Ticket to India Read online

  Kalam, Naniamma’s loyal, burly driver of more than two decades, stood waiting. Naniamma had instructed him to park the small Suzuki down the street from the house the day before. The trio hurried toward it, the neighboring villas hunched over them, wrapped within concrete cocoons, slumbering against the inky sky. Other than a three-wheeled rickshaw sputtering past, there was no one else on the road. Maya had never seen Karachi so eerily quiet, but she knew that within an hour, the morning rush would pick up, and Naniamma wanted to be at the airport well before their eight a.m. flight.

  “Kalam, we must hurry,” said her grandmother, glancing at her watch for the hundredth time.

  The driver stacked their luggage in the trunk while Maya slid into the backseat, escaping the early morning chill. Zara slid in next, followed by Naniamma, her small hands gripping her purse, a frown creasing her forehead. Maya’s cheeks warmed as she recalled what had happened barely thirteen hours before: Zara’s threats to reveal Naniamma’s plan . . . Maya insisting that she go to India too. Eventually, their grandmother’s shoulders had slumped in defeat, and she’d asked Muhi to arrange for two additional airline tickets.

  The rest of the day, Maya had flitted through the house, stomach in knots, secretly gathering things for their trip. Naniamma had told them to pack light: a change of clothes, sensible walking shoes, toiletries, and nothing else. Her tasks accomplished, Maya had sat in the corner of the living room, anxiously clutching her journal and the book on Pakistani history, watching her grandmother from the corner of her eye. Naniamma sat listening to her daughter’s discussion with half an ear, then finally pleaded a headache and escaped to Nanabba’s office. To calm her anxiety, Maya flipped open her journal.

  Friday, September 16

  Karachi, Pakistan

  My grandparents have always lived in Karachi, in a nice suburb called Clifton. Built along the Arabian Sea, Karachi is nicknamed the City of Lights because it never sleeps. It’s home to twenty-three million people from different religious and ethnic backgrounds who came to find their fortune in Karachi’s seaport and financial center.

  My sister, who prides herself on knowing everything, and likes to rub it in when I don’t, told me something that totally surprised me. I had thought that my grandmother, an orphan, was born in Karachi. But she wasn’t. She was born in India. And her biggest wish in the world has always been to go back to visit. She and my grandfather had been trying to go for years, but I guess it’s really hard for someone who served in the Pakistani military to get a visa.

  Maya’s hand shook as she wrote the last sentence. She stopped. Her heart wasn’t in it. She wished she could write what was really on her mind. But that was impossible. She couldn’t admit that she and Zara had pretty much blackmailed their grandmother into taking them to India with her. But now it was done, and they’d promised to help her. There was no backing out now.

  • • •

  Maya leaned against the car window, catching a last glimpse of the house as the engine hummed to life and they exited Clifton’s Block 7. She glanced toward her grandmother, wanting to say something . . . to explain how sorry she was about how rude she and Zara had been yesterday. But once again, her tongue couldn’t find the words. Too bad she couldn’t just write her a note. She sighed, eyeing Zara, who usually had enough words for both of them. But Zara sat slumped in her seat, eyes closed. Frustrated, Maya turned to stare out the window, taking in the familiar sight of the suburbs where her grandparents lived. The multi­storied Gulf Shopping Mall, where they often came to buy the latest fashion in shalwar kameez, passed by as they entered Saddar Town, one of the oldest parts of Karachi.

  Their car jetted past a series of jhuggis, shantytowns, haphazardly constructed of scavenged wood, tin, and plastic sheeting. Many jhuggis dotted the city; they were where the majority of the city’s poor lived, illegally squatting in empty lots.

  Kalam maneuvered past a sad-eyed donkey pulling a cart laden with melons, toward a roundabout, a circular intersection around which traffic flowed. As the car went around the concrete curve, Maya saw tiny sets of feet protruding from beneath flattened cardboard boxes. Her heart clenched. They were street children, huddling together for warmth and protection on the concrete island. They would be up at dawn, she knew, working along the dangerous road, selling trinkets or cleaning windows for a few rupees. Whenever Maya went shopping in the bazaars, her mother tightly gripped her hand, fearful she’d get lost, or worse. It was not uncommon for children to be kidnapped and used by gangs to steal or beg on the streets; the newspapers often reported on children being maimed, their arms and legs mutilated and cut off so that they would get more money, out of pity.

