Tonight I pretended we were having a party as we ate our gulab jamun. I like to make mine last as long as possible, the rosewater syrup tickling my tongue. Then I asked Amil to play chess with me before we went to bed.
When Papa came in to kiss us good night, I could smell the rosewater on his lips from dessert. It’s his favorite, too. I rolled over and whispered in his ear, “When can we go back to school, Papa?” Amil sat up on his bed and looked at Papa. But Papa just patted my head and left. I don’t ask many questions, so it would be fairer if he answered the few I ask. He should be more appreciative. I could be like Amil and ask a question every five seconds, but he doesn’t answer many of those either.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 2, 1947
Dear Mama,
Today Amil and I were playing chess when we heard people yelling outside. It was so far away we ignored it at first. It’s strange how good Amil is at chess since he can barely write a sentence. This is one way I know Amil is so smart. He wins every game, but I still like trying. Someday I’ll win. I’ve come close. I know Amil feels bad for always winning. He always says “Checkmate, sorry.” I tell him it’s okay. I like that he’s good at chess and drawing, since I always do much better at school. Papa taught Amil how to play when he was six, and then Amil taught me when Papa didn’t have time to play with him anymore. I think it’s that Amil started beating Papa and Papa didn’t like it.
As we played, the yelling grew louder. I still couldn’t hear what they were saying. We ran to the window and saw men walking up the hill holding torches. Dadi, who was sewing, got up and grabbed us away from the window, brought us into the kitchen, and pushed us into the pantry. I stood near the large tins of rice and could smell the cinnamon sticks which sat on a shelf right near my face. Kazi had already gone to his cottage for the day. Dadi hissed at us to stay still. Then she ran out and turned off the lanterns in the main room. She came back into the pantry with us breathing hard and pulled us in the corner with her. She threw an old tablecloth over us and began to pray. We crouched down as she rocked back and forth and whispered her prayers to Lord Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva.
Someone banged on our front door. I reached for Amil’s hand in the darkness and he held it tight. His hand was cold and wet like a fish. The door banged again and then we heard it burst open and people walking around in our house. We heard things being knocked down, a bowl, a lantern, the table. Amil’s hand felt even colder but I held on.
After a while the sounds quieted down. We waited many minutes after the silence. Then we heard Kazi’s voice calling for us. I let out the breath I felt like I had been holding the entire time. We unfolded ourselves from the corner of the pantry and came out. Kazi’s eyes were wild and blood trickled down his face like a spider. I felt a rush of nausea and steadied myself by clutching the wall. Dadi moved very quickly and got a clean towel from the kitchen, wrapping Kazi’s head tightly while he sat. I had never seen her move so fast. She must love Kazi as much as I do.
Amil and I lit some candles and a lantern that wasn’t broken. We picked up the knocked down chairs and table, cleaned the glass from the broken lanterns, and put the books back on the shelf. I found Kazi’s favorite big clay bowl he always used for chopped vegetables or mixing dough. It lay smashed to pieces on the kitchen floor. I kneeled by his chair and showed him a big chunk of it, my hands shaking.
“It’s okay, Nishi,” he said, and patted my arm. “We’ll get another.” I nodded and turned so he wouldn’t see my tears as I swept up all the pieces. I slipped a small piece in my pocket.
After we cleaned, we sat together at the table, but hardly talked. Nobody went to bed. Dadi kept checking Kazi’s head, but he had stopped bleeding. Finally, Papa came home. He stared at us all sitting at the kitchen table, blinking as if he were seeing a vision. Before he could say anything, Dadi told him what happened.
He nodded, his face serious, his eyes glassy and tired looking. He walked over and examined Kazi’s head.
“You need stitches,” he said calmly. “Amil, go fetch my medicine bag.”
When Amil brought it, Papa started cleaning out Kazi’s wound with rubbing alcohol. Kazi made a face and sucked in his breath. Amil and I watched with open mouths as he injected Kazi with something that would numb his skin and then started to thread his needle with thick black thread. As the needle pricked Kazi’s skin, my stomach flipped. I couldn’t watch anymore, but Amil walked closer and Papa started to explain what he was doing. Amil’s chest puffed up and he nodded proudly, listening to every word. Amil loved watching Papa do all his doctor stuff, but I hated blood and needles. I rubbed my forehead, which throbbed in the same place Kazi’s gash was.
“Nisha and Amil, it’s time to go to sleep,” Papa said after he finished and sat down in his big chair. “I need to discuss things with Dadi.” Dadi came over and sat in her chair.
“But what happened?” Amil cried, running his hands through his hair. “Who hurt Kazi? What if they saw us? Would we all be dead? Were they after you, Papa?”
Papa squinted at Amil. “After me? What did I do? Everyone has gone crazy. That’s all. This was supposed to be a beautiful moment in history. India will soon be a free country, but instead what are we doing? What are we doing?” Papa shook his head and he became quiet. Then he rubbed his eyes. Dadi came over and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Sometimes the world as you know it just decides to become something else. This is our destiny now,” he said, still rubbing his eyes.
Dadi spoke to us louder than she usually did, staying by Papa’s side. “But you must not worry. We will always keep you safe.”
