“It was the beginning of the end. A treaty to unite our tribes forever.”
“The beginning of the end?”
“Something happened—it’s not recorded what, exactly. But that was the beginning of a war that lasted almost twenty years, and ended with something called a nuclear disaster. It’s the reason we live in tents…” He pulled up the pictures and fanned them out in front of Jahaan.
Important men and women posed in front of awesome concrete structures. Shaking hands and smiling, people posed against lushly green, decadent buildings, under the shade of tall trees and bright flowers; she found images of long cars and sleek planes, technologies and a way of living that hadn’t existed in this land for almost a hundred years, but she had read about in the books she read.
***
When the sun rose, the young couple was already astride the horse. The metal box sat awkwardly between them. Jahaan had scouted the land earlier, and in the stillness of the desert, the tracks of their journey into the Kutchee Rann were clearly visible.
Hungry, thirsty and hot, they slowly followed the tracks with a new sense of peace and complicity settling between them. The box held precious secrets—knowledge that had been buried for so long, but could surely help them build a new country.
“Can you imagine working together, living together, like they said in the Treaty?”
“We worked together last night, Jahaan. If we hadn’t, we may have been much worse for the wear this morning.”
“Hmmm. Let’s hope the elders see it the same way.”
Aryan agreed. He had been surprised at how much they had in common. He had been brought up to believe that the Druks were their mortal enemy. Before this wild night, he would have been too afraid to be alone with her, sure she would slit his throat at the slightest provocation.
***
It took the young couple a whole day to return to the camp. Darkness had fallen, and Jahaan was letting the horse make essential decisions about the way back. They had travelled in comfortable camaraderie, but had begun to droop with fatigue as the landscape finally changed from barren desert to rocks, mountains and sparse trees.
From the distance, the couple heard raised voices, and an eerie tension gripped their bodies. A soft glow of light indicated that they were close a few stone throws away from the camp; too far to hear voices, surely? Jahaan felt Aryan grip her tightly as she spurred the horse onwards.
They reached the bluff above the shared campgrounds just as the sound of gunfire filled the air. Shocked, Jahaan pulled up the horse, and twisted to look up at Aryan. His face was taut, and he was looking straight ahead. He lifted his arm and pointed. A few meters ahead of them, half way down the steep slopes of the valley, several men were wrestling on a narrow crag. Each tribe had stationed lookouts along the valley wall, but the men seemed to have forgotten their posts.
Climbing off the horse, Aryan crept towards the edge of the cliff and looked down into the valley. He felt Jahaan crawl up next to him. The box lay between them.
In the canyon below, the campgrounds resembled a wasteland. Bodies were strewn across the canyon floor, and dust swirled where men still fought. The peace talks were clearly over—in less than a day, the hopes and efforts of six long months of preparation lay in ashes. Despair gripped the two youngsters watching from the cliff, but they were helplessly stuck on their perch. Neither of them had the will to join the fight and it never occurred to them to turn on each other.
“We should be down there,” Jahaan whispered, reluctantly. “My father…”
“Mine, too.” He looked uncertain. “Should we?”
She was silent for a moment, then she shook her head, sadly. “Look at that frenzy—they’re killing each other based on the color of their clothes. No one is going to stop and listen to us if we try and reason with them. We’ll have to wait it out.”
It took hours for the dust to settle. In the light of yet another early dawn, Aryan and Jahaan watched as random figures scattered in all directions. Leaving behind a trail of bodies, the survivors had turned their backs on hopes of any lasting peace. The death toll of this particular day would not be forgotten. For all they knew, that toll included their parents and loved ones.
Putting her hand on the box, Jahaan looked up at the sky. Rays of pale peach light cut through the dark blue of the heavens. It carried the promise of a beautiful new day.
She turned her emerald eyes to Aryan. “I wonder.” His hand came up to touch hers in mute understanding. “What stupid comment crushed the Kutch Treaty so completely, so devastatingly, that a century later, we’re still at war?”