  The sleeping children disappeared in the side-view mirror as a set of stone towers stood ahead, rising from the Holy Trinity Church. Kalam turned left onto Elphinstone Street, its colors coming to life in the early morning light. As Maya eyed the shops, filled with rich tapestries and heavy carpets tucked into ornate Gothic buildings from the mid-­nineteenth century, she thought how the colors of the city never failed to amaze her. The pinks were more pink, the yellows and oranges electrifying, blues bright, and greens eye-catching.

  “After your grandfather left the air force, he worked in that office,” said Naniamma absentmindedly, ­staring at a limestone building with stately arches, nestled between the English Boot House and a restaurant that was a family favorite, Bundoo Khan’s Kabob House.

  Maya and Zara shared an anxious glance as their grandmother continued, lost in old memories. “I’d visit him after I finished teaching at Mama Parsi School, and we’d get kebabs for dinner.”

  “I love Bundoo Khan’s kebabs too,” said Zara, then pressed her lips together as if remembering it probably wasn’t a good idea to speak.

  Maya exhaled a pent-up sigh, silently agreeing with her sister, since kebabs were on her approved-foods list. But she was just relieved that Naniamma was speaking to them at all. Maybe her anger is fading, she thought hopefully.

  As if beginning to forgive them, just a little, ­Naniamma gave them a tired smile. “Over sixty years ago, Bundoo arrived from India and started his business as a simple street stall, selling kebabs and his marvelous, flaky paratha bread. Now they have restaurants all over—even in Dubai, London, and Chicago.”

  Kalam merged onto Jinnah Terminal Road. “Looks like a precaution for the upcoming elections,” he said, slowing at a roadblock manned by gun-toting guards, who waved them through.

  Naniamma harrumphed with irritation. “Some elections. Corrupt, money-grubbing politicians fighting for power, not paying a hoot to the needs of the ­people.”

  “Yes, Baji,” agreed Kalam, pulling up alongside the sprawling airport. “Things have only gotten worse over the years, especially now that religious extremists like the Taliban are causing chaos with shootings and bombings.”

  “Well, you keep safe while I’m away,” said ­Naniamma, opening the car door. “When my daughters learn that I’m gone, they will question you. Let them know that you only did as I asked, and that you will pick me up in four days when I return.”

  Maya glanced anxiously down at her watch; her mother was going to be up soon, and Maya could just imagine the ruckus when she found the letter. No turning back now. . . . Kalam placed their luggage on a cart and a porter guided them into Jinnah airport.

  “You’re cutting it close,” said the mustached clerk, quickly scanning their passports for visas and processing their luggage. “You must hurry; your flight will be boarding soon,” he said, handing them their boarding passes as they hurried toward the security gates.

  They were about to pass through, when their grandmother froze. A bronze plaque stood facing them, engraved with a familiar aquiline profile of a man wearing a trademark Karakul hat, and a simple inscription: Mohammed Ali Jinnah, Founder of Pakistan, December 25, 1876–September 11, 1948.

  Naniamma stared wide-eyed at the portrait, pity a
nd sorrow lining her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Zara asked softly.

  As if she hadn’t heard her, Naniamma rushed on through security.

  • • •

  With their grandmother between them, Maya ­fiddled with her seat belt while Zara folded her lanky frame into the aisle seat. The pilot’s voice crackled above them, requesting that they fasten their seat belts. With surprising efficiency, the plane sped up the runway and, with a burst of power, took off. Eyes squeezed shut, Naniamma leaned back in her seat, gripping the armrests.

  The sisters stared at each other, neither quite believing that they were going to India. Maya frowned, and then glanced pointedly at their grandmother, silently urging Zara to say something, anything, to make up for their awful behavior the day before.

