**Story originally published in Volume 15 of the Frederick Douglass Collaborative and PA State System of Higher Education journal Making Connections**
Alia stood staring at the faded red face of the Varanasi Express train, the direct to Benares. The Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway station at New Delhi was strangely quiet. The heavy breathing of the homeless sprawled out on the cold metal chairs was the only sound. A young boy, with a steel teapot and clear glass cups balanced between his fingers, was navigating the maze of the metal chairs, hoping to chance upon a conscious human being who could be cajoled into buying a cup of steaming hot chai.
The station usually came alive at about 6am. Once awake, it became both a connection junction as well as a mini market place. Passengers arrived in droves, families received their guests, broken hearts and office goers scurried away to some new place, sweetmeat sellers hawked brightly colored delicacies, old men sold cheap plastic toys from shaky wooden carts. Today, however, less than 72 hours after the terrorist attacks on Connaught Place Market, a disturbing silence lay across the station.
The young tea seller had set his eyes on Alia and pestered her to buy a cup of tea. “Didi, sister, please one cup. You cold na? Good tea, very very fresh and hot. Take it na. Come on na, didi.” He got in her way, now facing her and pleading with his voice and his eyes, then turning around and talking to her back. Alia flicked her hand at him, as if trying to shoo away a pesky mosquito.
Ignoring the insistent young salesman, Alia climbed into the train. If someone stopped her and asked her why she was going to Benares, she would have had no answer to give. For, she wasn’t so sure herself. It was possible that the city’s rustic charm allured her. It was also possible that the Varanasi Express was the only train on the track and Alia’s decision was more spur of the moment practical than romantic. And, then there was also the chance that Alia was running away to meet her simple faced lover, Aijaz. Her motivation to leave could have been a combination of all these factors. The only thing certain was that there was something in Delhi’s air that made Alia want to run away, to escape. She could feel the hate and the anger that had built up against her and her kind in the course of three days.
At the ticket counter, Alia had used her friend’s fake ID, one used to illegal nights out of drinking, to buy her one way to Benares. Who would have known that the picture of Sabarmati Sharma, a light skinned girl in bright pink clothes, used to enter the upscale night clubs of South Delhi, would be exchanged not between the hands of a young girl and a bouncer but a young woman and a ticket selling agent.
The insides of the second-class compartment were packed. It smelt of stale breath and artificially cooled air. Fat mothers were trying to stuff food into the mouths of their skinny children, while disinterested fathers looked out the windows at the filth strewn across the tracks. No one spoke much and a silent, palpable grief hung over the compartment. Beaten up tin trunks and rolled dirty brown beddings were awkwardly stuffed under the blue fake leather chairs and in the corners, giving the compartment a sense of hurried urgency.
From the gold marriage necklaces and the red vermillion across most women’s foreheads, Alia could tell this was a train packed with Hindus. In the light of the attacks, most families had decided to end their summer vacations early and head home to the far flung corners of the country they came from. Alia nodded to the voice in her head that told her it would be safest to be Sabarmati for this trip; what would they think of a Muslim traveling among them? After decades of living peacefully as neighbors, friends and relatives, the two peoples were back to distrusting each other. About 60 years ago, it was the English power that had pit brother against brother and sister against sister. This time, too, it was a foreign power: one a lot closer to home, one that shared a border, culture and skin color.
Alia found an empty spot close to the door and sat down. She twisted her arms around herself; she her legs crossed and rested her forehead on the cool glass window. The children were craning their necks to take a look at her. From the corner of her eye, she could see the plump aunties sizing her up and the uncles purposefully avoiding looking at her. She did not look any different from them and no one would have been able to tell whether she was Hindu or Muslim. Alia was interesting because she had walked in with no companion or luggage and had audaciously made herself comfortable. Her eyes were thickly lined with black kohl, her kameez was short and fitted, and her pants were in the loose Patiala style of young college going women. The passengers looked intrigued by this modern looking young woman amongst their conservative selves. A light brown skinned girl of over five feet six inches, Alia was tall for the generally short Indians and was used to unwanted attention coming her way. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
“Bitiya, daughter, going to Benares?” a plump aunty in a red and green salwar-kameez, asked her, breaking Alia’s pretend sleep. The aunty looked at our Alia intently, curious about her story.
“Ji, yes, aunty,” Alia replied quietly. She was uncomfortable talking to this intrusive woman. What if she said her name was Alia instead of Sabarmati?
