Consent, alcohol, and the implications of combining the two

The Wire published my opinion article on the Bombay HC's verdict against a bail application in a case where a group of men allegedly raped a woman while she was under the influence of alcohol. In my article, I break down the arguments found on social media against the judgment.


Originally published on February 21, 2017

Newspaper Clip

Friends, The Dartmouth decided to throw some spotlight on me for my writing. I am so honored! Read the full coverage here.

Originally published in April, 2015.

Death Comes to Aishbagh

**Originally published in the Grief Diaries' Volume II Issue 1**




I was getting ready for work when mother told me of grandma’s death. Ambulances were rushing to Beth Israel Medical Center, urgently piercing the morning air with their siren call for space. Ubers and Lyfts and cabs were angrily honking in the 9am rush hour; East Village was ablaze with indifferent and impatient office-goers trying to inch forward towards their destination. My mother’s voice carried less remorse and pain than a message of death would warrant. There was a restraint that was clearly carried over the mountains and across the Atlantic; she was unsure of the reaction her news would elicit. Her words moved from Aishbagh to New York City, from a deep dark night to an angry morning, and slipped hesitatingly into phone sets across the two corners of the earth.

“Dadi is… Dadi is dead,” she said, hesitatingly.

            I let my lipstick hang an inch away from my lips as I listened. Dadi had been fighting a losing battle with breast cancer and so the news of her death should not have come as a shock. And it didn’t. It came with the weight of a hundred bricks let loose on my stomach. It brought with it an increased heart rate and short gasps of breath. Dadi was dead. I repeated in my head as I thought of her gentle body and the familiar softness of her heartfelt embraces. Her hugs had been as big and strong as ever, even when she had lost one of her breasts to the knife, even when her body could barely keep itself straight.

            “It must be hard for you,” my mother continued awkwardly. “You two were close, I know.”

            “It is, Ma. I wish I was there with you all right now,” I replied, breathless and barely coherent.

            The scene of mourning at Aishbagh conjured up in my mind. I imagined rows of women, wearing wispy white saris, wailing by Dadi’s dead body; the children confused and subdued into silence by the solemnity of death. I felt like an intruder in my own home, voyeuristically observing someone’s private expression of grief. From my place in front of the dirty grey window overlooking New York, the place I had temporarily settled in, Aishbagh, my home of eighteen years, seemed foreign, distant, unknown. Dadi would have smacked my knuckles for thinking of myself as an outsider. She would tell me not be a firangi maidam, a foreign woman. She would have told me my two sentences of English didn’t make me any less desi, any less of her gudia, her doll.

            “This is very sudden, ma. I wish I could come home,” I said to my mother, slowly gathering my breath and wiping tears away from my face.

            “Yes, I know. But she was in pain and she is not any more. If you can come back, you know how much we would love to have you here. Dekh lo, see if you have the money for the tickets.”

            I knew she was in pain but the selfish part of me didn’t want her to leave. We had all known that she would not make it. Stage 4. We knew that her cancer had spread from her left breast to the right, and then to her armpits. We knew that the mastectomy would not stop the monstrous cells from infecting her entire being, consuming every piece of her body mind and soul. Despite knowing the weight of the chemotherapy, in spite of knowing the toll of monthly hospital visits, I wanted her to stay. She had been suffering; unable to drink water because of the excruciating pain from her mouth ulcers, could barely talk. She had been strong even with just one breast left hanging limply on her body. Why couldn’t she win the fight, bite back at the colonizing cells, banish the imperialists from her body? The childish piece of my being wanted to cry and scream her death away. It wanted to run to Aishbagh, shake her cold, still body under the yellow and saffron shroud and scream Dadi until she awoke.

            “I will look, ma. Was thinking of coming back next month but maybe I can take an advance from work. I don’t know what the point of being here will be.”

            Heavy sobs threatened to break lose from my gut and crack the mic of my phone. I held tight and took a breath, swallowing them back into the pit of my stomach.

            “Okay, but make sure to check everything before deciding to come over. You know you’ll lose a day in the time difference and what not. Maybe you won’t be able to make it for the funeral?”

            “I hope I can, ma. I really hope so.”

            “Okay, darling. I have to arrange for the flowers and food for the wake. You will be okay, right?”

            “Yes, ma. I will be. You go and take care of things.”

            “Alright. I am sorry, my dear. I wish I could have called with better news. Take care.”

            I stared at the mirror with my lipstick still in hand, streams of brown crookedly cut through the blush on my face. Nothing was different in my immediate world; the insignificant apartment remained unkempt, my hair had not been brushed, the traffic jam outside refused to pick up speed. Yet, Dadi was gone and I didn’t know how to mourn her. Could I go to a temple somewhere in Queens and pray for her? The idea sounded strange, forced almost. The best would have been to take the day off from work and sit by the Brooklyn Bridge. I could dissolve into the sea of bodies there and cry silently on a corner bench. I wish I knew a respectful way to remember her, mourn her, and let my own grief out without being a traitor to my own culture and people.

