The Rest of Their Lives

Submitted into Contest #97 in response to: Start your story with an unexpected knock on a window.... view prompt

94 comments

Historical Fiction Fiction Drama

Trigger warning: Violence

This story is inspired by true events.

“Ammi, I’m waiting,” I cried, gazing longingly at the empty plate in Ammi’s hand from which she’d just served the last makki ki roti (cornbread) to my elder brother, Ali.

Abbu shot me a disappointed look from across the table. He loathed impatience.

“Two minutes, Inaya,” said Ammi, wiping the sweat on her forehead with her dupatta as she disappeared into the kitchen where I could see my Chachi (paternal aunt) flattening a roti between her hands and placing it over the tawa. Overhead in the dining room, our decades-old ceiling fan creaked on, mixing the hot air with the heady scent of sarson ka saag (a spiced curry made of mustard greens), which lay steaming and delicious on my plate with a dollop of melting ghee (clarified butter) on top, while I waited for my makki ki roti to devour it with.

“Umm,” said Ali, closing his eyes and moving his head from side to side. “Ammi, Chachi, the saag is delicious!” he cried, licking his fingers, an elaborate gesture carried out solely to spite me. 

Farhan nudged Ali, admonishing him for teasing me, and offered me his makki ki roti. “Take it,” he says kindly. “I’ll wait for the next one.”

I felt blood rushing to my face as I accepted the roti from my cousin, who was six years elder to me. Marrying cousins is common in my community and I wondered if he’d be my husband one day. While helping Ammi dry clothes on the terrace the other day when I’d asked her this question, she’d knitted her brows and replied sharply that eight-year-old girls should not ask such questions.

Hungrily, I broke a piece of makki ki roti, doused it in saag and brought it to my mouth when there was an urgent knock at the kitchen window. This was odd. Our kitchen was located at the back of the house and if we had any visitors, they always knocked at the front door.

A cloud of worry darkened Abbu’s features. He exchanged a disquieting look with Chachu (paternal uncle) and went directly to the kitchen. Chachu exhaled slowly, wiped his mouth with the napkin and followed Abbu to the kitchen. It was strange seeing Abbu and Chachu standing by the window in the kitchen, the only room in the house they never entered because it was considered a woman’s dominion.

I craned my neck to look over the heads of my siblings and my cousins, who were now crowding the threshold of the kitchen to watch the unfolding events. I wondered if this could have something to do with the recent announcement by the Indian Viceroy, Lord Mountbatten, bringing up the date of India’s independence to August of the current year and announcing the division of British India into the two new dominions of India and Pakistan. It was the topic that monopolized conversations nowadays, the only thing Abbu and Chachu discussed, worrying about how the partition of India would affect the millions of Muslims who lived in east Punjab and the rest of India where Muslims were a minority. Here in our hometown of Lahore, Hindus and Sikhs were a minority, comprising less than 20% of the population.

“Ram Charan, bhai. What’s wrong?” Abbu’s voice was clear and purposeful.

I dropped my roti on my plate and huddled up behind my brother, nudging and pushing, standing on my tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the proceedings in the kitchen. The man Abbu addressed was the father of my best friend, Radha, who lived with her family down the road.

“Mohammed, bhai, only you can help us,” pleaded her father desperately.

“What happened?” Chachu interjected.

“They’re killing us, slaughtering Hindus and Sikhs. Only you can help us.”

Somewhere behind the walls of the kitchen, a baby started wailing as though sensing the imminent danger she was in. It could only be Radha’s one-year-old cousin. If her baby cousin was here too, it meant her whole family of nine was now glued outside the wall of our kitchen asking for refuge.

“It’s not possible. We’ve not heard anything,” said Chachu, sounding incredulous.

“Mohammed bhai,” said Radha’s father, addressing Abbu. “It really is happening. We wouldn’t be here if our lives were not in danger.”

“The streets are running red with blood. The blood of Hindus and Sikhs.” It was the quavering voice of Radha’s seventy-year-old grandmother, who, I knew, had trouble walking due to arthritis.

I dropped to the floor and peered through the gaps between the legs of my siblings and cousins.

Outside the window, I could see Radha’s father holding his frail mother over his shoulders, tears streaming down his cheeks. Beside him, I saw Radha’s uncle, pleading with folded hands.

“Just like the streets in Bengal ran red with the blood of Muslims.”

