But the mob was in no mood to listen. The man who had spotted Abrar brought his axe down on Abrar’s skull. The crack resonated through the air. Abrar collapsed in a bloody heap, losing consciousness. One rioter doused him in kerosene while another set him ablaze.

‘Allahu Akbar!’ their cries rang out, triumphant.

Chand covered Toshi’s eyes with her palms, as they sat huddled on the floor. Toshi flinched at the icy touch of her grandmother’s usually warm hands. She wriggled free and peered through the holes in the parapet once again.

‘Abrar Chachu’s burning, Papaji!’ she screamed.

Instinctively, Chand clamped her palm over Toshi’s mouth, afraid that they would attract the attention of the rampaging mob. Numb with shock, Baldev watched his friend’s limp body burn. Still on his knees, he scrambled towards the edge of the terrace to go down to Abrar, but his mother clutched his arm.

‘Don’t go, beta—they will kill you too—’

She stopped mid-sentence because their collective attention was diverted by the overpowering smell of smoke and the roar of shattering window panes. They watched in disbelief as their house succumbed to the inferno that engulfed it. The fire hungrily devoured everything in its path. Toshi couldn’t tear her eyes away from the wisps of red and blue flames that were licking at the familiar walls of what was once her home.

Toshi’s head throbbed. Biji and Tarlok. She wanted her mother and brother. Safe from the fire and the mob. By her side. That was all Toshi could think of.

The rioters were beginning to move on, in search of their next target. Baldev was already at the far edge of Zulaikha’s terrace, making his way back downstairs.

‘Meet us in the attic when you return, Baldev beta,’ called Zulaikha, wrapping her arms protectively around Toshi and Chand’s shoulders as, still crouching, they inched towards her terrace door.

Baldev turned to look back.

‘Thank you, Zulaikha Baaji.’

‘You call me your elder sister, yet you thank me,’ she chided, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Go now, get them quickly!’

Toshi watched her father cross over to what was left of their terrace. She heard the familiar creak of the jaali terrace door as it opened. She watched him hurry down the first flight of stairs.

It was the last time ten-year-old Toshi ever saw her father.

Musaafir Khaana

17 August 1947
New Delhi, India

‘Musaafir Khaana’ was what their house was called. A rest house for travellers.

The name was misleading, giving the impression of a wayside inn. Rather, this was more in the way of a grand haveli, even if it was in need of some upkeep. A semicircular driveway lined by amaltas trees led to the wide verandas flanking the front door. Black, wrought-iron balustrades secured balconies that overlooked the overgrown gardens.

In the living room, Arjumand Haider was completing the embroidery on a new set of towels for her guest bathroom. Her extended family was due to come down for Eid, and she wanted everything to be shipshape and ready for them.