            Realistically, I knew I could not go back to Aishbagh in time for the funeral. Dadi would have wanted me there, I was certain. She had been free with her love but demanding of attention and care, sometimes pouting in wounded silence for days when I would forget to text or call her. My days would often begin with a badly spelt, short, and deliberate whatsapp message, “gud mrng. Do prayer” and ended with a stern “don’t drink much . do work . gud night.” They greeted me every morning, despite her insomnia from medication. She would send me badly taken photos of herself on the selfie camera on her phone and I would note the receding hairline, the tufts of missing hair with each passing week. By the last days of her life, she had lost all the hair she had on her being. If she had been around, she would have felt let down by my absence. She would have felt like our chats and giggles and sobs and tears had meant nothing. The two of us had maintained our relationship despite the time and cultural differences between us, and with her devotion to me came an expectation of devotion returned. And I had been devoted to her. I loved her deeply, sometimes more than I loved my own mother. But I wasn’t sure if she died believing that, or that I would ever forgive myself for not being where I should have been. I wiped my eyes and went back to applying my lipstick, trying to concentrate on the contours of my lips and the day the lay ahead of me.

*

            I crossed the street onto Fifth Avenue and thought of the gullies of Aishbagh, as loud as New York on a workday morning. Women were selling mangos with chili powder across from me, women used to sell mangos with chili powder back home. There were dogs on leashes scampering by skinny women alongside me, there were thin stray dogs skipping by skinny women on the roads back home. Everything was the same but nothing was. There was concrete and glass and large labeled trashcans around me. There were no people I liked, let alone love. There was a din, an organized manageable noise pierced irritably across the American air, but there was no familiarity in the shrieks and honks here. Everything was as foreign to me as my brown body was to these American shores. Why was I here? No one was mine. I didn’t belong. And the one I loved so deeply and sincerely lay dead and motionless thousands of miles away. A taxi whizzed right past me as I ran onto the sidewalk; like the rest of the city on its way to work, the car and its driver wanted me out of the way. There was no space for nostalgia and grief on the busy streets of New York. There was no space for me.

            Someone pushed past me and muttered a loud watch where you’re going in my ears as he bustled away. The city’s buzz assaulted my ears as I stood trying to make sense of Dadi’s death. The world around me moved on mercilessly. No one here mourned Dadi even as she lay on her deathbed, her impatient breathing now silenced forever. I walked into the subway stop, fighting away stubborn tears that wanted to flow like rivulets for my deceased grandmother, wanted to honor memories of time spent with her fingers gently caressing my hair. It was impossible to hold them back as the turnstile blurred into the dirty grey concrete of the floor; I gave in to their mutiny and cried like a child, not caring about the confused faces staring at me. The dead old woman from Aishbagh meant nothing to any of them; everyone had offices to get to, children to drop off to school, coffee to drink. And I did not care what mattered to them and didn’t. She had mattered to me, she had been important to me, and I was going to honor her life and times by crying for her with no shame or worry about social castigation.

            I wanted to hold on to the nearest human and cry my eyes out, to sob and shake like a possessed woman. Instead, I sat alone in my seat, shuddering and shivering with grief. My mouth, buried under a layer of peach wax, twitched unsteadily as I tried to hold my face in its stable state. I was to get off at 42nd street but instead I got out at 14th street and made my way back home. I walked downtown in a daze, unaware of people running and brisk walking to their offices, most heading uptown. I missed Dadi so acutely in that moment. I would never wake up to her soft crackling voice; she would never demand that I try all the Indian restaurants in Queens. I sat down at a bench opposite Whole Foods and pulled out my phone to read our correspondences. I wanted to take in all I could, as if the emails and whatsapp messages would disappear if I did not cling on to them this very second. I wished I had known the precise time and circumstances of her death so that I could have prepared for it, could have been with her as she died.

            I sat there watching the morning crowd thin as the minutes and hours passed. Somewhere to the northwest, the Empire State building looked down upon my insignificant losses, the hawkers of organic food raked in their lunchtime millions as I sat ignoring a grumbling stomach. 

Sweety's Beauty Parlor

The silver wind chimes tinkled as Alia walked into Sweety’s Beauty Parlor. 

The pink room was bathed in white light and a sweet smell of cosmetics hung in the air. Light brown wooden counters were littered with make up and beauty products of all kinds; there were bright colored lipsticks in a little plastic box, different types of hair brushes lined the racks atop the counters, powder puffs and bottles of hair spray were stacked haphazardly in a corner, rows of nail polish bottles sat in their plastic containers, and different types of scissors were thrown about here and there. The disorder was characteristic of Sweety who was in charge of keeping the place tidy and appealing to visitors. The mess and the low prices at the parlor attracted only clients from the neighborhood and friends from around the area.

  “Alia! Aaj kya? What can I do for you today?” Sweety said, quickly getting up from her spot on a swiveling salon chair and in the process, dropping her copy of the Hindi gossip magazine, Sakhi.
 
“Hmm? Eyebrows I think,” Alia said absent-mindedly and sat down on the nearest chair, plopping her phone and handbag on her lap. She looked listless, preoccupied, and allowed her eyes to aimlessly wander over the old pink paint on the walls.
 
There was a dance sequence on a small TV mounted on the wall in front of Alia’s face; the sound was muted so it looked like the performers were awkwardly thrusting their hips in unison and shaking their hands to the invisible commands of a puppeteer.

