Lyallpur, 1942

“Hum sab bhaag rahe thay, achanak se awaaz aati hai, Allahu Akbar, aur…” (We were all running, then suddenly a voice says, Allahu Akbar, and…)

“Naina.”

I was making rotis, my mobile placed on a stand with a video playing on the screen. I felt a gentle smack on my head and looked back.

“Hum train mein chadh gaye, lekin awaazein aane lagi. Is pe hamla hoga toh hum—” (We got on the train, but then we started hearing voices.this train would be attacked, then we—)

“Haan g Amma?!” (Yes, Amma?!) I said, putting the roti on the tawa and looking at her.

“Mobile side pe rakh de. Phir ye Partition ki kahaniyan leke baith gayi hai?” (Put the mobile aside. You're listening these Partition stories again?) She scolded, putting some dishes in the sink.

“Jinhon ne jana tha, chale gaye. Ab jaan chhor de unki.” (Those who had to leave, left. Now leave them alone.)

My lips curved upward in a cheeky grin.

“Jaan hi tou nahi chhorni itni jaldi.” (I'm not supposed to leave them alone that easily.)

The faint noise from my phone echoed through the kitchen as Amma exhaled loudly and went out of the kitchen, muttering…

“Kids nowadays…”

“Mil gaya!”

(Found it!)

I chirped and got up, practically jumping around

.

Finally, it was in my hands.

I ran downstairs to my dad’s room

“Baba, mujhe pata lag gaya! 1973 mein Dada India gaye thay. Dadi ka bhi ID card mila,”

(Baba, I found it! Dada went to India in 1973. I found Dadi's ID card too,)

I said, gleaming as I showed him the copies of the documents I found.

An old printed CNIC of my grandma and the passport of my grandfather.

Dad didn’t pay attention, as always watching the news on TV.

He just nodded.

My smile slowly faded.

“Baba, I…”

“Naina, I'm tired. Can we please not do this now?”

My head lowered as I gave a slow nod.

“Go and send your Amma.”

“Ji, Abba.”

(Yes, Abba.)

I answered, leaving the room and going back towards my room and the pile of documents I had taken out.

Amma was sitting outside my room, sewing clothes.

“Amma, Abba bula rahe.”

(Amma, Abba is calling you.)

I said, going back to clean up the pile.

I had been looking for one thing in particular.

The address of the haveli.

The haveli my grandfather had left behind during Partition,

when he migrated to Pakistan.

“Naina, what the hell? Why are there papers everywhere?”

I looked up.

Amma stood at the entrance of my room, staring at the mess of papers covering the floor.

“What are you doing with these papers?”

she inquired

.

“I was looking for the haveli’s address,”

I said, without glancing up at her, continuing to pick up the papers carefully.

“Haveli? For God’s sake, Naina, what’s this weird obsession you have with Partition and that haveli? It’s an old haveli. It must have been sold or demolished by now,”

she said, sitting down beside me

.

“Stop this madness, Naina. You have annoyed your father. You question him again and again,”

she continued.

“I just asked about our history,”

I replied dryly.

“We don't know this history, and the ones who knew are all dead,” my mother replied and stood up.

“So we just let it be?”

I looked up at her.

“We’re migrants. We don’t know how many hardships our ancestors bore. You also said, na, Older Dadi died during migration? How did she die? I want to know.”

“She was killed by Hindus during migration. We don’t know what else happened. Now stop it.”

She was clearly done with the argument and left my room.

I looked down at the papers in my hands.

Even I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

But I wanted to know.

Just then, my eyes went toward a piece of paper in the pile.

Jahan Ara Begum.

I picked up the paper, the old paper almost tearing with just a touch.

Jahan Ara,

Born Nov. 19, 1951.

My eyes squinted, trying to read the next words, but time had erased the writing.

Jahan Ara.

---

I was sitting at my desk, taking some notes, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Naina, kya kar rahi hai?” (Naina, what are you doing?)

I flinched and looked at the figure looming over me, startled.

“Pagal hai kya?” (Are you crazy?) I said. “Dara diya mujhe.” (You scared me.)

Reham chuckled and took the notebook from my hand.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

I snatched the notebook back.

“Ye sab kya hai? Partition again. Kyun itni obsessed hai Partition se?” (What is all this? Partition again. Why are you so obsessed with Partition?) she asked, sitting on the desk.

“Mujhe nahi pata. Achha lagta hai mujhe. Janna hai mujhe Partition ke baare mein.” (I don't know. I just like it. I want to know about Partition.)

I said keeping my notebook away from her reach, then looked at her mischievously,

“Pata hai mujhe kya pata chala? Faisalabad mein pehle 60% Sikhs aur Hindus rehte thay. Ab dekho, kahin nazar nahi aate. Riots ki wajah se 27 August ko hamla hua tha…” (Do you know what I found out? Sixty percent of Faisalabad used to be Sikhs and Hindus. Now look, you don't see them anywhere. There was an attack on August 27 because of the riots…)

“Rukkkkkkk!” (Stoppppp!) Reham said and stood straight, holding a hand over my lips. “Bas kar. Mujhe nahi sunni teri ye history. I've already taken six lectures. I don't wanna take one more as well.” (Enough. I don't want to hear your history lecture.)

