Dead or Missing

This was the year when everyone huddled around family or community radio sets to listen to names of those who were dead or had gone missing in the riots. Like every evening, the special radio bulletin began with the names of those who had died in the riots. Labhayaram, 35, son of Gainda Ram, Lahore; Bhannaram, 45, son of Fakirchand; Pyarelal,40, son of Lainaram, Lyallpur; Jagga,25, son of Gurmail Singh, Rawalpindi; Veera,16, daughter of Madanlal, Mianwali; Meshi, 8, son of Lalchand, Montgomery; Hakim Tarachand, 80, son of Bhairamal, Jhang; Gulabo, 36, daughter of Makhan Singh…Mother and daughter held each other and listened to the names holding their breath. Only when the two names- Manikram and Baldev- they did not want to hear were not among the list of the dead did they let go of each other and began to breathe. They had been holding their breath for almost six months now letting it out only for a few seconds every evening. The rest of the day, after completing their domestic chores, they hugged each other and sobbed silently lest the children should hear them and get frightened. The son and the husband who had not returned had brought the two women, the fifty -five -year -old widowed mother everyone called Bhabhi(Mother) and her thirty- six -year- old married daughter Satya, closer than they had ever been in their entire lives. It also released the tension that had built between the mother and daughter with the married daughter arriving with her five children to seek shelter in her brother’s home.

A married daughter is warmly welcomed by her parents and brothers when she comes visiting during festivals or other family functions. But when she comes back to stay, she becomes a burden. Having to flee her vast farmlands on the other side of the border and herself and her unmarried daughter becoming dependent on her government officer son, Bhabhi had learnt to  sew up her tongue. Satya’s husband had left her in her brother’s house with a few hundred rupees and promised to return soon. The first couple of weeks felt like the annual visit and the daughter and her children were warmly welcomed as loved guests. Soon the rations began to run out with  a single income, food scarcity and curfews and the hospitality began to show its strains. It started with a sweet boondi ladoo.   In normal times, Bhabhi would order large 16 kg  tins of ladoos before Satya and the children arrived for their summer vacation and stocked up on other homemade goodies like matthis and pinnis.The children were used to feasting on the treats their grandmother had in store for them, the son Kailash, in particular, surviving on snacks and fruits alone. In these days, sweetmeats had become a rare luxury warranted by a special occasion. The neighbors had distributed laddoos as was the custom to celebrate the birth of a son but not in kilograms as they would in normal times but a few as prasad.  Savitri, Bhabhi’s unmarried daughter, had a sweet tooth and gobbled it up without sharing it even with little Kailash. Satya dragged her children out of her brother’s house and moved in the adjoining hone separated by a staircase. She had a thousand bucks, she quickly calculated, enough to pay for rent and food.  

Bhabhi watched her leave helplessly.  Bhabhi had a perfectly oval face with chiseled features, a pink-hued complexion and a slim, toned, fit body thanks to her rigorous physical routine in the farmhouse. She sighed and went into the kitchen to cook the meal in accordance with her daughter-in-law’s instructions. She began to roll out the first five rotis to be given to all created beings – the cow, the crow, the dog, the fish and the Brahmin – when Puro, her daughter-in-law, came to check on her. “Who are those for?”, she demanded. “ Daughter, we can’t eat without feeding Creation”, Bhabhi reasoned. Puro was livid. She covered her head and rushed downstairs where her husband Kishendev was engaged in a meeting with the neighborhood committee on how many male members should patrol the area every night to prevent any attacks. “Listen, I can’t put up with this”, Puro complained.  Bhabhi agreed to compromise on the size of the rotis to be donated. In all other matters, she gave in to Puro’s authority and kept out of her way. She went through the chores assigned to her listlessly. Her mind was occupied, as always, with thoughts of her younger son. “What if he were never to return”, she thought to herself. “She and her daughter would have to live with Puro as unwanted dependents.” Kishendev had just walked into the room. “How are you Bhabhi? Don’t worry, Baldev will be back soon”, he comforted her before going to join his newly wedded wife. Savitri muttered under her breath, “Did you notice how henpecked he is”? Bhabhi hushed her and told her to mind her own business. Her thoughts went back to her old house where she ruled like a queen.  She began to miss her late husband who came back loaded with sacks of gold coins after every golden harvest. He was even known to have kept a mistress. But he left the house under her sole control.