“Alia, lets put on the music on the TV, na. It’ll be fun. I’ve heard this is a catchy song,” said Sweety, swiftly moving a white thread over Alia’s eyebrows, carefully plucking out each stray hair. She could feel that Alia’s head was tense, her neck was stretched on the back of the chair and it felt like Alia would not allow it to slouch down on the fake leather.

“Hmm? Yeah, sure, go ahead,” Alia responded without moving her head from under the thread.

Sweety was not satisfied with her response and did not give up trying to get Alia to ease out under her fast moving fingers.
 
“What say we watch the news? That will be fun. Aaj Tak will have something on,” said Sweety animatedly.

Aaj Tak was notorious for their sensationalistic debate topics like, IS INDIA RUN BY THE ITALIAN MAFIA? LET US DISCUSS WITH INSIDE SOURCES. The girls would often chuckle at the new channel’s 60 year old anchor with jet black hair as he very earnestly announced one conspiracy theory after another. Despite its terrible analyses, Aaj Tak was often the first channel to break many news stories.
 
“Hunh? Yes. I don’t care. Do what you want,” Alia responded.

Sweety rightly thought that Aijaz, Alia’s newest love interest, was behind her friend’s monosyllabic responses. Sweety was generally pleasantly disposed towards the young man; he was neither her favorite of Alia’s lovers, nor her least liked one. While she believed Alia could do better, she understood the excitement that came with seeing a boy outside the circle of men deemed fit. She knew that Alia had been enchanted by the idea of sitting on motor bikes instead of air conditioned cars, eating from street vendors instead of five star hotels. Sweety had also thought this would be a passing affair; one that would get over after Alia’s overly romanticized plans of visiting the boy’s hometown of Benares.
 
To Sweety’s dismay, Alia sat in annoyed silence, her mind presumably on the cool Ghats of the dirty Ganga. Sweety knew that the boy was still interested in Alia; just that morning, he had asked her to drop a package addressed to Alia in a Foremost Delivery box. It had train tickets and snacks for the journey, he had told her. It was also a surprise so Sweety had, with no real problem, kept it to herself.
 
“Remember that time when everyone thought Rahul Gandhi was an undercover Mafioso?” Sweety said, once again trying to get her friend’s attention to leave the recesses of her mind. When Alia did not respond, Sweety turned up the volume and changed the channel to Aaj Tak. Nothing unusual was on, just a daily update of the traffic situation on tight highways and the characteristic crawling marquee boldly declaring that the onion shortage was because of a secret deal with the Pakistani defense minister.

Alia sat still under Sweety’s dexterous fingers, not twitching or complaining about the pain from the plucking. Sweety remembered the time Alia told her she was going to visit Benares, Aijaz’s hometown. It was six months ago and Sweety had hoped Alia would throw the foolishly romantic idea out the window, but it had come up again and again in their conversations, slowly convincing Sweety that it was cementing itself in Alia’s imaginative brain. Sweety had listened patiently as Alia had excitedly regaled her about the videos she had watched, the research papers she had read, and the stories she had devoured on Benares. Rumor had it that the holy city of the Hindus had existed ever since civilization began to flourish in the northern Indian plains. Believers of this myth claimed that the city would just evolve with time, defying death and age for all eternity. Hindus and Muslims alike had held the Ghats, the steps that lead to the river Ganges, in esteem. The sound of the evening prayers and the cremation grounds that lined the banks of the river had intrigued travelers, scholars, and locals alike. There was something about the city, maybe something in the dirty brown water, which kept the Hindus and Muslims in a happy, peaceful co existence. Sweety was mildly intrigued by Benares, but she thought it to be another dirty town, a minnow compared to her beloved Dilli (Delhi).

“Hey,” Alia suddenly broke her silence, making Sweety smile with a white thread caught firmly between her teeth.
 
“Yes, you monkey. Want to talk, finally?” asked Sweety, taking a step back and letting Alia sit up in her chair.

“I haven’t heard anything and I have no idea what’s up,” said Alia, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Okay. So Aijaz hasn’t called? And you cannot call him because his phone is not reachable or is switched off?” asked Sweety, as she leaned against the back of Alia’s chair.

“Yes. And I am worried. I don’t know about what, though. Its just that I… I don’t know. I told him I’d go to Benares, as I told you. And now today is the day I am supposed to be on a train. No phone call. Nothing. How am I supposed to know what’s up, Sweets?”

Sweety shook her head ever so slightly and inhaled audibly. “Alia, like I have always said, I don’t think it’s a great idea. But, yes, you did tell me you were firm in your decision. Well, its fine. He’ll get in touch with you soon. ”

Alia opened her mouth to say something, and looked at Sweety with an impatient and petulant expression on her face. Sometimes Alia got like that and Sweety knew she did not want to be chided for her decisions in those moments. And at those times, Sweety grew more aware of their different classes, their separate worlds.

Alia had loving parents and enough money to travel the world. Alia’s complains irritated Sweety a little; she was worried about a boy who, according to Sweety, had no real or tangible love to offer and only a fleeting sense of excitement at breaking rules. Sweety worried that where she saw a short-lived, loveless adventure, her friend saw true affection and dedication. She knew Alia wanted to break rules, but when her heart went out to Salim uncle and Amina aunty, Alia’s parents. They had welcomed Sweety as Alia’s friend, had showered their only child with unconditional love. It was disappointing to see that her friend would be so callous with their feelings. Sweety herself had no family left, they had forgotten her when she had run away so that a stranger could not take her away from herself.

