Ticket to India

by N. H. Senzai

  “Eh, speak up; I don’t hear so well anymore,” he said, cupping his ear.

  “I’m looking for Mir Hayat’s family,” Naniamma repeated louder.

  “Oh,” he said. “I am Mir Hayat’s youngest son, Tariq.”

  “Tariq Sahib,” said Naniamma, cheeks flushed with relief and excitement. “I’m so pleased to meet you. My father was Rayyan Mohammad Tauheed. His brother, Hamza, had a house next to your father’s.”

  Recognition sparkled in the man’s cloudy gray eyes. “Oh, yes, my brothers and I played with his sons as children—stickball in the streets! I remember one of the boys—I think his name was Firaz—got us to steal jalebis from a sweet shop down the street. We got caught and were in so much trouble.” He chuckled. “And your father—he used to come over for dinner whenever he was in town.”

  “Yes,” said Naniamma, smiling. “My name is Alia, and sometimes my sisters and I would accompany him to Delhi from Aminpur.”

  “Yes,” said Tariq Sahib. “I remember the fancy parties your uncle threw in your father’s honor.”

  Naniamma nodded, relieved that he remembered.

  “But I recall that your family moved to Pakistan,” said Tariq Sahib. “Whatever became of them?”

  Naniamma’s face tightened. “They didn’t survive the train passage.”

  Tariq Sahib took a ragged breath, additional creases weighing down his wrinkled cheeks. “‘Surely we belong to Allah and to Him shall we return,’” he recited. “My heart aches at the news. Of course we heard such tales of horror—of trains arriving from Pakistan filled with murdered Hindus and Sikhs; of cabins filled with slaughtered Muslims reaching Pakistan.”

  “Only I and two others survived,” said Naniamma. “Ever since that day, I prayed that I would return. And here I am.”

  “It is a miracle you lived, my dear,” said Tariq Sahib. “I’m so happy that you’ve returned to breathe the air and touch the soil where your family originated. At the stroke of midnight on the day of Partition, our family went into hiding, taken in by Hindu friends who protected us. For months the city burned and the people went mad. When we emerged, hardly any of the old inhabitants were left. Outsiders had taken over. Even our language was dead.”

  “How can a language die?” blurted Maya.

  He waved his hand around his cramped shop. “Urdu, the language associated with Muslims, became an enemy, and was slowly purged from public life.”

  “But Urdu is still spoken here,” said Maya, confused.

  Tariq Sahib wrinkled his great long nose. “Urdu is an aristocratic language—the language of the poets. Now all that is left is its shabby ghost,” he lamented. “People no longer have the knowledge of the tehzeeb, or culture, of the once glorious Delhi. Old Delhi is gone. . . . It’s all gone, and those who were left behind are in misery, and those who were uprooted are in misery.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Naniamma.

  Maya stood behind Naniamma, saddened by the anguish in the old man’s face.

  “But it’s not just that,” he continued. “Partition has left its poison in the blood of the people. Every other day there is terrible news of Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs turning on one another. Just a few years ago, in the city of Ayodhya, an old mosque was torn down by Hindus claiming it had been built over their god Ram’s temple. In the ensuing violence, thousands were killed.”

  Killed. The word ricocheted through Maya’s mind.

  “We read about the riots in the newspaper,” said Naniamma. “It’s a shame that the damage done at Partition continues to this day. Even in Pakistan, created to protect the interests of Muslims, there is corruption and unrest among the different ethnic and religious groups—the rich become richer while the rest wallow in poverty, without proper health care or education.”

  In the silence that followed, Zara gently tugged on Naniamma’s arm. “The keys . . . ,” she whispered.

  “Oh, yes,” said Naniamma. “Tariq Sahib, my father left the keys and the deed to our house with your father. Do you have them?”

  Tariq Sahib paused to think, stroking his beard. “I do recall some such things.” He looked up, eyes brightening with remembrance. “Before my father passed away, he told my brothers and me about your father and uncle. And showed us a sealed package, telling us to give it to them if they returned.”

  “Do you still have it?” asked Naniamma eagerly.

