Kirat Pawar writes short stories about queerness, London and recapturing their childhood in India. The stories are intended for a collection about the taboos surrounding homosexuality and gender non-conformity in South-Asian cultures. They work at a magical shop called Phlox that sells books, coffee and wine.
This piece was written during quarantine when writing became an escape from the contemporary. ‘Simran’ fulfilled Pawar’s impulse to write about the Partition of India, a historic event that they think resounds in the intergenerational trauma imposed on the affected communities, including the Indian diaspora.
Email: kiratspawar@gmail.com
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Simran
Simran wraps the Guru Granth Sahib in her husband’s old turban and places the holy book safely in the suitcase lying open on the dining table. She flicks through a folder to check the birth certificates: her son Jasraj’s, her daughter-in-law Harleen’s and her grandson Karan’s, before packing it next to the enveloped holy book. She brushes her finger against the turban’s frayed fabric. When Balbir was alive, she would stand six yards across from him, the length of the turban, and help him pleat the cream cotton cloth. She watched him tie it without the help of a mirror, the loose end held tightly between his teeth. Each time, it was symmetrical. She looks towards the bathroom where her son Jasraj sits still on a cane stool. His wife Harleen stands stooped over him, a tear clinging to her chin as she cuts his hair. Jasraj’s locks, that have grown along with him since birth, fall around him like dead leaves.
“Daadi,” her grandson Karan says, his head turned towards the snipping of the scissors, “will our hair grow back?”
Simran walks over to the bathroom and shuts the door, shielding the view from Karan’s sight. “Of course, your hair will grow back,” she says, joining her grandson on the sofa.
“Daadi, you told me that Sikhs don’t cut their hair, that we let our kesh grow naturally to respect the Guru’s gift. So, won’t Guru-ji be angry at me and baba for cutting our kesh?”
She smiles. “Guru-ji will understand. And like I said, your baba’s and your hair will grow back, you can let it grow once we reach your bhua’s house.”`
“But why are we leaving?” Karan asks.
Simran considers her words with caution before answering. “We are going to your aunt’s house because it has been so long since we last saw her.” She notices the furrows deepening between Karan’s brows.
The news of Indira Gandhi’s assassination had overtaken every radio channel in the country. The man who had shot the Prime Minister was a Sikh. Mobs have been marching the streets of Delhi, thirsty for revenge. Their neighbour Mr. Chopra brought them the news that left them in disbelief. Men wearing turbans are being burnt alive. The mobs have got access to voter records and are marking homes of Sikhs with a large red X. Families are fleeing the capital in fear. The previous morning, a huge padlock was found on the gates of the Khaira’s house. Simran had seen them leave, Mr. Khaira without his hair and Mrs Khaira in a sari instead of her usual salwar-kameez. Delhi was no longer safe. That night, Jasraj made the decision to leave for Punjab to his sister Jyoti’s home. “We have to cut our kesh,” he had said.
Simran hears the door creak and turns her head to see a man emerge. “Come Karan, your turn,” he says, “for the haircut.”
Simran looks at Karan and notices that it takes a moment for him to recognise his father’s naked face without the beard and the hair. He gently touches his topknot, feeling its shape with his fingers while walking over to his mother who smiles through the puffiness on her face before he sits obediently on the stool. Her tears resume as she begins to undo Karan’s topknot.
“Is there no other way?” Simran asks.
“No Maa, I’m afraid there isn’t,” Jasraj says, shutting the suitcase. “The safest way we can get to Punjab is by train.”
Simran is silent. She counts; the last time she boarded a train was thirty-seven years ago, in 1947. She feels a familiar acidic taste trickle down her throat. The partition.
~
Simran was found on a train from Pakistan – the newly carved country. When she regained consciousness, she asked the nurse, “Which side of the border are we on?”
“India,” the nurse replied while checking her blood pressure, “at a refugee camp in Amritsar.” After a moment, the nurse asked, “Is your family on this side?”
Silence.
“On the other side?”
Silence.
“There’s a desk outside to register your name. Give them all your information so they can try to locate your family,” the nurse responded in a mechanical tone before leaving.