Sweety had left Lucknow a couple of months ago. She had hated the small town and had felt stifled there. If she hadn’t run away, she would have been Mrs. Radhika Bansal by now, for Radhika was her real name, and Bansal was the last name of the man her parents had chosen for her to wed.

One couldn’t give Raju Bansal an adjective. Was he good? Could be. Was he bad? Could be that, too. Was he a rich man? No, he wasn’t. Was he a poor man? Not that, either. Was he interesting? Not particularly. There was nothing wrong with Raju Bansal. He wasn’t striking and he wasn’t hopeless either. He just was.

 For Radhika, that was not enough. She had dreams, dreams of bright lights and big cities. Dreams of a happy home, a break from the mundane lower middle class existence she had lived for 21 years.

She knew she was funny, lively, and even attractive. She was just the right kind of plump, and her black hair grew all the way down to her waist. She liked some drama, love and excitement, and a real life of her own. And Raju didn’t look like the kinds to provide any of these. She dreamt of catching running trains, fighting with her family for love, kissing boys under Neem trees and waking up to the sound of car horns instead of the hawk of the vegetable seller. When Radhika had asked Raju Bansal what his wildest dream was he had said that he wanted to trek to Kedarnath, a shrine in the Himalayas that was often overflowing with rowdy children and out of shape uncles and aunties. Radhika had smiled and vaguely nodded when he had said that and had made a mental note to catch the 3:00 am train to New Delhi, lest she be left behind, wedded to the idea of trekking to Kedarnath.

She knew she could do better than Raju Bansal.

New Delhi had been her dream and she had realized it six months ago, moving in with her Nida Aunty, the one who had left Lucknow to marry her Muslim lover. Aunty understood. She, too, had run away from the small town claustrophobia. She, too, had taken the 3:00 am direct to New Delhi. It was six months ago that Sweety had turned her back on Radhika from Lucknow and become Sweety from Delhi.

When Sweety knew that talking to Alia would only agitate her further, she decided to tell her about her morning’s interaction with Aijaz. She rolled her eyes a little and said, “Well, so, Aijaz actually asked me to drop something off for you this morning. Told me it’s a surprise so I didn’t tell you about it,”

“What? You’re telling me now!” said Alia, jumping up from her seat. Her voice was a quarter accusatory and three quarters excited. “Did he say what was in it?”

“Now you want to talk! Well, he said it had your train tickets and snacks for that mad journey you have decided to make.”

“Really? I am so, so happy to hear that. Oh, god why did he not get in touch with me. I am so mad at him. Okay, no, I am happy now, I am fine. Okay so I am going to Benares. So I don’t have to worry about anything. Sweety this is great news you’ve given me. I should be but am not mad at your for keeping it from me,” Alia said, clutching Sweety’s hand in hers and squeezing it and smiling widely.

“Alright, now you’re happy, lets watch something?” asked Sweety a little dismissively. She was happy for her friend but did not want to continue talking about her lover. She wanted to bring them back to their present moment and focus on anything else.

Alia nodded in agreement, her smile big as ever. She looked like she wanted to ask more questions but was still formulating them in her head. Sweety turned up the volume and faced the TV set. The traffic commentary was disrupted and the anchor in an ill-fitting suit fixed his mouthpiece and said, “I apologize, esteemed viewers of Aaj Tak, but we will have to temporarily suspend the traffic show, there is an important message coming in. Please bear with us as we quickly transition to the breaking news section.” Sweety looked at Alia, unsure of what was going to be the breaking news. Both girls shrugged their shoulders, as if to say, “I don’t know.”

The brightly colored map with moving red dots gave way to a Spartan grey room with a massive screen behind the neat news anchor. A fast moving crawling marquee that screamed: “CONNAUGHT PLACE BLASTED APART, RED ALERT THROUGHOUT NATIONAL CAPITAL. DEATH TOLL RISING,” surrounded Adinath Dev.

“Increase the volume!” demanded Alia, sitting up straight; her phone and bag fell on to the floor.

Adidev Nath spoke hurriedly in his high-pitched nasal voice, “Official records state that 39 people have died in today’s bomb blast. The toll is likely to increase as the Intensive Care Unit in the All India Institute of Medical Sciences is still receiving patients. So far, 97 people have been reported as injured, including 14 children and 26 women. It looks like Lakshar ud Dawa is involved in these attacks, as the use of nitrite in the composition of the bombs is a tell tale sign of their strategy. Let us talk to Parmita Mathur, our reporter on the scene at the Connaught Place Metro station, and see what she has in store for us. Parmita?” The sterile surroundings of the Aaj Tak set gave way to a scene of complete chaos.

The outer circle of Connaught Place had transformed. This once bustling market place, with Nike showrooms and Nathu ka Dhaba, looked like a large bulldozer had razed it to the ground. The screech of ambulances’ sirens saturated the air; the flashing beacons of police cars threw choppy red chunks of light over the market place. There were puddles of blood on the concrete ground, people’s belongings buried under debris, dead bodies wrapped in white cloth with red blotches on the fabric.

