The Night Diary

by Veera Hiranandani

  “Do what?” Amil asked.

  “Make Papa so mad,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Amil said. “Papa really looks at me when I cry.”

  “He always feels bad when he hits you,” I said.

  “That’s the best part,” he had said.

  Now I wondered if Papa was mad enough to hit Amil.

  “I know you’re sorry,” was all Papa said. He briskly wiped the tears that started to fall off Amil’s face. “Don’t cry. Your body needs to hold on to all the water it has.”

  I was relieved at first as we continued on the trail. But since it was obvious Papa wasn’t going to hit him, I felt a burst of anger at Amil. Why couldn’t he be more careful? What if we couldn’t get water fast enough? But I couldn’t say that to Amil. Then I would be like Papa. I don’t want to be like Papa. I want to be like you were, Mama, bright and elegant, creating beauty all around you, always kind. That’s how I think you were. I can tell by your picture, see it in your eyes. Sometimes I want to be like Kazi, too, safe with my vegetables, spices, and knives in the kitchen, letting the food speak for me. I love Papa, but I don’t want to be as serious and sad as he is. And yet I’m probably like Papa the most. Is Amil like you? He’s not really elegant, but he’s hardly ever sad. Even when he is, the happiness starts to creep in and makes his legs jumpy, his eyes flicker. The happy energy always takes over. For me, it’s the opposite.

  We tried to drink even less water today, and my throat started to feel dry. My legs began quivering like jelly in the heat. We did find some mango orchards and were able to each grab a bunch for our sacks. Papa said to only eat two a day. I ate one and saved the other for hours, feeling the weight of the mango hit my back as we walked. I finally ate it while we rested by some rocks. I opened the skin with my teeth and pulled the rest of it off with my hand and bit into it. The tangy, thick juice flooded my mouth and I shivered. My teeth sank farther into the soft ripe flesh. After only eating old roti and dal and not much water, it was like eating a fruit custard made out of honey and butter. I wanted to stay there resting, eating mangoes, the breeze blowing on me, almost like I was on holiday, not fleeing the only home I’ve ever had.

  Kazi used to cut up every mango in four pieces, two large ones along the flat side of the big pit in the middle and two small ones along the edges of the pit. Amil and I would fight over the pit, loving to gnaw every bit of fruit off it, the filmy stickiness coating our hands and face.

  We’ve probably walked about eighteen miles or more. We have almost used up our roti and dal, but we still have the dry rice, peas, and lentils. Will Rashid Uncle be kind to us when we arrive there, Mama? It’s so strange that we are meeting him now. I’m a little excited and also afraid. Does he hate Papa? All this time, your brother was sixty-five miles away and we never knew it.

  My feet are burning even as I sit here and write. I only have one pair of worn leather sandals. I wrap my blisters in cool leaves, but they keep falling off. It still feels so strange to say that the ground where my sore feet step on is not India anymore, but a place called Pakistan. I feel bad for the people who carry many things piled on wagons and their backs. They tried to take too much.

  Papa says that once we are over the border he will be able to find work easily, that doctors are always needed. Papa says his brothers will have a home for us in Jodhpur and we will get new things eventually. That’s why we barely took anything. I feel lucky that Papa is a doctor. It is the only thing I feel lucky about right now as I try to sleep on my mat, flat against the earth, staring up at the clear sky through the fog of the mosquito net, my throat tasting like dust.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  August 21, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  I woke up feeling terrible today. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. My head pounded. My fingers tingled. When I tried to get up, my arms and legs felt filled with sand.

  “Amil,” I said, nudging him out of sleep. “Are you feeling strange?”

  He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. I looked over at Papa and he opened his eyes, and we stared in a way that we never look at each other, not like father and daughter, but simply like two people who are both scared. It made me see Papa suddenly as a person, not just my papa, like a secret door had opened. Then he blinked and it was over.

  I crawled over my mat, past Amil, who had fallen back asleep, and I kneeled next to Papa. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Today we will find water,” he said.