∞
ABOUT SHUCHI KALRA
Writing has been Shuchi’s passion for as long as she can remember, although she adopted it as a profession only in 2005. She now freelances with popular magazines and businesses, and also writes a monthly travel column for Investors India. Her works have appeared in Good Housekeeping, Home Review, Parent & Child, Vista, Women’s Era, and Time ‘N’ Style, among many others.
A firm believer in the intense power of words, Shuchi hopes to use her writing skills to make a positive difference to the world. Her collaborative short story, ‘One Stupid Comment’, is just a small step in that direction. She also believes that literature and art are threads that bind cultures and unite humanity.
Shuchi is the owner of Pixie Dust Writing Studio, a quaint little editing firm that services a global clientele, and the Indian Freelance Writers Blog. Pay her a visit at www.shuchikalra.com.
ABOUT SABAHAT MUHAMMAD
Sabahat Muhammad is a Karachi-based graphic designer, writer and editor. A graduate of the Indus Valley School of Art & Architecture, she has been an active player in the communication industry since 1995, and has worked as a Visualizer at Creative Unit (design house for Dawn) and as a Creative Consultant for Newsline. As Principal of iMedia, she helped bring Newsline online in 2009, was the lead designer for the KaraFilm Festival from 2005 to 2008 and has most recently created a portal of Arif Hasan’s works spanning thirty years of research. She is a senior editor at Indireads.
Anjum
ANDY PAULA
“Hi, which number?” I say, wanting to press the lift button for the bride.
No reply. She looks at me and through me. I rephrase. “Kaun se floor pe jana hai?”
This time she looks up shyly and smiles. “Ji?”
I smile too, “Kiss manzil par jayengi aap?”
“Saatvein.”
I’m going up to the seventh floor too. We travel in silence with the occasional smile when our eyes meet. We reach our floor, get out of the lift and turn in different directions. I open the lock and the interlock and am about to step in, when I remember and turn to say bye. She is still struggling with the interlock. Her hands are full of the red and white bangles of a bride, her heavy brocade dupatta keeps wanting to slide off her slim frame and two thick black locks have escaped from her bun and are hanging over her eyes.
“Nahin khul raha?” I state the obvious, and immediately feel stupid. She shakes a helpless head.
“Ek minute, mujhe dijiye,” I take her keys and unlock her door as if it were my own. She gives me a grateful smile and invites me in for tea. Some other time, I tell her.
“Aapka naam kya hai? Nayi shaadi hui hai?”
She blushes as she nods. “Anjum.”
Lovely name, I tell her. She blushes some more and doesn’t ask mine. “Mera naam Vandana hai. Vandana Solanki,” I offer, surprising even myself. I tell her I’m newly married too and have come here just last month. She smiles, almost in relief. “Ok, bye,” I turn to step into my house.
“Bye,” says Anjum and nods to indicate a ‘see you’.
***
Inside, the house is breezy; I love the French windows that open out to the greenery so rare in Bombay. I like to sit on the window, my feet dangling outside where the flower pots are kept on the slim grill, and sip my morning and evening tea. The vast green expanse below with the Ganesha t
emple at its centre soothes my soul, makes me feel connected.
Ganesh Puja is just round the corner, maybe I won’t miss Nagpur if they have celebrations here, I think.
I never wanted to marry in Bombay; it is notorious for being cold. I think I never wanted to marry, my tutorial centre was flourishing, and I had money, friends and peace of mind. What did I need a man for? Anyway most of them drink, beat their wives and force them to bear children. Couldn’t imagine myself being a doormat. But then here I am, much-married and still doubting the wisdom of it. I’ve been here just under a month and the only person who I have exchanged two words with is Anjum. When Kirti calls me the next time, I can tell her I’ve made friends. It’s only a little lie after all. My sister wants to know everything that’s happening here. She should’ve been married and living in Bombay instead of me; she likes all the glamour and the taam jhaam.
