Love Across Borders

by Naheed Hassan

  The next day Tara sat down to type out her carefully thought out reply to Saira.

  Dear Saira,

  I’m so sorry to hear about Uncle. And I’m sorry that I could not be with you and Aunty at what must have been the most difficult phase in your life. But do know that you were never far from my thoughts.

  It is good to know that you managed to work away your difficulties and get to such a senior position. You seem to have such an exciting life.

  I would love to meet you at some point. But I don’t travel much. I’m pretty much homebound since Vasu. Maybe when he is grown up…But Saira, all you mentioned was work? Isn’t there a special someone in your life? Do write when you get time. I know how busy your life can be with work and everything else.

  Hugs,

  Tara

  Tara pressed ‘Send’ and leaned back. Saira was right. Things had changed. Now with so many things other than just distances separating them, were they still the friends they used to be? Or had that relationship changed as well, nudged by the hands of time and fate?

  ***

  “Ami, please try and understand—it’s a really fabulous opportunity for me,” Saira tried to get through to her mother for the umpteenth time. True the opportunity was good, a two-year contract in Johannesburg as senior marketing manager. She had been working towards a foreign posting for a while now and this was a great opportunity. But she did feel guilty about leaving her mother alone, especially when her health wasn’t that great.

  “But, beta, there are such stories about South Africa, and especially Johannesburg. And you a single woman, all by yourself there. I don’t know, Saira, I don’t think you should go.” Her mother reiterated her fears once again.

  Saira hmmphed impatiently. “Ami, there is no way I am passing up on this opportunity and marrying some poor sod and settling down into comfortable domesticity like you want. I am going to Jo’burg and, if you want, you can come with me.”

  She walked out, slamming the door behind her. Tears smarted in her eyes. She was so sick of it all, having to work like a dog at the office only to come home and find it wasn’t good enough. Her mother wanted her to be someone else entirely. Her perfect daughter would probably be someone just like Tara.

  She thought about Tara’s response. A ‘special someone’—yeah right! There was no time in her life for a special someone. Tara’s message had been in her inbox for a week now. This was the perfect time to respond. She opened up the computer and sat down purposefully to write.

  Hi Tara,

  Too bad you don’t travel. I am sure your husband must go on business trips. Put your foot down and fly with him next time. As for me, there is a new and exciting development in my life. I am off to Johannesburg to head the food products marketing division. It’s a really important assignment that practically ensures a top slot for me back in Pakistan when it is over. And who knows, I may meet someone special, or maybe several someones while I am out there…

  The move happens two weeks from now and I need to hand over stuff here and settle into my new position there, so not sure if I will be able to communicate much for the next few months.

  Take care and love to your little Vasu.

  Saira

  She pressed ‘Send’ and shut her computer. Time to leave the past behind and move on to bigger and better things.

  ***

  Tara sat in front of her computer tiredly—it had been a long day. She clicked on messages and there it was—a message from Saira. She hesitated before opening it. It had been six months since they had last written to each other. Since then, she occasionally saw a status update or a picture of Saira at a safari or a hotel, looking like she was having the time of her life. She had also found an occasional ‘Like’ or a comment by her on her photos of Vasu. But they hadn’t bothered to reconnect. Till now. Oh well, it was probably another update on her achievements or something—might as well get it over with.

  Dear Tara,

  Am at Dubai airport after an overnight flight from Jo’burg, waiting for my flight to Karachi. Am going back because Ami had a stroke. Am so scared. Don’t know what I’ll find when I get back. She’s all I have. Can’t stop thinking of how sad she was when I left. And for what—a job?

  It may be too late, but I just want to let you know that I never forgot you. I lost you and Abu at the same time, and I never wanted to feel like that ever again. But life does goes on… and you did come back.

  I don’t know if you’ll forgive me for pushing you away. But at this moment I realize how short life is and how precious our connections are. You and Ami are the only ones who were always there for me and put up with me. Anyway. Sorry for all the drama. Flight’s been announced. Got to go now. Please pray for Ami.

  Love,

  Saira

  PS: I am sure you’re a great mother by the way. You were born to be one.

  Tara sat, holding her heart. Slowly her fingers moved to the keyboard. ‘Saira,’ she thought, ‘my Saira, I have found you again.’

  ∞

  ABOUT SHWETA GANESH KUMAR

  Shweta Ganesh Kumar is the bestselling author of ‘Coming Up on the Show’ and ‘Between the Headlines’, two novels on the Indian broadcast news industry. She has a monthly travel column called ‘Trippin With Shweta’ in Travel and Flavours Magazine.

  A major chunk of Shweta’s childhood was spent in Muscat, in the Sultanate of Oman. Some of her closest friends, in the apartment building where she lived with her parents, were from Pakistan. Having left Muscat in an age before Facebook and other social networking sites, Shweta was unable to stay in touch with her childhood friends and still wonders where they are now. While collaborating on ‘Best Friends Forever’ with Naheed Hassan, it was this emotion she tapped into.

  Shweta currently lives in El Salvador with her husband and one-year-old daughter. Her latest book, ‘A Newlywed’s Adventures in Married Land,’ is now available worldwide via Indireads.

