Love Across Borders (4 page)

From the distance, the couple heard raised
voices, and an eerie tension gripped their bodies. A soft glow of
light indicated that they were close a few stone throws away from
the camp; too far to hear voices, surely? Jahaan felt Aryan grip
her tightly as she spurred the horse onwards.

They reached the bluff above the shared
campgrounds just as the sound of gunfire filled the air. Shocked,
Jahaan pulled up the horse, and twisted to look up at Aryan. His
face was taut, and he was looking straight ahead. He lifted his arm
and pointed. A few meters ahead of them, half way down the steep
slopes of the valley, several men were wrestling on a narrow crag.
Each tribe had stationed lookouts along the valley wall, but the
men seemed to have forgotten their posts.

Climbing off the horse, Aryan crept towards the
edge of the cliff and looked down into the valley. He felt Jahaan
crawl up next to him. The box lay between them.

In the canyon below, the campgrounds resembled a
wasteland. Bodies were strewn across the canyon floor, and dust
swirled where men still fought. The peace talks were clearly
over—in less than a day, the hopes and efforts of six long months
of preparation lay in ashes. Despair gripped the two youngsters
watching from the cliff, but they were helplessly stuck on their
perch. Neither of them had the will to join the fight and it never
occurred to them to turn on each other.

“We should be down there,” Jahaan whispered,
reluctantly. “My father…”

“Mine, too.” He looked uncertain. “Should
we?”

She was silent for a moment, then she shook her
head, sadly. “Look at that frenzy—they’re killing each other based
on the color of their clothes. No one is going to stop and listen
to us if we try and
reason
with them. We’ll have to wait it
out.”

It took hours for the dust to settle. In the
light of yet another early dawn, Aryan and Jahaan watched as random
figures scattered in all directions. Leaving behind a trail of
bodies, the survivors had turned their backs on hopes of any
lasting peace. The death toll of this particular day would not be
forgotten. For all they knew, that toll included their parents and
loved ones.

Putting her hand on the box, Jahaan looked up at
the sky. Rays of pale peach light cut through the dark blue of the
heavens. It carried the promise of a beautiful new day.

She turned her emerald eyes to Aryan. “I
wonder.” His hand came up to touch hers in mute understanding.
“What stupid comment crushed the Kutch Treaty so completely, so
devastatingly, that a century later, we’re still at war?”

∞

ABOUT SHUCHI KALRA

Writing has been Shuchi’s passion for as
long as she can remember, although she adopted it as a profession
only in 2005. She now freelances with popular magazines and
businesses, and also writes a monthly travel column for Investors
India. Her works have appeared in Good Housekeeping, Home Review,
Parent & Child, Vista, Women’s Era, and Time ‘N’ Style, among
many others.

A firm believer in the intense power of
words, Shuchi hopes to use her writing skills to make a positive
difference to the world. Her collaborative short story, ‘One Stupid
Comment’, is just a small step in that direction. She also believes
that literature and art are threads that bind cultures and unite
humanity.

Shuchi is the owner of Pixie
Dust Writing Studio, a quaint little editing firm that services a
global clientele, and the Indian Freelance Writers Blog. Pay her a
visit at 
www.shuchikalra.com
.

ABOUT SABAHAT MUHAMMAD

Sabahat Muhammad is a Karachi-based graphic
designer, writer and editor. A graduate of the Indus Valley School
of Art & Architecture, she has been an active player in the
communication industry since 1995, and has worked as a Visualizer
at Creative Unit (design house for Dawn) and as a Creative
Consultant for Newsline. As Principal of iMedia, she helped bring
Newsline online in 2009, was the lead designer for the KaraFilm
Festival from 2005 to 2008 and has most recently created a portal
of Arif Hasan’s works spanning thirty years of research. She is a
senior editor at Indireads.

Anjum

ANDY PAULA

“Hi, which number?” I say, wanting
to press the lift button for the bride.

No reply. She looks at me and
through me. I rephrase. “
Kaun
se
floor
pe jana hai
?”

This time she looks up shyly
and smiles.
“Ji?”

I smile too,
“Kiss manzil par jayengi
aap?”

“
Saatvein.”

I’m going up to the seventh floor
too. We travel in silence with the occasional smile when our eyes
meet. We reach our floor, get out of the lift and turn in different
directions. I open the lock and the interlock and am about to step
in, when I remember and turn to say bye. She is still struggling
with the interlock. Her hands are full of the red and white bangles
of a bride, her heavy brocade dupatta keeps wanting to slide off
her slim frame and two thick black locks have escaped from her bun
and are hanging over her eyes.

“
Nahin khul
raha?”
I state the obvious, and
immediately feel stupid. She shakes a helpless head.

“
Ek
minute
,
mujhe dijiye,”
I take her keys and unlock
her door as if it were my own. She gives me a grateful smile and
invites me in for tea. Some other time, I tell her.

“
Aapka naam kya hai? Nayi shaadi
hui hai?”

She blushes as she nods.
“Anjum.”

Lovely name, I tell her. She
blushes some more and doesn’t ask mine.
“Mera naam
Vandana
hai
.
Vandana Solanki,” I offer, surprising even myself. I tell her I’m
newly married too and have come here just last month. She smiles,
almost in relief. “Ok, bye,” I turn to step into my
house.

“Bye,” says Anjum and nods to
indicate a ‘see you’.

***

Inside, the house is breezy; I love
the French windows that open out to the greenery so rare in Bombay.
I like to sit on the window, my feet dangling outside where the
flower pots are kept on the slim grill, and sip my morning and
evening tea. The vast green expanse below with the Ganesha temple
at its centre soothes my soul, makes me feel connected.

Ganesh Puja is just round the
corner, maybe I won’t miss Nagpur if they have celebrations here, I
think.