  I nodded. I wanted to ask him how, but I didn’t want him to take his hand away, so I kept silent, but he removed it anyway. I knew we couldn’t walk ten miles today without water. We only had a couple sips left in our jugs.

  “Is your mouth dry?” Papa asked, sitting up cross-legged on his mat.

  “Not really,” I murmured in a gravelly voice, turning away from him.

  He leaned over and told me to open my mouth. I did as he asked. He squinted in, examining the inside as he pressed his strong fingers against the sides of my face. Then he checked my eyes by lifting up my eyelids. He checked my pulse and lightly pinched the skin on the back of my hand.

  “You’re okay,” he said. “You have another day in you.”

  Another day and then what? I didn’t want to know. Then he went over to Amil. He shook his shoulder, but Amil just moaned with his eyes closed.

  “Amil,” Papa said loudly.

  Amil stirred and turned toward Papa. Dadi came over and squatted by his shoulder.

  “Sit up,” Papa said sternly.

  Amil just blinked at him.

  “Sit up,” Papa said even louder.

  Amil hoisted himself up.

  “I feel sick,” Amil said in a scratchy voice, his skin dry, his eyes sunken. Papa did all the things he did to me, but he didn’t tell Amil he had another day in him.

  “Do you have any more water?” Papa asked Amil. Amil shook his head and looked down, shame in his hunched shoulders. He poked his finger into the sandy dirt. He made a line, then another. A picture of a tree suddenly appeared.

  Papa gave him his own jug. Amil shook his head.

  “Take it. You must,” and he thrust it at Amil and swatted his drawing hand.

  “Papa,” Amil said, taking the jug and shaking it a little. “There’s only a sip in here. I don’t deserve to finish your water.”

  “Nonsense,” Papa said. “Drink.”

  Amil drank it in one small gulp. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he said, his eyes down on the ground again. He stared at the tree he made.

  I went over to my sack, pulled out my last mango and handed it to Amil.

  “Did you at least save a mango?” Papa asked Amil. Amil nodded. We all had one left.

  “Let’s eat them now and we’ll find more today. Nisha eat yours. Amil has his own.”

  “And water,” Dadi said. “We must find water.” Dadi’s voice was also rough and dry.

  I looked at her, she appeared pale and sunken around her eyes. Poor Dadi. She should be resting in her favorite chair, singing softly as she mended Papa’s shirts. I wouldn’t dare say this out loud, but I’m so angry at all the leaders, like Jinnah and Nehru, who were supposed to know better, who were supposed to protect us, who were supposed to make sure things like this didn’t happen. I’m even angry at Gandhi for not being able to stop it.

  Papa seemed fine. Nothing weakened Papa. In fact, I could never remember him ever being sick, not once. How was that possible? He worked with sickness and disease his whole adult life. Maybe Papa isn’t actually human, but a god watching over us. His first name, Suresh, means that he’s a ruler of all the gods, the protector, another name for Lord Vishnu. Maybe the worried look in his eye as he examined me and Amil was just for show. Mama, did you ever think that about Papa?

  Papa made me take the last of my water. I took one sip and handed the j
ug to Dadi.

  “No, no, sweet child,” she said, patting my arm. “I have a bit left.”

  But I didn’t see her sip from her jug. I held the jug toward Papa.

  “Drink,” he said with stern eyes. So I did. I let it trickle down my throat, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t think of anything more beautiful than buckets of cool, clean water to drink. I ate my mango, but my tongue felt numb and I could barely taste it this time. The thickness of the fruit clung to my lips. It made me yearn for water even more.

  We gathered our belongings silently. Normally I was the one who was quiet, my family making noise around me. I liked the noises, Amil’s chattering, Dadi’s singing or prayers, Papa directing us to do this and that. And Kazi, talking to me in the kitchen. He was the only one in my house who never minded if I didn’t answer back, which made me want to talk more. Now the silence covered all of us like mist. We rolled our mats, packed our sacks, and arranged them on our backs. I picked up Dadi’s jug when she wasn’t looking and shook it. It was empty.