Amil and I nodded. What would have happened if the men found us in the pantry? I had never wondered about being safe before. I just thought I was.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Papa said, looking up, his face relaxing. “We’ll figure something out.” Then he shooed us off.
Amil and I sat cross-legged on his bed facing each other, too frightened to go to sleep. The fear I felt almost seemed like something exciting, and yet I knew it wasn’t.
“Our destiny?” I asked Amil. “What is Papa talking about?”
“I guess he means that everybody starts fighting eventually.”
“Sometimes you and I fight, but then we make up,” I said to him hopefully.
“That’s because we’re family. We’re all we have.”
I picked at a loose thread on his bedspread.
He continued. “Do you think it was Muslims or Hindus that came?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“If it was Muslims, why would they want to hurt Kazi? What side are we even on?”
“Do we have to take a side?” I asked.
“I think it’s safer. That way you know who your enemy is,” Amil said, and crossed his arms tightly over his chest.
“But if we don’t take a side, then we don’t have any enemies.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” Amil said.
“Gandhiji would agree with me,” I told him. “And anyway I thought the two sides were supposed to be us and the British. Why are we fighting each other?”
Amil cocked his head to the side, thinking. I wanted to know who the men were, too, but even if I knew the answer, it still wouldn’t make any sense.
Me, Amil, Papa, Dadi, and Kazi. That’s it. That’s the only side I know how to be on. The world seems so tiny now. I don’t even really have you, Mama. I try to make you real by writing these letters, but who knows if you’re even listening. I wish you could give me a sign.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 3, 1947
Dear Mama,
Today I woke up and found Kazi in the kitchen kneading dough. He gave me some and I sank my fingers into it. I noticed he still had his bandage on. I rolled the dough into a ball and flattened it again into a
thin circle. Kazi hummed a song to himself.
“Kazi,” I whispered in my strongest whisper. “Why is this happening? I’m twelve now and ready to know everything.”
He looked at me and his whole face changed, his mouth smiling wide. I could see almost all his yellow teeth. “And I am four times as much, but I feel like I don’t know anything.”
I placed my dough on the counter and punched and pounded and punched until I couldn’t hear my thoughts. Kazi caught my hands and squeezed. “Stop, Nisha. You will hurt yourself.”
I ran out of the kitchen to my room and curled up in the corner, hugging my knees close. I wanted Kazi to come. I waited and waited. If he came it would mean he loved me. He didn’t come and I cried until breakfast.
When I came to the table for breakfast, Kazi was not there. Papa was there and Amil was there and Dadi was there. Papa kept his eyes on his food which meant that nobody should talk. We ate in silence, then I brought my plate to the kitchen. Later when Amil and I went outside, we saw Kazi in the garden picking vegetables. I grabbed Amil and pulled him around the back of the bungalow. I asked him why Kazi wouldn’t tell me anything.
“I just wish I knew who beat Kazi and why,” I said.
“I heard some Muslim homes were burned not that far from here. Maybe they were angry,” Amil said, bending over, ripping up pieces of grass.
“So will everyone burn everyone?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Amil said, throwing up his hands, letting go of the grass. We watched it float to the ground.
A surge of anger I have never felt before bloomed in my chest. Let all the crazy men come and burn it all down. Let them burn our gardens and the hospital and your picture, Mama, like it was never there at all. We would go somewhere fresh and new where people were happy. All kinds of people practicing all kinds of religions. A place where Papa wasn’t gone all the time, where Dadi would know more, and not make strange noises with her teeth, a place where I could go to school safely and make wonderful things in the kitchen with Kazi whenever I wanted. A place where you were alive and would walk to school with me, holding my hand, and nobody would mind that you were Muslim and Papa was Hindu and Amil and I could hold both sides of our parents in our hearts. We could go to a place where Amil didn’t see his words differently and I knew how to talk easily in front of people and had real friends. While everything burned to flat black ash, we wouldn’t be sad because we’d be in this new place.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 4, 1947
Dear Mama,
It’s the middle of the night and I can’t go back to sleep. I had a dream that you were alive. You came into my room and lay down next to me on my bed. You looked so real. Your hair was long and loose and you wore an emerald and gold salwar kameez. I touched you and you smiled. You told me you’d take me to your favorite star, that we could actually go there and look down and watch the rest of the world. You carried me up to the sky and we flew toward a bright light. But I couldn’t see anything and then you were gone. I was swimming in light all by myself. That’s when I woke up sweating and confused. This is your way of visiting me, right, Mama? I feel so happy because now I know you’re listening.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 5, 1947
Dear Mama,
Today was the strangest day. Kazi took everything out of the pantry, the containers of lentils, dried peas, rice, flour, and spices. He took out all the utensils and pans and bowls. He wiped down the counters with rags dipped in water and vinegar. Then he lined things up, ready to be carried away at any moment. Does this mean we were leaving? The thought made me dizzy.
Then Papa came home early and sat with us and took turns playing chess, and he didn’t even seem mad that Amil won. After that, he read from the Mahabharata storybook for a long time. His voice sounded different, higher, sadder. He read slowly and didn’t stop when he was supposed to at the periods.