And there were people running. Running into each other, running away from the market, running to take cover from the bomb that had already exploded. The market place, one of the most thriving in the country, had been brutally shut down, its life ripped away from it.
 
“Shailendra, focus here, yaar. We are in a hurry focus – Sorry! The scene here looks positively horrendous, can you hear me, Adidev?”

“Yes, go on, Parmita, what have you got for us?”

“The death toll … 139 people. Multiple bombs in the area... 2 more bombs planted here… but the bomb squad has diffused them. The range has been huge, around 250 meters completely destroyed. The main blast come from a Foremost Delivery courier drop box… disguised as a parcel… involvement of the LuD… investigations are on. Parmita Mathur reporting live from New Delhi, with camera man Shailendra Verma.”

Sweety got up silently and shut the TV off. Her hand clammy with sweat, her lip quivering ever so slightly. Alia was silent, too. She stared at the TV screen, blinking away the tears that were trying to spill onto her cheeks. Alia got up from her seat, trying to steady herself by clutching at the armrest.

“I… I  think. I think I think I… listen just just don’t look for Aijaz. Not right now. You should go home. Just uhh… let him be. Just let him go,” Sweety said between broken, strained breaths.

“Yes, umm, I think, I believe I should go home,” Alia said in a tensed whisper. “What are you going to do? I – I think I can drop you home. Maybe I should.”

“Listen. Just be careful and go – go home. I’ll try to… clean this place. Theek? You go.”

Both girls stayed in their places and looked around them silently. The pink room felt suffocating, oppressive in its disorder and quiet. The blank screen of the TV stared at the girls as they stood confused about their next steps. There were no sirens or loud noises outside the beauty parlor, but the calm was scary and girls chose to stand still.

Sweety looked from Alia to the TV and then to the floor, her cheeks getting redder and her head warmer. She fought her tears but they rebelled against her will and began pouring out of her kohl-lined eyes like a smooth cascading waterfall. Alia looked around the room before uneasily allowing her gaze to settle on her crying friend. Sweety could see questions and concerns and fears written all over her face.

“Alia,” sobbed Sweety, taking a gulp of air between the two syllables.

Neither girl said more but they had the same questions. Was she close to the Foremost Delivery box when that parcel was dropped in there? Was that person who dropped it in near her? Did she talk to him when she bought her morning tea? And, worst of all, the question that they didn’t want to ask: what was in the parcel that Aijaz gave her?

Alia walked slowly to the door and turned around to face Sweety. She looked unsure of her next steps and swerved just the slightest as she steadily held onto the doorknob. Sweety looked at her through eyes glazed over by thick tears, and shook her head slightly.

“Hey, listen, are you going home now?” she asked Alia quietly.

“I think so. Should I?” Alia asked, looking around uncertainly.

“No, I mean yes. You should go ahead and go home. Is your driver still outside?” Sweety asked, her voice shaky.

“Yes, he should be outside. You sure you will be fine here?”

“Yeah, I think I will be. You go.”

Sweety watched Alia slowly walk out of the beauty parlor, her steps unsure and her gait unhurried. Sweety immediately pulled open a drawer, counted out a thousand and sixty five rupees, closed it shut silently, put the notes in her purse, and began cleaning the parlor. She thought it might unclutter her mind to get rid of the excess and filth in the tiny room. Sweety dusted the cushions, swept the floor, threw out empty lotion and cream bottles, removed hair from the many hair brushes, scrubbed the counters clean, arranged the chairs in a small circle, and stood back to look at the result of her labor. She breathed heavily in the same spot for a few minutes. She picked up her purse and walked out of Sweety’s Beauty Parlor.

Sweety skipped the bus stop and walked on home. She was scared. Maybe some police car would follow her. Maybe someone would stop to question her. She had no answers but had many, many questions. As she turned the corner into Hauz Khas, she began running. She ran with all that she was worth, tears running down her cheeks. She was afraid of answering her questions and also aware of a deep anger welling up inside her. Part of her knew, or was certain enough, about the parcel she had posted. There could be no other explanation. Why else was Aijaz’s phone always busy? Why was he never reachable? What was he doing when he wasn’t with Alia? She had not trusted him fully and had thought of him as a heartbreaker. She had sometimes thought about his absences and his excuses but never really allowed herself to think too much about them, lest she begin to believe something that wasn’t true. But today, as she ran through the uncharacteristically empty Hauz Khas, she let her mind wander to that morning. She began to get angry with him, with herself. And soon, the anger merged with an acute worry that someone might see her running and stop her to ask questions. What would a sweat drenched woman sprinting through the empty streets of the capital mean to a person hurrying home from Connaught Place?

“Take this parcel and drop it off for me?” Aijaz the tall, lanky boy from Benares had asked.

She ran until she could run no more, until her sides ached and her mouth was parched, until her eyes closed and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She collapsed on the sidewalk, right next to an open drain. The smell of ammonia and rotting garbage rose up to her nose.

“Don’t forget. By 9am this morning. If you don’t drop it off, Alia won’t be able to come to Benares. You want your best friend to be happy right? You know she will cry for days if she finds out you forgot. Now you don’t want that, do you? Remember it’s a surprise so don’t open your mouth or the package. Foremost Delivery drop box, Connaught Place,” the rascal had said.