  “They should be in my father’s old suitcase,” he said. “Let me go to our apartment upstairs and check.”

  He returned a few minutes later. “These are the items that your family left in my father’s care,” he said.

  “Thank you so much for keeping them safe,” said Naniamma as she stared at the frayed velvet pouch in his hands.

  “Of course, of course,” said Tariq Sahib. He loosened the strings of the pouch and turned the contents over into her open hands: a jumble of iron keys and a yellowed bundle of papers.

  Naniamma stroked the largest key, engraved with a series of numbers in Urdu. “This is for our house in Aminpur.”

  Tariq Sahib sadly shook his head. “Although the deed and key prove ownership, it will be very difficult to claim your house. Even if you do, you’ll have a nightmare of a time trying to legally evict those who’ve moved in.”

  “I see,” said Naniamma, placing everything back in the bag.

  “You must stay for dinner and meet my wife,” said Tariq Sahib.

  “Thank you so much for the invitation,” said ­Naniamma gently, “but we need to prepare for our trip to Aminpur. Perhaps on our return we can stop by for tea.”

  “As you wish,” said Tariq Sahib, taking a slim volume from a shelf. “Sadly, this India is not the one you left, but best of luck on your journey. Please accept this as a token of my respect and admiration.”

  “Thank you,” said Naniamma, taking the book. On its cover was a bearded man.

  “That is Mirza Ghalib, the court poet to Bahadur Shah, the last Mughal emperor,” said Tariq Sahib. “My favorite poem is ‘Temple Lamps.’ Be sure to read it.”

  With that they parted, but Tariq Sahib’s words echoed in Maya’s mind: Old Delhi is gone. . . . It’s all gone, and those who were left behind are in misery, and those who were uprooted are in misery. As they exited, she felt a rumble in her belly.

  “How about we eat something before heading back to the hotel?” suggested Naniamma.

  “Great idea,” said Zara. “Where should we go?”

  “Check the book,” said Naniamma, glancing at Maya. “It’s led us in the right direction so far.”

  Maya located a place nearby, Karim’s: a restaurant “fit for kings—literally,” said the guidebook, as it was owned by the descendants of royal Mughal cooks. They walked past the bustling open-air kitchen, where men danced in an age-old ballet, some stirring huge stainless steel pots while others grilled meat on flames and flattened disks of dough to be placed inside blistering clay ovens. The waiter seated them at a table and handed them menus.

  “It’s like Bundoo Khan,” muttered Maya, remembering the restaurant in Karachi. She’d been ­hoping to find something she was familiar with. But it was all familiar. There were kebabs—chicken, lamb, and fish. Parathas—plain or stuffed with potatoes or minced meat. A dozen biryanis, royal rice dishes, and vegetable dishes—creamed spinach, peas, cauliflower, and lentils. It was like she was staring down at a menu in Pakistan.

  “Even though they are now two countries, the recipes were formulated in the same kitchens before 1947,” said Naniamma. “Bundoo Khan brought his recipes to Karachi from his hometown in India. Of course, there are regional differences,” she added as the waiter placed a sizzling plate of kebabs in front of them. “The food in the South has its own unique flavors and ingredients.”

  As Maya took a paratha and added a piece of juicy boneless lamb kebab to her plate, Naniamma added absentmind
edly, “And India has many vegetarians, since many Hindus, Jains, and Buddhists don’t eat meat.”

  After the waiter left, Naniamma quieted, lost in her own thoughts. Maya noticed that her grandmother’s hand shook as she reached to take a piece of flaky paratha, and she worried that the day had taken a toll on her. A long journey lay ahead of them. She needed to get back to the hotel and get some rest.

  • • •

  A deep, sweet weariness in her bones, Maya grabbed her journal and settled into the bed to log the day’s events while Naniamma and Zara bustled about, preparing for their trip the next day. She pulled out her colored pencils and drew a map of Old Delhi marked with the locations they’d traveled to that day.

  • • •

  Saturday, September 17, continued.

