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  He immediately held her face and looked into her eyes to calm her down. Then he sat next to her and held her hands. He was so shaken by her words that he couldn’t hold back his tears. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about his ordeal in the past two days, and now that there was someone to share, his patience broke too. ‘Forgive me, my child, for the crimes that my sons have committed . . . I beg you,’ he said with folded hands. ‘I am ashamed and deeply embarrassed. This is not what the holy Quran teaches us.’ Syed paused, wiped his tears with the back of his hand and continued, ‘I am also grateful to Allah that instead of the two wretched rascals whom I thought were my real sons, he has blessed me with an angel like you. I request you to accept me as your father. Get well soon and we shall move out of this godforsaken village to my ancestral home in Muzaffarabad. I don’t wish to live here even for a minute longer than we have to. But till then, please stay calm and somehow tolerate the unbearable pain.’

  However, Bibi’s tears refused to recede. The inhuman and barbaric acts of people, who till a day before had been close friends, had shaken and shattered her faith completely. She sobbed inconsolably. Syed fed her some water, after which she fell unconscious again. He covered her with a bed sheet and fanned her forehead. ‘Please forgive me, Allah, forgive me for the crimes my sons have committed. Give me strength to bring up Bibi as my own daughter, I beg of you. Help me heal her heart so that she can stand on her feet again,’ he prayed. Then, taking a piece of cloth and dipping it in hot water, he gently sponged her forehead and arms. He also slid small spoons of honey mixed with milk through her lips and repeatedly checked her pulse. He prayed each time after doing so.

  The sharp afternoon sun gave way to the soft hues of dusk but the old man refused to give up. As the sun set behind the mountains, Bibi opened her eyes again to find Syed by her side, looking at her with hope. He muttered a quick prayer to thank Allah and then addressed her softly, ‘Allah, the almighty, wants you to live, my child, and emerge stronger from this unfortunate incident. We have a long journey ahead. Don’t give up. Be brave, my girl. Get well soon. We are surrounded by wretched beasts in the garb of humans. We will leave this place as soon as you’re slightly better.’ She didn’t respond; instead, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the pillow. The pain in her eyes was far greater than that of the near fatal wounds she had on her body.

  The next two days were no less demanding. It became difficult for Syed to keep Bibi’s presence in his home a secret. His indifference towards the death of his sons had set tongues wagging. Many people in the neighbourhood, especially the youth, began gossiping. They wanted to know why the old man had not attended the burials of his own sons. Syed never left Bibi alone and made sure that the front door of his house always remained bolted from inside. Even if he had to step out for a few minutes, he made sure he pulled the old latch and secured it with a big lock. Though the bloodbath in the neighbourhood had ended, he could still hear battle cries from the burning houses in other villages. His peaceful Valley was bleeding profusely but he couldn’t do anything. Sitting like a helpless, lame duck, he waited impatiently for Bibi to recover—enough to undertake the long journey. The frequent application of the turmeric concoction on her wounds had turned his fingertips yellow. His white shirt too bore innumerable stains. But the old man knew that it was a do-or-die situation. His body was weak, but his spirit was strong enough to fight the brutes.

  Bibi had lost a lot of blood. As a result, she kept slipping in and out of consciousness but miraculously didn’t sink into a coma—it was probably Syed’s prayers and efforts that kept her alive. After two days of extensive care, Bibi finally began showing signs of recovery. But her moans grew louder. The neighbourhood was aware that he did not have a daughter, only two sons who had been killed in the riots. His wife had also passed away several years ago. It therefore became difficult for Syed to keep Bibi’s identity a secret.

  His immediate neighbour, Iqbal, even questioned him about the cries but Syed said nothing, which made his neighbour even more suspicious. They were not the best of friends, but out of sheer respect for his aged neighbour, Iqbal decided to keep his eyes and ears shut. He, however, was aware that there were others who weren’t as tolerant. As Bibi’s painful moaning grew louder, more people began to wonder. Iqbal couldn’t take it any more and decided to talk to Syed.

  One evening, he went to Syed’s house and said, ‘Bhaijaan, there could be an attack on you after the first azan in the wee hours. I advise you to shift the patient to my house. Give her an extra dosage so that she sleeps well. I will organize a bullock cart. You should move out of Tadali as soon as possible.’

