‘She is lucky to have survived that, but neither of you is safe outside. It isn’t advisable for you to return home tonight. I suggest that you both stay the night in the hospital.’

Javed looked defeated, like nothing mattered any more. ‘May I see Rukhsana now, doctor?’

‘She’s sleeping off the effects of anaesthesia. Give it a little while, son.’

When Arjumand walked into the hospital, she took one look at Rukhsana and Javed and realized she had lost her unborn grandchild. The child for whom she had made a pilgrimage to Ajmer Sharif.

Rukhsana broke down in tears upon seeing her and collapsed in her mother-in-law’s arms. Arjumand squeezed her eyes shut as she held Rukhsana. She could feel the dampness of Rukhsana’s tears on her shoulder; the body that had been counting down to joy, now heaving, heartbroken. She fought back her own tears, willing herself to be strong for the grief-stricken girl in her arms.

‘If it is God’s will, you will have many more children, my Rukhsana,’ she said. Arjumand’s eyes met Javed’s. The emptiness in his eyes chilled her to the marrow. She enveloped Javed in her embrace, holding both her son and her daughter-in-law. And in that moment of grief, the decision that she never thought she would make, was made.

Arjumand Haider would leave her home, her India.

Rahmat Bibi

17 August 1947
Rawalpindi, Pakistan

While Tarlok waited for Toshi to return with her doll to referee their game of pithoo, he picked up the green pebble from the ground, expertly tossing it in the air and catching it. In the distance, he could hear the chants, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ The sound seemed to be drawing closer.

From the other end of the road, Tarlok could see his father returning home. Relieved, he started to call out to him, but before he could say a word, someone swooped him up and started running. Tarlok tried to scream, but a large hand covered his mouth and most of his face.

‘Shhh . . . Be quiet!’ the man hissed.

With his one partly uncovered eye, Tarlok could just about make out that the man who was bearing him away was wearing the lace skullcap worn by Muslims.

The man looked around furtively and dived into a small alleyway. He went through a maze of narrow alleys before finally slowing down. The man peered through the window of one of the houses where an elderly woman knelt on a prayer mat, offering namaz. Pushing the door open, he gently lowered Tarlok to the floor. Tarlok was all set to scream for help but then, much to his shock, realized that he recognized the man. It was Abrar Chachu, his father’s childhood friend. Abrar bent down to Tarlok.

‘Go inside, beta,’ he said. ‘Rahmat Aapa will take care of you. And I’ll bring the rest of your family here as well. You just wait with her quietly, all right? And here, keep this with you.’