Surprised, I glanced up to see Farhan, his face a mask of fury and malice. I could not believe he had uttered those words. There was some truth to what he'd said. Last year in August, four days of massive Hindu-Muslim riots in the capital of the Indian state of Bengal had left nearly 10,000 dead and 15,000 injured. The ugly event, called the Great Calcutta Killings, was a blot on the Indian history and still fresh in people’s memories. But people had died on both sides. Did it justify today’s violence? Did it justify murder?

“Quiet, Farhan! Don’t talk when the elders are talking,” his father chided him.

“What do you want from us?” said Abbu.

“Mohammed bhai, if you do not give us refuge, we will be slaughtered right outside your house, all of us including my one-year-old daughter and my seventy-year-old mother,” said Radha’s uncle, his voice ragged with emotion.

“Why didn’t you leave Pakistan, go to India?” said my Chachu, folding his arms across his chest.

Abbu looked at him sharply. “Akram, this is not the time for such questions.”

Bhai, you’re not actually thinking about allowing them in, are you?” said Chachu. “If what they’re saying is true, there are mobs out there lynching people. We can’t get in their way or they’ll kill us too.”

“Abbu is right,” said Farhan. “If we let these kafirs in, all of us might die. Are you going to risk all of our lives for them?”

In a moment of frustration, I pinched Farhan’s calf over his white pyjama. He winced, glaring down at me.

“How dare you!” he whispered angrily.

I got to my feet and clambered up the stairs leading to the terrace, my heart pounding in my ears. I was leaning against the railing, trying to catch my breath when I saw them. Down the road, not more than two hundred meters from our house, a mob of men carrying knives and sickles and metal rods were shouting anti-India slogans and marching in the direction of our house. My heart stopped when I saw the long hair belonging to a Sikh man by which one of the men in the mob was holding a decapitated head, blood dripping down from it, leaving a bloody trail on the tarmac road. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. The contents of my stomach shot up through my oesophagus and splattered the terrace floor.

Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I willed myself to look over the railing again. The mob was dangerously close now, just a few houses away. They stopped outside a house belonging to a Hindu family and after a moment’s pause, broke down the front door and barged into the house, shouting slogans. The family of seven was dragged out by their hair while being kicked and beaten by metal rods. Five young men dragged two women behind a patch of bushes while their husbands were kicked and beaten by the rest of the mob. A bearded man impaled the family’s baby with a sickle and paraded the dead baby, dripping with blood, over the heads of men of the family. A woman’s scream pierced the night air, yanking me out of immobility.

I dashed down the stairs, two at a time, barrelling my way through the tangle of my siblings and cousins at the threshold of the kitchen, dropping at Abbu’s feet.

“Abbu please let them in. Please Abbu, I beg you,” I said, grabbing Abbu’s leg.

“Inaya, go to your room,” thundered Abbu.

“Abbu please let them in,” I said, still clutching his leg.

“Mariam, take the kids to their room,” Abbu said to Ammi.

“They’re telling the truth, Abbu,” I sobbed. “I saw from the terrace. The mobs are killing everyone, even babies. They are raping women. Please Abbu, let them in.”

“Mariam, take the kids away!” Abbu was now shouting.

Ammi held me by one arm and Farhan by the other, dragging me away from Abbu, away from the kitchen window outside which stood a helpless, vulnerable family, minutes away from being butchered. I saw Radha wedged between her father and her uncle, standing on tiptoes to glimpse into our kitchen with pleading eyes. 

“Allah won’t forgive you if you let them die on your doorstep!” I shouted.

Abbu froze, the first signs of panic appearing on his pale face.

Ammi paused too, but Farhan kept dragging me away. Glancing at his baleful face, his eyes rabid with hate, I promised myself I would never marry him.

“Abbu, their blood will be on your hands. You, who could help them, but turned them away,” I bellowed. “What does it matter if they are not Muslim? They are human, aren’t they?”

Abbu looked at me, his expression inscrutable. 

“The question is,” I said, looking right at him, “are you?”

At that moment, Farhan lifted his hand to slap me. I cringed, expecting to be struck, but when I opened my eyes, I saw Abbu standing between me and Farhan. “Don’t you dare touch my daughter!” he hollered at his nephew.

Dumb-struck, Farhan stumbled two steps backwards. “I was just... she was insulting you.”

I saw my window of opportunity. “Abbu, that’s also a daughter there—my friend, Radha. There’s her Abbu and her Ammi. That’s her Chachu and Chachi, and her little brothers and her cousin. That old woman is her Dadi. They’re a family, just like ours. We have to help them, Abbu.”

