‘Was?’ Jai mumbled. ‘Who was he? Where is he now, Badi Ma?’

‘He is . . . was my little brother, Jai. He’s no longer with us. But if he were here, I know that he would say, “Jai, don’t be a pushover. Ever.”’

Jai was grappling with the fact that, in all his life, Badi Ma had never mentioned her brother before. She barely spoke of her parents either, for that matter. All she said was that they had died when she was barely ten years old and that she was brought up by her grandparents.

‘I didn’t know you had a brother, Badi Ma. What happened to him?’

‘It’s a long story,’ sighed Badi Ma. Jai reached for her hand.

‘Please tell me the story, Badi Ma,’ he pleaded.

Badi Ma looked at Jai’s young eager face and gently caressed his forehead. ‘It happened a long time ago. The year was 1947,’ she began.

‘The time of the Partition?’

Badi Ma nodded. ‘Yes. It was August 17th—just a few days after India became a free country. We lived in Rawalpindi, which is now in Pakistan, as you know. Tarlok and I were playing pithoo in the little gully outside our house.’

‘Pithoo? As in seven stones?’ His mind boggled at the idea of his silver-haired grandmother as a little girl racing around, hitting seven stones with a ball.

Badi Ma’s eyes glazed over. She could see the scene almost as if it had happened yesterday.

‘And then?’ prompted Jai.

Badi Ma looked lost, like a little child. She was struggling to find the will to step into the past; to venture into the dark crevices of her mind that she had not dared re-enter for a lifetime.

Jai was looking at her, in much the same way Tarlok would. Patiently waiting for her to finish whatever she was doing—whether it was piling the pithoo stones or fetching her doll to referee their game.

A tear, suppressed for decades, rolled down her cheek. Badi Ma wiped it away discreetly, hoping Jai hadn’t noticed. But he had, of course. ‘We don’t have to speak about it, Badi Ma,’ said Jai, most uncomfortable at seeing his usually resilient grandmother cry.

Badi Ma smiled weakly. ‘I think it’s time that we did, Jai,’ she said. ‘I think Tarlok would have wanted you to know about him.’

Jai nodded gravely. Badi Ma’s eyes, greyed with cataract, took on a faraway look.

‘Tarlok was a fearless little fellow. Not scared of anyone or anything. Even though he was four years younger than me, he was the braver of the two of us. We were playing pithoo that evening and . . . and a mob of very nasty people from a neighbouring village . . . ’ Badi Ma’s voice broke, as she groped to find the words and strength to continue, ‘They, well, they attacked Tarlok. But he didn’t give in. He fought with all his might—bravely pushing them away, even though he was only six years old, and they were armed with knives and sticks and axes . . . ’