Ticket to India (6 page)

Zara inched away from the pillar, frowning.

“We'll go this way,” said Maya, pointing down at the map.

They entered an alley where gold and silver ­jewelry
sparkled from shopwindows. A few blocks down, they slipped into a narrower alley, barely two feet wide. Zara took a left turn into a wider passage and they stumbled into a sprawling market that seemed to go on for a mile.

“Wow,” muttered Maya, transfixed by the sight.

Embroidered silks, delicate lawns, rich velvets, heavy brocades, dyed cottons, soft wools, stiff linens, airy chiffons, jeweled taffetas, sparkling sequins, and delicate lace extended in all directions. Spools of fabric were stacked by color. There was an entire section of pink, from the palest blush to eye-jarring fuchsia—and so many shades of red, orange, yellow, green, violet, indigo, brown, white, and black that it would take years to figure out the range of hues. It reminded Maya of a similar place in Karachi, where her mother and aunts went to buy fabrics to take to their tailor. But nothing compared to the scale of this place.

“Incredible, isn't it?” said
Naniamma
.

•  •  •

As they reached the other end of the bazaar,
Naniamma
pointed in excitement. “There!” she said. Maya looked and spotted a glimmer of gold in the distance.

They emerged a block down from the mosque, a delicate building with a faded golden dome, over
shadowed by the newer, clunky additions. Barely glancing at the building,
Naniamma
ran on, past old, decaying mansions.

“Naughara Lane, it should be here,” muttered
Naniamma
, stopping at the third street. She froze, ­staring at a large house on the corner. “This is my uncle's house,” she said, her voice hoarse, filled with excitement. She walked to the house next door and stood shaking at the crumbling steps.

The girls followed her up to a faded and scarred set of double doors, where their grandmother took a deep breath and knocked. When no one answered, she thumped again. Finally, they heard feet running up from the other side of the door.

“Who is it?” came a child's voice, speaking Hindi.

“I'm looking for the family of Mir Hayat,” responded
Naniamma
.

There was silence.

“Please open the door,” said
Naniamma
.

The door creaked open, and a small boy stood at the entrance. Maya peered over his head and glimpsed a vaulted passageway that led to a dusty courtyard.

“Salaam Alaikum,”
said
Naniamma
. “Is your mother here?”

The little boy frowned and looked at them
­suspiciously. Then he pivoted and ran back through the open-air veranda and disappeared into the house. As Maya eyed the lone, stunted tree growing in the ­middle of the courtyard, the boy came back, a woman trailing him, dressed in a faded cotton sari, and with a red
bindi
marking her forehead, the sign of a married Hindu woman.

“What do you want?” she asked, approaching the door with a frown.

“I am looking for Mir Hayat's family,” said
Naniamma
, her voice a little uncertain.

The woman shrugged. “There is no one here by that name.”

“Are you sure?” asked
Naniamma
.

“Yes, yes. We've had this house for over twenty years,” said the woman, her tone brusque. “My father-in-law bought it from an old man.”

“The old man, where is he now?” asked
Naniamma
.

“Gone,” said the woman. “I can't help you.” Then she shut the door.

“This is not good,” said Zara, a frown settling over her brow.

“But Mir Hayat said they would never move,” said
Naniamma
.

7

Days Long Gone

T
WO HOURS LATER, AFTER
meandering through the back streets of Old Delhi, they finally stumbled upon what they were looking for: a storefront with a dusty green awning. After getting the door to Mir Hayat's old house shut in their faces, they'd stood on the steps, bitterly disappointed.
Naniamma
, pale and exhausted, had been about to say something, when they heard guttural singing from down the street.

“Come, examine my lovely, plump eggplants and sensational squash,” warbled a grizzled old man, pushing a wooden cart piled with vegetables. “My tomatoes are incomparable and my okra divine!”

A hopeful smile lighting her face,
Naniamma
hurried down the steps—it was a known fact back in Karachi that vendors knew all the local gossip, since they came through the neighborhood every day. As
Naniamma
purchased a bag of limes from the man, she asked what had happened to the Hayat family. With a sigh, he told them that they had to move after their business fell on hard times. Although he didn't know where, he knew they still ran their bookshop in Urdu Bazaar, near Jama Mosque.

Maya found Urdu Bazaar on the map and off they went, passing yet another crumbling mansion, ­encircled by a protective metal gate. “This one's listed on the map,” she said. “Haksar Haveli, where Nehru, the first prime minister of India, got married.”

“Yes,” said
Naniamma
, recollection animating her weary features. “Nehru's daughter, Indira Gandhi, became the second woman to rule India, after Razia Sultana. And when the Pakistani president came to Delhi for peace talks, he passed by here on the way to the house where he'd been born.”

“The president of Pakistan was born in India?” asked Zara, surprised.

“Yes, his family left Delhi after Partition when he was a baby. He came back for the first time with his mother.”

