No home but in the mind

April 8, 1947

I was seven years old and in Standard 3. Hindi Miss was teaching us how to pronounce the word Stree [woman]. Just then the watchman ran in without knocking at the door and shouted that the school was going to close and all children must go home. Hindu Muslim riots had broken out and curfew had been imposed for three days. Happy to escape the Hindi ‘matra’, I raced out of the room and searched for my 11 year-old-sister who I called behnji which means sister in Punjabi. Behnji was already waiting with a stern expression on her face at the gate. Excited to be allowed to return home, I was puzzled when behnji held my hand firmly, wrapped the chunni tightly around her head and torso and began to walk at a brisk pace. The busy street leading to our house was deserted with a few policemen waiting at the street corner. I could hear behnji’s breathing and feel her fingers tense on mine. We crossed the temple and turned into the narrow lane and reached home where Mother was waiting for us anxiously. Father had gone to bring home my five-year-old brother Meet whose school was in the other part of the town. He returned two hours later without Meet. He kept pacing up and down the sitting room. Mother, white with fear. sat down on the floor. I looked at each one of them in turns looking for reassurance. There was a loud knock on the door and Meet wobbled in. He was sweating profusely, his hair was disheveled, his shirt was out of his shorts and one sock had ridden down. Mother pulled him in and began to kiss him all over murmuring, ‘My son, my son.’ We all folded ourselves around him, gave him fresh lemonade to drink and made him lie down. That’s when it occurred to us ask him how he found his way home. He had followed the popcorn vendor who used to frequent both our street and his school and got home. I was very impressed by my smart brother.

April 30, 1947

It was my school annual day. It began with a Sanskrit chant and the Principal gave a nice speech telling all the students of Arya School that they must always uphold the honour of their families. Then they began to give away prizes to the top-rankers in each grade. I was so busy clapping away as the awardees went up to the stage that I missed my name. I felt behnji nudging me to go up and collect my prize. It took several nudges from behnji for me to muster the courage to walk up the steps to the stage and accept the prize. I couldn’t wait to get home to open what was in the shining gift paper. It was an illustrated book. I pranced back happily so that I can share the news with my parents. Mother looked annoyed because behnji had complained to her about my reluctance to go up. I had to wait for Father to return from work to get a pat on my back. I got an anna as my pocket money that day. I held Meet’s hand and sprinted out to the corner shop. Making Meet, my partner in crime, promise that he will not tell on me, I bought all the marbles in all possible colours that an anna could buy. I had often dreamed of owning a pocketful of marbles and today I had them jangling in my shirt pocket.

June 3, 1947

Lord Mountbatten announced the Partition and the city exploded in riots. Once again curfew was clamped on the city. Three days after the curfew was relaxed for a few hours, we went to the school to pick up our new textbooks and notebooks. But we returned home to find the house in a mess and Mother packing her saris in a tin trunk. In a voice that would brook no questioning, she ordered us to pack up our clothes in our little tin trunks. In the midst of all the hullaballoo Father had been posted to Quetta and had to join duty within a couple of days. It didn’t seem like a bad idea to spend our summer vacation in the hill station I had heard so much about from Father. I chucked all my frocks, chemises, bloomers, sweaters and towels in my little trunk and sat on the trunk so that it would close. I wanted to add my rag doll and books too but there was no more space. Father had clearly instructed Mother to pack only what was required for the summer vacation. But I saw mother packing all her brass and copper pots and pans in a gunnysack and hiding it behind the trunks. When the tongah arrived next morning to take us to the railway station, Father noticed the gunnysack resting against the trunks and flew into a fit of rage, “I told you that you are not going to carry anything other than clothes.” Mother stood her grounds, “And how I am going to cook?” and had her way even though Father threw a couple of brass tumblers and bowls from the running tongah. We travelled in a toy train that had three engines, one in the front, one in the middle and one at the rear. Mother told us to duck as the train whistled past the mountains because it was rumoured that Kabaili Pathans take away children. Quetta was a city straight out of fairy tales. It was completely devastated by an earthquake and its signs were visible in the debris of the houses adjoining ours. Riots and curfews followed us to Quetta. We stayed home all through our summer vacation and searched for pieces of broken china in the debris of the houses.

