“Maulana Sahib, by God’s grace, my faith is very firm. It’s true that I don’t place much trust in holy men and faqirs. But there was one faqir who impressed me. It was Muhammad Din who took me to visit him. He looked at my face. He said, ‘You’re worried.’ I said, ‘I’m indeed worried.’ He said, ‘Don’t be worried — pray. He’s alive, but in trouble.’ Then, sir, he told me a prayer to say forty times every day after the sunset prayers. Maulana Sahib! Believe me, after I had been saying it for only a week, I heard about this Sialkot man.”
“God’s Word is very powerful.”
“Well, sir, I’m going today to Sialkot.”
Zakir stared at Khvajah Sahib. He remembered what had happened last month. Last month too, Khvajah Sahib had come like this one morning, full of hope. That time he had heard of a man who had come back to Karachi, who had, in escaping from the conflagration, seen Karamat at the Burmese border. And Khvajah Sahib had wandered all over Karachi searching for him.
“Maulana Sahib!” Khvajah Sahib spoke thoughtfully. “I must be under a curse. Just look, sir, I had two sons. One turned bad. One was lost — the obedient one. Only the Lord can bring him back. While the worthless one is grinding my heart into powder. That wretch Salamat, do you know what he says? He says, ‘The Bengalis have won freedom.’ I said, ‘Bastard son! Get out of my house.’ He said, ‘I’m going to America.’ I said, ‘Go to hell.’”
Once he had mentioned Salamat, Khvajah Sahib usually went on and on, but soon he remembered that he had to go to Sialkot, and rose to take his leave. The moment he went out, Ammi entered. “Well, what was Khvajah Sahib saying? Has he had some news of Karamat?”
Abba Jan answered with a certain hesitation, “He says that a man has come from over there, and has seen Karamat in Bangkok.”
“What else does the man say?”
“He won’t find out any more until he sees him in person. The man is in Sialkot. Today Khvajah Sahib is going to Sialkot. We’ll see.”
“But surely, the man is a stranger. Why would he tell a lie? He must have seen Karamat, since he says so.”
“Yes. But how can we tell?” Abba Jan fell silent. Then he said, “In any case, we ought to hope for His favor, no matter what.”
“Yes! I pray that the poor boy comes back, no matter how. Otherwise, poor Khvajah Sahib will be more dead than alive.” As she spoke, Ammi sighed. “And then, my own heart is in the same state. My heart is so full of suffering! Khvajah Sahib is worried about one of his loved ones. I have a whole family, and no news of them.” She stopped, then said, “Oh, what a dream I had last night, about Batul! She was in a wretched state, with her hair dirty and matted. I was combing her hair, and saying, ‘Why, your hair is full of lice.’” Her voice trailed off, then she covered her face with the end of her dupattah. Her eyes filled.
Abba Jan bowed his head. Then he sighed, and said, “Now it’s time for me to die.”
“Abba Jan?” He looked at him with a start.
“Yes, son! Now it’s time for me to die. I’ve seen a lot. And what I should never have seen — I’ve seen that too. I don’t have the strength to see any more.”
“Conditions are improving. In the future they’ll improve even more.”
“But for how long?” Abba Jan paused, then said, “Son, if conditions improve, it means nothing. People’s deeds have to improve.” Ammi seemed not to have heard. Her mind was busy elsewhere. “Son, what were you saying that day, that Sabirah has gotten a job in the radio?”
“Sabirah? I don’t know, Surendar wrote me about it.” At the sudden mention of Sabirah he was somewhat rattled.
“Then, son, write her a letter.”
“A letter! To Sabirah?” He couldn’t understand what Ammi was saying.
“Why, I’ve heard that those who had family in India have secretly gone to join them.”
“What are you talking about, Zakir’s mother!” Abba Jan said with a touch of anger.
“Ai hai, what do I know? I’ve heard it.”
“Those who told you are as good at telling as you are at listening!”
“Ai hai, after all, when their houses are destroyed they must surely go somewhere! When people feel oppressed in a land, they rise up and leave it. They don’t stop to ask where they’re going.”
“But that land had already grown oppressive before.”
“Yes, once that land was oppressive, now this land has grown oppressive!”
Abba Jan, hearing this, fell into thought. Then he said, “God the Most High made the land wide and open, but in the hands of man it grows narrow and oppressive.”
“Well, what I was saying”—Ammi came back again to her subject—”was that Sabirah must have some news. While we’re sitting here with no news at all! People in India have more news than we do. So please just write a letter to Sabirah.”
Should I write a letter to Sabirah? Now, after so long? He fell into perplexity. But very soon he realized that he couldn’t write a letter. “Ammi, the mail service to India is shut down. How can I write a letter?”
“Ai, yes, I didn’t even think of that.” She paused. Then she said, “But son, those who want to write letters are still writing them. They say that the letters are reaching India through London. Ai, son! Don’t you have some friend in London? Send a letter to him. He’ll send it on from there to India.”
He again fell into perplexity.
•
“Yar! I want to write a letter.”
“To whom?”
“To Sabirah.”
“To Sabirah?” Irfan looked at him attentively.
“Yes, to Sabirah.”
“Now, after so much time has passed?”
“Yar, Ammi has got it into her head that Sabirah in India ought to have news about my Khalah Jan. So now she’s demanding that I write a letter to Sabirah.”
“And this demand is just according to your desire.” Irfan smiled.
According to my desire? He fell into thought. What’s my desire now? Now when so much time has passed and we’ve grown so far apart. Between her and me time and space have both interposed themselves. They’ve allied themselves against us. How much time has passed since we walked on the same land, since a single sky spread over both our heads.
The days went on passing. Days, months, years. It seemed that the door back had been closed forever. Those who had been lost would remain lost forever. Once in a while somebody would suddenly appear, and people would look at him in astonishment: Really, so somebody can actually escape and come out of there? Then they’d ask how he got out, and how he came to the city. And he’d tell how he hid for three days in a burned-out house, crouching in the ruins, hungry and thirsty, holding his breath. Then how he furtively crossed the border and reached Calcutta. “Then, sir, from there I boarded the Howrah Express. I thought that when I reached Aligarh, I’d surely find somebody I knew on the platform. I’d recognize someone, or someone would recognize me. Yar! When the train stopped at Aligarh, my compartment was right in front of the tea stall, and our same old Khan was sitting there.”
“You got down there?”
“No, yar! How could I have gotten down? I was afraid someone would recognize me! I sat there holding my breath, hiding my face. When the train began to move and pulled out of the station, and Aligarh vanished from before my eyes, I felt restored to life! Well, sir, then I didn’t stop for anything until I got to Delhi. I got down from the train and went straight to the Jama Masjid. When I reached there I was absolutely penniless. I said to myself, Well my dear fellow, now you’ll be forced to tell someone or other of your plight. In the mosque I approached a number of people, but then drew back. At last I saw a fine-looking old gentleman. His face looked so sympathetic and kindly. I went and sat down near him. Quietly I told him where I was coming from, and then I burst into tears. He passed his hand over my head affectionately, and took me home. I thought I’d stay at his house for one night, then borrow the money for the fare and set out again the next morning. But, yar, my resolve faltered.”