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that had no door, no windows, not even a curtain shielding what went on inside from the rest of us. I saw children crying for their mothers, who were nowhere to be found, and others laughing manically at all this chaos, sitting on lawn chairs like spectators at a crick- et match who applaud for the cheating team. I saw the ugly side of humanity, the sliver of rot and rage where the false have a merry time and all goodness appears forgotten, as if we were all raised to be scoundrels and ruffians. And none of it mattered, because everywhere was worse. Your Abu (May Allah bless him with a
long life) continuously gripped my arm as we waded through the sea of rioters. When he eventually let go,
I was left with a bruise under my elbow for weeks. It was in the shape of your Abu’s hand, purple blotches formed like his fingers. Though it hurt, it served as a reminder of a lesson we have never forgotten: we are stronger together.
Every extra day I spent away from you was agony. I remember a sharp, unending pain in my belly; every night, I would weep next to your father, doubled over in discomfort. No amount of medicines helped. This went on even as we finally left Delhi to make our way across the border. While passing Jaipur and its rose- topped roofs, the pain intensified to such a degree that my vision became obscured. I could hear your father, feel his grip on my shoulder but his face was blurry. I couldn’t make out the outline of him, or anyone else in our caravan. I saw nothing at all. A woman old enough to be my Nani was traveling with us in the caravan, she handed your Abu a pinch of powder and told him to place it on my tongue. Thinking of it now, it was foolish of us to follow her directions. In those days,
you couldn’t trust anyone. But we were all together, headed to Pakistan as a collective group. We were mi- grating together, and that one fact bonded us tighter and stronger than any flag could do now. Whatever she gave me, it worked to restore my vision.
But it couldn’t alleviate those agonizing stomachaches. They dissipated only after I held you in my arms again. It was as if the womb that created and carried you was crying for you. It was winter before I finally reached Karachi. I know it was sometime in December because when we entered your Nana’s home, there was a bas- ket of kinnoos in the foyer and that tantalizing citrus scent is the only thing I remember about that day. I was terrified of being away from you for so long, and now I find myself in the same predicament. When will the cyclical throes of history’s savagery end? Yet again, a war separates us. Yet again, a dull ache grows in the pit of my stomach, one I cannot assuage with any num- ber of medicines or totkas. This time, I fear the pain will have no relief.
Dr Nusrat has advised that all this worrying is not good for my blood pressure. She’s prescribed nimboo pani for the aches and suggested that I should offer my prayers seated in a chair to avoid pressure on my knees. But what does she know of being a mother in distress? Both her sons are with her in Karachi, safely cocooned by her bosom in the city by the sea while you, my child, are over 2300 kilometers away from mine.
I had your father obtain a map from those useless clerks at the post office so I could measure the distance separating us. Khulna to Karachi. Karachi to Khulna. Though I can do nothing to reduce this divide, merely knowing its measurement is a small way for me to comprehend it. How many days would it take to cross this distance on foot? Sometimes, I console myself by imagining you’re not lost or out of touch, but simply traveling to me, traversing through jungles and rivers and therefore unreachable. I picture you walking into this home, laughing as you enter and call out, “Ami, where are you?” It’s all I can do to not cry every time I break out of this reverie, but these flights of imagina- tion also reassure me. Through them, I can picture you even when I have no way of knowing whether you are alive and well, in trouble and alone, or (Allah na karey) gone from this world.
Somehow, my Allah builds my resolve. He puts on our plate only as much as He knows we can handle. I remind myself of this daily when I wake up at Fajr to stop myself from questioning His will. My child, all my prayers are for you. My heart is with you. May Allah keep you safe.
All the love,
Ami
~
How it Ended
June, 1971
Promise me nothing but the sound of your voice.
Tell me you see what I am: flesh and blood and spit and soil.
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