I never wanted to marry in
Bombay; it is notorious for being cold. I think I never wanted
to
marry
, my tutorial centre was flourishing, and I had money,
friends and peace of mind. What did I need a man for? Anyway most
of them drink, beat their wives and force them to bear children.
Couldn’t imagine myself being a doormat. But then here I am,
much-married and still doubting the wisdom of it. I’ve been here
just under a month and the only person who I have exchanged two
words with is Anjum. When Kirti calls me the next time, I can tell
her I’ve made friends. It’s only a little lie after all. My sister
wants to know everything that’s happening here.
She
should’ve been
married and living in Bombay instead of me; she likes all the
glamour and the
taam
jhaam
.

I, on the other hand, miss
the tutorial business that I had set up with such difficulty and
that was doing so well. Why are marriages so important in our
country? If you are not married, they look at you as if there’s
something terribly wrong. I know what you’ll say. That’s
what
Aayi
and
Kakaji
also said, and everybody who heard about my
marriage to Vineet. That he’s a good guy and earns well. And he
only has an elder sister who is like a mother to him; their parents
passed away some years ago so there won’t be any
saas-sasur ki kich
kich
. This is hypocrisy to the core;
first they teach you to respect parents and then they are happy
that their son-in-law doesn’t have his!

Vineet leaves for work at eight in
the morning and returns by nine. The days are longer than I
like—how much can I read? I hate watching TV; those regressive
serials get my goat. He is an AUTOCAD engineer, whatever that
means. I think they’re into designing; he said something about the
Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, which he had
helped design. I’m not sure about that, though. Yes, he was in
Dubai before marriage, but c’mon, Burj Khalifa! That’s too
prestigious an assignment, and honestly, he doesn’t look that sharp
to me. Anyway, not that I’m telling anyone about my suspicion;
they’ll only preach and say I should worship my husband.

I worship only Ganapati bappa.

***

The
kuda-wala
comes after eight.
Normally Usha, the cleaner, keeps the bag outside when she is
leaving, but today she has called in sick.

Anjum is putting her garbage out
when I open my door. I smile hesitantly at her. She invites me for
tea, but I shake my head and retreat into my house. I have only
just met her and drinking tea at her place smacks too much of
friendship.

I don’t see her for the next
few days and decide to be more friendly when I see her next. Which
is why I venture out and say hello the next time I see her opening
her door. She is wearing a pretty rose-pink
salwar-kameez
. “That’s
lovely,” I find myself saying, “where did you get it
from?”

She looks down and touches
her top. “
Yeh Lahore se hai.
Aap ko aisa joda chahiye
?”

I nod and then it hits me.
Wait a minute, did she say
Lahore
? My head starts spinning.
She’s a Pakistani? I conceal my surprise.
Ganesha
, was it not bad
enough that you got me married in Bombay. But to give me Pakistani
neighbours is more than I can tolerate. I have nothing against any
individual but all those terrifying stories about the bloodshed and
the gore. What were they doing in India, I mean, was it easy for
them to be here? I can’t believe it, a Paki in my building…on my
floor.

I stare at her as she smiles
happily and invites me in for tea again. I don’t remember what I
say to get out of it.

***

After the initial shock, I
begin to think that perhaps I am being too quick to judge. What a
shame if even an educated person like me behaves irrationally.
Didn’t I always talk of world-vision in the motivation sessions I
held for the senior students? I decide to open lines of
communication and see what happens. But for some reason though, I
don’t tell Vineet that our neighbours are Pakistani. It is my
secret.

The next time I see Anjum she
invites me for tea as usual. This time I agree and quickly go
inside to grab my keys and join her in 701. Her house is spotlessly
clean and a subtle
keora
essence pervades the room.
I look around curiously, trying to see differences and find none.
There’s a maroon sofa and matching curtains; a tall brass
flower-vase in one corner with colourful artificial flowers; and a
beautiful carpet that I suspect is not Indian. A large framed
poster-size photograph of the couple adorns one wall—they look
happy together.

This girl works at supersonic
speed; tea is ready even before I can take in the details. I
compliment her on her house and on her speed. She beams.

“
Kya ban raha
hai, badi achchi khushboo aa rahi hai?”
I
ask.

“
Gosht bana rahi
hoon, aaj Shahaab ka budday hai.”
I can’t
imagine making mutton at eight in the morning even for my own
birthday, forget Vineet’s. This girl could sure teach me a thing or
two!

“When is the party?” I ask.

“
Koi
party
nahin hai, magar ab aap aur bhaiya aayenge
dinner
par.”

I am amazed at her
simplicity. With my mathematician’s practicality, would I invite
anyone for dinner just a few days after meeting them? Not in this
lifetime. My friends tell me I am too practical,
‘itna bhi achcha nahi hota
hai.’
They still hold it against me that
when Vineet had come to meet me once before marriage, a surprise
visit, I had refused to meet him because I had classes scheduled.
How could I have told forty students that their tuition was
cancelled because the teacher was going out! And what would I have
told their parents? They kept a tab of each penny they paid for the
tutorial. Only fair, I had said. My friends find this cold; I tell
them they are romantic fools and it was because of them that our
government offices worked like they did.

I think of refusing her
spontaneous invitation, but then think—it’s not like I am doing
anything else tonight? And it will be a nice change. So I ask what
else she is cooking for dinner? Does she need any help? She
responds to the first question with a smile. “You’ll know when you
come tonight.” For the second question, she laughs.
“Arrey sirf char logon ka hi toh
khana banna hai, mere mayke mein toh humara chalees logon ka ghar
hai
, Lahore
mein.”

This time, the mention of
Lahore piques my interest rather than mistrust. I want to stay back
and learn more. About where she comes from, how she grew up. FORTY
people in
one
house she says? How big must the house
be?