I, on the other hand, miss the tutorial business that I had set up with such difficulty and that was doing so well. Why are marriages so important in our country? If you are not married, they look at you as if there’s something terribly wrong. I know what you’ll say. That’s what Aayi and Kakaji also said, and everybody who heard about my marriage to Vineet. That he’s a good guy and earns well. And he only has an elder sister who is like a mother to him; their parents passed away some years ago so there won’t be any saas-sasur ki kich kich. This is hypocrisy to the core; first they teach you to respect parents and then they are happy that their son-in-law doesn’t have his!
Vineet leaves for work at eight in the morning and returns by nine. The days are longer than I like—how much can I read? I hate watching TV; those regressive serials get my goat. He is an AUTOCAD engineer, whatever that means. I think they’re into designing; he said something about the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, which he had helped design. I’m not sure about that, though. Yes, he was in Dubai before marriage, but c’mon, Burj Khalifa! That’s too prestigious an assignment, and honestly, he doesn’t look that sharp to me. Anyway, not that I’m telling anyone about my suspicion; they’ll only preach and say I should worship my husband.
I worship only Ganapati bappa.
***
The kuda-wala comes after eight. Normally Usha, the cleaner, keeps the bag outside when she is leaving, but today she has called in sick.
Anjum is putting her garbage out when I open my door. I smile hesitantly at her. She invites me for tea, but I shake my head and retreat into my house. I have only just met her and drinking tea at her place smacks too much of friendship.
I don’t see her for the next few days and decide to be more friendly when I see her next. Which is why I venture out and say hello the next time I see her opening her door. She is wearing a pretty rose-pink salwar-kameez. “That’s lovely,” I find myself saying, “where did you get it from?”
She looks down and touches her top. “Yeh Lahore se hai. Aap ko aisa joda chahiye?”
I nod and then it hits me. Wait a minute, did she say Lahore? My head starts spinning. She’s a Pakistani? I conceal my surprise. Ganesha, was it not bad enough that you got me married in Bombay. But to give me Pakistani neighbours is more than I can tolerate. I have nothing against any individual but all those terrifying stories about the bloodshed and the gore. What were they doing in India, I mean, was it easy for them to be here? I can’t believe it, a Paki in my building…on my floor.
I stare at her as she smiles happily and invites me in for tea again. I don’t remember what I say to get out of it.
***
After the initial shock, I begin to think that perhaps I am being too quick to judge. What a shame if even an educated person like me behaves irrationally. Didn’t I always talk of world-vision in the motivation sessions I held for the senior students? I decide to open lines of communication and see what happens. But for some reason though, I don’t tell Vineet that our neighbours are Pakistani. It is my secret.
The next time I see Anjum she invites me for tea as usual. This time I agree and quickly go inside to grab my keys and join her in 701. Her house is spotlessly clean and a subtle keora essence pervades the room. I look around curiously, trying to see differences and find none. There’s a maroon sofa and matching curtains; a tall brass flower-vase in one corner with colourful artificial flowers; and a beautiful carpet that I suspect is not Indian. A large framed poster-size photograph of the couple adorns one wall—they look happy together.
This girl works at supersonic speed; tea is ready even before I can take in the details. I compliment her on her house and on her speed. She beams.
“Kya ban raha hai, badi achchi khushboo aa rahi hai?” I ask.
“Gosht bana rahi hoon, aaj Shahaab ka budday hai.” I can’t imagine making mutton at eight in the morning even for my own birthday, forget Vineet’s. This girl could sure teach me a thing or two!
“When is the party?” I ask.
“Koi party nahin hai, magar ab aap aur bhaiya aayenge dinner par.”
