The Hindi-Bindi Club (7 page)

At the stroke of midnight, August 15, 1947, the British Raj turned over the keys to the kingdom, returning the stolen “jewel in the crown” to her rightful owners. Buffed and polished, yes, but bashed into pieces.

Partitioned.

Hacking off chunks of the northwest and northeast created two countries. Democratic, secular India in the middle, flanked on either side by Islamic Pakistan, “land of the pure,” a victory for the Muslim League.
The theory:
a separate homeland for the Muslim minority, should they wish to leave Hindu-majority India.
The reality:
the most colossal human migration and exchange of population in history. Unprecedented carnage.

How did it happen? Who was to blame? Ask five different people and you’ll get five different answers. According to my parents and other family who survived to tell, fanatic leaders and militia groups played on communal fears and suspicions, and people of differing religions who’d managed to coexist in peace for centuries turned and raged against each other. For millions who suddenly found themselves on “the wrong side of the tracks,” remaining in their homes wasn’t an option. Driven by hope of a better future, or fear of peril, they got the hell out of Dodge.

In the Punjab, my family’s ancestral state in the northwest, the dividing line carved by the British boundary commission onto a map, akin to a butcher’s knife slitting the throat of a Hindu’s sacred cow or a Muslim’s sacrificial goat, rendered ten million people homeless. Among them, my mother’s family.

Forced to flee their beloved Lahore, “the Paris of India,” they were among millions of Hindus and Sikhs who migrated east. Simultaneously, millions of Muslims migrated west.

Along the way…

As my mother recounted to me in Goa, in excruciating detail, “One million deaths. Twenty thousand
reported
rapes. Almost a quarter million people declared missing.” Then, as if all that wasn’t horrific enough, her voice cracked, splintering my heart,
“Nanaji. Naniji.”
More personal, more painful than aggregate statistics: my great-grandparents, our casualties.

My stomach felt queasy, and I had to sit. Intellectually, I’d absorbed the history. I’d learned that when you seized a family’s ancestral land, forced people from their homes, tortured and murdered their innocents, or coerced religious conversions, there were ramifications. Lifelong, often multi-generational ramifications. The breeding of hatred. The quest for justice, or revenge, depending on your point of view.

Importantly, my parents wanted me to understand
Partition
was the root of modern-day tensions between nuclear-armed rivals India and Pakistan. Disputes over territory in Kashmir were ongoing aftershocks. And the problems of distant lands, like stones thrown in a pond, could one day, out of the clear blue sky, ripple to virgin shores with devastating results.

Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind,” but my mother, who revered the man, would be among the first to point out neither he nor I had her family’s experience.

If Gandhi couldn’t change her mind, what chance did I have?

Before I spoke, I chose my words carefully, knowing what an ultrasensitive topic this was, with reason. “I know there were atrocities I can’t begin to imagine. You’re right, I’ll never completely comprehend Partition because I didn’t live through it, or grow up surrounded by families who did. But Mom,” I said gently, “communal animosity…it’s like the Hatfields and the McCoys, passing down legacies of hate and prejudice to future generations,
innocent
generations. It’s not right. It wasn’t then. It isn’t now.”

“Oh, Preity.” My mother heaved a weary breath. “If only life was that simple. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Friend and foe. You still see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Your lenses haven’t cracked yet.”

“Every major religion—well, except Buddhism—every major religion has violent extremists. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, Christians—”

“Some more than others.”

“Even so, it doesn’t mean everyone is. Most aren’t, and I refuse to punish people for crimes they didn’t commit.”

“Humph.” She flicked her gaze to the ceiling where a fan revolved in lazy circles, its pace slow like everything else in Goa. “If we’d raised you here, it would be different. I could forbid you from seeing this boy, and you’d obey my wishes without question, without argument.” She raised an eyebrow to punctuate: “
Grown-up
or not.”

I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

“Good Indian girls don’t date, you know.”

“Actually, they do these days. Riya-
didi
says—”

“Riya-
didi
is not your mother,” she snapped. “
I
raised you.
I
am responsible for you.
I
am the one who looks bad when people talk, if you cause a scandal. Your actions reflect on
me
.”

I lowered my head. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I am, too.” She sat beside me, squeezed me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, and pressed a series of kisses to my temple. “My
beta
.” She prattled nonsense Punjabi terms of endearment. “I love you
sooo
much. You know that, don’t you?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“Good.” She let up on the bear hug. “I forbid you from seeing him again.”

“What?”
I leapt from the couch and pivoted on my heel.

“You heard me.”

“But you can’t—! I’m in
college
. I’m legally an adult. You can’t
ground
me!”

She crossed her arms, stuck out her chin. “I just did.”

“A
rsallan deserves an explanation,” I said to Riya-
didi
. I had told her only that my mom flipped out and forbade me from seeing him. Riya seemed to understand without my elaboration. “I can’t just drop off the face of the planet without a word.”

