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.

Sahiba

**Excerpt from a longer work in progress**





It was raining terribly and everyone in Sahiba’s family was worried about the wedding the next day. Amma ji was running from length to length of the corridor in their rustic old family home, wringing her hands in helplessness. Warm tears ran down her face as she worried about the mandap while the cold rain lashed against the white exteriors of the old Chauhan mansion.

“Ab kya karenge? Where will the pandit sit? Stuti! Come here instantly and bring the tent wala men to me. Phata phat!” Amma worried and shouted out to Stuti, the fourteen year old little imp of a girl. The girl scampered away from her spot on the floor where the rain drops snuck under the roof and teased her slightly.

All around Amma ji was the usual wedding chaos – aunts and girl cousins getting henna made on their hands, the younger ones teasing the older ones and making full use of the temporary dismantlement of age difference, some spritely ones were dancing to the latest song. The family members occupied the large closed verandah, the music and dancing belying the tension in Amma ji’s mind.

A thin white corridor led away from the verandah to a small rounded room with a ledge window that looked out to a small pond, the only clean one in Aishbagh. Here sat Sahiba, the bride to be, smoking a cigarette with her back facing the closed door that led to the corridor. She wasn’t enjoying the cigarette, she never did. She knew it would bother her mother if she saw her and was certain that the news would reach her to be in laws if anyone else in the family saw her. Maybe, they’d even change their mind and call off the wedding and relieve her of this terrible responsibility that was about to befall her.

The pond did not mean much to Sahiba, and neither did Aishbagh. She had always felt claustrophobic in the small town and more so in this large house of hers. Being Chauhan Sahab’s eldest daughter, she had many expectations of her. She envied her younger brother, Bikram, who, while less loved by her father, was free to swim in the pond, ride horses into the wild forests that lined the little hamlet, spend hours with his friends listening to fast songs and not fear disappointing his family if caught in the midst of some fun unlawful activity or other. Sahiba, too, wanted to do as he did, to run and be free and wild. For her mind was unfettered, but her body was tied to Aishbagh. That was, until she was married to Balwant. Once that happened, Sahiba would be transported to Noida, on the border of Delhi and from that point her actions and misdemeanors were none of her parents’ problems and simply Balwant’s issues.

Sure, the idea of being close to Delhi  excited her but there were many things that worried Sahiba about her impending move to the rajdhani. First, Noida was no Delhi, it was the poorer and unimportant cousin of the national capital region; “I am moving to Noida” did not have the same ring to it as “I am moving to Delhi”. Second, she would have to tolerate Balwant everyday and keep smiling while she did that; Balwant was the spoilt only son in his family and she had heard he was a violent man. Third, she would have to live like a wife, wearing bands of red vermillion across her hair parting and gold and bead necklaces around her neck. She would have to wear the hateful silver bands in her toes and wrap her sari around her head and pretend modesty.

This escape from Aishbagh seemed more like a one way ticket to a jail in Noida rather than a free life in Delhi. And that was not what Sahiba wanted. All she wanted was to remain Sahiba Chauhan and live the life her brother lived. Hence, she hoped the smoking would get caught and get the wedding canceled. Maybe, if she opened the door a little, the smell of the smoke would get to the family and someone would snitch to the boy’s side. As Sahiba walked to the door, it flung open and Amma ji came panting in.

“Haye Ram! Stub it out, you stupid girl!” Amma ji screamed at Sahiba, quickly shutting the door behind her and peeping out to make sure no one had seen Sahiba’s burning cigarette. She stared at her daughter angrily and snatched the burning stick of tobacco and flung it out the window.

Sahiba did not say a word but instead looked at her mother with obvious disdain in her eyes. She was angry with Amma ji for her provincial attitude but she was not surprised at her reaction. Amma ji was obviously worried about her daughter’s future.

Eating Alone

Last week I ate my first solitary meal. I sat by the window seat at a small place, Chickpea, that boasted of organic halal food and free soda refills. I had always been apprehensive about eating without friends at school; I thought people would pity me for having few friends or, worse, find out about all the nights I battled with severe loneliness. The City, with its belly full of people, most of whom did not give a damn about me, was different. Seeing the homeless on the streets and the hardworking making a living delivering hot food to lazy 20 somethings gave me the courage to fight my fears and eat alone. I also figured that no one would stop to look twice at a girl sitting by the corner window in an eatery, chewing on her bland Americanized halal food.