  Left with no other choice, Syed nodded and did as he was told.

  As promised, in the middle of the night, Iqbal arrived at Syed’s doorstep on a bullock cart. With great haste, the two men shifted Bibi into the cart and carefully positioned her on the right side of the vehicle. They covered the left portion with a haystack and closed the canvas hood. The two men mounted the cart from the front and pushed the bulls forward. Dawn was still a few hours away, but men with fire torches were keeping a vigil, ready to hack any Hindu family attempting to flee. Iqbal skilfully manoeuvred the cart through the narrow lanes and kept it away from the prying eyes till they reached the highway. It became clear to Syed that Iqbal had done his homework well before undertaking the risk. Once out of danger, Iqbal stepped down from the cart and bid Syed goodbye with a bear hug.

  When Iqbal reached home, he saw over a dozen hooligans assembled outside Syed’s home. The mullah of the village mosque, Maulana Javed Hussein, was leading them. Each one of them was holding a fire torch. They saw Iqbal approaching but didn’t seem to care. On a cue from the mullah, they screamed ‘Allahu Akbar!’ a few times and broke open the front door. Finding no one inside, they threw their torches at the walls, setting the house on fire, and came out dancing, filling the air with their rants. The mullah looked at Iqbal, raised his right hand, smiled and said, ‘Your neighbour was a Kafir, Iqbal Bhai. And there’s no room for such people in Allah’s land.’ His face was lit with self-glorification.

  Iqbal took a few steps towards the mullah. He was seething with rage. ‘Did Allah come to your home, Maulana, to give this advice? If even a single blade of grass on my premises catches fire, I will ensure you burn along with it!’ he screamed. A flabbergasted Maulana saw the anger-filled expression on Iqbal’s face and the naked steel blade tied to his waist and took a step back.

  He then turned to his followers and shouted loudly, ‘Douse the fire, you idiots, douse the fire! Iqbal Bhai’s house is in danger!’

  The stunned followers looked first at Maulana and then at Iqbal. Given his standing in the community, it didn’t take them much time to understand the consequences of his threat. They scampered about and began throwing bucketfuls of water at Syed’s home. A sheepish Maulana hurriedly slipped away, leaving behind his followers to face Iqbal’s wrath.

  Meanwhile, the two sturdy bullocks trotted the whole night and, after a brief rest in an empty, discarded barn, reached Muzaffarabad the next day, which by then had been occupied by the Pakistani armed forces. Far away from Syed’s riotous home, Sadali was much more peaceful, calm and serene. He shifted Bibi to his sister Zaida’s home and, after a day’s rest, headed back to his village. On his way home, he stopped to give back the bullock cart to its rightful owner and walked the rest of the distance. However, a rude shock awaited him. The door to his house was ajar. On closer inspection, he realized that the lock had been smashed and all his belongings were lying scattered on the floor and some were even half burnt. The word ‘Kafir’ was scrawled on a placard in black ink and hung on the wall. Syed smiled to himself, raised his hands, looked up towards the sky and said, ‘Mein Kafir achha aise panj namaazian to, tera shukar hai mere Rabba, lakh-lakh shukar hai mere Khuda [I am better a Kafir than those who say namaz five times a day. I am grateful to you, O Lord, thankful to you, O Allah].’

  He turned towards the door to find a
giant shadow blocking the entrance with a naked sword in hand. The bright sunlight streaming in made it difficult for Syed to recognize the intruder. He looked carefully. It was Iqbal. They stood in silence for a few seconds, admiring each other, before Iqbal stepped forward and broke the ice. ‘I have seen hundreds of maulanas shouting Allah from atop mosques. But today, I feel fortunate to be standing in front of a true Sufi. Please pardon me, Syed Sahib. I doubted you and didn’t recognize the godliness you radiate,’ he said as the sword fell from his hand with a loud clang. Syed didn’t say a word. Instead, he took a step forward and embraced Iqbal.

  He was crying. ‘Thank you, Iqbal, for saving my daughter,’ he managed to whisper.

