Lailin looked down as she sat there, twirling the coffee mug in her hands.

That day at Pitman Hall, Lailin opened the doors to a forgotten land, placing before me the first page of a lost history. Standing on the threshold of this unknown land, she uttered the name ‘Makum’.

‘Have you ever been to Makum?’ she asked.

‘Makum? Which Makum are you talking about? The one in Upper Assam?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know about Makum?’

‘I’ll tell you. Have you been there?’

‘I can’t say that I have been to Makum. While going to Doom Dooma and Margherita, I have only passed through the town a couple of times.’

‘Do you know that there used to be a Chinatown in Makum?’

‘Was there? I only know about Tangra, the one in Calcutta. I have never heard about the one in Makum.’

‘It was not only in Assam – many cities in India had a Chinatown. They might not have been as big as the one in Calcutta but there were quite a few. Have you heard about the Chinese in Assam?’

‘I do know about a few Chinese families in Assam. I have also seen a few Chinese people in Tezpur. I know about the Chinese dentists. But that’s all,’ I said.

‘It’s obvious that you don’t really know. Not only you, but even for most people in Assam, the past does not exist. For me, though, that past is the sordid truth from which I can never dissociate myself. When I think about it, I feel furious and totally helpless.’

‘Why did you never write about all this?’

‘I thought about it many times. I wanted to write and bring everything to light. I wanted to tell the whole world, “Look at the real face of India, which speaks about democracy and Panchsheel. Look at Jawaharlal Nehru’s India, which vents its frustration and anger on the innocent.” But, whenever I think of writing, something stops me. What will I write? What’s the use of writing? Is it really worth creating something purely out of hatred? Even if there is any meaning in it, would it make any difference? I hate India. I hate Indians. My mother always says, “Don’t hate anyone. A nation and its entire people can never be bad. What happened was our misfortune.” But I still hate them. I just can’t help it.’

Lailin’s voice choked. Her eyes were filled with tears.

‘Please Lailin, tell me everything,’ I said softly.

‘Will you come to our house?’ she asked. ‘My mother is here to spend some time with me. If you meet her, she can tell you more.’

It didn’t take me long to decide. Everything dissolves before the curiosity of a writer. I could never imagine, however, the surprise that was waiting for me at Lailin’s house.

When we reached, it was evening. The softly lit residential area was quiet. So was Lailin’s house. The aroma of incense filled the air. It was my first visit to a Chinese house.