After a few days of rest, Qasim asked Bibi if she wanted to visit the Sardar House, the place of her birth. To his surprise, Bibi refused. ‘I won’t be able to live those moments again,’ she said. Instead, she shifted to Muzaffarabad along with her entire family and moved into the same house where she had lived after she married Sakhiullah. En route, she stopped at the police chowki, stood in silence outside the main entrance and sought forgiveness. As she turned towards her car, the constable on duty saluted her. He had been told who she was, and he seemed prepared to say his bit. ‘Bibi, we are all aware of what exactly had transpired then. All I can say is, we are truly ashamed of that act.’ She bowed before walking towards the waiting vehicle.

Days flew by and soon it was time for her departure. But the old lady was not prepared for her return journey yet. On the last day of her stay at Muzaffarabad, she walked with her sons to the grave of her husband. She sat down beside it and began praying. Her sons sat opposite her and watched her with deep admiration. For a long time, she stayed almost motionless. Only her lips moved. Her children waited and waited. Finally, an hour later, she finished her prayer and gently rested her head on the grave. The brothers too began to stand up but midway realized that their mother’s body had become motionless. It didn’t take much time for them to realize that she was gone.

Bibi Amrit Kaur was cremated as per Hindu customs and then her ashes were placed in a grave next to her husband’s. She wanted it to be her final resting place. Her gravestone was carved with the following words: ‘Here lies the mother who was separated from her children by politics. Love and prayer brought them together. May her soul rest in peace.’

One by one, the entire village came to pay obeisance. As the sun began to set, an old man walked in. He was ordinarily dressed and with great effort managed to stand straight near the grave. From his bag, he pulled out an old black burqa and placed it at the grave. With folded hands, he said, ‘I was the guard when you arrived at the police chowki and left this burqa outside the door. Please pardon me for my unpardonable act, Bibi.’

It felt as if life had come full circle.

Epilogue

A month later, Mushtaq David, the minister of minority affairs, was arrested for fraudulently sending Pakistanis to Italy. He arranged bail but was soon diagnosed with cancer. Despite the best treatment, he died a painful death in 2010, leaving behind all the ill-gotten wealth he had amassed.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people:

My parents, for their blessings.

Mr Ajay G. Piramal, for being a solid pillar all through.