“Why did Papa do that?” Amil asked when Papa left. I lay on my bed, turning my gaze toward the long wavy crack on the ceiling. I held up my finger and traced it in the air. Papa had never read us a story before, not once. In fact, other than my schoolteachers reading out of our textbooks, no one had ever read to me before. Dadi would sing to us when we were little and tell us stories that she remembered from her childhood, but she never read out of a book. Did Papa read to me when I was little and I just don’t remember?
“He’s lonely,” Amil said. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he was scared, too. I’ve felt lonely many times before. But I didn’t think grown-ups could get lonely. Papa’s in the hospital all day with people. But when Amil said it, I realized it was the perfect word for Papa. I could see it in his blank eyes every day, his slumped shoulders. I felt sad for him. He must miss you, Mama, in a different way than I do. He misses the time he had with you. I miss the time I didn’t have. He must remember the way the house smelled when you were in it, the sound of your voice filling the air, the sight of you painting your pictures. The moment Amil and I were here with our crying, our bottles of milk, our little fingers and toes, you were gone.
“Maybe he’ll do it again,” I said.
“Maybe,” Amil answered.
“He needs to practice. He’s a terrible reader,” I said.
“Yes, he is terrible, isn’t he?” he said, his eyes becoming bright and excited. We both giggled with our hands over our mouths. For some reason it made us happy to think about how terrible he was. I wondered if Papa had trouble seeing letters the right way like Amil. But that couldn’t be. He was a doctor. He read all those medical books. I hope he’ll read to us again.
Love, Nisha
* * *
August 6, 1947
Dear Mama,
I have so much to tell you! I’m bursting with it all, and I’m afraid I’ll never be able to sleep. Today I wished I could be a singer. Kazi took us to the market and told us to stay close. I hardly ever go to the market. Amil goes with Kazi, and I have always wondered why women and girls don’t go to the market more. It’s so bright and busy and exciting. Today Kazi didn’t want to leave us alone, so we all went, even Dadi. We stayed close to him as he went around and bought some yellow squash, a bag of potatoes, a bunch of peas, since we didn’t have any more in our garden, a pouch of cumin seeds, garlic, gingerroot, turmeric root, and two sticks of white rock candy for me and Amil. I knew from the potatoes and peas, that Kazi was going to make samosas, which he hardly ever does. I listened to all the sounds of the market, vendors calling out prices, children laughing and crying, the rush of dried spices, beans, and rice being poured into bags. Then we happened upon a group of boys playing music. They didn’t look much older than I was, but I hadn’t seen them before. One boy played the sitar, one played a tabla. Another played a bansuri. The boy playing the tabla also sang.
He was a slight boy, with very thick eyebrows and deep-set dark eyes. He had a clear, high-pitched voice, like cold running water. I wondered if they always sang at the market or was it unusual? People gathered around them to watch. The music rippled out in waves over the growing crowd. I could smell cashews roasting and ripe star fruit and the scent seemed to dance with the notes in the air. How lovely would it feel to sing like that, to change the air with my voice, to fill people’s ears with such pleasure. The sound cleared its own space and made it seem like everything was okay again. I wondered if it was. I watched them for a long time, not wanting the feeling to leave me. When Kazi was ready to go, Amil and Dadi had to pull me away.
At home I followed Kazi into the kitchen and tugged on his shirt so he’d turn around and look at me. I didn’t feel like talking at all today. Watching the boys made me want to be quiet, so I could think about them. I was afraid each word I might utter would somehow fade the memory. Kazi handed me a bowl. He told me how much flour to pour and I mixed the dough. He showed me how to roll it out into circles, cut them in
half, and put a spoonful of pea and potato filling in the middle of each one. Then he taught me how to fold the dough over the filling and dab the edges with water before pressing the corners together. Each samosa felt like a small animal, soft and warm in my hand. We worked quietly, me filling the dough, Kazi frying them until they became golden brown.
“Papa’s having a party tomorrow,” he told me. “Make sure you have your nice clothes ready.” His eyes lit up. Sweat and specs of splattered oil dotted his face.
I thought Kazi might be joking. A party? I thought we were supposed to be scared and sad now. How could we have a party? I had to tell Amil. I found him sitting in the garden putting little green beetles in holes he dug, burying them alive.
“That’s mean,” I said.
“They can crawl back out. I like to watch. They work so hard.”
“Well, if they don’t they’ll die!” I cried.
“But they don’t let themselves die,” Amil said. “They fight.”
“We’re having a party,” I finally said after watching a beetle work its way back out of a hole.
Amil jumped up and kept jumping while he talked, which he often did. He said he had known it because this morning he saw Papa take out the jasmine incense. Papa says you always burned some before a party.
I asked Amil what he thought the reason was, but he didn’t know. We ran back to the kitchen to ask Kazi. Kazi told us Papa would tell us when he got home. Amil and I sat around by the door like lonely dogs and waited for Papa. I read and Amil sketched little beetles crawling out of their holes, and then we heard Papa’s heavy step on the stone walk.
“Papa, Papa,” we called, running toward him. “Why are we having a party?”
The Night Diary Page 4