The next day, she left the tent. Khaki-clad soldiers marched around the camp. A long queue of people tailed in front of two desks. She walked past it and joined the line of women waiting to shower behind a patchwork of corrugated metal sheets and bamboo. She slowly shuffled forward and was given a fresh pair of salwar-kameez, a bucket of water, a small cup and a tiny bar of soap with teeth marks left by the knife’s cut. She removed the kameez she wore on which blood had crusted into a permanent pattern in the shape of an unknown, foreign country’s border on a map and began cleaning her body.
She ate looking down at her plate, avoiding the grief on the faces around her. An old man stood next to a bus shouting “Darbar Sahib” as people joined the queue. She remembered her neighbour telling her about the Golden Temple. While waiting in line, she saw a group of children climbing up a tree to see how far the camp stretched. She looked away when they descended in despair.
Through the bus window, she saw the aftermath; burnt houses, dark stains on the ground, empty suitcases and an abandoned flip-flop – too small and colourful for an adult.
The bus stopped and she followed the passengers out to the complex. Under the sunlight, the temple shone, reflecting the golden rays on pilgrims sitting cross legged around the water that encircled the gurdwara. A young boy stood near the entrance, handing out pieces of cloth. She took one and covered her head. She found a spot on the steps next to the water and listened to the hymns emanating from a loudspeaker. An elderly woman holding a basket offered her food. She took the folded bread with both her hands and bowed her head, touching her forehead to her palms, imitating the people around her with hesitation. She unfolded the roti and smelled the warmth of the chickpeas that lay within. She ate it but wasn’t sated. Past the sea of bowed heads, she saw steam rising from behind a curtain. Men and women were stooped over huge pots, preparing food. She wolfed down another roti before picking up a basket like the other volunteers and began distributing the food.
She did this for weeks- woke up at the camp, boarded the bus to Darbar Sahib, and helped feed the dispossessed who continued to flow from the other side. Bibi, the elderly woman who took charge of the kitchen began to rely on her and would greet her with a warm smile every morning. One day, while helping Bibi with the cooking, she fainted. Bibi rushed over and called for help.
She woke in her tent with Bibi sitting next to her, vigilant. She looked at the woman in confusion, “Bibi?”
“Child, you fainted! We brought you back to the camp so the doctor could check up on you.”
She sat up.
“What is your name beti?”
After a momentary pause, she replied, “Simran.”
“Simran,” Bibi moved closer, “your family?”
“They were killed. My mother and father.”
Bibi placed her hand on Simran’s shoulder. “And your husband?”
Simran was silent.
“You fainted because you are pregnant.”
Simran’s gaze remained fixed on a fold of the blanket.
“Beti, come with me.”
Simran stared at the sunshine on the floor, casting the pattern of the window grill. She hadn’t slept. Her left hand lay on her stomach. Hearing a knock on the door, she sat upright before saying, “come in.”
Bibi walked in cradling a tall steel cup and offered it to Simran. “Morning, did you sleep alright?”
“Haan-ji” she said, adding the ji to her yes to show respect. She took a sip of the thick mango buttermilk.
“We like to drink lassi in the morning,” Bibi smiled. “I can make you a cup of tea if you want.”
“Lassi is fine, thank you. We used to drink lassi in the morning too. Before the –”
“Batwara,” said Bibi. Separation, instead of partition. “Simran, I brought you to my home because I couldn’t let you keep living at the camp in your condition.” She paused before continuing, “Some of my old clothes are in the cupboard, they should fit you. Just have a look in there,” she pointed towards the cupboard. “And if you need anything else, just let me know beti.” Before leaving she added, “I’ve left a towel for you in the bathroom, have a shower and come down for breakfast, my son Balbir will drive us to the temple.”
Simran showered and went downstairs. A tall, young, turbaned man was sat reading the newspaper on the dining table. Seeing her, he stood up.
“I’m Balbir. Sat sri akaal,” he greeted her, joining his hands together.
Simran returned the gesture.
Bibi bustled in. “Aloo-paranthe,” she announced, placing the plate on the table. “Simran, this is my son Balbir. I see that you have already met.”
Balbir stretched an awkward smile towards Simran. She returned it.
