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I have to be careful with my breathing. All I see is the irradiated face of Amma. We are secured in a dim closet, a single candle lighting up the place. I am tired of sitting. We’ve been stuck in this closet for about three hours now.
I am not into politics, but as far as I know the British have just partitioned India. All my Muslim friends are now my enemies, and all our Muslim uncles are out to get us. There are women and children outside, dousing themselves with kerosene just so they can protect their honor and dignity. Amma has kept a jug of kerosene and matches to the side, in case all else fails. I doze off in Amma’s sari as she caresses my head.
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“Baahar aao! Baahar ek bailagaadee khadee hai! Chaaho to dvaar khol do!”
I’m awoken to a man’s voice coming from outside the door. Amma puts her finger to her lips and looks at me. This man is probably trying to lure us outside to danger. We can’t let him in. My brave mother questions the mysterious man.
“Aap kaun hain, aur aap hamaare saath kya karane ja rahe hain?!”
The man pauses and tells us he has no intentions of doing anything like that, and that he has a cart waiting outside and is helping people flee the town. Amma grabs a stone knife from the corner of the closet and slowly unlocks the door. I hold my breath and see a man with an unshaven face. He is staring at us intently. We get up from the closet and step outside. My feet are shaking because it’s been so long since I last stood up. Amma tucks her knife in her sari and takes me by the hand as we follow the man. After about two minutes, he brings us to a cart with irritated looking oxen. In the back is a full load of onions. We can’t possibly ride in the seats because the patrollers will see us. Amma does not wear a hijab so they will know we’re Hindu women.
“Sheeghr! Pyaaj mein jao aur apane aap ko chhipao”
The next thing we know, we’re being ushered by the man into the onion load. After a quick transferral, the cart starts moving.
There’s something about riding in the back of an open vehicle. There’s something else about riding one full of onions.
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Onions are surprisingly comfortable. My sleep is disturbed by the distant shoutings of men. I peek out of the onions and see a bunch of men holding torches in the night sky. We approach them and they start shouting.
“Krpaya gaadee se neeche utaren, isalie ham isakee jaanch karate hain!”
This is it. They’re going to find us and we will be slaughtered. I pray to the Lord and silently bid my last goodbyes. I hold Amma tight and tell her I love her. Amma repeats my words and pulls me in close, as we speed up to the group. The driver gets down, and I prepare myself for the worst. I go deeper into the onion pile. Amma follows my move. We feel their hands rummage through the onions and I whisper my prayers. They start pulling at my shawl and I start panicking. Finally the pulling stops. I feel my shawl and it's still there. There is a conversation outside. The men are wondering why this man has kept a shawl in the onions.
“Aapake paas yah dupatta kyon hai?!”
“Meree betee...aaj aag mein jalakar mar gaee. Mere paas sirph yahee bacha hai. Krpya. Ek gareeb pita ke dil ko samajhe.”
I feel empathy for this man. This shawl is the last of his daughter, and he doesn’t want to forget her. The men don’t question him anymore and allow him to pass through. I hold Amma tight as we share tears of joy. After a few minutes, he starts talking to us.
“You know, My daughter had the most beautiful eyes. Every day she woke up with a smile. She wanted to be a teacher. But now-”
He pauses to wipe his eyes
“But now she will never be. They took her. They took her honor and left her in the fire to burn. They took my Prakrti. They took away my joy. My only happiness!”
He wails away into the night. His pain echoes through the hills and trees. I grieve for his daughter even though I never knew her. I’ve never had a father or seen him and if I did, I know he would’ve loved me like this. I clutch her pink shawl and reminisce in her memory. I can feel Amma crying. My tears rock me to sleep.
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The morning sun seeps through my eyelids. Amma looks at me, her hair all messy, and covered with onion peels. Her eyes are still lined with kohl from the previous day. The man stops at a street stand and buys milk for the oxen. He says it’s safe to get down. I can barely stand, as Amma helps me down the cart. A kind elderly woman stands at the stand, transferring tea between glasses. The three of us sit on stools, as we drink and chat.