“Where is mummy papa? You traveling alone? What’s your name?” The aunty stuffed in as many questions into one sentence, lest she didn’t get a chance to level more inquiries at Alia.
The other passengers around her were intent on listening and all stared at Alia, waiting for her response. They would have been intent on listening regardless of the circumstances that brought Alia here. Indians are a curious people, interested in everyone’s affairs.
“They’re in Benares. Yes, I’m – I’m going to see them soon in… in the city.”
“Okay. Your name, bitiya?”
“Sabarmati Sharma,” Alia exhaled, relieved to have released the demon from her mouth.
“Okay. Nice nice.”
Alia felt like she had satisfied their curiosity for the mothers went back to silently sizing her up and the children to their windows. She turned away from the crowd and rested her head on the cool window again. She was leaving her home to go to another city, a place she had never known before. This was a brazen move, especially in times like these. However, Alia had to go away from the capital if she was to preserve her sanity. Questions about her fidelity to India, her views on the terrorists, her opinion on the appropriate course of action against the perpetrators were all laced with distrust and anger. In these times, Benares seemed exciting, accessible, and a welcome relief. She had heard of it repeatedly, from her mother, her aunts, her father. From Aijaz. He had told her over the phone in a soft whisper, “Come with me to Benares. We can live under the stars there.” She shifted the position of her head, moving it to another cooler spot on the window. She was taking a risk, sure. What if Aijaz never came to the Ghats as he had promised? What if she was stranded in another hostile city? Aijaz is a man of his words, she told herself, he would not go back on his word. She hoped. She remembered the conversation she had had with him the night before the blasts. He had asked her to come away with her. She had said maybe. He told her that he would love to see her at the Ghats, close to the water of the river Ganges. She had said maybe. He had asked her to come soon. She had said maybe.
Alia wondered whether Benares was cleaner that Delhi. What was it like? Did the Hindus and Muslims live peacefully? She reached for her phone in her kameez pocket. The shirt was crumpled up and the pockets were hard to find. She flicked the phone open and close, open and close. It was pointless trying to use it. After the attackers had been identified as Pakistanis aided by Indian Muslims, the government had either suspended or tapped cell phone services for those in the capital region. They were not taking any chances. Using it meant someone would find out that she was going away from Delhi. Any hint of Muslims leaving the city was seen as a threat and the Muslim as a suspect. Alia sighed and put the phone back into her pocket.
The fat aunty in red had been looking intently at Alia. She was aware of her gaze and carefully looked out the window, avoiding any eye contact. The aunty hesitated for a minute and then finally blurted out, “You must be in Delhi for college purposes, right?”
“Yes, I am,” Alia responded almost automatically, a little too quickly.
The aunty seemed satisfied with Alia’s answer and moved on to more pressing concerns more characteristic of her type.
“You want some poori aloo? You must be hungry, get something into your stomach.”
Alia was too hungry to ignore the fat aunty’s offer.
“Sure, I’ll have some. Thank you so much.”
I wonder if Alia too would be given the same food that you just offered Sabarmati, Alia thought in the quiet space in her head.
The aunty was again interested in interrogating Alia. She tilted her head to the right and looked at Alia half sympathetically and half quizzically.
“I can understand what it must be like. Having to go home because of those bastards,” the aunty let her judgment hang in the air, her words more a question than a statement.
“Yes, aunty. They should all have gone to Pakistan anyway,” Alia responded wearily. Her words pinched her heart as she saw something soften in the aunty’s eyes. She nodded her head at Alia, as if sympathizing with the poor young girl’s need to run back home.
Alia turned away, focusing on her food and the dirty little concrete houses that lined the railway station, taking in the rows of filthy children defecating on the sides of the tracks. The train jolted to a start and quickly picked up speed. The landscape changed from a blurry mess of grey concrete to an expansive canvas of green fields. Alia felt the veil of gloom being lifted from the compartment – the children were beginning to get noisy and the parents were beginning to talk amongst each other. Alia listened to snippets of their conversation.
“Buggers. That’s what they all are. Should have thrown them all out at Partition.”
“Exactly. You know what is wrong with us Hindus? We are too weak. Too weak.”
“We silently take everything. In this case, how can we blame those people? We are sitting here and waiting to be attacked.”
“Arrey bhai, what can we do? They are a big vote in the ballot.”
“What is the point of being in the majority? We have no rights. These jahil barbarians hit us again and again and people just watch.”