  Zara gave a helpless shrug.

  Say something! mouthed Maya.

  “Naniamma,” Zara finally began, her usually booming voice subdued. “I’m really, really sorry I was so disrespectful yesterday . . . that we forced you to bring us to India.”

  Naniamma’s eyelids flickered open as Maya nodded vigorously in agreement.

  Her grandmother slowly looked from one sister to the other as her lips revealed a hint of a smile. “I accept your apology,” Naniamma said, then paused. “Though I’m still questioning my judgment for letting you come.”

  Maya ducked her head, embarrassed.

  “Your mother is going to be furious. Can you imagine how she’ll react when she sees that letter?”

  For once, Zara sat tongue-tied, looking for the right thing to say. Before she could come up with anything, her grandmother hid her face with her hands, shoulders shaking.

  “Naniamma,” whispered Maya, reaching over to hug her. “It’s not your fault.”

  But instead of tears, there came a peal of muffled laughter. Surprised, Maya sat back.

  “It seems that we are three peas in a pod, you two and me,” said Naniamma, revealing a shameful grin. “Stubborn as goats!”

  Relieved, the sisters giggled, feeling the tension ease. Elation flooded through Maya. For once she felt as if she was one of them—brave, adventurous, and officially one of the peas!

  Zara took Naniamma’s hand. “I’ve been dying to ask. . . . Why is this trip so important to you?” Maya leaned in to hear the answer to the question that had been gnawing at her as well, while her sister added, “We know that you came to Pakistan when you were a little girl and ended up in an orphanage. What happened to your family?”

  All traces of laughter evaporated as Naniamma looked from one granddaughter to the other, brown-gray eyes clouded with uncertainty.

  “Are you okay?” asked Maya. “Should I get you some water?”

  Her grandmother sighed. “No, no,” she said, clasping each girl’s hand in her own. “Now that both of you are my partners in this adventure, I think I need to tell you the entire story. From the beginning.”

  4

  Blood and Tears

  NANIAMMA’S EYES TOOK ON a faraway look, as if she were watching an old movie whir to life in the back of her mind. “My father was a well-respected doctor in a township called Aminpur, in India,” she began. “Our family had lived there for generations.”

  Maya’s eyes widened. She had never heard about Naniamma’s father.

  “It was 1947—I was seven and World War II had ended a few years before. The entire world was changing, and in the midst of the upheaval, India was also in turmoil. For nearly three hundred years it had been a colony of the British, the jewel in their vast empire.”

  “Oh, like America’s thirteen British colonies,” said Maya, without even realizing it.

  “Yes, something like that,” said Naniamma. “But the British came to India under the guise of doing trade as the East India Company. Slowly, using private armies, they took power over the country. In retaliation, Indians rose up in mutiny all over India in the 1857 war of independence.”

  “Well, the American colonists rebelled against the English king too,” said Zara. “They dumped British tea into Boston Harbor and George Washington led the Revolutionary War to gain independence from King George.”

  “Sadly, the Indian rebellion was not so successful,” said Naniamma. “The British deposed the great Mughal emperor and took over most of the country. Over the next hundred years, Indians protested, marched, and fought for independence. I’m sure you’ve heard of Mahatma Gandhi. He used ­nonviolent means to fight the British—there were many brave men and women like him.”

  Maya listened with rapt attention. No one had ever told her any of this. “Did they fight a revolutionary war like the Americans?”

  “In the end, there was no war,” said Naniamma, her lips compressed for a moment. “The British were broke after World War Two, so they pretty much gave up and fled the country . . . but not before forcing the people to make a life-changing decision.”

  “What kind of decision?” asked Zara.

  “You have to understand a bit of history,” said Naniamma with a deep sigh. “For thousands of years, India was the most ethnically, culturally, and religiously diverse country in the world. When Mark Twain visited in 1895, he said that ‘in religion, India is the only millionaire.’”

  “He wrote Huckleberry Finn,” said Zara in surprise. “We read it in English class.”