The man looks at me and smiles.
“Tum usake jaise hee dikhate ho.”
I remind him of his daughter. He reminds me of a father. Amma and the man chat and I explore around the stand. There is a Sal tree with words engraved in it.
bura karake bhee muskuraate raho
It says to Smile, even through the bad.
Somehow, these words stick to me. I go back to my mother and the man and they get up from the stools and walk towards the cart. He helps us on and says, “My name is Rajkumar, by the way.”
We load onto the cart and head towards the sun.
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The heavy hot sun bears down on us, as the oxen trudge through the hot desert. The cart starts shaking and onions start flying out. One of the oxen has become rabid and keeps jumping and trying to swing us out of the cart. The cart is flying up and down until one of it’s wooden wheels breaks. We fall onto the desert sand, onions trickling behind us, The bull finally frees itself and starts ramming the cart. After a few hours in the hot sun, help arrives. A group of men with skin the color of elephant tusks ride by on white horses.
One of them calls out to his friend.
“Jonathan! It’s a couple of beggars. Should we help them?”
I don’t understand their dialect and language, but by the way, they’re looking at us, they mean no good.
One of the men grab my arm and say, “You’re coming with us, sweetheart.”
I don’t know what he’s saying but his motion scares me.
I shout back in Hindi, “Mujhe jaane do!”
I am not a crybaby and I don’t wish to be but I can feel tears streaming down my face. We were so close! Just a few more kilometers and we would’ve made it to Mumbai! We were so close! He wraps my hands in a rough rope and hoists me onto the horses. Rajkumar tries to object but the man points a gun at him. He and Amma are thrown onto horses. The horses start moving and Amma screams my name in tears. I’ve never seen her cry like this. One of the men cover her mouth and she falls off the horse. She writhes in pain as lays on the desert ground, hands and feet bound.
“Nahin! Meree betee ko mujhase mat lo! Nahin!”
I scream out to her.
“Maan! main tumase pyaar karata hoon!”
“Shut up you two! Stop talking.”, a man instructs us.
My feet aren't tied so I jump off the horse and run to my fallen mother. I can’t hug her so I lay my head on her neck and whisper through my tears.
“Main tumhaare lie aata hoon maan. Me vaada karata hu.”
I feel a throb through my skull as someone grabs my hair and wraps a cloth around my mouth. He carries me away from my mother and all I can manage to do is cry. I watch my helpless mother being dragged to the horse and shipped away from me. She leans against Rajkumar and looks at me with sad eyes.
What was my crime?
Translation
“Baahar aao! Baahar ek bailagaadee khadee hai! Chaaho to dvaar khol do!”
Come! Come! Unlock the door is you wish to live!
“Aap kaun hain, aur aap hamaare saath kya karane ja rahe hain?!”
Who are you and what are you going to do with us?!
“Sheeghr! Pyaaj mein jao aur apane aap ko chhipao”
Quick! Go hide in the onions!
“Krpaya gaadee se neeche utaren, isalie ham isakee jaanch karate hain!”
Please get down from the cart so we may check it.
“Aapake paas yah dupatta kyon hai?!”
Why do you have this dupatta (scarf/shawl)?!
“Meree betee...aaj aag mein jalakar mar gaee. Mere paas sirph yahee bacha hai. Krpya. Ek gareeb pita ke dil ko samajhe.”
My daughter died in the burning fire. I only have this left of her. Please. Understand a poor father’s aching heart.
“Tum usake jaise hee dikhate ho.”
You look just like her.
“Mujhe jaane do!”
Let me go!
“Nahin! Meree betee ko mujhase mat lo! Nahin!”
No! Don’t take my daughter away from me! No!
“Maan! main tumase pyaar karata hoon!”
Mom! I love you!
“Main tumhaare lie aata hoon maan. Me vaada karata hu.”
I’ll come for you Mom. I promise.
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