“They cut open goats to celebrate. Chhee chhee. And look at us. Not even touching meat.”
Their words scratched at Alia’s heart. She was the other amidst her own people, the only outsider in this microcosm of India that had become Hindustan in a matter of hours. She was afraid of the passengers and angry with them. A constant barrage of “I spit on them,” “barbarians,” and “unwanted” hit her ears even as she closed her eyes and tried to doze off. Alia tried to focus her thoughts away from this compartment, away from the hateful people around her. She twisted her long scarf around her fingers and thought of Sweety. Alia thought of the friendship the two girls shared – they were best friends who loved and also hated each other. One day they would spend hours talking, Alia telling Sweety about the world and Sweety listening with wide eyed interest, asking questions by the minute, and the other day they would give each other the silent treatment, avoiding each other while in the same room. Alia missed Sweety in that moment and wondered if Would Sweety, too, would turn her head away from Alia. Would she understand that Alia was not one of them? Would she remember they both called the same place home? Alia hoped she would. She thought she would. Sweety was not from the capital and had not been brought up in much luxury and, maybe for that reason, was a sensible girl and a true friend. Sweety knew about Aijaz. Alia would keep her up late into the night, talking about the lanky boy whose hair spilled on to the sides of his forehead. Sweety never said anything definite about Aijaz; she would say he was a good boy but told Alia to listen to her head and not her heart. As the train slowed down, Alia thought how Sweety would have shook her head at her for today Alia had only listened to the irrational beating of her heart.
The train slowed down and stopped, pushing people forward. Alia had arrived in Benares. Oblivious to the clamor around her, Alia squeezed through the throngs of people and ran out from the compartment into the open air of the dirty brown railway station. It smelled of stale urine and dirty people, but it was better than the insides of the second-class compartment of the Varanasi Express. Alia ran the length of the platform, bumping into people, turning over luggage and knocking over children. People shouted at her, called her a mad girl. She did not care. She wanted to get away from the railway station, away from the people spilling out of the train into the arms of waiting relatives.
Alia hailed the first rickshaw she laid eyes on right outside the station and asked to be taken to the Ghats, the ancient stone stairs leading into the river Ganges. She saw the poor pass by her as the rickshaw picked up speed. The city wasn’t any different from a poorer part of Delhi; it was littered with too many cows and empty plastic bags. There were children running all over the streets, yelling obscenities at each other, traffic rules did not apply. Cars, pedestrians, dogs, and bikers made a confused and angry hive of heat and harsh sounds. There were beggars asleep on the pavements, their limbs eaten away from leprosy, young women with infants sucking away at their tired breasts. The houses were like most other Indian houses, concrete and painted white to fight the heat. Unlike Delhi, the air in Benares was full of the sounds of temple bells. The incessant chime marked the afternoon Hindu prayers. The terror had not spread to Benares and in typical Indian fashion people went by their daily lives unaware and unconcerned about the happenings in the capital. Strangely, Alia felt safe here. Safer than the second-class compartment and the communally divided capital. She was an anonymous Indian.
The rickshaw slowed down and stopped right outside the entrance to the Ghats. Alia paid the man ten rupees and entered the famed stairways, leaving Sabarmati outside. They were large brown stone structures flanked by little temples on their sides. The dark brown Ganges flowed sluggishly beneath them and boats lined the edge of the river. Some boatmen chatted with each other, lazily smoking hand made cigarettes, others carried sightseers across the river, giving them a tour of the Ghats from the water. The steps were littered with foreigners wearing orange loincloth, getting henna tattooed on their hands and taking pictures. Young Hindu priests prayed to the river and set earthen lamps afloat in the water. Right next to them stood some young Muslim men in their white caps, chatting easily. The Ghats were cooler than the rest of the city and a pleasant breeze blew over the water. Alia was in a part of the country that reminded her of what Delhi had been like just 72 hours ago. She climbed down a few steps and came closer to the water, making herself comfortable on the cold stone. In those few moments of calm, Alia did not care about her reasons for coming to Benares, did not worry about Aijaz’s whereabouts, or about what the next hour would bring.
The edges of her kameez fluttered in the light wind as she sat with her face held in open palms, elbows resting on her knees. She stared out at the water. She was in no hurry for Aijaz to show up, she could wait here alone for hours.
“Benares,” said Alia with a soft sigh. “What are you?”
The breeze carried a familiar voice over to Alia’s ears. She did not turn her gaze away from the water to look at a tall, lanky boy whose hair spilled onto his forehead.
