‘That doesn’t make any sense. I’m just better,’ said Tarlok, delighted to see his sister getting riled.

‘We need a referee. I’ll bring Nanhi out so she can be our referee.’

‘Huh? Nanhi’s a doll! How can a doll be a referee?’

‘Of course, she can. She speaks to me. I’ll be back in a second.’

Tarlok slammed his palm against his forehead in despair at his sister’s strange convictions. Toshi ran into the house to get her favourite rag doll, one that her mother had sewn for her on her fifth birthday. While he waited, Tarlok picked up the green pebble from the ground—casually tossing it high in the air and deftly catching it.

As Toshi climbed the staircase to her bedroom, she could hear the distant sound of raucous chanting. It wasn’t like anything she had heard before. It seemed to be drawing closer by the minute—so much so that Toshi could feel tremors in the ground that rattled the shutters of her bedroom window.

Entering her bedroom, Toshi quickly picked up her doll and peered out of her window to see what the ruckus was about. She saw a frenzied mob approaching, brandishing long sticks as they surged forward. Now they were just a few houses away. Her gaze moved closer home. And Toshi’s heart stopped.

Tarlok was nowhere to be seen.

The doll fell from her nerveless fingers on to the street below. Within minutes, Nanhi was trampled upon, mangled by the mob. Toshi watched in shock as her precious rag doll lay there torn apart, in two exquisite halves, connected by a thousand threads.

Brushing away her tears, Toshi tore down the stairs to look for her brother. Just as she was about to leave the house, her father entered and quickly bolted the door.

‘Papaji—Tarlok! He’s outside. We need to get him!’

‘He isn’t outside, Toshi. Your mother must have . . . She must have taken him to Yasmin’s house upon seeing the rioters,’ said Baldev. His breath was rapid, he looked deeply disturbed. ‘Go to the terrace with Badi Ma and Bade Papa—I will bring Tarlok and your mother and join you.’

Toshi began to protest, but just then, her grandmother Chand emerged from the kitchen, halfway through her cooking, ladle in hand. Her grandfather Lekhraj, who was in the midst of lighting the evening diya in their prayer room, also entered the hallway, still holding the lit match.

‘What is going on? Who are these people, beta?’ Chand asked.

‘They’re from the neighbouring village, Biji,’ said Baldev, hastily shutting the windows one by one. ‘The borders have been announced. Rawalpindi is now in Pakistan.’

The ladle dropped from Chand’s hand. ‘What! But . . . but how can that be?’

‘No. No, there must be some mistake,’ muttered Lekhraj, almost to himself. The flame from the matchstick scorched his finger, but he barely noticed.

Baldev blew out the match and took his parents gently by their hands, herding them and Toshi up the stairs, as fast as he could manage.