Maya gazed at the forlorn building with a pang of sadness. It had been a critical part of India's history and now it was just another ruin, home to wandering goats rummaging through the rubbish. The girls and their grandmother traveled east, past sizzling kebab stalls, a shop specializing in birds—homing pigeons, partridges, and songbirds—and a warehouse crammed with fireworks. A group of kids paid for a bagful and ran off, whispering and giggling with excitement.

“What are these used for?” Maya pondered out loud.

“They are set off during religious celebrations,” explained
Naniamma
. “There is Muslim Eid, Zoroastrian New Year, Christmas, and the many Hindu holidays.”

“Kids must be off from school for vacation all the time,” said Maya, as they encountered a stall of garland makers preparing flower necklaces that brides and grooms wore at their weddings.
Nanabba should be here with us,
she thought glumly, trying not to trample the stray rose petals littering the ground.

“We're nearly there,” said Zara, turning onto a quiet street. A jumble of bookshops lined both sides, including the one they were seeking. It was located beside Rizwan Book Depot. The crooked sign in
Urdu, Hindi, and English, announced:
HAYAT'S BOOKSHOP AND HOUSE OF CALLIGRAPHY
. Past the cracked glass Maya spotted a wizened old man in a crisp white
kurta pyjama
hunched over a desk, running his hand through his silky white beard as he read a newspaper. On either side of him stretched rickety bookshelves crammed with books, manuscripts, and journals.

“This is it,” whispered
Naniamma
, pausing to smooth her sari before entering.

“Can I help you?” asked the old man eagerly, folding away the paper. “I have rare tomes that may interest you: poetry by Faiz or Ghalib, newly printed novels—
Umrao Jan Ada
. Or I can prepare a letter in Urdu if you need.”

“Uh, no, thank you,” said
Naniamma
nervously. “I'm looking for Mir Hayat's family.”

“Eh, speak up; I don't hear so well anymore,” he said, cupping his ear.

“I'm looking for Mir Hayat's family,”
Naniamma
repeated louder.

“Oh,” he said. “I am Mir Hayat's youngest son, Tariq.”

“Tariq
Sahib
,” said
Naniamma
, cheeks flushed with relief and excitement. “I'm so pleased to meet you. My father was Rayyan Mohammad Tauheed. His
brother, Hamza, had a house next to your father's.”

Recognition sparkled in the man's cloudy gray eyes. “Oh, yes, my brothers and I played with his sons as children—stickball in the streets! I remember one of the boys—I think his name was Firaz—got us to steal
jalebis
from a sweet shop down the street. We got caught and were in so much trouble.” He chuckled. “And your father—he used to come over for dinner whenever he was in town.”

“Yes,” said
Naniamma
, smiling. “My name is Alia, and sometimes my sisters and I would accompany him to Delhi from Aminpur.”

“Yes,” said Tariq
Sahib
. “I remember the fancy parties your uncle threw in your father's honor.”

Naniamma
nodded, relieved that he remembered.

“But I recall that your family moved to Pakistan,” said Tariq
Sahib
. “Whatever became of them?”

Naniamma
's face tightened. “They didn't survive the train passage.”

Tariq
Sahib
took a ragged breath, additional creases weighing down his wrinkled cheeks. “‘Surely we belong to Allah and to Him shall we return,'” he recited. “My heart aches at the news. Of course we heard such tales of horror—of trains arriving from Pakistan filled with murdered Hindus and Sikhs;
of cabins filled with slaughtered Muslims reaching Pakistan.”

“Only I and two others survived,” said
Naniamma
. “Ever since that day, I prayed that I would return. And here I am.”

“It is a miracle you lived, my dear,” said Tariq
Sahib
. “I'm so happy that you've returned to breathe the air and touch the soil where your family originated. At the stroke of midnight on the day of Partition, our family went into hiding, taken in by Hindu friends who protected us. For months the city burned and the people went mad. When we emerged, hardly any of the old inhabitants were left. Outsiders had taken over. Even our language was dead.”

“How can a language die?” blurted Maya.

He waved his hand around his cramped shop. “Urdu, the language associated with Muslims, became an enemy, and was slowly purged from public life.”

“But Urdu is still spoken here,” said Maya, confused.

Tariq
Sahib
wrinkled his great long nose. “Urdu is an aristocratic language—the language of the poets. Now all that is left is its shabby ghost,” he lamented. “People no longer have the knowledge of the
tehzeeb
, or culture, of the once glorious Delhi. Old Delhi is
gone. . . . It's all gone, and those who were left behind are in misery, and those who were uprooted are in misery.”

“That's terrible,” said
Naniamma
.

Maya stood behind
Naniamma
, saddened by the anguish in the old man's face.

“But it's not just that,” he continued. “Partition has left its poison in the blood of the people. Every other day there is terrible news of Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs turning on one another. Just a few years ago, in the city of Ayodhya, an old mosque was torn down by Hindus claiming it had been built over their god Ram's temple. In the ensuing violence, thousands were killed.”

Killed
. The word ricocheted through Maya's mind.

“We read about the riots in the newspaper,” said
Naniamma
. “It's a shame that the damage done at Partition continues to this day. Even in Pakistan, created to protect the interests of Muslims, there is corruption and unrest among the different ethnic and religious groups—the rich become richer while the rest wallow in poverty, without proper health care or education.”