I saw the light dawn in Abbu’s brown eyes. He turned to Ammi. “Open the back door. Quick!” He motioned to Radha’s family to come around the kitchen and enter through the back door.

“Tayaji,” interjected Farhan, furious. 

“Akram,” said Abbu, addressing Chachu. “If your son cannot shut his mouth, lock him up in the bedroom.”

Chachu nodded and grabbed Farhan’s arm, dragging him out of the kitchen. “Come, we’ll do as bhai says.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Ali, looking at me with awe. “That was brave of you,” he whispered, sounding impressed.

I brushed off his comment and concentrated on the back door, from where Radha and her family were crowding into our now cramped kitchen.

“Come this way, please.” Abbu’s voice was infused with urgency, and rightly so. Any moment now, that mob would pass right by our house.

Abbu flicked on the light and led the Hindu family down the stairs into the dusty basement where the ceiling was a dense tangle of cobwebs and the air was musty. Abbu and Ali moved around some worn-out furniture—old beds and mattresses, chairs and tables—and adjusted them in a way that would allow Radha’s family to crouch behind them and remain obscured.

A sharp knock at the front door made me jump. 

Abbu brought his fingers to his lips and we all hurried up the stairs as noiselessly as possible. Abbu switched off the light and closed the basement door, padlocking it.

Abbu feverishly motioned us to take our places at the table while he went to the front door. I stuffed a piece of cold roti into my mouth when I heard a man’s voice.

“Mohammed bhai, Akram bhai, sorry to bother you during dinner. Have you, by any chance, seen Ram Charan and his family?”

“No. Why?” said Abbu.

“We found their house empty. There was food on the table. Looks like they fled in a hurry. They couldn’t have gone far.”

“We have no clue where they are,” said Abbu, his voice calm.

“Do you mind if we take a look inside?” said another man. His voice was harsh.

“Of course, I mind. My family is eating. There are women in the house,” said Abbu.

“We won’t be a bother. We’ll just take a look inside and leave,” said the man with a harsh voice. “We’ll allow your women to wear the purdah, but we will check your house. We’re checking all houses.”

From somewhere outside in the street, a child’s shrieking and howling could be heard. And then, it stopped abruptly, plunging the neighbourhood into deafening silence. I almost threw up on my plate.

Abbu entered the dining room, his face creased with worry. “Purdah,” he motioned to Ammi and Chachi, who hurried to their rooms to don the purdah.

After five minutes, two men entered our house, keeping their gazes away from the women and girls but taking in every nook and corner of our ancestral house. The man with the harsh voice kept grunting occasionally as he surveyed room after room. They climbed to the terrace and undoubtedly saw the fresh pool of vomit.

“What’s in here?” said the man with the harsh voice, clutching the padlock on the basement door.

“Storeroom,” said Abbu, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Open it,” said the man.

Abbu shot him an exasperated look but carried out a pretence of looking for the key in the cupboards in the hallway.

“Mariam, I can’t find the basement key here.”

Ammi bustled into the small room and began rummaging through the various shelves of the cupboards. “It’s not here,” she informed her husband.

“Go check in the other rooms then,” Abbu uttered in his vexed tone that was usually reserved for me.

This went on for several minutes until the man with the harsh voice lost his patience. “I’m going to break down this door.”

“You will do no such thing,” said Abbu, his voice laced with anger. “I allowed you into our house while my family was eating dinner. You’ve already caused much inconvenience. Now, leave.”

Through my peripheral vision, I could see the man standing his ground, glaring at Abbu. I wondered if my reckless actions were going to cause harm to my family, my Abbu. I couldn’t bear to see anything happen to him and yet, how could we have turned those people away? If we hadn’t let them in, they’d probably be dead by now.

A door creaked on its hinges and my heart sank to my knees. That was Farhan’s door. It annoyed the hell out of me when on some nights he went to the kitchen for water at 2 a.m., disturbing me in my adjacent room.

“Munir bhai, what’s going on?” I heard him say.

“Farhan, this is your house,” said the man, surprised.

“Yes, that’s my tayaji you’re talking to.”

As-Salamu-Alaykum,” the man greeted Abbu, lifting his right hand to his forehead.

With an audible sigh, I saw Farhan placing a firm hand on the man’s shoulder and leading him away from the basement door. After a few minutes of chitchatting on the porch outside, the men left and Farhan closed the door behind them.

As he returned to the table, Abbu placed his hands on Farhan’s shoulders and embraced him.

