The Night Diary

by Veera Hiranandani

“Kazi,” I whispered in my strongest whisper. “Why is this happening? I’m twelve now and ready to know everything.” He looked at me and his whole face changed, his mouth smiling wide. I could see almost all his yellow teeth. “And I am four times as much, but I feel like I don’t know anything.”

“Our families thought we shouldn’t be married because your mother was Muslim and I am Hindu. That’s why we decided to move here, far away from our families. Let them fight it out themselves. Even though we had many Muslim friends and neighbors, it never matters when it comes to marriage. Many people feel like this, but I don’t. If someone comes into the hospital, I treat them no matter who they are or what religion they are. When I open a body up, I see the blood, the muscles, the bones, all the same in every person, like Gandhiji says. Jinnah and Nehru, they are secular men, yet we need two countries instead of one because of religion. They are leading us toward this—this slicing, this partitioning of India,” Papa said, chopping his finger through the air.

“Once as she was leaving the cricket game, she tripped, spilling her books. I couldn’t stop myself. I left the game to help her. She said she hurt her ankle, so I helped her carry her things home. Her friends walked with me, not allowing her to be alone with a strange man. But her family thanked me. They seemed friendly. Then she began stopping by the cricket game every week, and I started walking her and her friends home. Her friends let us walk ahead and talk. We did that for two years. All my friends and family were very angry with me. But I couldn’t stop. She was different from any girl I had known. Yes, she was very beautiful, especially when she smiled. She was kind. She made me laugh. But she also understood things about people. She knew how complicated they were.”

“No,” Papa shouted at him. “You don’t understand. You could be killed! You can’t change people’s minds now. It’s the only way to protect yourself. When we leave for the new India, things will be better. I hope.” Papa’s eyes moved away from us and on to his cup. “Papa?” Amil asked. “When are we leaving?” “I’m not sure. Soon, but that’s enough for now. I want to enjoy my tea,” Papa said, his mouth returning to a closed, straight line, and picked up his cup. The new India. Suddenly all those feelings I had about going to a new and beautiful place seemed wrong. I didn’t want the new India. I wanted the old one that was my home.

It’s one thing to understand facts and another thing to understand why those facts are facts. I sat for a little while more with Papa. It was strange to be alone with him, and I realized I hardly ever was. I studied his face—his wide nose, his round cheeks, the lines in his forehead, his eyes squinting at his heavy thoughts as he sipped. I couldn’t imagine Papa as a child, carefree and playful. It was like he was born an adult, a father, a doctor.

It feels like we’re really in a story now. I’ve heard about stories like these, about people who flee their homes in a war with nothing but the clothes and food on their backs. Now that’s who we are, even though there’s not a war here, but it’s like a war. It seems almost like a made-up war. It makes each footstep I take feel numb, like my foot isn’t actually touching the ground, like I’m not in my body. We had to leave our chess set. We also had to leave my old doll, Dee. Deepu Aunty gave it to me when I was two, so I called the doll Dee to remind me of her. While I walked I thought about Dee, thought about her frayed orange and gold sari and the red color painted on her tiny lips. She even had little gold earrings dangling from her ears and a green jeweled bindi on her forehead. I suddenly missed her so much that my chest hurt, even though I hadn’t played with Dee since I was ten. She had sat in the corner of my side of the room to keep watch over me and Amil. Now she would probably be taken by a new girl who would find her. We walked all day carrying our packs. Dadi couldn’t walk that fast, so we went slowly. Papa said we had to cover at least ten miles a day, more if we could, and it should take about four hours, but with breaks it would probably be closer to five or six. Today, our first day, we walked seven hours slowly with breaks, so we probably did around fifteen miles. Papa told us we could only have a small drink of water every hour, which was hard, but I only s...

I love Papa, but I don’t want to be as serious and sad as he is. And yet I’m probably like Papa the most. Is Amil like you? He’s not really elegant, but he’s hardly ever sad. Even when he is, the happiness starts to creep in and makes his legs jumpy, his eyes flicker. The happy energy always takes over. For me, it’s the opposite.