  You can read more about her life and work at www.shwetaganeshkumar.com

  ABOUT NAHEED HASSAN

  Naheed Hassan is a writer, editor and the founder of Indireads. Although she has been trained as an economist, her first love is words and stories. She has been a voracious reader her whole life and believes she is privileged beyond belief to work with new and aspiring authors, helping them bring their dreams to life. Love Across Borders has been a labor of love for her, and she believes strongly that fiction has the power to intrigue, interest and engage people, and that words effect change long after and beyond the end of a story. She hopes that this collection of short stories, written by passionate authors using their words for peace, will transcend borders and divides, touching hearts and imaginations.

  Naheed is a social entrepreneur and has led initiatives in development and disaster relief. She holds a MPA in international development from Harvard, an MBA from the Institute of Business Administration and a BSc in economics from the University of London.

  Lost and Found

  NIDHI SHENDURNIKAR TERE

  Dilip did not know how to use Facebook. His grandchildren mocked him for not keeping pace with time and technology. Reluctantly, he opened an account and despite his initial fear and apprehension, was hooked instantly.

  Retired, he now spent the better part of his day surfing the net, connecting and chatting with an ever-increasing circle of friends. Within a few months he had found far-flung cousins and had established contact with long-lost friends. But there was one who eluded him and each day, as soon as he logged in, he would trawl different networks looking for this one particular friend.

  “Who are you looking for Dada-ji?” asked his teenage grandson Rohan.

  “A friend.”

  And the search continued.

  ***

  Dilip sat in the garden with his cup of tea and thought back to his college days in the US. Although forty years had passed, if he closed his eyes, he could recall them clearly. He could see himself, on his first day on the campus of the Unive
rsity of Iowa, surrounded by blond Americans, feeling awkward, alone and very far from home. He had been delighted to catch sight of a familiar face and immediately approached him.

  “Hi, I’m Dilip.” And in a bid to place the tall, clear-cut features looking back at him, “which part of India are you from?”

  “Pervez. And actually, I’m from Pakistan,” came the reply. “I guess we used to be part of India once,” he added with a smile.

  Dilip stepped back. It was 1971 and the two countries were on the brink of war. He was not sure how he could be friends with the enemy. Alone and in a minority of one, he found himself feeling more Indian than ever before.

  However, on the small campus they were fated to meet every day in classes and at the cafeteria; they even ended up in the same dorm. In one class they ended up working in the same group, making interaction unavoidable. The South Asians, a small minority and all homesick, banded into a tight-knit group, and none became closer than Pervez and Dilip.

  The two became inseparable; studying hard, partying hard, wooing long-legged girls in short skirts, experimenting with the ‘happy’ drugs so freely available on American campuses in the 70’s. Their dinner parties were legendary, Pervez would produce blisteringly hot curries and rich, cardamom scented biryani, while Dilip, the Hindi film aficionado, provided soulful music.

  And when their money ran out, which was usually towards the middle of the month, it was Dilip’s daal and rice that they would survive on till the next money order came, along with letters from their families. They would both call home once a month and over the years, their families grew used to hearing the other on the phone. Not once during the four years did they go home. It simply wasn’t done back then. And neither they, nor their families, could afford it. Instead, they spent their summers working to supplement the money orders, flirting with girls and singing songs in the warm summer nights.

  And then, in their last summer together, the two of them bought a battered old Ford with their pooled savings and set off on a road trip across America. And America, as yet innocent of foreigners, welcomed them with open arms. Their modus operandi was to find a familiar surname in the phone directory, call and introduce themselves. More often than not, homesick Indians and Pakistanis living in small towns would invite them home, feed them and give them a place to spend the night. Dilip smiled at the memory. He would never forget that road trip.

  At last, after a graduation ceremony they attended by themselves, they packed their bags and booked their tickets.

  “Pervez, you better stay in touch and write. I know you—you’re useless without me. You wouldn’t even have written once to your parents if I hadn’t made you.” Dilip had known better than to trust his charming but feckless friend.

  “Of course I’ll stay in touch yaar. And you better not forget to invite me to India.” Pervez had said as he hugged him goodbye.

  The two of them had managed to keep in touch up until their professional and social lives engulfed them. Family and work got in the way of the occasional letters and calls. Dilip then moved to Delhi and eventually settled there. As the years passed, occasionally Dilip would catch himself remembering his old friend, but lacked the will or time to reconnect with him. And now, when he had all the time in the world, he did not know where to find him.

  “You’re doing it again. Who do you keep looking for?” Rohan asked him one day, finding him searching again.

  “A friend.”

  “Where does your friend live?”

  Dilip was quiet for a moment. “Somewhere in Pakistan. I am not sure though.” It sounded odd not to know where to look.

  “Pakistan! You have a friend in Pakistan? Papa, Mummy did you know this? Dada-ji has a friend in Pakistan,” he called to his parents incredulously.

  Dilip wasn’t surprised. Years of indoctrination through history books and media and the lack of personal contact had left the youth of both countries believing they could never be friends. Not much had changed since 1971.