  Over the next few days, Syed behaved like he had lost his mind due to the sudden death of his two young sons and the rude behaviour of the villagers. He began wandering aimlessly and acted like a madman. He misbehaved with shopkeepers, scattered their wares, broke glass tumblers at tea kiosks and hurled abuses at passers-by. Out of guilt, sympathy and pity, the villagers tolerated his behaviour but soon became wary of his presence. On the fifth day, Syed set his own house on fire and began dancing in the veranda outside. The villagers rushed to his rescue. This performance convinced the mullahs that he wasn’t sheltering any non-Muslims in his house. On the sixth day, Syed woke up early, stepped out of what was left of his semi-burnt home, bid goodbye to Iqbal and began his long walk towards his ancestral home.

  After a few hours on the highway, he spotted a bus and waved it down frantically. The driver applied his brakes and allowed him to board the bus. After a few hours, Syed reached Zaida’s home at Sadali. Two days later he moved into a new home nearby and began his life afresh with his adopted daughter. Time sped by, and, with that, to some extent, it also healed Bibi’s heart.

  Syed looked after Bibi better than a parent. He brought her up without forcing her to change her name or religion. She began to be known by her nickname, ‘Bibi’, and mostly remained under the protective cover of a veil. Her new life was filled with simple, honest hill people and the small joys of life. This is when she realized how religious leaders abused and brainwashed the common man in the name of Islam for power, wealth and fame. She compared Syed, a pious Muslim, with the hundreds of Islam followers in Tadali who actively participated in riots in the name of Allah. She once overheard Zaida questioning Syed and demanding reasons for not attending the burial ceremony of his own sons. Her respect for her adopted father grew manifold.

  Slowly but surely, her scars began to heal, and an occasional smile could be seen on her face. Over time, the bond of trust and faith between the two strengthened and they started looking after each other. Bibi began to accept the whole episode as part of her destiny and to recover from her painful past. Bibi spent most of her time looking after the ageing Syed, knowing that his health was deteriorating with every passing day. She knew that somewhere deep within, he was unable to forgive himself for not attending his sons’ funeral. She therefore left no stone unturned to keep her father happy. And soon, they started making new memories together.

  About a year later, Syed married Bibi to his brother’s son. His own failing health was one of the reasons for hastening the wedding. Sakhiullah, a well-to-do, thorough gentleman, was made aware of Bibi’s background and the challenging conditions she was brought up in. He empathized with the pain she had suffered during and post Partition. Soon, the two began their life together. Within a year of their marriage, Syed passed away, bequeathing all his possessions to Bibi Amrit Kaur.

  Over the next three years, Bibi was blessed with two sons named Qasim Zaid and Karim Zaid. The presence of two beautiful children further helped Bibi lead a normal, happy life. Sakhiullah was gainfully employed and looked after the needs of his family well. Besides, he was also respected by his neighbours and others in the village as he was prosperous and contributed to the community. As a result, Bibi too was treated with respect. Married at a young age, her breathtaking beauty attracted many admirers. Her helpful nature and kind-heartedness made her a leader amongst the women in the community. Despite her troubled and devastating past, Bibi pulled her life together and started afresh.

  3

  In 1950, after three years of Partition, the prime ministers of the two warring nations, Liaquat Ali Khan and Jawaharlal Nehru, signed a treaty which gave freedom to the women of both countries to return home. Bibi opted to stay back in Pakistan as her world revolved around her two beautiful children and doting husband. But destiny had something else in store for her. Even though Bibi had mostly confined herself to the four walls of her home, word of her mesmerizing and breathtaking sharp features had spread in the region. Given her marital status and the enormous respect her husband commanded, no one had dared cast an evil eye on her. Yet, there were men who never missed an opportunity to look at her discreetly and sigh lustfully.

  Following the government’s directives, the station house officer (SHO) of the district issued orders to all villages, directing the women of Indian origin to confirm in writing their decision—live in Sadali as Pakistani citizens or return to India. Sakhiullah was away on a business tour for a few days. Bibi read the circular and signed the documents, confirming Muzaffarabad in Pakistan as her choice of residence. The havildar, who came to collect the document, was awestruck by Bibi’s beauty—her sharp but delicate features, porcelain skin and petite figure. He found it difficult to take his eyes off her and was filled with desire. Sensing his intention, she picked up her children and rushed inside. Her behaviour rebuffed him for the time being. However, the havildar couldn’t stop thinking about her. Back in the police station, he recounted the incident to his colleagues.