Alia stood staring at the faded red face of the Varanasi Express train, the direct to Benares. The Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway station at New Delhi was strangely quiet. The heavy breathing of the homeless sprawled out on the cold metal chairs was the only sound. A young boy, with a steel teapot and clear glass cups balanced between his fingers, was navigating the maze of the metal chairs, hoping to chance upon a conscious human being who could be cajoled into buying a cup of steaming hot chai.
The station usually came alive at about 6am. Once awake, it became both a connection junction as well as a mini market place. Passengers arrived in droves, families received their guests, broken hearts and office goers scurried away to some new place, sweetmeat sellers hawked brightly colored delicacies, old men sold cheap plastic toys from shaky wooden carts. Today, however, less than 72 hours after the terrorist attacks on Connaught Place Market, a disturbing silence lay across the station.
The young tea seller had set his eyes on Alia and pestered her to buy a cup of tea. “Didi, sister, please one cup. You cold na? Good tea, very very fresh and hot. Take it na. Come on na, didi.” He got in her way, now facing her and pleading with his voice and his eyes, then turning around and talking to her back. Alia flicked her hand at him, as if trying to shoo away a pesky mosquito.
Ignoring the insistent young salesman, Alia climbed into the train. If someone stopped her and asked her why she was going to Benares, she would have had no answer to give. For, she wasn’t so sure herself. It was possible that the city’s rustic charm allured her. It was also possible that the Varanasi Express was the only train on the track and Alia’s decision was more spur of the moment practical than romantic. And, then there was also the chance that Alia was running away to meet her simple faced lover, Aijaz. Her motivation to leave could have been a combination of all these factors. The only thing certain was that there was something in Delhi’s air that made Alia want to run away, to escape. She could feel the hate and the anger that had built up against her and her kind in the course of three days.
At the ticket counter, Alia had used her friend’s fake ID, one used to illegal nights out of drinking, to buy her one way to Benares. Who would have known that the picture of Sabarmati Sharma, a light skinned girl in bright pink clothes, used to enter the upscale night clubs of South Delhi, would be exchanged not between the hands of a young girl and a bouncer but a young woman and a ticket selling agent.
The insides of the second-class compartment were packed. It smelt of stale breath and artificially cooled air. Fat mothers were trying to stuff food into the mouths of their skinny children, while disinterested fathers looked out the windows at the filth strewn across the tracks. No one spoke much and a silent, palpable grief hung over the compartment. Beaten up tin trunks and rolled dirty brown beddings were awkwardly stuffed under the blue fake leather chairs and in the corners, giving the compartment a sense of hurried urgency.
From the gold marriage necklaces and the red vermillion across most women’s foreheads, Alia could tell this was a train packed with Hindus. In the light of the attacks, most families had decided to end their summer vacations early and head home to the far flung corners of the country they came from. Alia nodded to the voice in her head that told her it would be safest to be Sabarmati for this trip; what would they think of a Muslim traveling among them? After decades of living peacefully as neighbors, friends and relatives, the two peoples were back to distrusting each other. About 60 years ago, it was the English power that had pit brother against brother and sister against sister. This time, too, it was a foreign power: one a lot closer to home, one that shared a border, culture and skin color.
Alia found an empty spot close to the door and sat down. She twisted her arms around herself; she her legs crossed and rested her forehead on the cool glass window. The children were craning their necks to take a look at her. From the corner of her eye, she could see the plump aunties sizing her up and the uncles purposefully avoiding looking at her. She did not look any different from them and no one would have been able to tell whether she was Hindu or Muslim. Alia was interesting because she had walked in with no companion or luggage and had audaciously made herself comfortable. Her eyes were thickly lined with black kohl, her kameez was short and fitted, and her pants were in the loose Patiala style of young college going women. The passengers looked intrigued by this modern looking young woman amongst their conservative selves. A light brown skinned girl of over five feet six inches, Alia was tall for the generally short Indians and was used to unwanted attention coming her way. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
“Bitiya, daughter, going to Benares?” a plump aunty in a red and green salwar-kameez, asked her, breaking Alia’s pretend sleep. The aunty looked at our Alia intently, curious about her story.
“Ji, yes, aunty,” Alia replied quietly. She was uncomfortable talking to this intrusive woman. What if she said her name was Alia instead of Sabarmati?