In the silence that followed, Zara gently tugged on
Naniamma
's arm. “The keys . . . ,” she whispered.

“Oh, yes,” said
Naniamma
. “Tariq
Sahib
, my father
left the keys and the deed to our house with your father. Do you have them?”

Tariq
Sahib
paused to think, stroking his beard. “I do recall some such things.” He looked up, eyes brightening with remembrance. “Before my father passed away, he told my brothers and me about your father and uncle. And showed us a sealed package, telling us to give it to them if they returned.”

“Do you still have it?” asked
Naniamma
eagerly.

“They should be in my father's old suitcase,” he said. “Let me go to our apartment upstairs and check.”

He returned a few minutes later. “These are the items that your family left in my father's care,” he said.

“Thank you so much for keeping them safe,” said
Naniamma
as she stared at the frayed velvet pouch in his hands.

“Of course, of course,” said Tariq
Sahib
. He loosened the strings of the pouch and turned the contents over into her open hands: a jumble of iron keys and a yellowed bundle of papers.

Naniamma
stroked the largest key, engraved with a series of numbers in Urdu. “This is for our house in Aminpur.”

Tariq
Sahib
sadly shook his head. “Although the deed and key prove ownership, it will be very diffi
cult to claim your house. Even if you do, you'll have a nightmare of a time trying to legally evict those who've moved in.”

“I see,” said
Naniamma
, placing everything back in the bag.

“You must stay for dinner and meet my wife,” said Tariq
Sahib
.

“Thank you so much for the invitation,” said ­
Naniamma
gently, “but we need to prepare for our trip to Aminpur. Perhaps on our return we can stop by for tea.”

“As you wish,” said Tariq
Sahib
, taking a slim volume from a shelf. “Sadly, this India is not the one you left, but best of luck on your journey. Please accept this as a token of my respect and admiration.”

“Thank you,” said
Naniamma
, taking the book. On its cover was a bearded man.

“That is Mirza Ghalib, the court poet to Bahadur Shah, the last Mughal emperor,” said Tariq
Sahib
. “My favorite poem is ‘Temple Lamps.' Be sure to read it.”

With that they parted, but Tariq
Sahib
's words echoed in Maya's mind:
Old Delhi is gone. . . . It's all gone, and those who were left behind are in misery, and those who were uprooted are in misery.
As they exited, she felt a rumble in her belly.

“How about we eat something before heading back to the hotel?” suggested
Naniamma
.

“Great idea,” said Zara. “Where should we go?”

“Check the book,” said
Naniamma
, glancing at Maya. “It's led us in the right direction so far.”

Maya located a place nearby, Karim's: a restaurant “fit for kings—literally,” said the guidebook, as it was owned by the descendants of royal Mughal cooks. They walked past the bustling open-air kitchen, where men danced in an age-old ballet, some stirring huge stainless steel pots while others grilled meat on flames and flattened disks of dough to be placed inside blistering clay ovens. The waiter seated them at a table and handed them menus.

“It's like Bundoo Khan,” muttered Maya, remembering the restaurant in Karachi. She'd been ­hoping to find something she was familiar with. But it was
all
familiar. There were kebabs—chicken, lamb, and fish.
Parathas
—plain or stuffed with potatoes or minced meat. A dozen biryanis, royal rice dishes, and vegetable dishes—creamed spinach, peas, cauliflower, and lentils. It was like she was staring down at a menu in Pakistan.

“Even though they are now two countries, the recipes were formulated in the same kitchens before
1947,” said
Naniamma
. “Bundoo Khan brought his recipes to Karachi from his hometown in India. Of course, there are regional differences,” she added as the waiter placed a sizzling plate of kebabs in front of them. “The food in the South has its own unique flavors and ingredients.”

As Maya took a
paratha
and added a piece of juicy boneless lamb kebab to her plate,
Naniamma
added absentmindedly, “And India has many vegetarians, since many Hindus, Jains, and Buddhists don't eat meat.”

After the waiter left,
Naniamma
quieted, lost in her own thoughts. Maya noticed that her grandmother's hand shook as she reached to take a piece of flaky
paratha
, and she worried that the day had taken a toll on her. A long journey lay ahead of them. She needed to get back to the hotel and get some rest.

•  •  •

A deep, sweet weariness in her bones, Maya grabbed her journal and settled into the bed to log the day's events while
Naniamma
and Zara bustled about, preparing for their trip the next day. She pulled out her colored pencils and drew a map of Old Delhi marked with the locations they'd traveled to that day.

•  •  •

Saturday, September 17, continued.

New Delhi, India

India is not how I imagined it would be. I was expecting it to feel unfamiliar, but everything we saw reminded me of Pakistan: the people, the eggplant and okra in the market, the beggars on the street, the monsoon rains, rickshaws, sticky, sweet
jalebis
, and the shaggy white goats roaming the streets. And in both Delhi and Karachi, there are places that are very beautiful and places that are very sad.