I am amazed at her simplicity. With my mathematician’s practicality, would I invite anyone for dinner just a few days after meeting them? Not in this lifetime. My friends tell me I am too practical, ‘itna bhi achcha nahi hota hai.’ They still hold it against me that when Vineet had come to meet me once before marriage, a surprise visit, I had refused to meet him because I had classes scheduled. How could I have told forty students that their tuition was cancelled because the teacher was going out! And what would I have told their parents? They kept a tab of each penny they paid for the tutorial. Only fair, I had said. My friends find this cold; I tell them they are romantic fools and it was because of them that our government offices worked like they did.
I think of refusing her spontaneous invitation, but then think—it’s not like I am doing anything else tonight? And it will be a nice change. So I ask what else she is cooking for dinner? Does she need any help? She responds to the first question with a smile. “You’ll know when you come tonight.” For the second question, she laughs. “Arrey sirf char logon ka hi toh khana banna hai, mere mayke mein toh humara chalees logon ka ghar hai, Lahore mein.”
This time, the mention of Lahore piques my interest rather than mistrust. I want to stay back and learn more. About where she comes from, how she grew up. FORTY people in one house she says? How big must the house be?
“It’s a haveli,” she says. Nobody marries and moves out; all the children grow up together; you can’t tell who is whose child; everyone is equally loved, equally reprimanded; nobody gets any preferential treatment. I try to understand the equation—yes that’s my math’s teacher’s brain doing overtime—but the number of khalas and appis she mentions leaves me confused. I like things in neat slots.
Is the carpet from Lahore, I ask. Yes, she nods proudly. Some mamu who lives in Kuwait gave it to her as a wedding present. The only brother my mother has is a good-for-nothing wastrel wheedling money from his unsuspecting sister. Aayi never seems to see through his antics; she pampers him to this day. Perhaps because she didn’t have a son. Kakaji is too simple to say anything, even if it happens right under his nose. We call our father Kakaji, though it actually means uncle. An older cousin who lived with us when Kirti and I were small used to call our father Kakaji; we just picked it up. I wonder if our father ever missed being called father. He never complained, so I’ll never know.
Anjum regales me with more stories about her family; I am fascinated. I love her lacy salwars I tell her, and she promises to get me some. There she goes again! How can she be so generous to a mere acquaintance? My own fixed ideas about family and people look a little tainted, even to my own eyes. In Nagpur we were familiar with our Marathi neighbours, but here, in Bombay, with somebody not even from the same country...Suddenly it is too much for one day—culture shock perhaps. I return home promising to see her for dinner.
I let myself into 702, my hom...house. It is breezy inside. The white lace curtains are flying. We don’t have any wedding pictures on our walls.
***
“How can you be so stupid?” Vineet has returned after nine and is more grouchy than usual. The local trains do it to you, I don’t really blame him.
“She is very sweet, I couldn’t say no.”
“Hello, this is not your Nagpur where everybody is sweet, this is Bombay! I’m so tired and now I’ve got to dress up and meet new people!”
“Ok, you go for your shower, I’ll make dinner,” I say. I hadn’t cooked thinking we were going to Anjum’s.
I am very angry and feel like a fool at the same time. What do I have to occupy myself with for the whole day? This man won’t let me give tuitions, he is tired every day of his life, never takes me out and leaves me alone at home the whole day, every day. And now he shouts at me. Does he care about how I spend the whole day, what I read, who I call? Selfish brute! Hot tears roll from my eyes. Damn! I’m no weakling, I had five people working under me, I was respected and loved—and look at me now.
I wipe my tears, pick up the box of sweets I’d bought for Anjum and Shahaab and ring their doorbell. Anjum opens the door. She looks lovely in a turquoise silk suit and big matching kundan earrings.
“Arrey bhaiya kahan hain?”
He is too tired to come, I tell her. She looks at me for a meaningful moment, and I feel my tears threaten again, but she helps me retain my dignity with a “koi baat nahin, aap ghar jao, main dus minute mein aati hoon.”
Love Across Borders Page 3