“Where is mummy papa? You traveling alone? What’s your name?” The aunty stuffed in as many questions into one sentence, lest she didn’t get a chance to level more inquiries at Alia.
The other passengers around her were intent on listening and all stared at Alia, waiting for her response. They would have been intent on listening regardless of the circumstances that brought Alia here. Indians are a curious people, interested in everyone’s affairs.
“They’re in Benares. Yes, I’m – I’m going to see them soon in… in the city.”
“Okay. Your name, bitiya?”
“Sabarmati Sharma,” Alia exhaled, relieved to have released the demon from her mouth.
“Okay. Nice nice.”
Alia felt like she had satisfied their curiosity for the mothers went back to silently sizing her up and the children to their windows. She turned away from the crowd and rested her head on the cool window again. She was leaving her home to go to another city, a place she had never known before. This was a brazen move, especially in times like these. However, Alia had to go away from the capital if she was to preserve her sanity. Questions about her fidelity to India, her views on the terrorists, her opinion on the appropriate course of action against the perpetrators were all laced with distrust and anger. In these times, Benares seemed exciting, accessible, and a welcome relief. She had heard of it repeatedly, from her mother, her aunts, her father. From Aijaz. He had told her over the phone in a soft whisper, “Come with me to Benares. We can live under the stars there.” She shifted the position of her head, moving it to another cooler spot on the window. She was taking a risk, sure. What if Aijaz never came to the Ghats as he had promised? What if she was stranded in another hostile city? Aijaz is a man of his words, she told herself, he would not go back on his word. She hoped. She remembered the conversation she had had with him the night before the blasts. He had asked her to come away with her. She had said maybe. He told her that he would love to see her at the Ghats, close to the water of the river Ganges. She had said maybe. He had asked her to come soon. She had said maybe.
Alia wondered whether Benares was cleaner that Delhi. What was it like? Did the Hindus and Muslims live peacefully? She reached for her phone in her kameez pocket. The shirt was crumpled up and the pockets were hard to find. She flicked the phone open and close, open and close. It was pointless trying to use it. After the attackers had been identified as Pakistanis aided by Indian Muslims, the government had either suspended or tapped cell phone services for those in the capital region. They were not taking any chances. Using it meant someone would find out that she was going away from Delhi. Any hint of Muslims leaving the city was seen as a threat and the Muslim as a suspect. Alia sighed and put the phone back into her pocket.
The fat aunty in red had been looking intently at Alia. She was aware of her gaze and carefully looked out the window, avoiding any eye contact. The aunty hesitated for a minute and then finally blurted out, “You must be in Delhi for college purposes, right?”
“Yes, I am,” Alia responded almost automatically, a little too quickly.
The aunty seemed satisfied with Alia’s answer and moved on to more pressing concerns more characteristic of her type.
“You want some poori aloo? You must be hungry, get something into your stomach.”
Alia was too hungry to ignore the fat aunty’s offer.
“Sure, I’ll have some. Thank you so much.”
I wonder if Alia too would be given the same food that you just offered Sabarmati, Alia thought in the quiet space in her head.
The aunty was again interested in interrogating Alia. She tilted her head to the right and looked at Alia half sympathetically and half quizzically.
“I can understand what it must be like. Having to go home because of those bastards,” the aunty let her judgment hang in the air, her words more a question than a statement.
“Yes, aunty. They should all have gone to Pakistan anyway,” Alia responded wearily. Her words pinched her heart as she saw something soften in the aunty’s eyes. She nodded her head at Alia, as if sympathizing with the poor young girl’s need to run back home.
Alia turned away, focusing on her food and the dirty little concrete houses that lined the railway station, taking in the rows of filthy children defecating on the sides of the tracks. The train jolted to a start and quickly picked up speed. The landscape changed from a blurry mess of grey concrete to an expansive canvas of green fields. Alia felt the veil of gloom being lifted from the compartment – the children were beginning to get noisy and the parents were beginning to talk amongst each other. Alia listened to snippets of their conversation.
“Buggers. That’s what they all are. Should have thrown them all out at Partition.”
“Exactly. You know what is wrong with us Hindus? We are too weak. Too weak.”
“We silently take everything. In this case, how can we blame those people? We are sitting here and waiting to be attacked.”
“Arrey bhai, what can we do? They are a big vote in the ballot.”
“What is the point of being in the majority? We have no rights. These jahil barbarians hit us again and again and people just watch.”
“They cut open goats to celebrate. Chhee chhee. And look at us. Not even touching meat.”
