After a hearty breakfast of paranthas, eggs and cháh, we descended the long granite stairway from the flat down to the street, and opened the wrought iron door at the bottom. As I looked back up the staircase I wondered what kind of fall that would have been and was surprised that my chappals, the smooth leather under my foot held by a loop over my big toe, did not fail my footing. I walked out to the front of the house, to the edge of the street and felt my feet humming. The ground was warm and I was foreign to this place, seeing everything for the first time. The address was etched in a concrete tile on the door. G. S. Singh. My grandfather’s name still claimed proud ownership after his life had long passed.
“What will you do? Will you stay?”
“Betí,” she shook her head, “they have set a new border above Amritsar —across and down to Hyderabad.” She made a line in the air with her pointer finger. “This is Pakistan, now.”
“You will stay, this is your country.”
“They cannot tell us whose land this is. But—”
“I will stay, too.”
“No.” Bashaer Auntie hit her hand against the table and the baby cried. “It is not safe. You have a child. This is no time to be stubborn.” Bagvinder took Nishaan back from Bashaer Auntie.
“But Gagan.”
“He is strong, he will find a way.”
“I will not, though.”
Bashaer Auntie pushed her thin lips together and took a deep breath through her nose. When she exhaled she looked older. “You are right. You will need an escort. The riots have begun. They heard groups singing ‘Allah o Akbar’ in the next village. It is only a matter of time before the sardarjis cry ‘Bole so Nihaal’.” Bashaer Auntie stood. “Pack only one satchel. Light enough that you can carry yourself.”
“I have nothing.”
She patted Bagvinder and her baby on their heads and said, “I will return,” before walking out of her house.
Bagvinder looked out the window. A kikar tree stood in the center of the yard surrounded by dusty soil. She watched its sparse branches give way to the breeze; however, its trunk, a new leafy green, and peppered with spines, remained unmoved. The sky was black. It would open up and rain soon. The frogs seemed to crawl out of the earth itself after a few minutes of rain. They would dig through the sandy earth, croak, and leap away to look for food. Mosquitoes would also suddenly hatch and take flight once the water touched their eggs. The hungry frogs would then gorge themselves on the mosquitoes. Thus, the balance would continue. All would go back to the earth once the monsoon ended.
“Sh, sh, bachaa.”
“Betí, coming.”
I heard my mother, father and Baji all carefully descend the stairwell. A rickshawalla stopped before me and smiled with his beetle nut stained orange teeth. I put a finger in the air to show him that we were potential customers. I felt a hand on my face and turned, Baji grabbed what loose skin I had rounding my cheek and pinched it, then gave it a good tap with the palm of her hand. She smiled; she never thought we would come. She was a small woman with delicate light brown skin and dyed jet-black hair that she tied into a bun every morning. Her hair paved its way down to her waist—I saw her through a bedroom door that was slightly open when she was singing a morning prayer. I looked closely at her and found comfort in the fact that we shared a birthmark. Mine looked like a smudge of dirt a shade darker than my skin on my cheek; hers was slipping into her right laugh line that defined her face.
Baji spoke to the rickshawalla in a disapproving tone. I felt like hiding; I was certain I did something stupid. He said something to her with a flick of his wrist and shake of his head, then he flagged down another rickshawalla and Baji agreed, with some disdain. This dance was to be repeated at every service interaction, every meal, shopping excursion, hotel, door that opened or even bathroom that we entered, a series of small arrangements determined by unspoken sociological markers. The cycle rickshaws could only fit two or three petite people on its seat. There were tiny strings holding limes and chilies hanging from every edge of the rickshaw I tumbled up onto and sat next to my mother.
“Baji, what are those for?” I pointed at the limes.
“Lánat.”
“It’s to keep the evil eye from cursing the walla.” My Dad lifted himself into the next cart. I couldn’t help but wonder how often they changed the string, who tied it on, and what he might do if the string fell off. Would the rickshawalla think he was cursed?
“Can’t be too careful these days,” my mother smirked.
“It’s very important,” Baji coughed.
She bounced Nishaan on her hip and walked aimlessly around the house, her bare feet padded the hard tile floors. Nishaan squirmed from the unnecessary bouncing; he hiccupped.
“It’s okay, bachaa. It’s okay.”
Her pace quickened and her eyes darted from corner to corner. She put Nishaan on her left hip and with her right hand she searched the wall for more money. Two holes presented a few more notes rolled to the thinness of toothpicks. These notes Bagvinder also tucked into her saree.
“Sh, sh, bachaa.”
In a corner near Nishaan’s padded mat was Bagvinder’s razai. The thick canvas blanket stuffed with firm cotton was a wedding gift from Satwant Auntie. She put her baby on his mat and rolled her own quilt neatly. She then took a broom made of thin twigs and brushed the one-room house until every corner was free of dust. She washed her face with water from the bucket then twisted her hair into a braid that fell to her belly button. She took her other saree and the ash-brown shawl her mother gave her from the wooden chest. She opened the shawl and spread it on the ground. On top of the shawl she placed the rolled saree, all the small pieces of cloth she used as diapers, three paranthas, a family photo, and a tin jar of garam masala. She pulled the edges of the shawl together and knotted the bundle tightly.
Her hands were shaking. She would not be able to carry the chest with her, or her razai. She was almost glad that she had little to lose, little to carry. But she did not know where she would go, or how for that matter. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Gagan. Where was he? He must have heard the news before even Bashaer Auntie because the canals were monitored by the military. There were rumors of the partition, but none had thought it would come so quickly, if at all. Months had passed since the riots in the spring; she had hoped all would have passed as it always had. She looked around the room. Nishaan was lying on his back and sucking on his fingers.
“Nishu? Do you need your razai?”
My mother and I put our shawls over our heads and held on to the side of the bike-powered vehicle. The rickshawalla looked at my mother, then me, then my father and when his eyes again reached Baji, she lifted her hand as a threat and told him in Punjabi to get a move on and stop staring.
“Yah, rickshaw. Chaliye.”
The rickshawwalla smirked and started peddling. I grabbed my mother’s hand because I knew that together we were going to have to tolerate many uncomfortable stares. Her blond hair and blue eyes made her a target for curious eyes. Even though she had been to this place, and married my father in the holiest of Sikh cities, she was seen as different for her skin color. My skin was also neither white nor brown, rather in between. Before Baji allowed us to begin such a long journey tracing a path she took during the Partition we would need to visit the gurdwara to pray to the gurus for a safe journey.
Baji turned from the other rickshaw to make sure we were following. This was just the beginning. Once we had visited the gurdwara and made an offering to the Granth Sahib, we traded in the rickshaw for a Jeep and set off on our journey to the north to seek out that once troubling border. We’d reach Amritsar after a long drive and then the next morning we would head to Wagah.
“Nishaan, puttar,” Baji looked at my father and pointed for him to sit in the front seat of the car. She turned her chunni over and over in her hand nervously.