“I don’t know…If your mum finds out…”

She didn’t need to finish. I didn’t want to contemplate what would happen if my mother learned I betrayed her trust and went to see Arsallan, even if it was to say good-bye. I wished I had his room number. I tried to return his call, but there were too many Khans registered at his hotel, so many the operator flat out refused to connect me with even one random room.

“Will you go? Please,
Didi
. Please find him for me?”

She wrinkled her nose, clearly uncomfortable with the idea, but nodded. “Better me than you. But I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ll write a letter. If you could just give it to him and get me his contact information…?” At her nod, I hugged her.

The letter took seven crumpled drafts, because I kept tap-dancing around the truth. I was too ashamed. I didn’t want to divulge the ugly words that echoed in my head.

My mother is prejudiced.

My mother is prejudiced.

My mother is prejudiced.

Finally, I opted for the lie: My family schedule had grown too busy for me to see him during the final days of our holiday. I apologized, expressed my deepest regrets that I couldn’t say good-bye in person, thanked him for his friendship, told him I would never forget him and the wonderful times we shared, and closed with: “Please keep in touch. Love, Preity.” I gave my college dorm address.

Riya scoped his hotel lobby for hours, but he never showed. Nor did she spot him at our favorite
chai
shop or any of the other places we’d frequented. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to find his address and post your letter when I get back home.”

Then, the day before we departed, I received a package at the front desk: Arsallan’s handcrafted storybook. I searched for a letter or a note or his contact information, but came up empty.

I tore up my first letter and wrote another, better one, in which I poured out my eighteen-year-old heart. I thanked him for being so wonderful and told him I would cherish his gift forever. I tried to keep my tears from falling on the paper, but one hit the lower left corner and blurred two of the stars I drew beside a crescent moon. I wrote: “Always remember, we look up at the same sun, moon, and stars. Always remember, someone on the other side of the world wishes for you all the best. From my heart to yours, my love always, Preity.”

To this day, I don’t know if my letter reached Arsallan. Riya turned out to be a poor correspondent. She never answered my letters, and Arsallan never contacted me. This was before email. Before cheap international long-distance phone rates. The silence hurt, uncertainty plagued me, and the absence of my newly found-and-lost family and friends felt like a cruel joke. For months, my heart felt weighted by rocks, drowned at the bottom of a cold, murky sea. But life went on, as it always does, the currents dragging you along, whether you want to go with the flow or not.

In time, new people entered and exited, new experiences made my heart soar and sink again. As daily dramas unfolded,
today
s morphed into
yesterday
s with increasing velocity. Current events took center stage and pushed history further back into memory. I thought of my holiday in Goa less and less, but I never forgot.

I have never forgotten.

Kiran, good to hear from you. Welcome home. And yes, I did hear it through the Hindi-Bindi Grapevine.

;-) Said grapevine has kept me informed of happenings in both of your lives over the years…BTW, Rani, I hear congrats are in order! A =solo= exhibit. YAY FOR YOU!!!

It’s been way too long since the three of us were in the same place at the same time. We’re overdue for a play date.;-)

Preity

Preity’s Goan Shrimp Curry

SERVES 4–6

SHRIMP:

1½ pounds large shrimp, uncooked, peeled and deveined

1 teaspoon cayenne powder (adjust to preference)

½
teaspoon turmeric powder

1. Grab a pair of disposable kitchen gloves so your hands won’t stink.

2. In a colander, rinse shrimp under cold running water. Drain and transfer thawed shrimp to large glass bowl.

3. Sprinkle with cayenne and turmeric. Use your hands to evenly coat. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate 30 minutes.

GRAVY:

1-inch piece of tamarind (from slab)

1 cup hot water

2 tablespoons canola oil

2 medium yellow onions, thinly sliced

5 curry leaves* (kadhi patta)

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 tablespoons fresh ginger root, peeled and chopped

1 fresh green chili pepper,* finely chopped (adjust to preference)

1 teaspoon coriander powder

1 teaspoon cumin powder

1 14-ounce can coconut milk

½
teaspoon salt (adjust to taste)

1 teaspoon sugar (adjust to taste)

fresh coconut slivers (optional)

1. In a small glass bowl, soak the tamarind in hot water. Set aside.

2. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. Add onion and stir-fry until translucent, about 2–3 minutes.

3. Reduce heat to medium. Add curry leaves, garlic, ginger, and chili. Sauté for 1 minute.

4. Add coriander and cumin. Sauté for 2 minutes.

5. Add coconut milk and bring to a boil over medium-high heat.

6. Reduce heat to low, partially cover, and simmer to thicken gravy, about 10–15 minutes.

7. When tamarind is soft, mash through wire strainer. Reserve pulp and juices. Discard solids.

8. Add shrimp, tamarind, salt, and sugar to the gravy. Simmer uncovered until shrimp turns pink, about 2–5 minutes.

9. Remove from heat. Remove curry leaves. Garnish with fresh coconut slivers. Serve with plain, boiled rice.*

*
Preity’s Tips:

         Wear disposable kitchen gloves when handling seafood and chopping chilies.