“I did it for our family not for those kafirs,” said Farhan, still sore about the earlier exchange.

“I understand,” said Abbu. “They will stay with us for some time until the situation cools down.”

We cleaned the basement and made it comfortable for the Hindu family to spend the next few days in. I carried trays of food downstairs every morning and night, while Ali shouldered the responsibility at lunch. Radha and her family weathered the storm bravely, never making a single request and remaining contended in that decrepit basement for the next few days. When the situation improved, they packed their meagre belongings and left by train for East Punjab, where Radha’s maternal aunt and her family lived.

Radha and I corresponded for several years. I still think of her as my best friend. I wonder if my family had been caught in the violence on the other side of the border, in Hindu-majority India, would someone have risked their lives to protect us. Would my family have survived the bloody genocide and the mass exodus? I guess I’ll never know. Just like the millions who lost their lives in Pakistan and India during the country’s partition will never know what could’ve become of the rest of their lives.

June 06, 2021 01:48

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94 comments

Mohamed Sarfan
19:17 Jun 15, 2021

It makes man struggle to hide the secret of what life is all about. Gentle minds can be attacked here because in the form of humans lurks more dangerous fellow human beings than animals. Nothing has changed over time; but, there is a lot of violence on this earth that is stuck in storms waiting for change. Rail travel is proving every day in rail music that life is a struggle. Write more Congratulations

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Kanika G
02:06 Jun 06, 2021

This story is dedicated to the two million who died and the 10-20 million who were displaced during India's partition of August 15, 1947. The atrocities depicted in the story have not been exaggerated. The actual accounts of the riots that took place on both sides of the border are far more horrifying. I would like to believe that there were families like Inaya's that helped neighbours, friends and even strangers during the partition riots. I hope my fellow writers from Pakistan would let me know if I've depicted something about their c...

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Mark Wilson
03:28 Jun 08, 2021

...and you should be proud of your Dad, Kanika ~ that was a story very well told. Very sad, but you so did it justice. And the personal connection is inspiring. "Do what you want. I have my gun ready" - As a Military guy, this resonates deeply with me. “Abbu, their blood will be on your hands. You, who could help them, but turned them away,” I bellowed. “What does it matter if they are not Muslim? They are human, aren’t they?” Abbu looked at me, his expression inscrutable. “The question is,” I said, looking right at him, “are you?” - This...

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Kanika G
10:25 Jun 09, 2021

Thank you so much for your wonderful comment, Mike. It really made my day! I will check out your site soon. Glad to know you've got some Reedsy authors signed up there! Good work!!

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Rachel Moreira
01:50 Jun 15, 2021

Really well-told story about an inspiring Dad. Thank you for sharing!

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Kanika G
02:30 Jun 15, 2021

Thank you so much, Rachel! Really glad you liked it. :)

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Renata Paschoal
10:02 Jun 09, 2021

You write very well. The story is really well-depicted. Kudos to you.

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Kanika G
10:03 Jun 09, 2021

Thank you so much, Renata! I'm glad you think so.

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Ana Govindasamy
07:08 Jun 06, 2021

Wow. First of all, how brave of you to share that, seeing as it affected your family. And how brave of your grandfather and father too. It was really well written, and well handled, very heartbreaking. Well done, Kanika.

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Kanika G
07:15 Jun 06, 2021

Thank you so much, Ana. I think more people need to know about India's partition and the wounds it caused on both sides. It was a dark chapter of our history, but it must not be forgotten. Divisions along the lines of religion always cause problems. Thanks for your feedback! :)

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Ana Govindasamy
07:42 Jun 06, 2021

I agree completely. No problem, you are incredibly talented.

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T.H. Sherlock
21:56 Jun 06, 2021

Wow Kanika...! I don’t know where to start. This is an amazing story! Personally I’m a fan of historical fiction anyway - I enjoy reading stories which are grounded in fact and offer a degree of educational value. But this was even better than that as it brought a uniquely personal element to the narrative. What incredible bravery your dad showed and how proud you must be of him. It’s awful to think of the huge numbers who lost their lives but I’m so glad you shared this story. Such things should never be forgotten. And it goes without sa...

