The Radcliffe Line, it would be called.

It was this line that would cause a million deaths and cause fourteen million people to become refugees. It was this line that would alter the course of history, festering like a wound that one keeps picking the scab off.

And it was this line that would cut through the heart of ten-year-old Toshi’s life.

Paper Boats

12 August 1947
Rawalpindi, undivided India

If there were to be held a worldwide contest for making paper boats, Toshi Sahni would win. Hands down. It’s what she did when she was bored in class. Which happened a lot. Which was probably why she was so good at it.

It wasn’t just the speed of making the paper boats. It was also the little touches she would add—like chiselling chalk into the shape of oars with Papaji’s razor blade, which she had secretly borrowed for the task.

Funnily enough, it was a piece of chalk that interrupted her current efforts. It hit her right in the centre of her forehead.

‘Ouch!’ said Toshi, looking up.

Looming large on the horizon was her geography teacher, Sharma sir, peering at her, from under a very furrowed brow.

‘Toshi Sahni, why is it that you are spending your school life making paper boats instead of paying attention to our discussion on the rivers of India?’

‘Er . . . ’ mumbled Toshi, scrunching the little boat in her fist and burying the blade into her pocket.

‘Maybe she wants to ride down the Indus in that boat, sir,’ offered her classmate Adil.

This caused a few giggles that only angered Sharma sir further. His forehead now crumpled into deep ravines, much like those he had been teaching the class about in the last lesson.

‘Adil, is your name Toshi?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ Adil replied. And then mumbled, ‘Thankfully not,’ to the boy sitting next to him, who ducked under his desk to laugh and stay out of Sharma sir’s field of vision.

Sharma sir turned back to Toshi.

‘Can you tell the class why the River Indus is important to us, Toshi?’

‘Er, because our country is named after it?’ Toshi offered hopefully.

‘Well, yes, that’s one reason . . . ’ Sharma sir began.

‘So, if our country’s name changed, would the Indus not be important any more, sir?’ interjected Adil, forever on the lookout for opportunities to divert the class from whatever agenda the teacher had in mind.

‘Adil Qureshi! I’ve had enough of your silly questions,’ said Sharma sir, raising his voice and yet another piece of chalk.

He glanced at his watch as he did so. Fifteen minutes to go before the bell rang. Fifteen long minutes before he could have a cup of tea and a cigarette. He sighed and turned his attention back to his notes on the rivers of India.

Zero Hour

13 August 1947
New Delhi, undivided India

Edwina Mountbatten looked out of the imposing windows of the viceroy’s palace, as she sullenly sipped her tea.