August 12, 1947

Father decided to take us to Mother’s brother’s place in Patiala. Mother spent the entire night packing up. We were now in the train to Patiala and had the entire coupe to ourselves. Father got down to fill up the earthen pot when the train stopped at a station. Suddenly we saw a mob appear out of nowhere flashing swords and Father racing back to the train balancing the pot. He boarded the train just in the nick of time and shut the doors on both sides. Once again, we got the scare of our lives when people started pounding on the door. Mother and Father stacked the tin trunks one on top of the other and pushed them against each door. Mother was shaking from head to toe. Fortunately, the train pulled out of the station and the pounding stopped. We saw Uncle waiting to receive us at the station and heaved a sigh of relief. But Father decided to return to Quetta on 14^th August to pick up his transfer papers! As the train began to move, he heard people shouting ‘Long Live Pakistan.’ He turned the tin trunk on which his name was painted and join the chorus. The four months in Patiala were like four years. First of all, Mother began to show tantrums. She stormed out of Uncle’s house and rented a small apartment opposite his because Jeet was denied a sweetmeat. Every evening they would announce the names of those who died in the riots on the radio. When the names of our loved ones did not figure among them, we would go to bed in the hope that they would arrive soon. Mother could be heard sobbing silently when she thought we were all asleep. Every morning we would stand on the open terrace looking for Father. I would run down to Uncle’s sitting room where the men would be making plans about how to guard their lanes in the eventuality of an attack. I would eavesdrop shamelessly. One day I overheard them talking about Muslims leaving Patiala. I bounded up the steps to watch a kafila of men, women and children carrying bundles walking past the city square. Then the streets went silent. Curfew was imposed. I watched a Muslim beggar being chased by a mob. He was begging them for his life this time. He tried to hide in the open drain. But they slaughtered him before our eyes. I held Jeet’s hands. “Now they are going to get us,” I whispered and ran into the safety of the room. It was another day of waiting for Father. We asked my sister, a toddler who had not yet learnt to speak if he would arrive on that day. She uttered her first word when the tongah stopped in front of the house and Father appeared wearing a khaki uniform and holding a rifle in hand. He was running a high fever and his clothes were splattered with blood. Instead of welcoming him home, grandmother began to wail because her son was sill missing. Three days later Father was back Uncle in tow.

Farewell Patiala. We were moving to our new home and life.

April 8, 2020

I am flying back to my new home in New York after spending six months in the home I made nearly twenty years ago. Like the nomadic pathans who came down to Quetta every winter, I would return home every six months. Once again, I have packed only essential clothes and a few other belongings because of the baggage restrictions on international flights. I am toying with the idea of carrying some photographs but decide against it because they would add to the weight. A dozen sets of salwar kameezes, six for home wear and six for going out. I have bought cotton underwear, nightwear and two spools of pajama strings that one can’t get in the US. 

At the last minute, I remembered my diary and slipped it into my handbag. I checked all the rooms to make sure that I had not left anything important behind. I looked under the soft cotton blanket that I wrapped around myself when the night was cool and found the warmth of the bed in which I had tucked in all my memories, some happy, some sad. I opened the carved dresser and pulled out some safety pins that might come in handy. I sat on the handcrafted wooden chair that I had found in the Crafts emporium and tried to make a mental list of all the things I would need on the journey. Finally, I checked the stove in the kitchen as I always did before leaving home. I felt no sense of attachment to the objects I had accumulated over the last two decades. But I was going to miss the familiar layout where I could walk around blindfolded and find my way to each part of the house. The height of the chairs and the beds, the finish of the tabletop, the chest of drawers had all been built with an eye on comfort and aesthetics. I could wake up and go to bed when I felt like. I would sometimes lie in for an entire week and not meet anyone. On other days, I would be out all day. There were days I subsisted on soda and a packet of wafers alone. On others I would cook all the dishes that I loved. More than anything else, I could be me and in total control over how I wished to lead my life. The next six months I would be confined in a well-furnished room and provided everything I need except someone I can talk to.