After eating, Balbir drove them to the Golden Temple where they spent the day serving the pilgrims. In the evening, he picked them up and drove them back home. This became their new routine.
One night after dinner, Simran carried the plates from the dinner table to the kitchen. “I’ll wash them,” said Bibi, grabbing the sponge.
“Don’t worry Bibi, I’ll do it.”
“Ohoo! I haven’t brought you here to be my servant,” laughed Bibi.
Simran smiled at Bibi’s effort to make her feel comfortable. When she was first brought to the house, she wondered why the woman had taken pity on her. Having spent a month living with her, she learned that Bibi’s generosity was instinctive. At the temple, she was a beacon that the other volunteers looked towards whenever they needed reassurance after seeing thousands of broken souls arrive every day. Everyone called her Bibi, a term of respect usually reserved for a matriarch. It was this quality of hers that made Simran feel safe within the walls of her home. The past few nights, she had slept without being woken up by a nightmare or a memory.
“Simran, I think you should stay home tomorrow. You’re beginning to show now, it isn’t healthy for you to be doing all that work in the heat, you need to stay at home and rest.”
The next day, Balbir drove Bibi to the temple without Simran. At home, she swept the floors, dusted and chopped the vegetables for sabzi. When Bibi returned in the evening, Simran was scolded for doing the chores. A month before the due date, Bibi started staying at home with Simran.
*
The baby was born at night-time. “A boy,” the midwife revealed, wrapping the new-born in a blanket before passing him to his mother. Simran stared blankly at the baby, still in shock over the fact that he had come from inside her. She tried to feed her baby, but he wouldn’t latch on to her nipple. All he did was wail. Bibi prepared powdered milk and fed him. The next morning, according to the customs, a Granthi opened the holy book; the first word that appeared on the page began with J. From the list of names suggested by Bibi, Simran chose Jasraj.
Due to complications during the delivery, Simran had been told to rest. Jasraj was left in Bibi’s care. When she was busy doing chores, Balbir took over. Before the partition, the company that he worked for as an accountant had shut down when the Muslim owner, Mr. Choudhury, left for Pakistan with his family. Balbir hadn’t found work since. Simran listened to him sing lullabies at night through the window and watched him walk in slow circles in the courtyard, gently rocking Jasraj to sleep.
One morning, bathing her baby, Simran saw his toothless smile. The curve of his lips and the cajole of his deep dimples reminded Simran of her mother. She had an overwhelming sense of her child being an extension of her being. She tickled him to conjure her mother’s face through his smile that warmed in his cheeks. She promised her that she would learn to love her child. The rest of the day, she played with Jasraj as if for the first time, their laughter infecting each other continuously. When Balbir returned home with Bibi from the temple in the evening, Simran felt their gaze on her while she was entranced in her motherhood. Bibi gave Jasraj a kiss and gently patted Simran’s head. “May Waheguru bless the mother and child,” before going to the kitchen. Simran placed Jasraj on the bed and began to sing a lullaby. She thought she saw Balbir standing near the door frame listening, but then Jasraj giggled, and her attention was brought back to her son.
*
When Bibi told Simran that Balbir wanted to raise Jasraj as his son and wanted to marry her, Simran was quiet for a moment. “You need to know what happened,” she said. She told her where she was born, about her parents, about the village she grew up in, about packing their belongings after hearing the news on the radio under the banyan tree. The country was to be split. Muslims on one side, the rest on the other. She told Bibi about what happened on the train, repeating her horrors for the first time to another person. How her father was killed before her mother. Her running. Being caught. What happened after. And how she made her way to a train where she was later found. When she was finished, she looked up and saw Bibi holding back tears. “Bibi, tell Balbir what I’ve just told you because I cannot.” She was certain that the proposal would be withdrawn.
After a while, Balbir came to her room and told her that learning about her past hadn’t changed his intentions. He said that his proposal was for Jasraj, so that he could have a father. He wasn’t expecting Simran to be a wife, but a friend to begin with.
She believed him, but she refused his proposal, telling herself that he deserved someone better, someone he didn’t pity. The next few days, Balbir avoided running into Simran by staying in his room. The only time she saw him was during their meals and when he played with Jasraj.