  Unknown to the havildar, the SHO, Irfan Chaudhary, was eavesdropping on his poetic description of Bibi’s exquisite features. He was so intrigued by what he heard that he felt compelled to see her. The next day he drove all the way to Bibi’s home and knocked at her door. Bibi opened the door—her head covered, her nine-month-old son resting in her lap. Their eyes met. He had not seen anyone quite as pretty, elegant and desirable as Bibi. Recovering somewhat, he managed to ask for her residential status. By now, Bibi had sensed something in his reaction as well. She responded uncomfortably, ‘My husband is coming home tonight. He will personally come to your office tomorrow and complete all the formalities.’

  The SHO smiled shamelessly, enjoying the many shades of pink that were appearing on Bibi’s face in quick succession. ‘No, no,’ he replied with an intention to extend the dialogue. ‘I don’t want to bother your husband. This is just a small formality, yet it must be completed at the earliest. There’s a police chowki in this village itself. You can come and sign the documents and be done with it. That will close the matter once and for all. Now that you are legally married to a Pakistani national and have two sons, the formalities won’t take much time,’ he added slyly.

  Bibi was perplexed. She tried to think and then looked at the SHO’s face, who smiled hopefully and repeated, ‘It has to be done today, Bibi, otherwise I wouldn’t have troubled you. Please have mercy on me. There are many more homes to go to.’

  Bibi couldn’t think of a suitable excuse. She had no choice but to go to the police chowki within the next hour. The SHO left, smiling cunningly.

  Bibi hurriedly finished her daily chores and discussed the matter with the elderly women in her locality. Given the circumstances, she felt it was best to consult others as well. At their advice, she requested her next-door neighbour to babysit for her. However, another neighbour decided to accompany her to the police station. Bibi felt relieved that she wasn’t going alone. A local tonga was hired and the two burqa-clad women reached the police chowki, which was located on the outskirts of the village. To their surprise, they found a policeman eagerly waiting for Bibi’s arrival. However, seeing an elderly woman accompanying her, he stopped them at the entrance and went inside the small, makeshift chowki. They waited. A short while later, the policeman came out again. He walked towards the duo and aske
d the elderly lady to wait outside while he took Bibi inside to sign the papers.

  This seemed reasonable enough, so Bibi went in. She found the SHO sitting across a table—his eyes glued on Bibi, as if trying to pierce through the black veil. A bunch of papers and an inkpot with two wooden pens dipped in the holder were lying on the right side of the large wooden desk. Bibi sensed his intentions and grew uncomfortable. The SHO quickly removed one of the pens from the inkpot and placed it in front of Bibi. She hurriedly signed the documents without even reading them. Then she stood up in a hurry and was about to leave when the SHO rushed to the door and bolted it from inside.

  ‘Bibi,’ he said, looking at her lustfully. ‘What you have just signed is sufficient for me to send you back to Hindustan. It says that you’re not interested in living in Pakistan and would like to go back to your country. But if you do wish to live here, then spend the next hour with me . . . I’ll make sure you stay here with your sons and their father, or else . . .’ he looked straight at her. ‘It’s up to you. Decide quickly.’

  Bibi was astounded. She could not believe what she had just heard. Then fear took over. Her heart started pounding in her chest, and she cried and pleaded for mercy. But the lust-driven cop was in no mood to relent; he was not going to give up the golden goose so easily. He strode towards her and held her tightly by her arms. Bibi retracted her arms but, while doing so, fell on her back on the table. She let out a loud scream and then burst into tears. The constable standing outside on watch heard her screams but didn’t have the guts to interfere. He pretended that he had not heard a thing. However, soon her screams could be heard till the road. The old woman rushed over and tried to intervene, but she was forcefully stopped by the same havildar. He threatened her with dire consequences and angrily pushed her in the direction of the tonga. Seeing the commotion, the horseman came running to help the old woman. But he too was abused and threatened by the cop. ‘Return to Sadali or I will put you behind bars!’ barked the sentry.