Eating alone was not as hard as I had imagined. My vantage point behind the glass window gave me a clear view of the street and the people going about their business. There were a good number of dog leashes intertwining, a few clumsy collisions between strangers, some people struggling with their grocery bags, men and women in sharp business suits walked briskly. There was quite a bit of color on the street for it had started out as a sunny day. The yellow light from the sky flooded into New York and brightened the pinks, oranges and blues. People seemed happy enough; I did not hear any curse words travel through the glass or see anyone push anyone aside to make way on the sidewalk. But, soon, the sun hid behind the clouds and the street changed as like an actor who changes her emotions on cue. In a few minutes, the rain splashed against the glass, black umbrellas opened up, the colors seemed to dissolve into grey, people ran into the subway stations across the street, humans pushed each other aside, the puppies disappeared from sight. I watched the city street change; people moved faster, trying to avoid getting drenched under the fat drops of water. They did not look happy enough any more. The change in the mood of the street enticed me to reach out to the humans out in the rain. Not one of these people was known to me; I knew no names and had no addresses. Yet, I decided to assign troubles and sorrows to them. And a few joys.

I looked at a thin blonde woman wrapped in her yellow dress, walking cautiously under her black umbrella. She stood out from the crowd of other New Yorkers for no particular reason; there is no dearth of beautiful people in the city so it was not her appearance that caught my attention. It may have been the bright yellow that set her apart. Whatever it was, she caught my attention and I assigned a story to her. She was, I imagined, walking carefully because she had a secret rendezvous in Central Park, with a man she had only interacted with through letters, and she wanted her boots and clothes to be dry. Hers was an unusual approach, in her day no one wrote letters. If people wanted to be unconventional, and a little creepy, they used the missed chances section of craigslist. But, letters were different and she wanted her love, if that is what this interaction turned into, to be special. She walked up to the cross street and waited for the lights to change. She was not worried about the time; arriving on the dot would make her look too excited. If she had painstakingly written letters for the past month then, she thought, she had to show some more patience. The lights changed and she instinctively looked to her left and right before walking across the pinstriped concrete. And just like that, she disappeared from my eye and disappeared into the horde of New Yorkers who were too far and unfamiliar.

By the time the woman left my part of the street, my meal was done. I thought more about the woman as I cleaned up and threw out my leftovers into the trashcans: What if the woman was actually on her way to her office, hoping to stay dry so as to look professional? What if she was on her way to afternoon class, excited about turning in her essay on the semiotics of social media? Or, what if she was on her way to the doctor’s to pick up her test results, her dress bright so it could absorb any bad news that might be thrown her way? It did not matter what her real story was. I had given one and that was the truth about her for me. The woman had no idea and my story affected no part of her life. And, it was in this little afternoon lunch that I articulated to myself the truth about the city – no one knows anyone and it is easy to live a life without affecting anyone. You can hide in the comfort of anonymity and at the same time reach out into the millions and make someone the protagonist of your story without changing a thing about the city or the universe.

Living in the city is truly a lesson in the inconsequentiality of human life in the grand scheme of events.

I stepped out of the restaurant into a puddle of sunshine. The rain had subsided and streets looked dirtier in the bright light, pools of brown water lit up in the yellow of the sun. Even amidst the dirt and grime, I felt  I had enjoyed seeing the city change from sunny to dreary to sunny again. I saw the city come to life in two different ways and sat through the transformation like a spectator at a street show, untouched by the movement and changes on the stage.

Until next time, readers.

New York: My New Home

People fall in love with New York City all the time. There are tourists who gaze at the Empire State Building in awe, filling their heads with memories of the city of dreams, and there are the locals who could not live elsewhere given the attachment they have nurtured for the looming concrete structures and charming farmer’s markets that surprisingly become good friends on Sunday afternoons.

The City and I, however, have not fallen in love yet. We haven’t reached the point where we can say, “We’re going steady.” I don’t think it’s just the time. I’ve heard people talk about how it was love at first sight for them and the city. And, besides, I have spent about 3 months in the city living the typical poorly paid paralegal intern life, struggling from one metro station to another, hoping my meager paycheck will support both breakfast and Saturday night debaucheries. Somehow, I haven’t gotten to wanting to stay in the city forever; I haven’t felt like I could live here and become Carrie Bradshaw or some other glamorous being who embodies and loves the city. Instead, I have become the cynical woman who loves the subway for its efficiency but suspects the roof will collapse under the weight of running trains and crush her to death.

