Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? Page 5

  The date for Pakistan’s independence was set for August 14th and India’s the following day. As those dates drew closer, the conversations in Bibi-ji’s apartment grew more intense and carried on even later into the night. Bibi-ji listened to the stories with a growing sense of worry and confusion. Even though Kanwar’s letters had spoken of premonitions of disaster and rumours of killings and quarrels, Bibi-ji found it hard to believe that people who had lived as neighbours and friends for so many years could suddenly become enemies just because of a line drawn on a paper map in a government office.

  August 14th had arrived like a hurricane. Bibi-ji had sat with Pa-ji and listened to the radio as the new Pakistan was born on the stroke of midnight. On the following midnight India assumed its newest incarnation as an independent nation. In the months that followed, stories of the savagery sweeping Punjab in the north-west and Bengal in the northeast trickled steadily into Vancouver. Entire villages—Hindu, Muslim and Sikh—had been burned to the ground. Women had been killed by their men to preserve their honour, for it was feared that if they remained alive they might be abducted or raped. Trains loaded with dead bodies came and went across the newly established border, and ten million people lost their homes, their families, communities and memories. News, both of great escapes and of confirmed deaths, grew. But out of this tumult of information and rumour came not a whisper about Kanwar or her family. A shroud of silence lay over her area. Dauri Kalan appeared to have vanished, leaving no trace. Had it been seized by the Muslims and burned to the ground? Had it been reinvented and turned into a Pakistani village? Was it perhaps in that band of dust that lay between the new countries of India and Pakistan and that had since become a no man’s land of mines and soldiers and hot white searchlights? Was it even possible to say where that small collection of homes and families that had been a village might now be found on a map? Bibi-ji clung to Pa-ji, asking him to find answers for her. He contacted relatives and friends in Amritsar and Delhi, Jullundur and Lahore. He knew people everywhere; he would find Kanwar for Bibi-ji, he promised. “Nobody disappears,” he said confidently. “These things happen only in the films, only in storybooks.”

  By January 1948, when there was still no news, Bibi-ji had become frantic. She had insisted on going back to India. It was to be the first of a series of trips that she would make to that newly formed country in search of her sister and family. She contacted government agencies in charge of displaced persons in Pakistan and India. She left word at as many gurudwaras as she could reach, and she wandered around the refugee camps in both countries, asking for anybody from Dauri Kalan village. An old man in Amritsar told her with absolute certainty that Kanwar’s entire family had died: he had seen it with his own eyes. But a fifteen-year-old boy with a cracked voice who claimed to be from Dauri Kalan said that he had with his own eyes seen Kanwar’s five-year-old daughter Nimmo in the sad procession that had wound its way through the burning fields of Punjab.

  The old man had shaken his head at this and said, “Don’t listen to him, daughter. He makes up stories. The poor boy has lost his entire family and it has affected his mind. He tells everyone who comes here that he has seen their kin in that kafeela. Yesterday he said that he was from Nandayal village, today he is telling you he is from Dauri Kalan.”

  “But then how does he know my niece’s name?” Bibi-ji asked. She turned to the boy. “You said Nimmo, didn’t you?”

  “Nimmo, my little Nimmo,” repeated the boy obediently. “My sister Nimmo.”

  Bibi-ji didn’t know whether the boy was talking about his own sister or her niece; Nimmo was such a common name. She looked closely at the boy, wondering if he could be Kanwar’s older son, but that child would now have been little more than seven years old, whereas this boy looked to be fifteen or sixteen.

  Bibi-ji asked him a few more questions, but all he could tell her was that he had seen a girl called Nimmo in the kafeela. She imagined two long caravans of people working their way across the new border, one heading for Pakistan and the other towards India. So many millions leaving their living and their dead without farewell or proper ceremony; perhaps somewhere in their midst was Kanwar’s daughter, small, lost, terrified. If she was alive.

  The clatter of shutters descending from the shop next door alerted Bibi-ji to the fact that it was five o’clock and time to close up. She folded Kanwar’s letter carefully, noting that the thin paper was beginning to tear along the folds, that Kanwar’s words were disappearing along those same lines. She pressed it to her lips, smelled the faint scent of lavender. How much she had loved that smell once, she remembered. There had been a time, when she arrived in Canada, that her life had been lined with lavender. Inside their home—underlying the strong odours of garlic and turmeric, cumin and coriander—a sensitive nose could catch the determined drift of lavender. Dried lavender lay scattered in her underwear drawers and in her shoes. She was identified not by the sound of her footsteps, but by the fragrance of lavender that preceded her arrival and remained like a memory after her departure. But after Kanwar’s disappearance, she had swept all the soaps and perfumes from her cupboards and into the garbage. She shook out the sachets that she had tucked into the folds of sheets and towels and in the drawers. But no matter what she did, the smell of the herb clung to her like guilt.