  Again I was thankful for the little we had to carry, except for the water. We should have brought a wagonload. I didn’t think much about water back home. Badal, the water man, would bring it up the hill to our compound every day from the well. Two leather sacks hung from a big pole across his back. He whistled happily while he walked up the hill, as if he were carrying feathers. I never thought about how heavy it must have been and how lucky we were to have someone bring it to us every day. A wave of shame rippled through the center of my body and made me feel sicker.

  Now it feels like water is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. It isn’t only thirst. We haven’t washed since we started out. A film of dirt, dust, and sweat coat me like a light covering of hair. My feet are caked with dirt. My teeth feel like apricot skin. It’s strange that we don’t even have to go to the bathroom anymore. I tried not to think of water as I hoisted my pack and bedroll on my back. I saw a family walking past us in the same direction. I caught a girl’s eyes, a few years younger than me, hair and clothing rumpled and dirty. She looked like a small, frightened animal, weighed down by her belongings. I probably looked like that to her.

  Papa went ahead to the passing family and leaned his head toward the man of the group, probably speaking in his firm, but gentle doctorly tone that made everything seem all right even when it was terribly wrong. He pointed over to us and turned back. The man wiggled his head and Papa walked back.

  “What did you say, Papa?” Amil said, perking up from the moment of mystery.

  “I asked for water. I offered him some of our food. But they only have a bit left, with four children. He said there’s running water in the next village an hour away.”

  “How does he know that?” Amil asked.

  “Use your head. There’s always water in a village.”

  Amil didn’t dare ask any more questions. There was something comforting in the way that Papa was treating Amil. It was the way he always treated him, like an annoying fly. But still, I wish Papa would be nicer to him. Amil is only being all he knows how to be. But I guess Papa is, too. I guess we all are. It’s just that some people are better at being than others.

  We continued to walk in silence. Papa in the front, me, Amil, then Dadi in a line. There were people up ahead and behind. The dirt felt hard underfoot, and the sun beamed hotly on our bodies drying them out even more. I thought of Kazi and the dried apricots, mangoes, and tomatoes he used to make by hanging thin slices in the sun. I loved the chewiness of the dried fruit, their taste pure and sun-filled, no water to interrupt the flavor. Amil never liked to eat dried fruit. He said it reminded him of the skin of very old people. I thought of us shriveling up like pieces of sliced mangoes.

  I slowed my pace a little so Amil could catch up to me. I glanced behind me. His steps didn’t have the bounce in them they normally did.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him in a whisper, and touched his shoulder.

  He nodded. His eyes were dull.

  “Really?” I said, my heart speeding up a bit.

  He nodded again.

  “Because you can tell me if you’re not,” I said.

  “Nisha,” he said through gritted teeth, “stop.”

  So I closed my mouth and walked next to him instead of in front of him.

  Papa was ahead of us, since Amil was slow, but I didn’t care. I matched my pace with Amil exactly as I could, making sure our feet hit and left the ground at the exact same time. I made it a game and the sound of our footfalls became a beat to a song I heard in my head. It was an old song I heard, a song that Dadi used to sing to us before bed when we were little. Amil used to sing with Dadi, and Dadi would shush him and tell him he wouldn’t fall asleep if he sang with her. I remember wishing he would be quiet, too. I just wanted to hear Dadi’s voice. Sometimes I would close my eyes and pretend it was you singing to us, Mama. But he would stop only for a few seconds and then start up again. I realized I haven’t heard Amil sing in a long time. What I would do to hear him sing now.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  August 22, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  We are not good. I can barely write, but if we die here, I want someone to find this. I want someone to know what we went through. There is no answer for our suffering. We are in the rainy season, but it doesn’t rain much here. It rained before we started, and now when we need it most, the sky is as dry as our throats. I keep looking up searching for dark clouds, but all I see is blinding blue. Can you send us some rain, Mama?

  I also don’t think Papa is Vishnu after all. As we got closer to the village, I heard voices, and some yelling and crying. Then I could see a line leading to the pump. We stood at the end of the line and Papa went up ahead.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I want to see what’s going on.”