  New Delhi, India

  India is not how I imagined it would be. I was expecting it to feel unfamiliar, but everything we saw reminded me of Pakistan: the people, the eggplant and okra in the market, the beggars on the street, the monsoon rains, rickshaws, sticky, sweet jalebis, and the shaggy white goats roaming the streets. And in both Delhi and Karachi, there are places that are very beautiful and places that are very sad.

  Tomorrow we will take the train to Faizabad. We’re leaving later than we’d like, though, because of Navaratri, the Hindu festival symbolizing the triumph of good over evil. Want to know the other name for Navaratri? It’s Durga Puja. Remember I mentioned that Durga is another name for Maya? How weird is that? Since the festival starts in the morning, the trains are full. The only availability was on the overnight sleeper. We’re staying at a hotel in Faizabad, then taking a car to Aminpur. If things go according to plan, we’ll find the chest and return to Delhi the day after tomorrow.

  As she turned to put her journal on the side table, Maya spotted the book Tariq Sahib had given her grandmother. She picked it up and began flipping through the pages. “Listen to this,” she said. “It’s the poem Tariq Sahib mentioned, by Ghalib.”

  “We don’t have time for poetry,” grumbled Zara, digging through her backpack.

  “No, no, go ahead and read some of it,” said Nani­amma.

  So Maya cleared her throat and began.

  “Father and son are at each other’s throat;

  Brother fights brother. Unity

  And Federation are undermined.

  Despite all these ominous signs

  Why has not doomsday come?

  Why does not the Last Trumpet sound?

  Who holds the reins of the final catastrophe?”

  The hoary old man of lucent ken

  Pointed toward Kashi and gently smiled.

  “The Architect,” he said, “is fond of this edifice

  Because of which there is colour in life; He

  would not like it to perish and fall.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Maya.

  Naniamma paused from folding a sari. “Ghalib lived during the time when the Moghuls lost power to the British,” she said. “What do you think he’s saying?”

  Zara stood, a thoughtful look on her face. She had been listening despite her grumbling. “The British used divide and conquer to pit everyone against each other,” she said. “So when Ghalib saw how bad the fighting was, he wondered why the end hadn’t come.”

  Naniamma nodded, looking pleased. “But ‘the architect’ wouldn’t let it fall apart.”

  “The architect is God, isn’t it?” asked Zara.

  “Yes,” said Naniamma.

  “And because of him, the architect, there is color in life,” she added.

  “Correct,” replied Naniamma. “Now, let’s get to bed. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.”

  Maya put away the book. It seemed to her that the poem prophesized the pain and conflict Partition would one day bring. With that thought she fell into a deep sleep.

  • • •

  Maya was cold. Groggily, she opened her eyes and saw that the bathroom light was on and the door was wide open. Something’s not right. She sat up suddenly and glanced around the room. On the floor lay Nani­amma’s crumpled form.

  Her breath seizing in her throat, Maya slid out of bed. “Naniamma!” she cried, crouching beside her.

  There was no response. Maya grabbed her grandmother’s icy hands and pressed her cheek against her chest. There was a faint heartbeat, like a small bird fluttering in a cage. “Zara,” she yelled toward the other bed, “wake up . . . something’s wrong!”

  8

  Desperate Decisions

  “WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?” asked Dr. Kumar, a frown causing the red bindi on her forehead to scrunch up.

  The sisters stared at the doctor, a willowy woman in a white coat, wondering what to say. Maya looked at Naniamma, who lay asleep, a tiny form huddled under the white sheets of the hospital bed.

  “They aren’t here . . . ,” began Zara, her voice hoarse. “We were traveling with our grandmother and just arrived in Delhi.”

  “Oh,” said Dr. Kumar, comprehension settling over her fine, dark features as she reviewed the medical charts. “Well, it looks like your grandmother had a stroke.”

  “A stroke?” squawked Zara, as Maya’s pulse raced. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Well, her blood pressure was highly elevated when she came in. Does she have a heart condition?”

  “Yes,” whispered Maya. “She forgot her medicine at home.”