Reham got up, joined her hands together in front of me dramatically, and ran away, An amused laugh burst out of me.

“Tch.Got her”

I clicked my tongue going back to my copy.

I had been writing about Partition.

But really, I wasn't interested in Partition itself.

Not completely.

I was interested in what it had done to my family.

Because my family were migrants too.

My grandfather had left his land, his house, his fields, and everything he knew behind to come here.

But there was one part of our family history that had always stuck with me.

My Dadi.

The first Dadi.

My grandfather had two wives. One during Partition and one after.

The first Dadi had died during migration.

At least, that's what everyone had told me.

With his first wife, my grandfather had a daughter.

With his second wife, he had eight children, including my father.

But something had been bothering me since yesterday.

I reached for the copy of the documents I had found.

Jahan Ara.

There it is.

Jahan Ara, daughter of the first Dadi.

I looked at the date of birth again.

November 19, 1951.

My eyes moved from the document to the notes in front of me.

Everyone said First Dadi died during migration.

How come this document states something else?

I wanted answers.

But if I asked Dad, he would get angry again.

I sat completely still.

Should I ask Taya Abbu? I sighed.

Something wasn't right.

If she had died during migration…

Then how was her daughter born in 1951?

Something's fishy.

My fingers tightened around the paper. My lips pursed.

I wish I could go back in time and find out.

The words left my mouth. I got up and started packing my stuff to leave for home, as all my classes had ended.

Dad's aunt would know. She's 95, but our families aren't close…

Huffs.

I was walking home, but in my mind there was just one question.

Who built the gate on the backside, not the main-road side?

My college gate. They built it on the backside of the main road, so I had to cross the street to get to the main road.

And this June's hot and sexy sun modeled its hotness.

“I get it, sunny. You're hot.” I huffed, pumping my feet harder.

BANG.

In a moment, my world tilted.

I fell to the ground.

Before I could comprehend what had happened, I felt the warmth beneath my face.

A metallic smell spread through the air.

Red.

Blood.

Then it hit me.

The pain.

The sharp, stinging, thumping pain.

My vision was fading.

With another loud bang, my eyes opened fully one last time.

A car smashed into the salon's glass wall.

And it all FADED.

I felt my brain literally thumping.

“What the hell? Fuck,” I muttered, trying to open my eyes.

God, it felt like my head was going to explode.

I sat up, holding my head with one hand and balancing my body with the other. My eyes snapped open as memories of the accident started pouring in.

I looked down at myself in panic, touching different parts of my body just to make sure they were all there.

Accident.

“Oh God.”

I sighed in relief.

I was intact.

My lips curved upward.

“Kuriye, tu jag gayi?” (Girl, you're awake?)

The voice was loud, shrill, but carried authority.

I flinched and looked at the aunty standing there.

She was wearing a pink kameez with a pistachio Patiala shalwar. A healthy, very healthy lady, I’d say, with a paranda tied into her hair.

No, I'm not body-shaming.

I looked around, taking in the scent of sun-baked mud walls, traditional furniture, trunks, and a hand-embroidered chadar on top of it.

Was I in a village?

What place was this?

I frowned and looked at the lady again.

“Ki idhar udhar vekhdi payi ae? Tabiyat kiddan hun teri?” (Why are you looking around like that? How are you feeling now?) the lady asked, coming towards me and picking up some utensils from beside me.

“G… mein theek?” (Uh… I'm fine?) I said hesitantly. “Aap… kaun?” (Who are you?)

I looked around again.

“Ye konsi jagah hai?” (What place is this?)

“Hain?”

The woman looked at me as if I had grown horns.

“Konsi jagah hai? Tu Urdu boldi ae?” (What place? You speak Urdu?)

She clicked her tongue almost disappointed,

“Kar lo ghayo nu pannda, kuriye. Ae Punjab ae, Lyallpur. Te tu kaun ae? Khetan vich lammi payi si?” (Oh fantastic!, girl. This is Punjab, Lyallpur. And who are you? You were lying in the fields?)

“Khetan mein?” (In the fields?)

Me?

I took a deep breath, trying not to crash out because my head was fucking hurting and this aunty was making absolutely no sense.

Calm down, Naina.

I took another breath and looked at her.

“Ye jagah konsi hai? Matlab konsa area… ilaqa hai? Lekin aap kaun hain? Main yahan kaise aayi?” (What place is this? I mean, what area… what locality? But who are you? How did I get here?)

I rubbed my forehead.

“Mera accident hua tha, aur uske baad main yahan?” (I had an accident, and after that I'm here?) I tried explaining, but—

“Hain? Kehra dand?” (What teeth?) Her eyebrows furrowed. “Dand? Tera ek si dand, ki matlab koi dand tut gya tera? Hayyo rabba, mein te wekhya si dand puray si terey.” (Teeth? You had all your teeth. What do you mean, did one of your teeth break? Oh God, I saw that all your teeth were intact.)