Now it feels like water is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. It isn’t only thirst. We haven’t washed since we started out. A film of dirt, dust, and sweat coat me like a light covering of hair. My feet are caked with dirt. My teeth feel like apricot skin. It’s strange that we don’t even have to go to the bathroom anymore. I tried not to think of water as I hoisted my pack and bedroll on my back. I saw a family walking past us in the same direction. I caught a girl’s eyes, a few years younger than me, hair and clothing rumpled and dirty. She looked like a small, frightened animal, weighed down by her belongings. I probably looked like that to her.

I slowed my pace a little so Amil could catch up to me. I glanced behind me. His steps didn’t have the bounce in them they normally did. “Are you okay?” I asked him in a whisper, and touched his shoulder. He nodded. His eyes were dull. “Really?” I said, my heart speeding up a bit. He nodded again. “Because you can tell me if you’re not,” I said. “Nisha,” he said through gritted teeth, “stop.”

Are you happy that we will be staying with Rashid Uncle? I wonder if he is happy we are coming? Why didn’t he ever try to see us? Is it because Papa told us we are Hindu and not both Muslim and Hindu after you died? Can you be both? Sometimes I don’t really feel like anything, not Hindu, not Muslim. Is that a bad thing to feel? Papa told me Gandhiji believes we are everything anyway. I guess that makes the most sense to me. If everyone felt that way, we would have stayed in our home, a whole country, safe and truly free. I want to know what Rashid Uncle thinks of us, Mama. Tell me, soon, somehow. Dadi is very tired now. She’s lying by the fire, asleep before anyone. She drinks water, but eats no food. Amil asked Papa if she was sick, and I leaned in to hear the answer. “She’s old. This trip’s too hard for her,” Papa said in his way that isn’t really answering anything.

Rashid Uncle lit a fire in the enormous stove and boiled a pot of lentils. Then he chopped an onion. The smell tickled my nose. I moved a little closer. So did Amil. We watched as he fried the onion in a big pan and sprinkled in some mustard seed, garlic, salt, cumin, turmeric, and chopped ginger. He stirred the spices for another minute and poured in the boiled lentils.

The riots and killings keep happening. I still don’t understand. We were all part of the same country last month, all these different people and religions living together. Now we are supposed to separate and hate one another. Does Papa secretly hate Rashid Uncle? Does Rashid Uncle secretly hate us? Where do Amil and I fit in to all of this hate? Can you hate half of a person?

Amil and I play guessing games and make up little stories and dances to keep ourselves busy. In the stories I always start with a girl or a boy, and he or she is running from something like a man with a gun or a knife or a big fiery torch. I say something bad that happens to the character and Amil says something good. Then I say something bad. Or we do it the opposite way. At the end the character always dies. We try to make the death worse every time. The worse the death, the funnier we find the story. We try to laugh quietly which makes it even funnier. We would have never made up stories like this before, and we would have never found them funny. Amil says it’s because nothing’s real right now. I know what he means.

After breakfast, Rashid Uncle tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped a little, surprised. He held up the chalkboard. The doll I’m making is for you, it said. Then he pointed to a small block of roughly carved wood sitting on top of the stool he sat on to do his work. I could see the rough shape of a head and shoulders. I was too old for dolls, but I would never tell Rashid Uncle that. I went over and touched the wood, feeling the bumpiness of it. He hadn’t smoothed out all the edges yet. “Thank you,” I said, bowing my head a little. “I will keep it always.” Something has changed. I’m starting to feel happy here. I’m starting to feel like it’s home. We survived the walking, the thirst, the tiredness, the hunger, the man with a knife. Rashid Uncle told us you loved us. I talked to him. I spoke to Hafa. It has made me feel strong, Mama, strong and brave. Now more than ever I hope if we stay long enough, hide long enough, everyone will forget how mad they are and Hafa and I will be friends, real friends. Rashid Uncle will be my real uncle.

While Rashid Uncle slept, Papa and Dadi quietly gathered our stuff in a pile. Papa packed a sweet potato, a pepper, and two tomatoes in his bag, all the fresh food that Rashid Uncle had. He also took a stack of chapatis and a big bag of dry rice. I’m losing a part of you all over again, Mama. It’s like my heart is cracked in half and will never be whole again. Why did I need to talk to Hafa so badly? If we die on the train, that will be our fault, too. If we survive, will I ever live without this shame? I rolled up my mat and net and picked up my bag. I thought about how I would never say a proper good-bye to Rashid Uncle after everything he had done for us. I thought of him having to be lonely again. I think he was starting to like having us around. Lately I had noticed him humming when he carved at night. Then I saw it, the half-carved doll on his stool, waiting to be finished. A newer, sharper sadness swept over me. I wondered if I should take it, but then he would never finish it. While Papa and Dadi moved around I quickly went to our room like I was looking for something and wrote these words fast and steady: Dear Rashid Uncle, It’s my fault we left. I only wanted a friend. Did you ever want a friend so badly you didn’t care what happened to you? I hope we see you again. Thank you for cooking with me. Thank you for telling me about my mother. Don’t worry about the doll. I hope it’s beautiful and that you sell it for a lot of rupees. Please come find us one day. Please...