  We watched him walk up. The voices grew louder and then we heard a deep yell, and after, a high-pitched scream. The line loosened as everyone tried to see what happened.

  Amil started walking closer to see.

  “Stay back,” Dadi called after him, but he kept walking.

  “Amil!” I called, but he wouldn’t turn around. I stayed with Dadi, but I wanted to see, too.

  “Dadi, can we go closer?” I whispered to her. She squeezed my hand hard until it hurt.

  “Don’t be foolish,” she whispered back, but craned her neck over the crowd. There was more yelling. Amil came back, walking slowly. Normally he would be running and jumping from excitement, but if he felt anything like me, it was hard work just to stand, and I know he felt worse. His eyes had a film covering them, but I could see a frightened spark behind the glaze.

  “A man stole water from another man and cut his arm with a knife. Papa’s trying to stop the bleeding.”

  Dadi put her hand to her mouth. I wasn’t thinking about the man bleeding. I didn’t think about the knife. This is what I thought, Mama—if Papa helped the man, someone would have to give us water. I was jealous of the man who ran off with the water. That’s what thirst has done to me.

  I wondered if Amil or Dadi was thinking what I was thinking, not that I could ever ask them. And then I saw it a few feet away: a large container on the ground, no one too near it. I could tell the way it sat firmly on the ground that it was heavy, probably filled with water. I started to inch toward it. If I could get a good gulp and quickly give one to Amil and Dadi, we’d be able to go another day. I inched over until I was only a foot away and reached out. I saw feet fly toward me and a man grabbed the jug, dust and dirt rising up. I staggered back and the man growled at me. He actually growled. I recoiled like a cat. Dadi pulled me back in line.

  “Nisha, what are you doing? Stand close!” I froze next to her, afraid to move.

  We got closer to the pump. Amil was ahead of us, walking slowly. Then I saw Papa, kneeling on the ground by a man, splashes of blood in the dirt. He
was wrapping a shirt around the man’s wound. The man had his head tipped back, his eyes closed. A woman stood crying over him, a baby on her hip, wiping her eyes with her shawl. The pump ran dry. A man furiously stood pumping and pumping, but nothing came out. Some groups started to walk away.

  I eyed the man with Papa and looked around for other water containers. There was one next to the injured man, but he held on to it with his free hand. Other people went up to the pump and tried it, even though the person before got nothing. After Papa finished dressing the man’s wound, Papa asked him if we could have a sip of water and pointed toward us. I moved forward, my mouth parted slightly. I imagined the water sliding down my throat. The man eyed me, then Amil and Dadi. He quickly got to his feet. “Not enough,” he said, and hobbled away as fast as he could, clutching the container, his wife and baby following.

  I wanted to grab the man by the shoulders. We deserved this water! He might have bled to death without Papa’s help. Take it, Papa, I wanted to scream, just take it. But instead I cast my eyes down on the blood in the dirt.

  Love, Nisha

  * * *

  August 24, 1947

  Dear Mama,

  I’ve never really thought about dying before. I mean I’ve thought about other people dying, but I’ve never thought about me not actually being here anymore. You think I would have because I’ve seen many people dying in hospital beds, eyes rolled up to the ceiling, mouths hanging open. I’ve seen them covered with a sheet when they’ve passed. I’ve seen them lying on their funeral beds covered in flowers, being wheeled down the street by their families on the way to cremation. I’ve seen Papa’s oldest brother, Vijay Uncle, who died of a heart attack two years ago, covered in white cloth, orange and yellow flowers placed carefully around his lifeless body before his cremation, looking as peaceful as someone napping.

  But yesterday morning I thought we were all going to die. Amil first, then Dadi, then me, then Papa. That’s the order of how I thought it would happen. We would just flicker out like flames in the quiet night. My mind filled with inky dark colors, like someone had locked me in a box. Just five days ago we were sleeping in Kazi’s cottage. Kazi. What was he doing right now? It hurt to think about it.