  As a child, Dilip’s son had heard stories of his father’s friend but Meeta, his daughter-in-law, was also surprised. Dilip told them about Pervez, how they became friends and then lost touch. And now that he had discovered the Internet, how he had begun searching for his long-lost friend.

  “Let’s find your friend.” Rohan was enthusiastic.

  “Is that possible?” After months of searching, Dilip was doubtful.

  “Difficult, but nothing is impossible,” Rohan grinned with the confidence of the young.

  Over the next few days, Rohan hooked Dilip up to every social networking site possible—Twitter, Google Plus, Facebook, My Space, Orkut. Dilip felt a bit overwhelmed—he didn’t know there were so many sites. But even Rohan, the social-networking expert, was having trouble finding a Pakistani who could help them connect with a bigger network. Dilip reflected a little sadly to himself on how the new generation, despite having incredible access to information and knowledge, still regarded their neighbors as aliens and had trouble connecting with them.

  And then on the third day Dilip chanced upon an online group of Indians and Pakistanis. There were petitions, posts and comments on a variety of issues relating to India and Pakistan. Interested, Dilip decided to explore the group. Suddenly a message caught his eye.

  ‘I am Pervez Iqbal from Karachi. Looking for a long-lost friend Dilip Sharma in India. Have no idea where he is now. His family has moved from their family home in Sahranpur. We spent some wonderful days together in the US and he promised me that he would invite me to India one day. I am waiting Dilip. Get in touch with me. Your friend awaits you.’

  Below these lines was a picture of the two of them during their days in the US. An old, hazy picture, that brought a flood of memories back to Dilip and a smile to his face.

  “Rohan, I’ve found him. Come quickly. This is my friend,” Dilip shouted out, unable to contain his excitement.

  Rohan came rushing out of his room.

  “Is that him? Is that you in the picture with him? Dada-ji, you look so handsome!” Rohan laughed.

  “Yes, that’s us,” Dilip gently touched the picture on the computer screen.

  “What are you waiting for? Send him a message. Invite him like you promised you would.”

  Without wasting a moment, Dilip wrote a message for his friend in the comments section.

  ‘Dear Pervez, your long-lost friend has found you and is going to fulfill his promise very soon. We will meet again and talk of old times. India and I are waiting for you. See you soon, my dearest friend. Dilip.’

  Six months later when Pervez visited India, he didn’t need to look for a familiar name in a phone book. He had an address and a place to stay that felt remarkably like his own.

  ∞

  ABOUT NIDHI SHENDURNIKAR TERE

  Nidhi Shendurnikar Tere has a masters degree in journalism and communication studies (MCS) and a bachelors degree in political science from the Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda, Gujarat. She was awarded the Mohanlal Mehta Sopan Gold Medal and Shri Goverdhandas Chunilal Shah Gold Medal for Excellence for her masters degree. Currently, she is a doctoral research fellow of the University Grants Commission (UGC) with the department of political science at M. S. U.

  She is currently pursuing a Ph.D in the ‘Role of the Press and New Media in India-Pakistan Conflict Mediation’.

  Her publications and presentations include research papers on gender and mainstream Hindi cinema, new media and modern Indian democracy, to name a few. She has also served as editor for ‘Souvenir’ – Yugaantar – National Youth Conference on Youth for Socio-Political Changes in India. She is a visiting lecturer for political science and communication research at M. S. U. This is her first fictional short story.

  ***

  What Kind of Book…

  …do you read late at night, undisturbed and from cover to cover? An Indireads’ novella, of course!

  Browse titles on www.indireads.com

  Twelve Months

&n
bsp; PERVIN SAKET

  There are a hundred and forty eight ways to woo a woman. Not one of them involves a monkey and a banana.

  And yet Shambu stood beside the cage, nervously offering the yellow fruit through the bars, hissing at her through his smile, “Click, click!”

  He continued leaning as she fidgeted with the camera. “Come on! The monkey doesn’t know where the banana stops and my fingers begin!”

  “This says don’t feed the animals.” Munira looked around. “Stop it, they’ll see you.”

  “I’m not feeding. This is just offering.” But Shambu already felt foolish and flushed. If only she would click once he could end this ridiculous charade. Click woman, click. Blurred, shaky, out-of-focus, no flash, anything. Just end it.

  In his mind, the scene had been heroic. He was supposed to be the poor but rakish youth, charming in his disregard for rules, coaxing the older, upper-class widow to leave behind her bland frowns and reach her bangle-less wrists toward his sprightly, promising fingers.

  She slipped the camera into her bag and shuffled ahead. This was a bad sign. The woman usually fished out her camera at the smallest pretence, capturing random images. Had she decided that he was pushing too much? He dropped the banana and followed, his Bollywood montage shattered. Maybe in Pakistani films the widows were different.

  This was Munira’s fifth visit to India since she got married and her third since Salim died. She did not have to come back really, since there wasn’t much waiting for her here and her presence didn’t seem to matter to anyone else. Salim’s parents had distanced themselves years ago on hearing their son’s strange announcement. Salim had been happy to discard what he called ‘their middle class anxiety’ and set up house with her in Rawalpindi.