I stared at aunty silently.

God Give me strength.

Fuck my head.

“Aunty, ye konsi jagah hai?” (Aunty, what place is this?) I hissed.

She stared back at me.

“Ye konsi jagah hai? Nahi, kuriye, ye Lyallpur hai. Dasya te hai me tennu.” (What place is this? Girl, this is Lyallpur. I already told you.) She said, sounding annoyed. “Lyallpur, Chakk 16, puttar. Govind Singh di baithak, te main Govind Singh di wotti, Jind Kaur. Zameendar hai aethay da. Tu Master de khet vich payyi si. Oh te mera puttar, Jugnu, oh karam-jogga chukk leaya tennu.” (Lyallpur, Chakk 16, dear. This is Govind Singh's sitting room, and I'm Govind Singh's wife, Jind Kaur. He's the landlord here. You were lying in the Master's field. My son Jugnu, that poor boy, carried you here.)

I stared at her.

This is a Sikh household, I thought, but nothing was making sense.

“Govind Singh ki…” (Govind Singh's…) I wanted to say more but shut myself up and smiled.

Not like words are working.

Maybe she just didn't know English.

“Accident matlab… takkar ho gayi thi meri,” (By accident, I mean… I got hit.) I explained slowly. “Aur Sardar Govind?”

I paused.

“Achha aunty, ye bata sakti hain time kya ho raha hai? Mujhe ghar nikalna chahiye. Ghar wale pareshan honge.” (Okay, aunty, can you tell me what time it is? I should leave for home. My family will be worried.)

“Taem?” (Time)

She frowned.

“Taem, te? Shaam hon nu aayi.” (Time? It's almost evening.)

“Shaam?” (Evening?) I echoed and sat up straight.

Gosh, my parents would be worried sick.

“Both shukriya aunty, mujhe ab chalna chahiye. Mera bag…” (Okay, thank you, aunty. I should leave now. My bag…) I said, but her confused expression got me.

“Bag matlab basta. Mera basta tha, de dein toh main chali jaon ghar.” (Bag means my schoolbag. I had my bag. Give it to me and I'll go home.)

“Kuriye, shaam nu kalli jaway gi? Te tere kol koi basta nahi si. Tu vi boht wakhri gal krdi ae. Paani pee. La, muh hath dho le. Mera puttar tennu ghar chhor aayega.” (Girl, you'll go alone in the evening? And you didn't have any bag with you. You talk very strangely too. Drink some water. Come, wash your face and hands. My son will take you home.)

She said, waving her hand, and went out of the room.

A smile curled up on my lips as I followed her out.

“Nahi aunty, main chali jaungi. Bahr se rickshaw le lungi.” (No, aunty, I'll go myself. I'll get a rickshaw from outside.) I said as I got out of the room.

Aunty froze, her eyebrows furrowing again.

“Ae raksha ki honda?” (What is this rickshaw thing?) she asked, bewildered.

I had just given up explaining and followed her out of the room silently.

My eyes widened.

“Beautiful.”

A whisper left my mouth.

The walls were sun-baked mud walls with intricate drawings, wooden floral designs, windows, and simple furniture.

Everything was old-fashioned, traditional, but well-kept.

She took me out to the veranda, which had pillars on all four sides, with traditional floral designs. I gave it an impressed nod, gawking at my surroundings.

She took me to a small hand pump in the exact middle of the veranda.

“Aethay muh dho la.” (Wash your face here.) She said and started pumping.

Water flowed out

I splashed some on my face.

Cold water felt like relief from the confusion and headache.

A static voice was coming from somewhere nearby.

A radio.

I stopped for a minute, trying to listen to the radio.

“This is All India Radio. Today is 24 June 1942. It is 4:50 p.m…”

The distant voice announced.

My body froze.

Water from the pump continued to flow.

My surroundings went silent for a second, except for my heartbeat.

Until the aunty's voice registered again.

“Ponay panj taem hoya, kuriye.” (It's quarter to five, girl.) Aunty said proudly.

I slowly looked at her, blank.

Did it just say 1942?

This must be a joke, I thought, brushing off the confusion, and continued washing my face.

I wrapped my dupatta around myself and looked at the aunty with a polite smile.

“Mein chalti hun ab.” (I'll leave now.)

She put a hand to her lips.

“Sabr te kar, jandi ain? Aunda huga mera putt hajay.” (Just wait, where are you going? My son will be here soon.)

“Dair ho rahi hai, ghar walay pareshan honge.” (It's getting late. My family will be worried.) I said with a polite nod and walked towards the exit.

Auntie followed me to the door.

I unlatched the iron chain and opened the door.

My breath stopped.

I Must Be Fuckin Dreaming.

So this is all for today's chapter gurlies,

Do let me know how did you like it?

Also it's my first story so go easy on me

New Chapters would be uploaded, every Thursday 💐