Then, one evening, Bibi told Simran that they might move to Delhi. A letter had arrived from a relative. He informed Balbir about a job opportunity that he had pulled a few strings for. It was a well-paid role for a company that gave grants to the Hindus and Sikhs who had immigrated from Pakistan. He urged Balbir to move to Delhi. Bibi was torn between leaving her home or her son on his own in Delhi. But home was no longer the place she knew. Amritsar had changed since the lines had been drawn on the map. There were faces missing in the neighbourhood, broken locks that lay outside looted homes. Even Darbar Sahib was no longer a place of eternal peace, crowded by people with their past horrors etched on their faces.
“Balbir is leaving for Delhi tomorrow for the interview,” said Bibi. “If it all goes well, he’ll come back to help us move.”
Balbir returned within the week. He was moving the furniture to one room so the rest of the house could be rented out when Simran told Bibi that she was going to stay.
“Stay where?”
“I’ve decided that I’m going to stay at the camp. Bibi, you have already done more than enough for me.”
Bibi sighed. “Do you really think I’m going to let you go back there? You have Jasraj with you now.”
“They might be able to find me a room or something because I have a baby.”
“Simran, I know why you are saying this. Because of Balbir, right? You not accepting his proposal doesn’t change anything. I was there with you when you gave birth to Jasraj, are you saying that I’m meant to leave him to grow up at a camp, living inside a tent?” Bibi wiped the tears on Simran’s face away and gave her a hug. “And Balbir has already bought the tickets now,” she said laughing, “He said that you would probably prefer travelling by bus instead of a train.”
It was Balbir’s consideration that began to change the way she saw him.
~
It is dawn. Jasraj is on his knees, securing a thick padlock on the front door. Simran avoids looking down at his turbanless head. Instead, she moves her gaze up towards the face of her home. The home where her friendship with Balbir had grown to marriage and the birth of Jyoti. The home where they grieved Bibi’s loss. The home where her children Jyoti and Jasraj and her grandson Karan grew up, like her own childhood home – now a place in the borders of the past.
Jasraj helps the taxi driver load the car with their suitcases before sitting in the front seat. Simran stares out the window and sees a cow next to the road. The memory of her father freeing their cattle before leaving flashes through her. The cows furiously dashing in different directions.
The train station is packed with people. They join the line to board the train; Simran, Jasraj and Harleen huddle together with Karan nestled in the middle. He holds on to his mother’s leg who brushes her hand over his head, familiarising herself with its shape, the absence of the topknot. Simran looks around as the queue shuffles forward, wondering how many of the people are hiding their faith. She slightly lifts her sari as she boards the carriage.
The sound of the train’s whistle momentarily dispels the panic descending on either side of the tracks. As the train begins to pull out of the station, the rattling engulfs Simran.
~
It was a day after independence. The banyan tree stood at a stone’s throw away from the mosque, the gurdwara and the mandir. It was where the village’s eldest met, sitting around the tree in the evening after visiting their places of worship. The whole village was gathered around the wireless to listen to All India Radio, waiting to hear the news of the new border. When the announcer declared that Lahore was to be a part of Pakistan, there were gasps of disbelief. Then, it was announced that their village was to be on the other side, in India. Men and women started crying. The head of the village council, an aged man in a turban, spoke in Punjabi, the common tongue, “Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs have always lived in harmony in this village since before our fathers and their grandfathers. Now a line on the map has torn out the heart of Punjab: Lahore” he gulped his sorrow. “No one will leave the village; our Muslim brothers and sisters will stay in their homes.” The villagers cheered. “We will continue to live together, no matter what comes our way.”
Peace lasted two days. Then, gangs from nearby villages began to arrive carrying swords and spears. They were on the lookout for Muslims. The head of the village council declared, “They are my children; they have been living here all their lives. You will have to kill me first before you touch them. And if you touch me, the whole village won’t let you leave alive.” The gang hurled abuse at him, calling him a “traitor” and then left, promising to return. It was then that the Muslim neighbours began to leave for Pakistan.
