MOTH by MELODY RAZAK

Author:MELODY RAZAK [RAZAK, MELODY]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781474619264
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2021-05-11T10:35:58+00:00

Part Two

CHAPTER 18

17 August 1947

Bappu stands at the Hotel Shilpa at the end of Nankhatai Gali, with the other men gathered around, anxious to hear some news of what’s really going on. The Hotel Shilpa is not a real hotel at all. It is no more than a patch of ground, a battered tin can for a stove and the chaiwallah, Harish-ji, sitting cross-legged on a tatty cushion.

That the tea is weak and costly is taken as a given. Harish-ji is sorry for the rising price, but what to do? The mingled anxiety of these men, Bappu’s included, stinks of dirty old canvas shoes.

By midday on 17 August, the results of Sir Radcliffe’s Border Commission are announced. The men at the Hotel Shilpa, Bappu included, huddle close and listen as the voice on All-India Radio cuts through any delusions.

The Punjab has been severed in two. East will belong to Pakistan, west to India.

‘There is always a price to pay for free food and mithai. Everyone knows that,’ says Harish-ji, pouring dishwater tea from kettle to cup. He is morose. ‘I have family in the west, you know. Cousins on both sides.’

The men look at Bappu. ‘Teacher-ji? You’re wise and learned. You know things. What should we do? What will happen next?’

Bappu adjusts his glasses nervously and shrugs his shoulders. If only he knew.

It doesn’t take long. By midday, alongside the official borders there are other ones too. Man-made borders with heads-on-sticks, flags stretched from tree to tree, alleys topped and tailed by men holding guns.

By the evening, All-India Radio announces an absolute breakdown of law in the Punjab. All municipal corporations have dissolved. The army, in the process of division, cannot be called out. The partisan police must be avoided at all costs. Common folk are advised not to leave their homes, to bolt their doors and pile what furniture they can in front of those doors. If they can stockpile food and water, they should do that too.

Bappu, who has been at the Hotel Shilpa all day, like a wayward child banished from home, comes back at once and, because he stinks of anxiety, Dilchain tells him to padlock every door and shutter.

‘Call Bombay first,’ she insists.

‘Yes,’ he agrees. He picks up the telephone and dials but there is no answer. He dials again and the line is engaged.

‘Try every hour,’ Dilchain suggests. ‘Keep ringing until some- one picks up.’

Bappu nods gratefully.

She helps him weave thick metal chains, of which she has a bountiful supply, across all the locks. When Bappu admires her foresight, her dimples flare.

‘I knew,’ she says. ‘It would be our turn soon.’

Bappu locks the iris-embossed padlock on the inside latch of the heavy front door and it is the dense metal, cold in his hand, that makes him stop and remember. It will be like this from now on, he can tell. Memories of her will come unexpected from nowhere and floor him, they will flood him, render him useless and wrecked.

Alma, six years old,

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