Satya was short,  fair and plump and had a broad face with high cheekbones and a wide jaw. She counted the money she had left after paying the rent. “What would she do if her husband did not return”?, she asked herself, “Shouldn’t she have put up with small things  considering that she had been provided free food and shelter”. But her self-respect made her throw all caution to the winds and pretend everything was going to be all right. To get over the imagined insult, she decided to make the children their favorite malpuas. On a rainy day like this, she would always serve them freshly fried hot malpuas. Her eldest daughter, barely 11, spread a mat and seated all her siblings in a row before serving them one by one. The houseowner walked up to inquire if they had settled in and was surprised by the refugee family feasting. “It was none of his concern so long his rent was paid”, he told himself and stepped out complimenting Satya’s eldest for her domestic skills. Savitri could smell the malpuas being fried next door. But she knew she had lost the right to invite herself to her beloved sister’s hearth after her unbecoming act. She sat down to a frugal meal with Bhabhi thinking of all the fun times she would have at her sister Satya’s house in the big city. In fact, Satya had brought her to live with her and left the household in her care. She treated her like one of her own children. Satya retreated to her room after feeding the children and began to think of her husband. “Was he alive? Was be safe? Would he be able to make his way back?”, she began to tremble with fear and saw, through the corners of her eyes, her eldest daughter sneak in to find out if she was all right. The toddler lay by her side trying to attract her attention. The other three were playing oblivious to what was happening around them.

Satya walked down to her brother’s sitting room to listen to the evening bulletin and found Bhabhi already seated there. They held each other and cocked their ears to listen to the names of those dead and missing. They prayed that the names of their beloved ones were not among them and sighed with relief after the last name was announced. As they walked back, they overheard Kishendev sharing the latest news with the men, including a police officer, who had assembled in the room. A ghost train had arrived from the other side with butchered bodies and the local ruler’s instructions were to retaliate tit for tat. Warrior Sikh clusters had been instructed to unleash  their swords on hapless caravans fleeing on foot. Bhabhi and Satya clutched each other to stop themselves from falling. What if their son and husband were caught in the middle of a similar pogrom on the other side? They began to shake with fear and buried themselves under thick covers to stop the children from guessing how serious the situation was. Neither could sleep a wink the entire night thinking about all the evil that might have befallen Manikram and Baldev. But life had to go on. The toddler wouldn’t sleep without her glass of milk. Since the curfew was on, Satya sent her two middle children early in the morning to jump across the terraces and fetch milk from the milkman. It was just about enough for their morning tea and the toddler. Later, when the curfew was relaxed, she sent them to the cornershop to fetch groceries and vegetables not realizing the big risk she had taken.

Mornings brought tidings of massacres and killings; evenings announced names of those who had died or had gone missing. Mother and daughter, Bhabhi and Satya, cooked and engaged in other household chores to keep themselves sane through these insane times. They wept alone or together waiting for their loved ones, held their breaths and released them in unison, dealt with their anxieties for six long months.  Satya’s finances were running out quickly. Puro was increasingly becoming resentful having to feed so many mouths from a single salary and lost no opportunity to throw veiled barbs at Bhabhi. Bhabhi worried endlessly about how she was going to put together Savitri’s dowry. Her memories went back to the generous dowry she gifted her middle daughter through the sale of a single, bounteous harvest. By October, most of those who were left behind were able to cross the border and reunite with their families. Manikram and Baldev were still not back. The only hope that kept the two women going was the relief in not finding their names in the evening bulletin. They hoped that they were alive. Perhaps they had been able survive by changing their religion. Perhaps they were sick or wounded. All kinds of fears haunted their minds. During the day, they would divert themselves by busying themselves with day to day affairs. But they would be plagued by frightening images as soon as the night set in. When they put their heads down to sleep, the thought of nightmares made them afraid to close their eyes.  

The only ones who bloomed through this extended vacation were the children. Perhaps Satya’s eldest daughter had some clue as to what her mother was going through. The rest pranced about inventing new games even out of unusual situations like the curfew. The toddler had grown but had not started to speak yet. Every morning the children would take her to the terrace and ask her when their father would return coaxing her to speak. The crow had been cawing since early morning, a sign that they would have a visitor. The toddler saw something on the street below and uttered her first word. All their eyes followed her gaze. Their father had alighted from a Tonga and was walking towards the house. They screamed with excitement and ran inside to inform their mother Satya. Satya stood stunned as Manikram inched towards her. His khaki uniform was splattered with blood and he was carrying a rifle.  He was tottering on his feet. As she took his arm to guide him into the house, she found that he was burning with high fever. Bhabhi was waiting at the threshold as they stepped in. But, instead of welcoming her son-in-law home by pouring mustard oil on the threshold, she let out a loud, piercing wail. “You are back. Where is my Baldev?”, she tugged at his shirt. “Stop crying Bhabhi”, Manikram turned on his heels and mounted the Tonga, “I will bring him back”. Satya hated her mother that day for her inauspicious wailing. True to his word, Manikram was back with Baldev in a couple of days. The families were together at last.

The radio continued to announce the names of the dead and the missing for the next few months. They could never reunite with their families.