The Flight

 

Ranjita sat near the window, trying to see through the window panes at the distant snow clad mountains. These days her mind strayed often, she found it hard to remember, perhaps if she rested for a while; it would all come back to her. Her tired mind chased faded scraps of names and faces that haunted her.

Long lines of people, crawling endlessly through the countryside, their backs bent under the burden of what they had been able to salvage and save. Some of them lost, broken, lagging behind but yet they walked on. At times a desperate wave of hate rippled through the scraggly crowd of people and animals, and then there was bloodshed, it was mindless, brutal and it would leave those not dead crying for an end to this unwanted, uncalled for apocalypse.

After that there was only darkness, try as much as she wanted, there were just gaping holes of fear and despair. Once she found her way out of that it was the relief of being carried to safety and to oblivion. Who were those people? Why were they calling out so loudly?

As the noise reached a crescendo, Ranjita panicked and wanted to run away. Forgetting that she couldn’t move, she tried getting up from the chair and realised that she had to call for help.

The sound of the bell brought a woman to her side and Ranjita asked plaintively, “Where is Bitty?”

The woman spoke in a soothing voice, gave her a drink of water and waited for Ranjita to calm down. The staff looking after Ranjita had orders from her daughter Asha to be careful not to unsettle her mother.

Asha had no idea about Bitty’s identity, whether she was dead or alive but lately Ranjita had been calling out and looking for her ever so often.  It upset Asha to see her once strong and active mother lost to the present, trying to uncover a past that refused to yield almost nothing from its buried remains.  Arvind’s death had closed all the doors to Ranjita’s past, all queries would remain unanswered.

 As Asha grew up, Arvind would remind her, “Always be kind and patient with your mother, she has suffered a lot.”

 “It wasn’t only mummy. You also had to come away, leaving behind your friends and lose so many of your family when you came to India.”

 “Yes ! But it was one country that was thoughtlessly divided in two by rivers of blood. Yet until the partition was decreed, we all belonged to one land. History changes names but the land remains the same. The misery and suffering, the killing and plundering changed us forever but your mother’s story is a skein of broken strands that can’t be tied up.”

If there was one thing that Asha dreaded, it was Ranjita’s migraines, when her mother remained behind closed doors, a stranger to the household and out of reach to even her near and dear ones. These attacks became longer and more severe as she aged, she began to be troubled, disturbed by events that were shrouded in the past.

Ranjita’s earlier silence about the past had changed, now people and places from hidden corners of her mind began surfacing in her conversation. Asha found Ranjita’s frantic search for Bitty the most upsetting. No amount of questioning would lead to any information except to reduce Ranjita to prolonged bouts of crying. 

  The property had been with the family and it was impossible to imagine other owners. Over the years, several acres of fruit orchards had been sold but Hill Top and its large overgrown garden still belonged to Asha. Her husband’s death had compounded the problem as looking after the old house was not only expensive but needed supervision and labour. A set of rooms, that had been used by her mother had been locked up for several years. Cupboards and cabinets had been cleared haphazardly, Nobody had bothered about the trunks and boxes piled with old and discarded stuff. Some parts of the roof had sprung leaks; a few of the rooms were possibly unsafe unless major repairs were carried out soon.

Just the thought of strangers living in Hill Top was giving Asha sleepless nights. The house had too many memories of Ranjita, it was almost as if she was forsaking her mother.  May be her daughter Minny and the grandkids would give her the much needed push to come to a decision.

Hill Top had increasingly been used as a retreat from the fierce summer heat of the plains.  Once the rains came, the family left for the city and the house remained shuttered for the greater part of the year.

“Tanya, Aneesha, we are going up to the hills to Nani’s summer home for a few weeks,” said Minny.

“A sure fire way of rusting in the backwoods!! Mummy, these are your famous last words at the beginning of almost every summer. We might as well be under house arrest,” said Tanya.

“No dissent,” cut in Aneesha, “Agreed. For once am siding with my respected older sister.”

 Minny sighed deeply, “Do stop fussing. Both of you have a change of heart, the moment we arrive at Hill Top. Also this might well turn out to be our last visit. Nani is considering selling the house as she says she is now too old to go up every year.

Asha welcomed her family’s arrival, young voices livened up the sleepy house .She wanted to hear their opinions, “Girls, now that you are here, tell me whether I should sell HillTop?