The street was deserted, not a soul could be seen. As if in a trance, Sweety got up again and walked on slowly. She dragged her feet on the concrete, her footsteps slow and heavy as if lugging large iron weights.

“Of course not, Aijaz. I won’t forget. First thing after this chai. Right before I get to the parlor. I promise,” Sweety had said, happy that this rascal had finally decided to pay more attention to her best friend.

Sweety was now in the Okhla Industrial Area. She wiped her dirty face with her large stole and, fixing her hair, walked into her little home.

“I knew you would not disappoint me,” the boy who had no home, who had never seen the Ghats of Benares, had said.

It looked like no one was home, for the lights were off and there was no sound, not even that of faint breathing. Sweety went into her room and bolted the metal door behind her. She should have demanded that Aijaz open the parcel in front of her, never mind that there was no right way of doing that.

She grabbed the water bottle beside the bed and drank the entire contents. Then, moving quickly, she took out a small overnight bag out of her broken tin cupboard. She counted all the money in there, six thousand and fifty rupees, and added the thousand and sixty five to the stack and placed it next to her on the bed. From this, she extracted five thousand rupees and wedged the folded notes between her breasts in her bra. She tied the other notes together with a rubber band and went into Nida aunty’s room. Quietly placing the notes under aunty’s pillow, she walked out from the room and then the home. She hailed the only auto-rickshaw she could see on the streets.

“Nizamuddin Railway Station, bhaiyya,” she directed the driver.

The auto-rickshaw cut through the unusually empty streets of the capital. She was going back to that railway station that had opened up a new life to her, made her Sweety from Radhika. It seemed like that glorious chapter of her life was coming to an abrupt, blood stained end. She hadn’t even caught one running train yet. She had not seen the entire capital or met half as many people as she had wished to. In just six months, her book of adventure was closing shut, her dreams left unrequited.

Tears came back to her eyes as she thought of the TV screen. Parmita Mathur’s voice reverberated in her mind, “the death toll has gone up to 139 people… The main blast seems to have come from a Foremost Delivery courier drop box…”

She closed her eyes and thought of Lucknow, the claustrophobic town she had left. She would have to go back to the stifling slowness of India’s worst kept state, back to her family, back to the people who had not called once. She shook her head no; they might not even take her back. She would sit in the first train that she could find and go wherever it took her. All she needed was to get out of the capital. Hoping and praying to avoid being recognized, Sweety turned her head away from the road and towards the back of the auto-rickshaw.

The auto-rickshaw slowed down at the entrance of Nizamuddin Railway Station and Sweety hurriedly handed him a few notes. She ran to the ticket counter and looked up at the man lazily sipping chai behind the glass divider.

With a steady voice she said, “One way to Benares, please. For Radhika Bansal.”

Awaiting Freedom

**Originally published on Muse India**





For scores of centuries men had pillaged and plundered,
They etched their names upon beings and beasts and pieces of land
With bullets and horses and blood and gestures grand.
Then, one midnight some sixty-nine years ago
One little piece of the earth, teeming with millions and some more,
Proclaimed to the world its hopeful new independence
Told the tale of its birth, its fight, its resurrection after its long prison sentence.

That midnight there was laughter, there was rest, there was a dawn
Of bright beginnings, of a hope for happiness to spawn more smiles, of free morns.
Men celebrated, women celebrated, children were overjoyed.
That midnight the radio played a song sung by an articulate man
As the rain fell in senseless patterns outside, clanging against metal and tin foils,
For the monsoon waits for none, never mind a transnational plan,
The garbled wires carried forward a crackling song, of shackles undone and a new freedom found.
The water fell pitter-patter in the background
As if cleaning the earth of impurities left behind by vilayati fools,
Promising a fresh morning under self-rule.

That midnight the man and the rain sang the song of freedom.

**

At the stroke of midnight Sahiba strikes a match
To catch
The reflection of fire in a shiny piece of plastic
To see a glimmer, a sliver of torn silver wrapping on the floor
She sees nothing in the mess to still heart, sore
From beating against her ribcage.
Sahiba falls on her back, hands folded in prayer
Hoping she wouldn't have to bear those she didn't want
From him whom she didn't know.
Dear Shakti, give me an empty womb and clean blood

At the stroke of midnight Mahima smacks the old radio
The strain sputters out slowly, steadying itself cautiously
The voice warbles of witches and hunting, seclusion and burning
Mahima's face is swollen, hot, soft and wet
As her fingers reach between her young legs
And draw fresh blood like that of a lamb recently slaughtered
Robbed of its innocence right at god's alter
She doesn't understand who has burned or who has been hunted
All she knows is she is no longer a pure goddess, deeply loved and wanted.

At the stroke of midnight Noor looks up to the heavens
And thinks of words terrible and sharp in strings of threes
Together the faithful sisters will fight to free
Themselves from the dreaded words
United they will banish them from the lexicon of the faithful
And clean the old records
Of unjust history and lopsided laws
But tyrants they face to break the status quo that was.