April 9, 2019

I arrived in New York early in the morning and was ushered in a bedroom with a beautiful view of the Central Park. Jetlagged after my long journey, I snuggled into the freshly made bed and went to sleep as soon as my head touched the willow. When I woke up, the sky had turned orange with the sun setting. I looked out of the window and saw New Yorkers pouring out of the subway and walking to their apartments. Some of them stopped by in the restaurants lining the street to take away parcels of food. I was slightly disoriented. Where was I? At this time, I would be walking out to the park in front of my house in India for a two-hour long chat with my friends, wives or widows of superannuated officers. I would return at 7 p.m. sharp for the long-distance call from New York before getting down to cooking my dinner. Once the dinner was done, I would settle down on my carved couch to watch my favourite television soaps until dinnertime. In New York, it was already dinnertime. My househelp cum cook brought me hot chapatis with vegetables and dal so that I would feel at home. I was always treated as a special guest on the first day with everyone fussing around to make feel at ease. On this weekend, we also had a family celebration to boot which meant I would get to meet a lot of people. Having slept all day, I was up at 3 in the morning but lay in bed waiting for the day to break. Lying on my bed, I could see the highrises and landmarks a long way from our apartment and the first light of dawn. I got out of bed when I heard the househelp turn in the key and let herself in. I could hear her putting the kettle on to make my chai. I could smell the croissants she had picked up from the bakery below. At this time in India, I would be listening to bhajans on television and sipping my morning cup of tea and waiting for the milk delivery boy to ring the doorbell before stepping out for my morning walk. Here I had nothing to do other than wait for the next meal to be served. There was my breakfast set on the coffee table. It was a big change from the dosas off the griddle that I had back home. The get together was held in an Indian temple. Everyone had turned up in their Indian outfits acquired on the last visit to India and chunks of gold jewellery. They welcomed me to New York. The catered lunch was hosted by one of the families and consisted of a festive Punjabi meal. The familiar language, attire and cuisine made me feel I was still in India. But the next day was going to be another story.w

April 10, 2019

After the festivities of the previous day that made New York seem like home, it is back to work. Monday morning blues! Monday morning blues! Everyone seems to be experiencing the feeling. Of going back to the daily grind. Househelp arrives at 8 a.m. Everyone else leaves home looking very glum. She goes wordlessly to get the tea and coffee going. Hardboiled eggs for some, fruits for others and buns for me. I will have her for company the rest of the day. She is quite a chatterbox and waits until we have the house to ourselves to fill me in on all the gossip in Queens. She pours herself a cup of tea, breaks a bun and begins her endless tales of woe. It is the same story. Of battered wives. Of their struggles to put their children through school or college. I could have been be in India with my househelp beginning her workday with the mandatory fifteen-minute ritual of sharing the problem of the day. My routine in New York has been arranged to replicate the one in India. Breakfast followed by a leisurely shower and watching tele soaps about bad mothers-in-law on Zee TV until lunch. A proper Indian lunch comprising of hot rotis, stir fried vegetables and dal and a glass of buttermilk. More TV after lunch with a running commentary by the househelp on gossip about the actors and the stars. Tea at 3.30 p.m. before she calls it a day and I retreat to my bedroom for a nap. A nap that extends to a couple of hours. Then I stand by the glass window and watch the world go past. From the safety of the apartment on the 15^th floor and the comforting aroma of freshly made rotis and Hindi melodramas, I love the diversity that the city offers. I watch white men and women walk past on the road below and admire the women’s smart streetwear. I have come to differentiate Yugoslavians from Americans because they are here on asylum visas. Why I have even begun to think that black people are beautiful! Only yesterday I see a young woman with a velvet dark skin flounce past and thought she was absolutely stunning. I have acquired a taste for pizzas and lasagna competes with paratha as my favourite food. 

April 13, 2019

Curfew has been imposed on the city due to a racist attack on a Sikh academic who was out on an evening walk. It was a case of mistaken identity because Americans can’t tell the difference between a Sikh and a Muslim. And Muslim is the entire world’s enemy against whom a global war has been declared. It was the beginning of the Indian year. I went up to the terrace to get my daily dose of sun’s rays. I had barely settled in on the rattan chair when I heard a strange animal like cry and peered down to see a young bearded man dressed in ethnic salwar kameez lying still on the road. His white outfit had turned crimson. His hands were clutching at a book. I was a 7-year-old again watching a Muslim beggar vivisected with a sword. “They are going to get us now,”

I heard my brother whisper. I looked for him to hold his fingers and run into the safety of the room. “Don’t tell Mother”, I shushed him and found myself being led downstairs by the househelp. “What happened? Who were you talking to”? she asked me. But I couldn’t explain to her what it was to witness violence.