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Kanika G
14:39 Jun 07, 2021

Thank you so much for your kind words. I'm glad you liked the story. Yes, this story had a personal element to it. I didn't realize until the end what was inspiring me (yes, it was my dad). I really appreciate the comment. Thanks. :)

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Bhaskar Kaushesh
10:42 Aug 26, 2021

"As he returned to the table, Abbu placed his hands on Farhan’s shoulders and embraced him." I could easily empathize in this situation and its because of your story telling technique that made it possible. Good writing again Kanika. Waiting for a movie that uses your script now !! :-)

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Kanika G
10:00 Sep 15, 2021

Thank you for the wonderful comment. :)

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Gaurav Thakur
03:30 Jul 13, 2021

Reading this story was an incredible experience once again Kanika. I'm glad, I could know, yet another exploit of your father as an army brat which makes me feel proud too. You connected me to the story on a personal level and I could imagine every scene vividly in my mind. Kuddos yet again for such a beautiful story 👍🏻

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Kanika G
14:30 Jul 13, 2021

Thank you for your feedback, Jiju. I'm quite flattered. :)

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Aisha Khan
07:17 Jun 24, 2021

I really thought this was a well-written piece around a difficult subject. The lesson is that everywhere in the world, you will meet people who are different than you - in their appearance, beliefs, and choices - but humanity is singular and constant. I really respect your father.

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Kanika G
07:32 Jun 24, 2021

Thank you so much, Aisha. I really appreciate your comment. I'm pleased you liked the story. :)

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Lee Kendrick
09:19 Jun 23, 2021

This was a powerful story of a family in fear for their lives but selfless to save a family in imminent danger of losing their lives. It reminded me of a similar situation in Nazi Germany when Hitler was deporting the Jews to concentration camps. It must have been terrifying for those Hindus and Sikhs in a similar situation. The characters were well written. An engrossing story. Well done, and continue your wonderful stories. Please can you comment on my latest story, The Flaming Curse Thank you Lee Kendrick

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Kanika G
06:58 Jun 24, 2021

Hello Lee, Thank you so much for your wonderful comment. It made me happy to read it. I will surely check out your story soon. Thanks again for stopping by. :)

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Ramona Taylor
01:33 Jun 20, 2021

To my mind, this was the best story this week and the best story I’ve read in quite a while! Keep writing.

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Kanika G
09:50 Jun 20, 2021

Ramona, thank you so much for your encouraging words! Your comment made my day. Thank you. :)

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Miriam Ngatia
15:58 Jun 16, 2021

This was absolutely brilliant!

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Kanika G
10:43 Jun 17, 2021

Thank you so much! :)

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Jamie Harvey
14:36 Jun 16, 2021

I'm in tears after reading your story and your comment. I do not have words for how extraordinarily brave your family and the family in your story are. Thank you for writing this and opening eyes that otherwise might not have seen, the horror yes, but also the love for fellow humans no matter the differences. Thank you.

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Kanika G
14:56 Jun 16, 2021

I am so touched by your comment! Thank you so much. Reading comments like these makes me want to keep writing even when I feel like I have no time. Thank you for your wonderful comment. I'm so glad the story touched you emotionally. Your comment made my day. :)

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Kanika G
15:04 Jun 16, 2021

Also, please like the story. It would be the 100th like on this story. :)

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Michael Martin
13:00 Jun 16, 2021

Very powerful piece. I can feel tightness in my chest now that I've finished reading. It read fluidly, I could feel the suspense building and I was genuinely intrigued and wanted to keep reading at every point along the way. The only minor issue I had was when Farhan's door opened. I've had to re-read that part a couple of times to try to figure out exactly what happened, but it's such a minor part of the story; in the end, I get that he was able to talk the men into leaving (which is what mattered). I suppose part of it came from the...

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Kanika G
15:02 Jun 16, 2021

Thank you so much for your lovely comment! I am pleased you liked the story. :) I will check out your story soon. I don't think I'm going to win this contest. I've been here 14 weeks and I've noticed that the stories that receive most attention (likes, comments) rarely win. But I'm happy - no, ecstatic - reading all these wonderful comments. I feel fully encouraged to keep writing. Thank you so much! About your point, in India and Pakistan there's a tradition of joint families. The old parents, their sons and their families all live under ...

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Michael Martin
16:00 Jun 16, 2021

Well, my feeling that this story might win is based purely on its own merits, not on the like count. If no one else liked this, I would still feel that it's the strongest piece I've read this week. I also sent this to my girlfriend who's also Indian (though she was born here...her parents immigrated before she was born); I warned her about the violence though, as she loves reading but prefers happier stories. I'm sure she'll love it though, she's a fan of great writing. (Also: I got excited when I saw you talk about roti and other dish...