On my way out, I was surprised to see Papa wrote something for Rashid Uncle on his chalkboard which lay on the dining room table. I remember every word: Dearest Rashid, We had to leave suddenly. The girl next door saw us, so be careful. I can never repay you for your kindness, and I hope we didn’t put you in any danger. Faria has been watching. I feel her. Thank you.

I sucked in my breath when I read your name. I always call you Mama, always think of you as Mama. I didn’t realize that I forgot your name until I heard it.

The hot, soggy air hit my nose, and I scrunched my eyes closed at the sting of the horrible smell. I glanced around me as we jostled into the middle. Everyone looked dirty, hungry, and scared. Some of these people had probably been on the train for more than a day. I could hear yelling and crying from the people outside who couldn’t get on. The conductors were trying to block the train and then it started moving. Good-bye, Kazi; good-bye, Rashid Uncle; and your house, Mama; good-bye, Hafa; good-bye, old India. Love, Nisha

Somehow when we were walking, I couldn’t imagine being alone, would never want to. But now that we’re out of danger I miss sitting in the garden at our old house on the hill watching the sunset or being alone in the bedroom when Amil wasn’t there, or secretly poking around Papa’s room or the kitchen. There was always something to explore, always a place to be alone and quiet. I also miss Rashid Uncle’s house, your house. I miss lying on the couch reading books even if we couldn’t go outside. Now there’s a wooden table and chairs and a space for all our bedrolls, that’s it. Nothing is on the sandstone walls. We have a roof. We are alive. We are safe. So how can I complain?

Maybe the gods were watching over us, he said, and Papa never talks like that. He also said that it wasn’t even so dangerous where we were. He said that all kinds of people—men, women, and children—have been killed in unthinkable ways and are still being killed. He said that trains pulled up to stops filled with dead people from both sides of the border. Everyone blames one another. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, they have all done awful things. But what have I done? What has Papa, or Dadi, or Amil done? What has Kazi done? I want to know who I can blame, Mama, for the nightmares that wake me up every night now. It must be someone’s fault. Maybe I’ll blame everyone.

Love, Nisha

Dear Mama, Something has happened. I still don’t think it’s real which is why I haven’t told you. I think I have to wait to write about it because I’m afraid I’m dreaming. If I write about it, I might wake up. I think it’s a gift from you, Mama. How else could something like this happen? Love, Nisha

We were put back together. To Nehru, Jinnah, India, and Pakistan, to the men who fight and kill—you can’t split us. You can’t split love. Sometimes I think about why we get to be alive when so many others died for no reason walking the same walk, crossing the same border. All that suffering, all that death, for nothing. I will never understand, as long as I live, how a country could change overnight from only a line drawn.

Kazi is cooking again, and I’m not just his helper. We cook together, Kazi and I, in this little kitchen. He went to the market with Amil as soon as he felt well enough and brought back ingredients for sai bhaji, the dish that will always remind me of home. We lined up the spinach, tomatoes, onions, chilies, and other ingredients on the table. Then I got the mortar and pestle I had been keeping in my bag by my bedroll. I hadn’t wanted to look at it since we got here. It was too sad. I had been wrapping our spices in a thin towel and crushing them with a rock.

I washed it out and put a handful of cumin seeds in the bowl. I pressed them down with the pestle, the white marble cool and heavy in my hand. I’ve never thought I could feel so happy crushing spices.

This will always be the place where we started to live again. This is where Kazi came back and made me feel loved. He risked his life to be with us. Would I have done the same? Still, it will be good to have more space and real beds. I think about our old compound, the main room, the hallways, our bedroom, Papa’s room, the study, the gardens, Kazi’s own cottage. I didn’t know we were so rich until we became poor. But Papa is working hard at the clinic and I don’t think we will be poor forever. Jodhpur is okay, very hot, but the people are friendly. Nobody asks about Kazi. They just go about their business. Kazi doesn’t wear his topi outside anymore.