My sister didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t love the city just yet. “What do you mean you don’t love the city just yet? You’re living my college dream, woman. Get a good apartment so I can visit.” Unwittingly, my sister pointed out one of the big problems I have had with the city: finding an apartment. It isn’t just that there is a dearth of affordable housing in good neighborhoods, anyone can live with that fact. It is the process of finding housing and the people you must put up with in the process of getting your application approved. I am tired of brokers who say they don’t charge a fee or are showing me no fee apartments only to have them try to get me to sign over my life savings to them. I am also tired of people showing me apartments that are ready for immediate move in and then later finding out from the management that there is at least a one month wait. The whole point is not the apartments themselves. The point is the lengths people will go to in order to make a buck off of you. Everyone, from the guy who tried to snatch my purse at the subway stop to the broker who tried to get me to pay for services that I never used, is out to dupe you. This piece is not about the nuances of stereotyping so I am not going to make exceptions. Everyone knows that there are kind souls who don’t want your money; no point bringing it up. So, how do I get a good apartment, as my sister asked me to? Great question.

And then there are the catcallers, the ‘eve teasers’ as we say in my part of the world. They are everywhere: subway stops, below my sublet apartment, in front of the grocery story, outside Starbucks, on the stairs of the New York Public Library, on the cross road between 50th and 2nd. Whoever said it was only the third world that enjoyed the creativity with which men street harass women, was terribly mistaken. This first world city, and an iconic one at that, has more than its fair share of misogynistic pricks who throw around “oh yeah dance for me my Bollywood actress” and “Oh hi you pretty Indian girl” and “hey you come here baby”. It is a little different from the secluded New England world my college was in. There, I could yell “Fuck you” and walk away, unafraid of the consequences of my expletive laden retort. Here, I just want to make sure I get home safe, unscathed physically because mentally, that prick’s already unsettled me.




I guess once I settle into the city and toughen up, I may just fall for it. It will take standing up to street harassers and learning the subway system.

Alia and Maya

That’s fine, she said

Put on the lipstick, she said.

Throw on the black

Shawl, she said.

Let me become

Maya, she said.

Alia looked into the mirror

Contoured the lipstick on

Her thin lips.

The black shawl on her bare shoulders

A dress, maroon silk,

On her brown skin.

Kohl lined her big eyes.

She became

Maya, illusion.

A mirage of love

Of desire

A barely audible

Whisper of a voice

From loudmouth Alia

To soft spoken Maya.

Alia looked into herself

Found no void

Felt her throat fill up

No tears just

A need

A desire she kept

Like the ones she created

Danger

In every move

The border was always near.

Lower her eyes,

Slowly look up

Into the salivating face

Touch the bulbous cheek

With a perfumed finger

Playfully.

Tell me more, she said

Of all your conquests,

Why, you’re a great man, she said.

The drivel flowed, she feigned interest.

Sighed and ooh-ed

Looked into his eyes,

Shy coy all the

Deadly ingredients of a terrible

Monster.

Alia looked into her wine glass

Maya played on.

Alia thought of home

Maya conquered distant lands.

Alia yearned for sleep

Maya wanted more

Alia was unsure, scared

Maya was certain, victory was hers.

Oh you were the man behind it all

Maya said

Why yes I was, he said

Those were the days

He reminisced.

You’re still in your prime she said.

You flatter me well, butterfly

He said

I was drawn to you, sir,

She said

Were you? He said

His eyes glazed over

Hungry and vacant

He thought he was the hunter

Poor pompous fool

Diana was never hunted.

Don’t stop the wine, she said

Join me for another she said.

Why of course, darling, he said

She poured him a glass

Her perfumed finger touched

His accidentally, of course.

Alia looked on

The drunken fool

Trapped in a wire

Perfumed with the scent of

Parisian cherry blossoms.

She was lost, Maya played on

Alia was afraid

Maya was bold confident of success.

Alia saw Maya slip a perfumed

Hand into the fool’s coat

She was shocked, tried to

Look away but was intrigued

Maya played on, one hand caressed

The plump cheeks

The other dug deeper into the coat

Maya drew out her hand

A slim folder barely

Bigger than a wallet

In her palm

And a smile on her face.

And then I commanded them to move away

He slurred on

Oh really now did you she said

Yes and the tribal men they’re

Nastier than you think

Big men built on boar meat

And…

I must go to the ladies she said

Yes yes of course butterfly

Of course he said.

That’s fine, she said

Take off the lipstick, she said.

Throw on the white

shirt, she said.

Let me become

Alia, she said.

Maya looked into the mirror

Wiped the lipstick off

Her thin lips.

The black shawl on her bare shoulders

Fell to the ground

A shirt, white cotton,

Covered her brown skin.

Jeans, the tightest wound

Around her slender thighs

Kohl lined her big eyes.

She looked at her palm

The slim folder brilliant

In its dull dark blue

She smiled.

Pulled on her black blazer

The folder went in

She walked out

Into the cold Delhi

Night.