 Minny rattled off, “You know my decision, sell out and move to the city. This is too large, old, needs a lot of maintenance and may be risky as far as personal safety and medical emergencies are concerned.”

Seeing Asha’s face fall, Tanya decided to be tactful, “You could start a guest house and that might help pay bills as well as provide company.”

“Rent out the house to tenants, keep your mother’s suite for your use, then you don’t have to worry about looking after guests or cash,” suggested Aneesha.

“There have been a few offers but I haven’t considered any seriously. One of the local families has made a reasonable offer but before I go ahead, I need to clear out a lot of junk.  Do you think Minny you could help clear out Amma’s rooms?”

“I’ll help but you know that I won’t be here for more than a week as I don’t have much leave. Tanya and Aneesha will be here for longer and they will lend a hand.”

Minny’s daughters weren’t too happy at being left behind and Tanya mumbled in an audible whisper,”Amma’s rooms are a bit spooky.”

 

 

Minny spent  a couple of days looking through all the paperwork and bank accounts, “Daddy and you have done a reasonable job of looking after your books but you will have to dip or should I say dive in to your savings to keep Hill Top in good shape. Do you really want to keep the house? Since I have time on my hands, I will see if there is anything worthwhile rescuing from Amma’s rooms.”

Damp, dank and dark, the rooms would need to be aired before  they could enter. Too many memories flooded Asha’s mind and she could almost see Ranjita sitting in her armchair, looking out from the window. Going in to those rooms was painful; the task was better left to the younger family members.

First the rugs and other furnishings had to be carried out to be dusted and sunned. The windows had been opened out, sunlight streamed indoors. “Thank goodness the rooms are bright and well lit otherwise who knows what might pop out from one of the corners, “said Aneesha.

“It’s not that bad, it is just the general mustiness. Let’s take a look at the cupboards and cabinets. Ani don’t get worked up,” said Minny.

Ranjita’s personal belongings had been given away after her death and the cupboards were almost bare except for a couple of coats, shawls and some linen. They were in poor condition and not worth saving.

“Nothing much to frighten you Ani unless a skeleton drops out from under the bed,” teased Tanya.

They made their way to the study, hoping that clearing it out would be as easy as the other two rooms. Daylight streamed in through the big picture window, the armchairs attracted the youngsters’ attention. They plopped down, making themselves comfortable while Minny was pulling open the drawers in the writing table.

Minny turned around hearing Tanya shriek and leap out of the chair, “Oh my goodness, there is some creature moving in the cushion. I’m not staying in this room.”

“Don’t be silly. The cushion cover must be worn out and the stuffing is poking you.”

 Using that as an excuse, the girls rushed out, shouting that an unfriendly spirit had attacked them. Minny continued to browse through the files, none of them seemed of much importance, old newspaper cuttings, some of them so yellowed and frayed that they were almost illegible. On careful reading, she saw that the cuttings were from different dates otherwise all identical, asking for information about Ranjita Kaur from Sukhanwala village in Pakistan.

Along with the papers a sketchbook tumbled out, Minny thumbed through the pages, they were portraits and a few landscapes done in pencil and charcoal.  While Asha’s portraits as a child were easily recognisable, many of them were of unknown people.

Her gaze wandered around the room, taking in the once familiar sights until it rested on a magazine rack standing in the corner. There were some dog eared and grime encrusted newspapers and magazines, stacked along with an equally battered register, the type generally used for keeping accounts. Minny decided to take that along as it might be interesting to compare prices that could be close to a century old.

Minny made a note of the furniture that was still usable and took the two books along with her before locking the doors to her grandmother’s suite

“I found some books, papers and drawings that might interest you. The drawings could be family heirlooms. I think Amma was the artist,” said Minny.

“Let me see what you have retrieved. A few years ago I framed a couple of her drawings and put them up in the living room.”

Minny handed the drawing book and the ledger while she tried to read the yellowed newspaper clippings.

It was the landscapes that caught Asha’s attention, they were   shrouded in a miasma of death and destruction, people broken and bent by desperation and fear. There were just a few sketches of young boys smiling, a fleeting ray of happiness. They were all done in bold pencil strokes as if it would be a travesty to use any colour.

Looking at the sketches made Asha uneasy; they reminded her of the stories that she had heard when people fled helter skelter, unsure about their future.  In villages and towns, generations who had grown and lived amicably were now uprooted without a minute’s notice. 