I’m sorry I’m writing less. It could be because life has become more normal, but I’m so happy I made this space for you—this space for us. It’s where I can go to find you whenever I need to. I will always tell you the important things and I promise, Mama, no matter what happens, you will never be alone.

During the days of August 14 and August 15, 1947, India gained independence from British rule and was partitioned into two republics, India and Pakistan. The partition came after centuries of religious tension between Indian Hindus and Indian Muslims. There were many people who did not want India split into two countries, but it was ultimately agreed upon by the leaders in charge.

However, before partition there were areas where people of many religions, including Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, and smaller religious populations such as Parsis, Christians, and Jains, lived side by side harmoniously. During the crossing of borders, tensions greatly increased and fighting and killing took place between Muslims entering Pakistan and Hindus and people of other religions entering India. Much of the violence happened in places where it had been peaceful before. It is estimated that over 14 million people crossed the borders and at least one million people died during this exchange (some say more, some say less). It is the largest mass migration in history.

My father, with his parents and siblings (my grandparents, aunts, and uncles), had to travel across the border from Mirpur Khas to Jodhpur just like the main character, Nisha, does in this book. My father’s family made the journey safely, but lost their home, many belongings, and had to start over in an unfamiliar place as refugees. I wanted to understand more about what my relatives went through which is a big reason why I wrote this book.

All those in power wanted peaceful relations between the groups, but disagreed on the best way to make that happen. There have been and continue to be many theories about who played a bigger role in creating this conflict. Many blame the “other side” for the violence that ensued, and many people who suffered horrible acts and lost family members can never feel forgiveness for their attackers. Nisha and her family’s journey was harder than some, including my father’s, and easier than others. This story is a combination of known history and imagined scenarios to create one possible story that could have taken place at this time.

ALOOTIKKI: A fried potato patty made with onions and spices.

BINDI: A dot Hindu women sometimes wear in the center of their forehead to signify different things regarding religion, class, and marital status.

CHAPATI: A small, flat unleavened pan-cooked bread.

DAL: A simple stew made of split lentils or split peas and spices. It can also mean dried split lentils or split peas.

DIWALI: A joyous and popular Hindu holiday. It is a festival of light that takes place over five days. Houses are cleaned and decorated in preparation. People dress in new clothes and offer prayers to one or more deities. They also gather with friends and family for candle lighting, fireworks, gift giving, and food. The holiday signifies the triumph of light over darkness.

DUPATTA: A scarf typically worn with an outfit called a salwar kameez.

GULABJAMUN: A dessert made from deep fried milk powder balls coated in rosewater syrup.

JI: A suffix added to names as a term of honor and respect, as in Gandhiji.

JODHPUR: A medium-size city in the Indian state of Rajasthan.

KEBAB: A dish consisting of sliced or ground meat with spices, often grilled on a skewer. Vegetables or cheese can be used as well.

KHEER: A sweet pudding usually made with rice and milk, flavored with cardamom, saffron, raisins, or nuts.

LORD BRAHMA, VISHNU, AND SHIVA: Three Hindu deities that Hindus believe are responsible for the creation, preservation, and destruction of the universe. Lord Brahma is the creator of the universe. Vishnu is the preserver. Shiva is the destroyer so Lord Brahma can create again.

(THE) MAHABHARATA: An ancient Indian epic poem as well as the longest-known epic poem ever written. It is a major text in Hinduism. It follows the fate of two warring groups of cousins, the Kauravas and the Pandavas.

MUTTONBIRYANI: A rice dish made with basmati rice, mutton (goat meat or meat from a mature sheep), herbs, and spices.

PAKORA: A snack usually consisting of a piece of vegetable like potato, cauliflower, or pepper deep fried in a seasoned batter.

PARATHA: A layered flatbread, most often stuffed with potatoes,...

POORI: An unleavened deep-fried bread that puff...

PUJA: An act of Hindu prayer which usually includes providing an offering to the divine such as food, flowers, or lighting a candle.

RASMALAI: A dessert made from soft cheese patties in a sweet, creamy sauce.