At the stroke of midnight Jyoti awakes to hungry screams
Agatha writhes next to her, as if being devoured by demons in her dreams
Fighting fatigue and sleep, the creator cradles her faint being,
Instinctively knowing what the image created in her likeness needs
The child noisily suckles on her mother's breast
Hungrily lapping up what is best
And pure in a world empty of him who fathered her.
Jyoti rocks them both to sleep, forgetting many a slur
Hurled at the pair for surviving in the world not meant for them.

At the stroke of midnight Chandrima splits open scissors
And cuts out piece after piece of letters words thoughts and threats
Rape Delayed Burnt Dark Acid Reservation Justice Regrets
She reads about her sisters and writes about them all
The brown and the fair, the dark and clear are actors in her yarns
Protagonists by virtue of agency, not helpless victims in search of heroes
Some are in wheelchairs, shooting to the top, others are bound and gagged
And burnt at the cross
Adding digits and zeroes,
Their numbers multiply
They fight the world, sometimes disrupt norms, and other times comply.

**

At the stroke of midnight sixty nine years ago
A weary and hopeful man weaved a tale of dreams
Told the country of a new dawn, a destiny hitherto unforeseen
He announced to the world his country had overthrown its yoke
The dam of injustice and oppression was now broken
For more than 3 score years hence,
Jyoti,
Chandrima,
Mahima,
Noor,
Agatha,
Sahiba,
Waited in suspense, with forbearance and calm
For their own hallelujah, their promised beginning, their dawn
They thought their chains would melt, their ropes would tear
That they would share equally their newly freed land.

Six decades and nine years later, they are still waiting.
Hoping, fighting, demanding
For their India to be theirs.

The Labyrinth

** Originally published in eFiction India's Volume III Issue 6**




I awoke to the sound of the Azan filtering through the latticed window, calling all the faithful to prayer. I groggily walked over to look at the sleepy city uncoiling itself from under a blanket of dreams. The early summer morning was piercingly bright and loud, guttural sounds of hawkers made their way to my room on the fifth floor of the Awadh Hotel. Lucknow was slowly beginning its day.

My mother had spent many a day in her young years frequenting this old city to meet my father, then her lover, on the sly. Now, with my father dead and Amrita relegated to spending her days in the cold loneliness of her bed, I was the only traveler left in the household. She worried every time I left the capital, fearing I would find a nice man, like she did, in a sleepy city and leave her alone. I would get tired of convincing her that I needed to find myself, understand myself before I could seek out another human, and that was going to take a good long while. She was skeptical when I told her that my trip to Lucknow was about our government offices taking slowly to technology. I remembered my mother with the tiffin she unfailingly packed for my trips, and began my day in the city of Nawabs.

By late afternoon I found myself in front of Krishna’s Tea Stall, a wooden cart with a teapot perched atop a mobile stove. This little enterprise fit in perfectly against the backdrop of the faded white mansion that housed the Small Industries Association, giving the whole scene an anachronistic, old-fashioned air. There was just one other person, a young woman in bright yellow churidar-kameez, who was ordering a cup of chai in the heat. She stood beside me, looking at me with interest as I ordered the same as her; I was surprisingly comfortable under her curious gaze.

“Chai’s great even on a hot day, hunh?” she asked me, extending her right hand.

“Yep, relaxes you like nothing else. I’m Amar, by the way,” I said, taking her hand in mine and shaking it firmly. I looked at her quickly, hoping to get a good idea about her entire being in one cursory glance.

“That’s a strange name for a woman. Well, I am Bano. Even my name means girl,” she said, with a quick laugh. “Anyway, why are you here? Is SIA up to no good again?”

“I wish I was important enough to investigate wrong doing, but I’m just here to get your SIA to digitalize its records. Nothing controversial, but the babus and officers don’t like it.”

“Hmm, yeah change comes slowly to Awadh. When you Dilli-wallahs take to the capital’s streets, us Lucknowites just live with the facts of daily existence. Anyway, did you actually get all your meetings done?”

“No, I didn’t. The babus have been complaining about shorter lunch breaks and infrequent chai runs. I’ve had secretaries lie to my face and tell me I have no appointments with their very important bosses. A senior guy in the accounts department told me to come back tomorrow, as he wasn’t ready. And some IT guy told me he didn’t need Dilli meddling in his affairs and could finish this digitalization himself, thank you very much.”

We both laughed a little and took quick, noisy sips of our tea. Her short name rang in my ears. Bano.

“So, what do you do at SIA? You are a lot more talkative than the others I met in there,” I asked Bano, pointing to the mansion.

“Ah, well, I work here in the press room, releasing officially cleared information to pesky reporters and occasionally write a tired blog post for our terrible website. I wrote this new post around the time of that homosexuality ban thing. Thought we could look at different types of small enterprises run by different types of Indians, you know, gay and otherwise. They shut it down pretty quickly. So, mostly, I come here to get away from my cramped home,” Bano said, with a sigh devoid of emotion.

“Well, we may be similar, then. I am tasked with having to tell old men that new ways are here and they better get changing. Anyway, Bano, I must get going. I have one last fuddy-duddy to talk to for the day,” I said as I paid for my chai.

Bano intrigued me. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach as I looked from the chai vendor to her.

“Meeting you was good, Amar. Maybe I’ll run into you again,” Bano said as she continued to sip her chai.