Families had been torn apart, separated when they fled from the villages and towns of Pakistan to disperse, to rearrange and restart their lives. 

Asha’s father’s family had farmed the fertile lands of Lyallpur and it was her grandfather who had at first migrated to Lahore to start his own business. The prosperity from the lands had helped the next generation to reap the benefits of education. 

There had been talks of an imminent partition but not many gave credence. Why would a people who had so much in common be sliced by a pen that would in time to come, make them the most hated of enemies?

Asha’s grandfather and uncles paid with their lives for delaying their decision to leave. They were looted, the house burnt and nothing remained but the charred remains of bricks and bones.

Arvind was visiting his mother’s family in what had now become a part of India. The news from Lahore was about bloodied corpses, of families broken and bewildered and tales wrapped in layers of rumours and lies.

Asha remembered Arvind saying,” Neither could I sleep nor keep awake, I was in a trance, a force greater than myself was pushing me towards Lahore. I slipped out in the early hours of the morning, fearing that I would be prevented from going over to what was now being called the ”other side” of the land.”

It was a wrong decision as Arvind had got trapped in the cross current of a movement that swirled through the corridors of humanity driven by their religious beliefs and fuelled by the uncertain political future. The word citizen now assumed manifold meanings and people looked for bits of paper that certified their existence. New and unfamiliar boundaries now chose indiscriminately whom to accept and whom to reject.

Asha decided to stop looking at the drawings as they stirred emotions that only made her uncomfortable and sad. She leafed through the pages, there were a few of herself as a young child, some of the faces were familiar but her attention was caught by a young woman’s face, it bore a close resemblance to Ranjita. She noticed a line written under the portrait of a young girl. It read, “My mehendi was coloured with your blood.”

“Mummy, you are looking tired. Leave this for another day though you should keep Amma’s drawings. Have a look at the old ledger and maybe I can keep it as a family heirloom.”

Asha was still loath to sell the house though she had been talking to a few prospective buyers. Minny hoping to bring the matter to a close said, “Mummy, you can have your cake and eat it too. Amma’s suite is built as an annex to the main building. Sell the rest and keep that for yourself.”

“I am determined to conclude a deal as I know that I can’t look after all this by myself. There are a couple of people who have made reasonable offers. I will keep in mind your suggestion too.”

 Minny had left and the children’s vacation was drawing to an end, Asha wanted to have a farewell party for the granddaughters. Hours were spent on discussing the guest list and the food but they were all agreed that a big bonfire and fireworks would mark the end of the festivities.

Tanya and Aneesha were busy collecting wood for the bonfire that would mark the grand finale. Asha was emptying out the piles of papers and trash that would find a fitting end in the fire.

 As she looked through the papers her gaze rested on the two notebooks that Minny had recovered from Ranjita’s room. Remembering Minny’s request about preserving the ledger, Asha kept that aside along with the drawing book.  She turned her attention to the ledger and the first few pages were just household accounts, Asha thought that those pages could provide a history lesson for the present generation. Currency, weights and measures had all undergone drastic changes and now the decimal system was possibly the most commonly used in many countries all over the world. May be she could gift it to Tanya and Aneesha as family memorabilia. As she was putting the book away she noticed that there were a few pages that were covered with closely written script.  Curious to know the contents, she found that it was written in Gurmukhi, the language that Ranjita had taught her. Though Asha could speak fluently but her ability to read Punjabi was a bit rusty.

Asha carried the ledger to her bedroom as she knew that it would take her time to get familiar with the script as well as decipher the handwriting.  She wondered who had written in those pages, it had to be someone belonging to the family as the other pages were devoted to sundry accounts.

The ledger lay forgotten on Asha’s table until Tanya noticed it. “Nani did you look through the ledger?  May be we could gift it to a museum? Do you know there are museums that are showcasing clothes, letters, personal items about the Partition. This ledger might make an interesting exhibit?”

Aneesha looked a bit disparagingly at the dusty, dog eared book bound in red cloth, “I bet you no museum will want this moth eaten copy!”

“Aneesha, history is about the past and museums display old objects. Don’t be so disdainful. I will go through this before trashing it though your mother had mentioned that she would like to keep it.”

Asha decided that she would browse through the pages before she went to bed.