  “Uncontrolled blood pressure can disrupt blood supply to the brain,” explained Dr. Kumar, her face sympathetic. “But luckily it was a minor stroke and we caught it in time. So although she’s weak and needs time to recover, she’s stable and there doesn’t seem to be permanent damage.”

  “Oh, thank God,” said Zara, reaching over to grip Maya’s hand.

  “Where are you coming from, then?” asked Dr. Kumar, snapping the file shut.

  “From Karachi,” mumbled Zara.

  “Pakistan?” Dr. Kumar raised her her eyebrows.

  “Uh, yes,” replied Zara.

  “Well, you need to call your parents right away and have them come to Delhi,” she said. “Arrangements need to be made for your grandmother’s care—she may have to stay in the hospital a few more days, then she’ll need help flying home. I think it’s best if you call them from my office so your grandmother can have some peace and quiet. Also, I’d like to talk to them as well.”

  Maya watched the doctor’s long black braid sway with her brisk pace as she followed her down the hall. Images from the last three hours flashed through her mind: Zara crying, shouting into the telephone . . . hotel staff rushing to the room . . . the ambulance ride through Delhi at three in the morning . . . her grandmother disappearing into an examining room while the sisters waited nervously on hard waiting room chairs.

  “Hello,” Zara whispered into her bright pink cell phone.

  “Zara, is that you?” shrieked Sofia Khala. Maya, sitting beside her sister, heard every muffled word. “Are you okay? We’ve been frantic with worry.” Before Zara could respond, Maya heard her aunt shouting. “Someone, go get Dalia, it’s Zara,” bellowed Sofia Khala.

  “Zara?” came their mother’s voice from another line. “What were you girls thinking, running off like that?”

  “I was just . . . ,” said Zara, but her mother cut her off.

  “Give the phone to your grandmother. I need to talk to her,” said their mother.

  “Mom,” said Zara. “Naniamma is sick.”

  A pause followed. “What do you mean, she’s sick?”

  “She had a stroke. . . . A minor stroke.”

  “What?” she gasped. “When did that happen?”

  “Last night, at the hotel,” explained Zara. “We’re at a hospital now.”

  “How is she?” cried her mother.

  “Doing much better,” said Zara in a
rush. “The doctor says she’s in stable condition, and she’s asleep.”

  “Well, you stay put,” said her mother. “I’m coming there on the next flight, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” replied Zara.

  “Is the doctor there?” asked her mother.

  “Yes, I’m in her office,” said Zara.

  “Give her the phone.”

  Zara handed the phone to Dr. Kumar, who sat on the other side of the smooth wooden desk, “She’s not awake yet. . . . I’ve given her a mild sedative to help her sleep. . . . She cannot be moved for a few days; she is too weak and needs to recover. . . . Yes, I urge you or someone in your family to come at once.”

  • • •

  “Water,” came a feeble request.

  Maya’s eyes snapped open. The sisters had fallen asleep in the lumpy chairs beside the hospital bed, and now it was late in the afternoon.

  “Water.”

  Still groggy, Maya jumped up to grab a glass from the side table and poured water from a jug. “Here you go, Naniamma,” she said, relieved that she was awake.

  “Thanks, jaan,” said Naniamma. After a long gulp, she lay back with a sigh. “What happened? Where are we?” she asked, peering over the sheets.

  “You had a stroke, a ministroke,” explained Zara, rushing over, eyes bleary. “Your blood pressure shot up and you collapsed because you weren’t taking your medication.”

  “We’re at a hospital,” added Maya.

  “But we have to go,” said Naniamma, confused. “We have a train to catch.”

  “Naniamma . . . ,” said Zara, trying to find the words. “You can’t go—you’re too sick.”

  “But I’ve come this far,” said Naniamma, blinking rapidly, groggy from the drugs. “I must go—” She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She tried to take a step. Zara and Maya caught her right as her knees buckled under her. As gently as they could, they guided her back into bed.

  “Why is this happening?” whispered Naniamma as the sisters settled her under the blanket. “It took over forty years but I came . . . to find the chest . . . get Malik’s ring . . . see my mother’s face again. . . .”