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Merry Time (continued from page 12)
Rumana. He caught on to this quicker than I imagined and it became like a game we played, using her to re- lay messages to each other. Though I would mentally scold myself for it afterwards, I pushed my Rumi to ask him the questions I couldn’t. I would instruct her: “David Uncle se pooch: where are you from? Are you Christian? Where is your wife? What is your favourite colour?” He was good-natured about these inquiries. When she probed him, he chuckled, a dimple form- ing in his left cheek, and then answered patiently. I’m from Texas, it’s a big state in USA. I’m Jewish—at this, Rumi broke script and asked, “What is that?” with
the same tone she used when Haider brought home
a little chick for her to look after which died the next day—This means I believe everyone is made in the image of God and deserves to be treated with respect.
I don’t have a wife; not yet, will you help me find one? That dimple again. These days, my favourite colour is a deep burnt orange. Like your mother’s saree.
~
May, 1971
of information if you must, but then after that, please deliver it to Tarannum Haider in Khulna. As a mother, I beg of you to not torment me. Whatever side of the war you are on—if you have a mother, or a child, please fulfill my request.)
Meanwhile, here in Karachi, my hands are raised per- petually in prayer. Every night after Isha, I plead with Allah to keep you safe. All my life, I have been taught of Allah’s mercy, that He is just and fair and benevolent and kind. And yet, no mercy comes my way. I have not heard from you in over three months, not since your forlorn note in January where you confessed to being consumed by despair and hopelessness. Did my letter last month even reach you? I continue to live with the torture of the unknown. In between duas, I cannot help but wonder: what past sins am I being punished for?
At night, after your father has retired to bed, I find myself reflecting on the last war. Then, too, there was the chaos of misinformation and blackout of commu- nication. Letters disappeared, but not any faster than people. Even without knowing if this letter will reach you, I am compelled to write to you about all this. In the absence of your being, this is as close as I can get to having a conversation with my daughter. 1947 was a troubled time, and I experienced circumstances that I would not wish upon anyone, least of all you, my child. I shielded you from the brunt of it. You were a young girl; just twelve years old, so you may or may not remember this, but I had sent you to Karachi in January 1947, months before the city officially became a part of Pakistan. Your Nana had arranged for all the children to be with his sister in Karachi, and planned for us adults to cross the border in June of that year. Your father and I had decided this was best: we would stay back to wrap up our lives in Delhi, while you spent a few months safely in Karachi with your naniyaal.
We couldn’t get out of Delhi in time. The day we were meant to leave, there were riots and fighting—so much fighting. I saw men tearing limbs off bodies
like they were breaking off a piece of naan. I saw a group of women—they could’ve been sisters, cousins, friends—turn the other way when a man, having been slapped by another, belligerently pulled a girl from their group, a girl no older than sixteen, into a shop
To: Tarannum Haider Haridas Babu Road
Khulna District, East Pakistan
Dearest Tarannum,
It is highly unusual for you to not write back to me and it’s all I can do to not imagine dreadful scenarios that might be keeping you from doing so.
Your Abu has made multiple trips to the post office to confirm that my last letter was delivered to you in Khulna. No one can tell us anything except that letters are being intercepted now and may fall into the wrong hands. What does that even mean, I asked your father. What are wrong hands? Who do they belong to? Hands of the soldiers in our Pakistani Army who have vowed to protect us or hands of the Bungalees who we made our own and have now taken up arms against us? This is what it has come to, I suppose. We are dependent on hands that have done things we cannot possibly fathom to keep us connected.
(Inspecting hands, are you reading this now? Whether you’re a Bungalee or a Pakistani: please, for the love of all that you hold to be true, please mail this letter out to my daughter. Read it, copy it, glean it for any piece
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From: Afshan Hassan 50 Clifton
Karachi, West Pakistan