”

  Nimita protests again and again but Shanti-Bhabhi has made up her mind. The sweet-tempered, obliging woman is a rock in a thunderstorm, immovable. “Listen. My parents are also growing old. They would be delighted to have more time with Tony-Baba. Let’s just say we’re going there for my delivery, a little early, and then see how things go. Yes?”

  Nimita cannot change her mind. This will destroy Karan, she thinks, but at the family council she learns that he and Dilip-Praji have already had all the discussions and arguments.

  “If this is what Praji thinks is best then how can I say anything,” Karan says, tears running down his face. “I’m only agreeing because I don’t think he can stay away from us too long.”

  “How can I leave you?” Dilip-Praji says, crying too. But within a couple of months, the two of them take the train to Delhi with Tony-Baba. They do not even stay for Basant, though Tony-Baba loves the kite-flying festival and tells his Karan-Chacha to “make our kite fly higher, higher, and cut all the other strings.”

  Two weeks after Shanti-Bhabhi and Dilip-Praji leave, Nimita decides her household needs a change. They dress in yellow and leave for the fair at Lawrence Gardens. It is a picnic. Ramu and Shukla-Bibi carry the food and even Najma comes with Shabbo and Kabir. Urmila-Baby’s eyes widen at the sight of all the streamers and kites and balloons. The chatter frightens her. She ducks her head into Nimita’s chest, crying.

  Nimita settles down on the rug with her daughter and tells Najma and Ramu to take Shabbo and Kabir to enjoy the fair. Shukla-Bibi opens the basket and starts laying out the food. Najma will eat from the communal basket today, but hers and her children’s plates are kept separately in a cotton napkin.

  Karan takes Urmila-Baby after a while. He walks her up and down, pointing out the colours and the kites: green and yellow, pink and blue, red and purple. He buys her a balloon and she holds on to it for a while, eyes round with pleasure.

  Najma’s children come running back with Ramu holding a brand-new kite. This is launched with great ceremony. The children fight over whose turn it is to hold the string.

  Nimita watches Najma watching Ramu with her children, then turns her head to see Shukla-Bibi watching too. Their eyes meet. It is Shukla-Bibi who turns away.

  Ramu and Najma will have to marry. There is no other way.

  But which one of them will convert?

  That evening, Urmila-Baby is tired out and sleeps easily, head pillowed on Nimita’s chest. They sit in the verandah, Nimita watching the shadows and half-dozing herself, too tired to start putting dinner on the table. It hardly seems worthwhile for just the two of them. The house is too large, too silent. The RCA Victor went with Dilip-Praji and they haven’t yet had the time to buy a new radio.

  There’s a sweet piercing sound in the darkness and Nimita is surprised into thinking that Roshna has returned for a surprise visit. No, it is another woman’s voice. She listens, hand cocked to cover Urmila-Baby’s ears, but her daughter only snuggles in deeper.

  It is a sleepy song, a bedtime song. Nimita closes her eyes.

  “Bibiji.”

  She wakes to see Shukla-Bibi on the verandah. “Haan.”

  “Food is ready.”

  “Call Sahib.”

  “Yes, Bibiji.” Shukla-Bibi doesn’t move.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Much it seems. “What that woman is doing to Ramu is wrong. Wrong, Bibiji. You can’t see but I see very clearly what is happening in the house and it is wrong.”

  Nimita presses her hands to her forehead. She does not want to have this discussion.

  “Bibiji, you must do something.”

  “Shukla-Bibi, Ramu has no mother and father. His marriage must be arranged at some time. Have you found him a girl?”

  The servant is silent.

  Nimita hands her child to Shukla-Bibi. “Take Baby and put her to sleep. Sahib and I will come to the table.”

  “This will end badly. This is not right,” Shukla-Bibi says.

  “No more. I don’t want to hear any more. Bring the food on the table.”

  When Nimita brings up the topic after dinner, Karan too is disturbed. “If Ramu wants to marry, we can’t stop him but Najma, she…” it’s still hard to say the words “Heera Mandi” to his wife, so he settles on “she has two children and she is Muslim.”

  Nimita puts her hairbrush down on the dressing table. “Which worries you more? Her children or her religion?”

  “Aren’t you bothered?”

  “Yes,” she says, banging the brush once to relieve her feelings. “But it bothers me that it bothers me. Do you understand?”

  No, Karan cannot. How can he, when he has only heard the tale of Najma’s life from Nimita and not from Najma’s own lips as she looked straight into his eyes?

  Nimita cannot forget those eyes. Karan has never really seen Najma’s eyes. A good man would not look into another woman’s eyes.