By about 5pm, I had been officially removed from the SIA premises. After many come back later-s and why do you Dilli people never inform us before just showing up-s, I had experienced my share of Lucknow’s tameez and tehzeeb. Frustrated and confused about the point of converting these reluctant offices, I hailed the nearest rickshaw and asked to be taken to the Bara Imambara. I didn’t see Bano anywhere so I asked him to speed up and get me away from the crumbling bastion of stubbornness and anachronism.

The long, perilous ride through the city’s glitzy malls, course butcher shops, and rip off brand name stores brought me in front of the imposing Bara Imambara. The somber stone structure looked straight ahead into the skies, indifferent to the insignificance of the travelers milling around its base.
I leaned over the parapet of the Imambara and looked out at the city through the dome-topped spikes. It was a still, hot day and from the corner of my eyes I could see a pair of lovers holding hands. They sat awkwardly still, both almost twitching with desire and hungry for more touch than that of intertwined fingers. It was claustrophobic: the scene of the slow moving traffic and the lovers; there was a frustration in both places that irritated my insides. I moved away to a spot farther east and faced the Asfi Mosque, the solemn red structure standing between the city and the Imambara. There were some young boys sitting on the steps of the building, idling away their time and aiming stones at the fountain nearby. A few women, some in black burqas and others in colorful salwar kameez, were ambling around and talking amongst themselves. Mixed groups of men and women were uncommon here and I thought how easy our society made it for people to hide their true selves within the folds of its fabric.

“Oye! Amar!” yelled a familiar voice. I turned around to see Bano from SIA.

“What a coincidence running into you here. Aren’t you a local? Why are you here?” I asked, happy to see my newest acquaintance.

“I come here almost everyday. It’s a good way to spend my evenings before hitting the road home. The family thinks I get out of work at 7 but I actually just hang out here by myself for about 2 hours, writing random stuff,” she explained.

Bano gently slid her arm through mine and led me through the dense crowd, pushing and yelling, “hato bhaisahab,” at every young man in our way, asking them to scuttle over. I allowed her to lead me into the cool Bhulbhulaiya, the legendary labyrinth tucked within the Imambara’s 13 feet thick walls. We joined a group tour and made our way through the loops and twists, the dark and lit passages, the low and high ceilings, and up and down worn out stairs. After touring the upper levels of the labyrinth, we descended slowly and carefully into the belly of the maze, resting our free hands on the walls on both sides of the narrow staircase. Our collective breathing reached into my ears as we ploughed further into the depths of the labyrinth. And then, after many painfully slow minutes of careful stepping, we stood on flat ground. There wasn’t much to see in the darkness so our guide struck a match and held up the short stick of fire. It was a white, round room, its walls covered in red spittle stains and uncouth graffiti. None of the tourists moved and neither did the guide. Bano’s arm tightened around mine and she inched a little closer. There was no sound other than that of strained, scared breathing. I could feel Bano’s presence next to me, could hear her heart beat through her rib cage. The guide struck another match.

“What is your mother’s name?” she whispered into my ear.

“Amrita,” I said softly, unfazed by the random strangeness of the question. “Why do you run away from your family so much?”

“They don’t know me and I can’t tell them who I am.”

“No one knows who we are. Not until we tell them, bare our souls to them.”

“That’s philosophical bullshit. Some people know. Some people are not meant to know. I know you.”

I silenced my whispers. She knew me? I could not say I knew her, but felt like I could if I wanted to.
As we made our way back to the surface, and as the signal bars climbed up in my cell phone, I felt a knot loosen in my stomach. I had walked into the underbelly of this foreign city and been a silent spectator to a fearsome and formidable silence. I had heard something in those whispered sentences I exchanged with Bano, something I could not put a name to. I looked at her side profile, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. Her yellow dupatta was wrapped lightly around her head, the kohl dark in her eyes. There was a quiet, intense beauty about her that seemed to radiate in the early evening.

“Why did you ask my mother’s name?” I asked Bano, breaking my own reverie.

“I don’t have one. And I hoped you did. Do you talk to her often?”

“Yes, I do. She is lonely now, what with my father dead. So, I am her only companion. Coming home in the early night and leaving at the end of dawn. She is easy to get along with.”

“Hmm. Well, stay with her. I know I run from what I have, but I would give anything to cling to what I don’t. Mothers have an uncanny ability to ‘get’ their daughters.”

I thought of Amrita, alone and old in our dingy PWD flat. Sometimes in a white sari, mourning my father years after his death, sometimes in bright red, invoking marital fertility. Would Amrita ‘get’ me if I tried?

“Well, it is 6:30 now. I have to leave. Or my brother will start pestering me,” Bano said as she got up to leave.

“Hey, take my number. Let me give you a missed call. I want to come back here one day. Maybe I will run into you again,” I said, taking out my phone from my pocket.
Bano smiled at me and dialed her number from my phone. She took my hand in hers and said softly; looking into my eyes as she formed the words with her small round lips, “Listen to your heart. And trust your mother.”

She winked at me playfully and I watched the outline of her body walk out the Bara Imambara. The low, pale sun framed her as she set the dupatta properly around her head and hailed a rickshaw.

To Benares

**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.