Two days later, Bibi stepped out of her tent early in the morning to find a jawan waiting with a cup of tea on a wooden tray. ‘Jai Hind, Memsahib,’ he said as he stood to attention. Bibi accepted the tea hesitantly, mouthing, ‘Jai Hind’. The words were not new to her. She had grown up with them and had heard them enough times at her parents’ home. The same words had echoed in the Valley during the freedom struggle. Thousands of people had come on to the streets, mohallas and marketplaces and chanted them, shaking the very foundation of the British Raj. It had pushed the British forces into the safety of their barracks and forced the leadership to plan countermeasures. The Englishmen were masters of divide and rule, and had played the religion card to perfection. The Hindu–Muslim divide had worked and, to a great extent, had diluted the potency of the ‘Jai Hind’ slogan. The seeds of hatred sowed then had taken deep roots; its offshoots had yielded mistrust and turned great friends into arch-enemies. Bibi looked up at the blue, cloudless sky. There were no boundaries of caste or religion up there, no senseless bloodshed—it was all so peaceful, serene, vast and endless . . .

The nights were not kind to her. Her thoughts invariably went to her husband and children as soon as she put her head on the pillow. She missed them and worried about them, but there was no one with whom she could share her pain. Sakhiullah was unlike most others around him. He valued humanity, was kind and gentle and didn’t care about what the world had to say. She was sure that he was capable of looking after their sons, but they were too young. She was still breastfeeding her younger son, and now the mother in her felt incomplete, tormented and devastated. Every night her breasts were engorged with milk, adding to the pain of her having to abandon her young, innocent and dependent children. The mere thought of them crying for her milk stirred her. Her heart was in intense turmoil; her soul cried and yearned to hold them in a tight embrace. Her feet itched and her hands trembled. She prayed fervently to God to keep her family safe. And finally, exhausted, she cried herself to a fitful sleep.

The morning brought some solace as there was activity around her and therefore some distraction—also the hope that she might get some news of her family or she might be able to reach out to them. Deep in thought, she sipped her tea, but the level in the cup didn’t seem to go down. Tears continued to fall in a steady stream, adding to the brew. The jawan standing in front had been watching her and found it difficult to control his emotions. Mustering courage, he said, ‘Memsahib, we are all praying that you reunite with your family. Please have faith.’