As soon as Asha came to grips with the handwriting she was reading a tale that was familiar and yet unknown though the writer’s identity wasn’t difficult to guess. There were words that had been crossed out, blotted and blotched but the writing had continued in a firm hand.  No matter what the cost, the author was determined to complete her narrative.

“My headaches are returning, through the pain, I see the same scene over and over again. I hear voices calling out for help, begging for pity and the blood, red splashed all over. Then there is nothing but darkness.

I have kept this hidden deep in my heart for many years but with each passing day, it is preying heavily on my mind. In these peaceful times it is difficult to imagine the swiftness with which our lives were turned upside down.

The news of the partition hadn’t been taken very seriously by the men in the family. Whereas others around us were leaving, my father didn’t believe that we would have to forsake the land of our forefathers.

Once the pen had drawn the line the two countries were officially divided, it turned Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims in to enemies forever. There was a mad scramble to cross over and each passing wave of humanity left behind debris of unbelievable cruelty and sorrow.

My father, uncles, male cousins finally decided that the move had to be made and we would join the kafila that was being organised in our village. Nobody knew what was happening, we didn’t know where we were going but we knew we would have to move, to leave behind the very dust that we loved.

Everyone was concerned that the women had to be guarded and all the females were locked up in one room. My aunt reminded us,” Your honour is in your own hands. Use the kirpan if it is necessary.”

The Kirpan was a mandatory item of our faith but none of the women had really thought of it in terms of a real weapon. Each one of us looked at the kirpan in a new light; it was a dagger that could kill.

My brother Jagjit called me aside ”Ranjita, look after Bitty, she is my only daughter, don’t let her out of your sight. Be careful of her honour as well as your own.”

At first the kafila was small, everyone was known but with each passing day, it was swelling with people as well as their belongings and farm animals. Tempers were running high, rumours of looting, killing and rape had become commonplace. At night, the women were asked to stay in the centre of the camps, they weren’t supposed to move out unescorted and fires were lit on the peripheries.

One night, Bitty came crying,”Bua look at my salwar, it is sticky with blood. Where has all this blood come from?”

We were both crying as I held her in my arms. It was possibly the last time I would do so.  I thought it best to take Bitty to one of the less crowded areas and help her with her personal fear and problem. A girl should have privacy to mark her entry to womanhood.

It was a decision I would rue all my life, as the spot I had chosen was not well lit and unmanned.  As I was helping Bitty change and calm down, I heard the sound of men rushing in our direction. I had hoped that the darkness would provide us with cover but the torches lit up the ground and focused on us. Above the din of the men’s voices I could hear Bitty calling out to me.

I rolled on top of Bitty to shield her from the men who had encircled us. The two of us were no match for the quick hands that tore us aside. The kirpan was in my hand but my untrained moves were mostly ineffectual though I had drawn blood and heard a couple of agonised shouts. Pinned to the ground, unable to move, I lost sight of Bitty. There was pain and horror overshadowed by the deep sadness that I hadn’t been able to look after my niece.

It was morning when I came to my senses, around me lay mangled bodies. One of the corpses had fallen in such a way that I was covered from view and left for dead. The kafila had moved on and it was with difficulty that I was able to sit up.  I dragged my broken self around and found Bitty lying close by writhing in pain. Her half naked body and her vacant eyes told her story. Just for a minute, I lost all sense; I put my dupatta around her neck and pulled it hard. There it was over, her shame and suffering had come to an end.

I didn’t remember anything at all except that I was rescued by a man who was also running away from rioters. We took refuge in a makeshift shelter used by shepherds and I began my life with a stranger in a new land.

I have not been able to unburden myself to any one not even to my husband who has been so kind and loving. Am I murderess or did I really save my niece?

These headaches are gruesome, the shouts never cease and the blood lies spattered all over, covering everything in sight.”

Asha was trembling as she couldn’t picture her gentle, soft spoken mother as the same woman who had killed her niece. The guilt and pain that had weighed on Ranjita had finally broken her down.

Should she destroy the book lest it fall in to other hands or should it remain in Asha’s safe keeping? The contents were like a knife being twisted slowly in her stomach.

It was the bonfire marking the end of the farewell party for her granddaughters that seemed to be the best repository for the ledger.

Asha quietly threw the book in to the flames. The yellowed pages were lit up for a few seconds before the fire consumed all that came in its path.  Nothing remained except sadness that lay tangled deep inside Asha’s heart