Then my cell phone, a little-used object, began to buzz. Jindié was ringing from Isloo. She had to cancel our dinner engagement scheduled for that night. The dead general, she informed me, was her son-in-law. She sounded calm, a bit too calm, I thought, as I offered my condolences. She would ring on her return, which should be within a fortnight. Zahid could stay the forty days if he wished. Not her.
Paris beckoned. Zaynab would be there for three more days. I rang. She was surprised and, I think, pleased. I reserved a room at my favourite dive in the Quarter and booked a seat on an early afternoon train to France.
I had been looking forward to seeing Jindié on her own and discussing the events in Yunnan that had transformed her family’s life. The letter describing the last days of the Dali sultanate affected me more than I had realized. At least they hadn’t decapitated his dead body before the eyes of his women and children. Why bother, they must have thought, when we are going to rape and kill them all. What had happened to the beautiful spy and her child? Did they survive in Cochin China? How delicious if one of the descendants had fought against the Americans in Vietnam. I had recurring thoughts about imperial rulers since ancient times who never paid heed to the rest of humanity.
Jindié, had supplied me with knowledge usually available only to specialist scholars. The Taiping and Boxer rebellions feature in virtually every book on modern Chinese history. Why not Yunnan and Dali? Weighed on any scale, eighteen years of semi-independence defended against repeated Manchu assaults was no mean achievement. I could not fully fathom the reason for disappearing this rebellion from history.
Deprived of Jindié’s company for another two weeks, I had time to read her diary at leisure and began it as the train moved out of London. She had provided me with photocopied extracts. They were handwritten, but in the neat scrawl that she and others had been taught by the nuns at a Jesus and Mary convent school in Fatherland and that never got better, usually worse, when the luckier girls finished their education at Nairn College. The extracts I was given began on her wedding day. This irritated me greatly, even though the event was given a three-line entry, dated January 1970. Why was she censoring the earlier years? I wanted to compare her version of events with mine. Instead I got a detailed account of the children, the joys of breastfeeding, teething problems, choice of nursery, speaking Mandarin to them as well as Punjabi, the novels she was reading, described without any sustained reflection. Her father had died in 1974. Her mother had sold the shop and the beautiful old colonial apartment in Elphinstone Buildings and joined them in Washington, enabling Jindié to spend more time away from her family chores, in the university library. The entry on Confucius detained me longer than the others. Even though he had become a blowhard Maoist and severed all connections with his counterrevolutionary revisionist friends, I still had a soft spot for him. He was a brilliant physicist and there is little doubt that had he remained in Fatherland he would have been dragooned to work on the Fatherlandi nuclear bomb. The leaders had been desperate for nuclear physicists. But Confucius, like Maoism, had long disappeared. All attempts in DC and Isloo to get the Chinese embassy to help locate him had ended in failure. He was fluent in written and spoken Chinese. Had he taken on a new identity, changed his name, broken with his recent past and gone in search of other roots, or had he been killed in a factional battle with a rival group? Nobody knew. I couldn’t believe he was dead.
June 1979, DC
Mother very agitated on seeing the scenes from Tien An Mien Square on the evening network news. She’s sure she sighted my brother. I try to explain that Hanif would have little sympathy with most of these students. He would regard them as ‘capitalist-roaders’ and ‘revisionists’. But she won’t listen. Her eyes are glued to the television nonstop these days. We all worry. No letter from Hanif for nearly four years. Before he used to write at least once every three months. I wish he hadn’t gone to China. ‘I must participate in the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, Jindié. It’s happening now. History is being made. I can’t stand on one side.’ He pleaded with the Chinese embassy in Isloo for a one-year study visa in 1969 and then disappeared. Did they find him and lock him up for having no legal papers? The Red Guard group he joined was disbanded. He wrote that he was teaching English at a school in Kunming. Then a postcard from Dali. Three letters from Beijing and then silence. I’m sure he would write to our mother if he could. Is he still alive?
24 January 1984, DC
Mother died peacefully today. I got a shock when I took her some tea and saw her lying there stiff with her mouth and eyes wide open. I screamed. Zahid felt her pulse. He examined her and thought she must have died a few hours previously. Her heart stopped beating, but no noise, no attempt to shout my name. It was in her sleep and that was nice to hear. I kept thinking of all the things I should have done for her. I don’t think I ever told her how deeply I loved her and how much I had depended on her in my youth. Even in those days she said things only if she had to. It was Father who talked to us a lot and punished us. She would watch, a wry smile on her face.
It was different with my children. They later told me how she laughed and played with them when Zahid and I were absent. She would talk endlessly about Yunnan and the last days of Dali, telling them the same stories that I had heard from Elder and Younger Grannies, stories that I had put aside, not wishing to burden the children with memories that meant nothing to them. It was after my mother died that Neelam started praying and wearing a hijab.
Hanif’s disappearance weighed heavily on my mother and not talking about it must have made it worse. Whenever I mentioned him she would ask me to be silent. She simply did not wish to talk about it.
We’ve all been weeping. The children, who adored her, insisted on staying at home today. We buried her late in the afternoon in the Muslim cemetery. Zahid angrily brushed aside the Imam who said that Neelam and I shouldn’t be present.
She never said much after Father died, always felt she was a burden on us. How many times did I reassure her that we couldn’t do without her. It was true. She loved the children and cooked for them, went out with them when Zahid and I were out of town. Her only regret was that she had never visited Yunnan to pay tribute to her ancestors.
I went to the children’s bedrooms in turn to kiss them goodnight. Suleiman was too upset to talk. Neelam asked: ‘Who is Dara?’ I answered quickly. ‘An old, old friend of your father.’ She persisted. ‘And a friend of yours?’ I wondered if my mother had said something, but that seemed so unlikely. ‘Why don’t you answer, Mom? I’ve read your diary.’ I slapped her and then started weeping and hugged her. That night I destroyed the old diary. ‘What difference does it make if she knows?’ was Zahid’s tired response. It made a difference to me. Neelam never raised the matter again. Didn’t sleep all night. I went to the kitchen, made tea the way mother used to and kept bursting into tears as different memories of her queued up in my head. She never lamented the loss of her past, but the children had confirmed that it never left her. I wandered into the attic and opened the suitcase full of old photographs. I was still there when the children woke up the next morning.