Their words scratched at Alia’s heart. She was the other amidst her own people, the only outsider in this microcosm of India that had become Hindustan in a matter of hours. She was afraid of the passengers and angry with them. A constant barrage of “I spit on them,” “barbarians,” and “unwanted” hit her ears even as she closed her eyes and tried to doze off. Alia tried to focus her thoughts away from this compartment, away from the hateful people around her. She twisted her long scarf around her fingers and thought of Sweety. Alia thought of the friendship the two girls shared – they were best friends who loved and also hated each other. One day they would spend hours talking, Alia telling Sweety about the world and Sweety listening with wide eyed interest, asking questions by the minute, and the other day they would give each other the silent treatment, avoiding each other while in the same room. Alia missed Sweety in that moment and wondered if Would Sweety, too, would turn her head away from Alia. Would she understand that Alia was not one of them? Would she remember they both called the same place home? Alia hoped she would. She thought she would. Sweety was not from the capital and had not been brought up in much luxury and, maybe for that reason, was a sensible girl and a true friend. Sweety knew about Aijaz. Alia would keep her up late into the night, talking about the lanky boy whose hair spilled on to the sides of his forehead. Sweety never said anything definite about Aijaz; she would say he was a good boy but told Alia to listen to her head and not her heart. As the train slowed down, Alia thought how Sweety would have shook her head at her for today Alia had only listened to the irrational beating of her heart.
The train slowed down and stopped, pushing people forward. Alia had arrived in Benares. Oblivious to the clamor around her, Alia squeezed through the throngs of people and ran out from the compartment into the open air of the dirty brown railway station. It smelled of stale urine and dirty people, but it was better than the insides of the second-class compartment of the Varanasi Express. Alia ran the length of the platform, bumping into people, turning over luggage and knocking over children. People shouted at her, called her a mad girl. She did not care. She wanted to get away from the railway station, away from the people spilling out of the train into the arms of waiting relatives.
Alia hailed the first rickshaw she laid eyes on right outside the station and asked to be taken to the Ghats, the ancient stone stairs leading into the river Ganges. She saw the poor pass by her as the rickshaw picked up speed. The city wasn’t any different from a poorer part of Delhi; it was littered with too many cows and empty plastic bags. There were children running all over the streets, yelling obscenities at each other, traffic rules did not apply. Cars, pedestrians, dogs, and bikers made a confused and angry hive of heat and harsh sounds. There were beggars asleep on the pavements, their limbs eaten away from leprosy, young women with infants sucking away at their tired breasts. The houses were like most other Indian houses, concrete and painted white to fight the heat. Unlike Delhi, the air in Benares was full of the sounds of temple bells. The incessant chime marked the afternoon Hindu prayers. The terror had not spread to Benares and in typical Indian fashion people went by their daily lives unaware and unconcerned about the happenings in the capital. Strangely, Alia felt safe here. Safer than the second-class compartment and the communally divided capital. She was an anonymous Indian.
The rickshaw slowed down and stopped right outside the entrance to the Ghats. Alia paid the man ten rupees and entered the famed stairways, leaving Sabarmati outside. They were large brown stone structures flanked by little temples on their sides. The dark brown Ganges flowed sluggishly beneath them and boats lined the edge of the river. Some boatmen chatted with each other, lazily smoking hand made cigarettes, others carried sightseers across the river, giving them a tour of the Ghats from the water. The steps were littered with foreigners wearing orange loincloth, getting henna tattooed on their hands and taking pictures. Young Hindu priests prayed to the river and set earthen lamps afloat in the water. Right next to them stood some young Muslim men in their white caps, chatting easily. The Ghats were cooler than the rest of the city and a pleasant breeze blew over the water. Alia was in a part of the country that reminded her of what Delhi had been like just 72 hours ago. She climbed down a few steps and came closer to the water, making herself comfortable on the cold stone. In those few moments of calm, Alia did not care about her reasons for coming to Benares, did not worry about Aijaz’s whereabouts, or about what the next hour would bring.
The edges of her kameez fluttered in the light wind as she sat with her face held in open palms, elbows resting on her knees. She stared out at the water. She was in no hurry for Aijaz to show up, she could wait here alone for hours.
“Benares,” said Alia with a soft sigh. “What are you?”
The breeze carried a familiar voice over to Alia’s ears. She did not turn her gaze away from the water to look at a tall, lanky boy whose hair spilled onto his forehead.