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Kanika G
10:52 Jun 17, 2021

Thank you so much, Michael. Your vote of confidence means a lot. :) I already feel like I've won this week's contest. I would love to hear what your girlfriend thinks of the story. I hope she likes it as much as you did! I'm glad you remembered the rotis. :) Makki ki roti (cornbread) and Sarson ka saag (mustard greens) is a popular dish in both the Punjabs (Indian and Pakistani). One of the persons who read the story (she lives in the USA) was hungry for Indian food after reading the story. And I'm feeling hungry now too! Thank you so m...

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Kendi Karimi
20:36 Jun 15, 2021

This story is just 😍😍😍

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Kanika G
05:10 Jun 16, 2021

Thank you so much! :)

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Rohit Mukundan
22:03 Jun 14, 2021

Hmm. Indian writer writing about partition from the perspective of a family in Pakistan. You don't make it easy for yourself, do you? I can't speak to the authenticity, but this was a real edge-of-the seat thriller and it didn't pull any punches when it came to its heavy themes. The attention to detail and the food really bring that family and their household to life. I really liked it. If there's one thing that takes me out a bit, and it's not a criticism — more of a nitpick — is that the dialog feels a little too mature. Would an eight ...

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Kanika G
02:27 Jun 15, 2021

Thank you so much, Rohit! I'm super glad on reading your comment. I loved using food to depict culture and I think it really pulls the reader in with the tastes and smells and textures. About the kid's vocabulary, it makes sense. Although I do know six-year-olds who use words like gigantic and tremendous. I'm talking about my son. But then, I've been reading to him for quite sometime and we've covered a number of books (Roald Dahl, Harry Potter, Dr. Seuss, Amar Chitra Katha). He's also an early reader. But I agree in the context of this st...

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Stevie B
13:05 Jun 14, 2021

Kanika, your writing style packs the one-two punch of inspirational creativity that makes me envious. Very well done!

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Kanika G
13:59 Jun 14, 2021

Thank you so much, Stevie. Coming from you, the comment means a lot and it is fantastic! Thank you for the great feedback. :)

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Githinji Muthee
22:32 Jun 13, 2021

Such an encouraging story. I like it a lot.

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Kanika G
10:42 Jun 14, 2021

Thank you so much!

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Githinji Muthee
21:00 Jun 13, 2021

I was moved by your story so much. It must have been deafening to see that kind of blood shed. However, you are a hero.

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Kanika G
10:42 Jun 14, 2021

Thank you. I'm glad you liked it.

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Vivek Sehgal
17:33 Jun 13, 2021

I am 19 and when I was in 7th standard Uma mam (my s.s.t teacher) was telling us about the Kali Diwali, when due to some riots some people from sikh community declared that diwali to be 'kali'. She was saying that their son kept on asking for lights and gifts, but they kept on scolding him, she said what would be worse than making a child sad, and she went on discussing this at length. She is a Kashmiri pandit and her father was in army, her entire family by the way was. She said a very beautiful quote 'People who proliferate turmoil and s...

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Kanika G
10:54 Jun 14, 2021

Your teacher is very wise and what a wonderful quote. The fact that you still remember it shows that she influenced you positively. We need more teachers like her and more students like you. Thanks for stopping by!

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Vivek Sehgal
20:52 Jun 14, 2021

God bless you!! 😊😊

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Vivek Sehgal
20:52 Jun 14, 2021

God bless you!! 😊😊

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Vivek Sehgal
20:52 Jun 14, 2021

God bless you!! 😊😊

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Vivek Sehgal
17:24 Jun 13, 2021

Hi! It feels so nice to read somebody from India, earlier when I came here hardly any Indian writers were there, and I had to control my diction as I had western audience to cater to. Every Indian is aware of the massacre that imprinted deep stains in the life of masses, and how sad and painful every story about partition is! The subtle sense of patriarchy adds to the layers, characters have been drawn naturally and dilemma is persistent. We often get stuck amidst right and righteous, and that is everything about the two communities. My ...

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Kanika G
10:59 Jun 14, 2021

Thank you, Vivek. I really appreciate your detailed and insightful feedback. You really took the time to absorb the story and share your thoughts. Thank you for sharing your Grandma's experience. It's impossible to go through something like that and not be traumatized by the events. The partition riots were horrifying and very sad. I can't believe people would actually behave like that, but they did. These events should act as a reminder to us that there is no place for narrow, bigoted voices in our society if we are to prosper and flourish ...

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