“Yes, my mother and sister are there.”
“Are you getting letters?”
“The last letter came two weeks ago. Since then I’ve written two letters. I’ve sent a wire too, but no answer has come.”
“But what will you learn from the news on the radio?”
“At least I can get an idea how things are in the city.”
“Then please come to my office. All the Dhaka newspapers come to my desk.”
After this, she began to come to my office. She came regularly every day, looked through all the Dhaka newspapers, and went away.
“Where are the rest of your family?” I asked one day.
“Some in Karachi, some in Lahore, some in Islamabad.”
“And here?”
“There’s no one here any longer.”
“You’re the only one here?”
“Yes, I’m alone in India.”
One Muslim girl who stayed alone in the whole of India, this seemed a strange thing to me. I know whole families left, and some one person would stay behind. But this person was usually an old man. These old men who stayed on alone were not held back by the thought of their property, but by the thought of their graves. There was no problem about property: people could go to Pakistan and enter a claim, and by entering false claims they could even get a larger property in return for a smaller one. But no one can enter a claim for a grave. In Vyaspur that Hakim-ji from the big house, you remember? — his whole family went off to Pakistan. He stayed in his same place, and continued to take sick people’s pulses. I asked him, “Hakim-ji, you didn’t go to Pakistan?”
“No, young man.”
“And the reason?”
“Young man! You ask for the reason? Have you seen our graveyard?”
“No.”
“Just go sometime and take a look. Each tree is leafier than the next. How could my grave have such shade in Pakistan?”
I laughed inwardly. Yar, you Muslims are wonderful! You’re always looking toward the deserts of Arabia, but for your graves you prefer the shade of India. Seeing the old people who had stayed behind here, I realized what great power the grave has in Muslims’ culture. But did the thought of graves hold this girl as well? The idea bewildered me. One day I asked her, “Your whole family have gone to Pakistan. You didn’t go?”
“No, I didn’t go.”
“And the reason?”
“It isn’t necessary for everything to have a reason.”
“It isn’t necessary, but anyway?”
“Anyway, if I’d gone to Pakistan, it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’d have been alone in Pakistan too.”
I looked closely at her face.
“What town are you from?”
“Rupnagar.”
“Rupnagar!” I was startled. “Why, you’re that Sabirah?” This reaction of mine confused her. But I didn’t leave her in confusion long. I hastily asked, “You know Zakir?”
In reply, she looked at me carefully from head to foot. Then she said slowly, “I see, so you’re that Surendar Sahib.”
After that she became absolutely silent. I too was silent, in confusion. Then she went away. The next day she didn’t come. The day after she didn’t come either, but now this girl had a new meaning for me. Now for me she wasn’t a radio announcer, but an evocation of a lost friend. I went and got hold of her and abandoned formality. “Sabirah! Are you angry with me?”
“For what?”
“No matter what the circumstances, it’s necessary to tread carefully around someone else’s emotional life.”
She made no reply to this, but the next day she came, and examined all the old and new Dhaka newspapers with close attention. And from then on she made a habit of coming at a regular time, going through the Dhaka newspapers, chatting a little, drinking tea, and going away. Once or twice I mentioned your name, but each time she either said nothing or changed the subject. So I’m careful now and I don’t mention your name. But I know that when we meet, we aren’t just two, for a third man is invisibly present with us. Perhaps she meets me for that third man’s sake. The Dhaka newspapers are secondary now. One day I asked, “Sabirah, don’t you have any plan to get married, or anything?”
“None.”
“And the reason?”
She hesitated, then said with a wan smile, “Look, you’ve stepped out of bounds now.”
“Sorry,” I apologized.
“It’s all right,” she said with the same wan smile, and fell silent.
Zakir, this Sabirah of yours seems less like a girl than like a historical relic! Yar, don’t take it amiss, your history in India has progressed very awkwardly. First your conquerors came — so forcefully and tumultuously that their horses’ hooves made the earth quiver, and the clashing of their swords echoed in the air. Then the political leaders appeared, and thundered out their power. The great Mughal emperors — Babur, Akbar, Shah Jahan, Aurangzeb. Then Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, Maulana Muhammad Ali, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, and all the others — and after them, your Sabirah. A silent melancholy girl, staying on alone in the whole of India. I don’t know whether your history is unique, or whether the histories of all cultures progress like this. “First the sword and spear — and finally?”* Didn’t your “elder statesman” Iqbal have his gaze fixed on this final stage? This stage too is a part of the destiny of the group. Yes, it was the day of Id. I saw Sabirah coming out of the studio. I was a bit surprised to see her on that day. “What, you? You didn’t take the day off today?”
“No,” came the short reply.
“Then please celebrate Id here, and give me a treat.”
“Of course, come in my office.”
Entering her office, she ordered tea and sent for cake. She was pouring the tea, and I was wondering if any Muslim was actually on duty in an office on the day of Id. Most office workers didn’t even stay in the city for the day. Even the day before, they slipped away from the office early and got their train tickets and went straight to their own town. And girls? Girls celebrated Id even more enthusiastically than men. Drinking tea, I gathered my courage and asked, “Sabirah, you didn’t go to Rupnagar?”
“Rupnagar?” She looked at me with surprise. “Why should I?”
“You people have the custom of not spending Id away, but going home to celebrate Id.”
“Perhaps I’ve already told you my family situation. There are now none of us left in Rupnagar.”
I fell silent. Then, drinking tea, I asked casually, “Don’t you even have any distant relatives there?”
“Even my distant relatives have all gone. Rupnagar is empty.”
“What a strange thing,” I murmured.
“Won’t you have some more tea?” She interrupted me, and without waiting for my answer began pouring tea into my cup. Drinking my tea, I threw in one more question: “Since you came to Delhi, have you never been back to Rupnagar?”
“No.”
“It’s strange. How long has it been?”
“A long time. In the early fifties my brother-in-law’s letter came from Dhaka, saying that he had a job and we should come. In those days I’d just been offered a position by All-India Radio. I left for Delhi. My mother and sister set out for Dhaka. They were the last batch that Rupnagar sent to Pakistan.”
“And you decided to settle in India?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
At this answer, I should have kept quiet, but I ignored her politely sarcastic tone and said, “What I mean is that if you had gone to Pakistan—”
I paused briefly, and she interrupted me in a sharp tone, “Then? Then what would have happened?” And she gave me such a look that I didn’t have the courage to finish my sentence at all. You’ll understand what I wanted to say.