  “When the British arrived, they used a practice called ‘divide and conquer,’” said Naniamma. “They categorized Indians by religion—Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Jew, Christian, Buddhist, and Zoroastrian—sowing disputes among them to keep them apart.”

  “Wow,” muttered Zara.

  “Even though the various communities had differences before the British arrived, they had lived mostly in harmony for centuries,” explained Naniamma. “I remember when our Hindu or Sikh neighbors had a wedding, they would send over baskets of sweets. When my aunt got married, we sent snacks to Dr. Tripathi, my father’s Hindu colleague, whose daughter Reshma was my best friend in school.”

  The flight attendant came by with the drink trolley. Naniamma asked for tea, while the girls got orange juice. The flight attendant placed the cup in front of Naniamma, and they watched the steam rise from the swirling brown liquid.

  “Even tea was introduced to us by the British,” she said. “They stole the plant from China and grew it in India to break the Chinese monopoly.”

  “You love tea, Naniamma,” said Maya, smiling.

  “Well, it’s one of the good things they did,” she grumbled, adding milk and sugar to her cup. She paused a moment to look through her purse and frowned. “Looks like in my hurry I forgot my blood pressure medicine.”

  “Oh,” said Zara. “Will you be okay?”

  “I’m sure I can get some pills in Delhi. But my mind is wandering and I need to get back to the story. Where was I?”

  “It was 1947,” repeated Maya, “and the British decided to leave India.”

  “Yes,” said Naniamma. “Up till then, the Indian leaders had let go of religious differences to fight their common enemy. But when they realized that the British were leaving, they began fighting among themselves, positioning themselves to take power. The Hindus, the majority of the population, clashed with Muslims, the largest minority.”

  Maya blinked in fascination. “So after three hundred years the British just got up and left?”

  “Well,” said Naniamma, “they’d planned a gradual transition paced over the course of a year, but the foolish governor of India, Lord Mountbatten, announced that they’d be gone in three months.”

  “Oh,” said Maya. That seemed like an awfully short time to pack up and leave an entire country. She imagined the English packing up cardboard boxes filled with souvenirs and taking off.

  “Anxiety and fear at the news spread through the streets of India,” said Naniamma.

  “Why weren’t the people happy
?” asked Maya.

  “Don’t be silly, Maya,” said Zara with a sniff of superiority. “Can you imagine how scared the people were?”

  “Yes, jaan,” said Naniamma. “There was too much at stake for the Indian leaders to just be happy—they wanted power. Jinnah, the leader of the Muslim League, proposed a compromise on how the religious communities could coexist in a united India. He wanted a weak central government so that the regions with religious minorities had more authority. But Nehru, the Hindu leader of the Congress Party, insisted on a strong central state.”

  “Mohammed Ali Jinnah?” said Maya, remembering the plaque at the airport.

  “Yes,” said Naniamma. “When Nehru rejected the compromise, Jinnah threatened to form a separate Muslim nation. He ordered a ‘day of action’ in Calcutta, but the peaceful march turned into a day of death; five thousand people were killed in clashes while British troops hid in their barracks. The violence quickly spread to the neighboring states of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, but by this time none of the leaders, not even Gandhi who walked barefoot through the country, pleading for calm, could stop it. In the end, a British lawyer, Radcliffe, arrived with the task of carving up the country, and he did: the majority Muslim areas became Pakistan and the rest remained India.”

  “What?” gasped Maya. She’d heard grown-ups talking about India and Pakistan—the details were always fuzzy, and she hadn’t paid much attention. “So Pakistan didn’t exist before then?”

  Zara rolled her eyes and sipped her juice.

  “No,” said Naniamma. “With the stroke of a pen, the Great Partition began and the country exploded in violence. Neighbors turned on one another, looting, burning, killing, and worse. . . . Families left ­villages they had lived in for generations and fled with barely the clothes on their backs. Muslim families, such as mine, had a critical decision to make.”

  Zara looked surprised.

  “We had to decide whether to stay in India, as many Muslims did, or make the perilous journey to Pakistan, while Hindus and Sikhs traveled the opposite route, to India.”