  In his confusion, Karan calls upon his father-in-law, who listens carefully and nods.

  “It can be a dangerous thing to belong to the wrong religion these days.”

  “Daddyji?” Karan asks, not understanding.

  “The question, of course, is, which is the wrong religion? All Lahore seems to be asking this question.” Prem Khosla laughs. It is not a sound of joy.

  Karan does not like the sound of that. “Daddyji—”

  Prem says: “You asked me about your servant, na? He wants to marry a Muslim girl? Why are you worried? I think he’s a very smart boy. Tell him to convert.”

  “Daddyji!” Karan is shocked.

  “Beta, you wanted my advice and I am giving it to you. Once upon a time, less than five years ago, a Muslim could marry a Hindu and both keep their religions. Nobody said anything. All those singers and actors and writers? That is what they did. Jinnah himself married a Parsi girl.”

  Prem wipes his eyes. “But this is not that India any more. That India was a dream, where religion did not matter as much as our shared language, schools and history. Our eyes are open now. This is the reality.”

  The Malhotras have taken the ship from Karachi bound for Hong Kong. The Kauls are in Delhi, Manohar wants to be in the capital when the new government posts are handed out. The Tiwanas are going to Delhi “for a visit” but their big home is locked and their servants have been sent back to their villages.

  The one bright spot for the Khoslas is that Colonel Charan Chauhan has been posted to Lahore Central Command, as part of the Punjab peacekeeping force. He is a regular visitor to the Sachdev bungalow on Temple Road, delighting in his grand-niece, who already loves to pull his moustache.

  Late in May, just before the cool of morning turns into white-hot noon, Prem Khosla receives a visit from Feroze Damania. The factory owner is shaking. Prem offers him a drink and sits listening for an hour. Then he takes all the money in the house and gives it to his friend. A message is sent to Mr Qureshi, who comes in haste with another bag of notes and coins.

  After the two men leave, Prem gets Sharada and heads to Temple Road. Model Town is peaceful but the quiet on the roads seems more ominous the closer the car gets to the centre of the city.

  They are shown into the drawing room, Najma raising the moist khus matting that covers the entrance. When she drops the matting behind the Khoslas, a gust of cool, scented air refreshes the room. Nimita looks up from Urmila-Baby. She smiles at her parents.

  Prem and Sharada take their granddaughter while Nimita calls for refreshments. “No, nothing, we’ve just come from home,” they say but the laws of hospitality are immutable. They receive glasses of rose-flavoured sherbet, cooled with chips of ice that Shukla-Bibi knocks off from a giant block wrapped in sawdust and jute cloth.

  “Where’s Karan?” Prem asks.

  “He’ll be back soon,” Nimita says.

  Karan walks in ten minutes later, touches his in-laws’ feet, washes his hand and insists on serving them slices of
guava covered in chaat masala.

  “Lunch will be ready in a minute,” Nimita says, getting up to tell Shukla-Bibi.

  “No, beta, just wait a while,” Sharada says. Nimita sits back down.

  “Everything fine at the factory?” Prem asks.

  “Haanji, all well. Just a few small things to deal with.” Karan means fights. There is more and more fighting these days, spats and fisticuffs between Sikh and Muslim, Hindu and Muslim. Oddly, there appears to be little friction in the varnish factory of his neighbour on Canal Bank Road, a Hindu who employs only Muslims.

  “Just some small problems,” Karan says, very much afraid they are not. “And how are you, Daddyji? We don’t get to see enough of you.”

  Prem puts down his sherbet. “Damania Sahib came to see me. The bottle factory Damania.”

  Karan nods.

  “The poor man is in a lot of trouble. Some thugs have been walking in every day and starting fights, demanding he give them compensation. Today his clerk was beaten up and told to leave Pakistan if he valued his life.”

  Urmila-Baby notices the lack of attention and waves her hands, babbling. Karan takes her onto his lap and rocks her.

  “So Damania Sahib is in trouble?” he asks.

  Prem sighs. “That is not the worst part. Last night someone painted on the compound wall of his house: ‘A Hindu lives here’.”

  For a while, nobody dares to breathe.

  “Has he told the police?” Nimita asks.

  “Haan, Rahmatullahji is there. But you know, Rahmatullahji is one man. One good man, what can he do to restrain his subordinates?”

  There is a curfew from 6pm, but there are more and more gangsters around, hefty men coming in to terrorise the Muslim and the non-Muslim alike. They destroy the homes of one and taunt the other with their inability to assist their neighbours.