Her father decided to wait. He claimed, “it will all be over soon, the families will be back once it has all blown over.” When the gangs returned, all the Muslim residents were rushed to hide in the gurdwara and the mandir. The houses with locks on the front doors were looted, while the villagers watched in horror. Before leaving, they warned that the next time they would return threefold, with weapons.
The next morning, news arrived that put a spell of silence around the banyan tree. It was about a village that since the partition, fell in Pakistan: Thoha Khalsa. A mob had surrounded the village and the violence lasted six days. Ninety women jumped into a well to save their family’s honour. There wasn’t enough water to drown them all.
At that moment, the attitude of the Hindu and Sikh villagers shifted. That evening, while her mother packed their belongings, her father freed the cattle. She knocked on her neighbour’s door to say goodbye to her best friend whose name she would later assume, Simran.
~
The train suddenly comes to a halt. Outside, there is an empty field.
“Why has the train stopped?” Harleen asks.
“I’m not sure,” Jasraj replies.
“Are we there yet?” Karan asks, waking from his slumber.
“Not yet.”
Jasraj gets up to peek his head into the corridor. The man from the adjacent compartment wears a look of confusion on his face while talking to Jasraj. “Someone must have pulled the chain,” Simran hears him say.
A noise rips open the air, a howl. The carriage shakes as a swarm of men board the train at the end of the corridor. From the shouts, Simran hears “Gandhi” and “Jai Hind.” Her knees begin to tremble as her nerves stretch taut with fear.
~
It was dark. The passengers on the train heard the throng approach the train standing still on the tracks. They held torches, the light from which revealed fists clasping swords and daggers. “Bhaago,” someone bawled. Run.
Her mother began to pull the trunk from under their seat. “Leave it,” her father shouted, grabbing hold of his wife and daughter’s hands. They followed the rest of the passengers out the train towards the cover of the forest. Her father led them behind a bush where they crouched; the pounding of their hearts almost audible over the shouts and screams pouring from the direction of the train. She saw the torches getting brighter.
“Hindustan Zindabad! Pakistan Murdabad!” Long live India! Death to Pakistan!
“They are coming,” her father said. But they were already there, waiting behind the trees. First, they split her father’s body in two. And then her mother’s.
~
Panic beats inside Simran. Jasraj turns towards Karan, “If anyone asks you your name, say it’s R…Rohan.” He kneels down and looks into his son’s eyes, “What will you say?”
“Rohan,” Karan repeats, afraid of his father’s angst.
“We will be fine, just try to stay calm,” Jasraj says, looking towards Harleen. He breathes in deeply and lets out a trembling exhale.
The mob’s movements shake the carriage. A group of five approaches their compartment, led by a man shorter than the rest. He scrutinises Jasraj. “Where are you travelling to?”
“We are just going to visit my sister in Rajasthan. She lives in Udaipur with her husband and two daughters.”
“Quite a few suitcases just for a visit,” he says, eyeing up the space underneath and above the seats.
“Just some gifts and sweets for the daughters.” Jasraj stretches an awkward smile.
“Let’s see what they’re getting from their uncle,” the man scoffs. The men behind him snicker.
The holy books wrapped in Balbir’s turban dawns on Simran. She rises up from her seat and stands in front of Jasraj, blocking him from the man.
“This must be the granny,” the man smiles, “what presents have you packed for the grandchildren?”
Simran can taste a chemical burn at the back of her throat. The familiarity of the feeling disorients her perception of time.
“What is your name?”
“Zainab.”
Jasraj turns his face towards his mother, doubt overtaking his fear.
“Muslim?” The man is bewildered. “Do Muslims wear saris now?” He looks behind and commands “Mohan, check their bags.” He pulls the suitcase from underneath the seat and opens it. On top lies the holy book. He unwraps the cream cloth to reveal the text embossed in gold on the cover in Gurmukhi. The men laugh before dragging Jasraj through the corridor to the rest of the men lined up outside in the field. Harleen shouts after them, “Stop!” while pressing her palms over Karan’s eyes and turning his face and burying it in the fold of her sari.
She remains standing still, holding Balbir’s turban in one hand, repeating her name- “Zainab”, drowning in the partition between her past and present.