  She slid the letter into its envelope and replaced it in her bag. One day she would find her sister and bring her family to safety in Vancouver. For that search, she would need money; she and Pa-ji must buy, sell and invest to become wealthy. She owed this much to her sister. With that defiant thought, she began to count the cash. Her mind shifted to the possibilities presented by the silent street outside her window. Opportunities like pearls, she reminded herself. It was only a question of spotting them. Perhaps a restaurant. Perhaps they could buy the small house with the For Sale sign that she had passed a few days ago. Then they could rent out the apartment upstairs and have a steady stream of income … She emptied the day’s takings into a pouch, locked up and, with Lalloo following, climbed the narrow flight of steps up to the apartment.

  FOUR

  THE DELHI JUNCTION

  Vancouver

  1967

  Nineteen sixty-one was a momentous year for the world: the handsome young John F. Kennedy became the first Roman Catholic president of the United States, and a few months later a Russian named Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space. It was also a banner year for Pa-ji and Bibi-ji, who finally opened their restaurant, The Delhi Junction Café—realizing yet another of Bibi-ji’s ambitions.

  Now here she was, six years later on a busy Saturday afternoon at The Delhi Junction, snapping a rubber band around a box of fresh samosas.

  “One dollar, please,” she said, pushing the box across the counter to the waiting customer.

  Another customer took his place with a request for chholey-bhaturey, followed by a woman who placed a large order for lamb curry. There was a lull in the traffic at the counter after she left. With a sigh of relief, Bibi-ji eased herself on to the bar stool and worked her shoes off her feet, wishing she had not worn the pointed green heels today. If the steady stream of customers was any indication, it would be another busy Saturday and she would be on her feet for a while. Not that she minded. A full restaurant was a good thing—yes, a very good thing indeed. She surveyed with satisfaction the crowded tables and the waiters running in and out of the kitchen carrying loaded trays. Her eyes fell on Colonel Samuel Hunt, ex-British India army, one of the regulars and the only gora in a sea of brown-skinned desis, deliberating over the brief menu before ordering, as always, the same items—mutton curry with naan and a pint of lager to wash it all down. In the six years since the restaurant had opened, Samuel Hunt had become known for his uncomplimentary sentiments towards immigrants who did not share his racial heritage—a fact that used to aggravate Bibi-ji no end, until she came to see him as a sad old man whose eyes and ears were so sealed by his skin that he could neither witness nor understand the ch
anging world. But whatever his feelings towards the desis who gathered at The Delhi Junction, Sam Hunt could not resist their food. After twenty-five years in India, the old man had developed a taste for curries. The taste became a craving once a week, which was when he marched over to The Delhi Junction. There was also, perhaps, an unacknowledged need to mingle with the people who had surrounded him for a quarter of a century, to argue with them, to hear the mixture of languages, to smell familiar smells. In short, Bibi-ji realized with some amusement, Samuel Hunt, the Englishman transplanted to Canada, was doing the splits between two cultures, just like the desis were.

  Now she was relieved to see that he was being served by one of her more seasoned waiters, for the old India hand was crusty and reduced the less experienced waiters to nervous wrecks with his demands.

  “Hot, hotter, hottest, Colonel-ji?” the waiter asked politely, as he had been taught by Bibi-ji.

  Sam Hunt considered the question for a few moments, as if it were the first time he had heard it, and said, “The hotter, I think, or perhaps … no, on second thought, the hottest.”

  Bibi-ji smiled and looked away. Sometimes it was hard to believe that things had turned out exactly the way she had planned. It had started in 1958, when they purchased a small house on 56th Avenue. She and Pa-ji had rented out the apartment above the grocery store and then, in 1961, had leased out the store as well and bought this property on the corner of Main Street and 49th Avenue. It had once been a shop that sold sewing machines and had large display windows on three sides. On the left was a gas station, to the right was Mrs. Wu’s vegetable store, and across the road was a row of small shops selling, among other things, fabrics, groceries and baked goods. Not much, she had said to Pa-ji at the time.

  “But don’t worry,” Lalloo had advised in his Punjabi-accented English. “Locationn. Locationn. Locationn. I am telling you, Bibi-ji,” he added, as if he, not she, had discovered the place, “you wait and see, in a few more years this area will be booming.” Lalloo had evolved from an awkward turbaned youth to a man about town. He had set himself up as an immigration consultant and marriage broker, and dabbled in real estate in addition to carrying on other businesses that bordered on the illegal. Despite Pa-ji’s objections, he had cut his long hair and traded his turban for a hat, his pyjamas for a suit and his worn sneakers for a pair of well-shined boots. He was in with the Italians, the Chinese, the Japanese and more than one politician. He knew people in construction and renovation, and within a few months he had these friends turn a bare space into this restaurant.

  That was six years ago. Now look at it, never a quiet moment. The Delhi Junction had become a ritual, a necessity, a habit for many of the city’s growing population of desis who stopped by for a quick meal or afternoon tea.

  Pa-ji had wanted to call the place Apna, a Punjabi word meaning Ours. However, Bibi-ji felt that they needed to have a broader appeal, so they settled on The Delhi Junction Café, hoping the little restaurant would live up to its name and one day host, if not exactly the multitude, then at least a semblance of the crowds that streamed through New Delhi’s railway station daily.

  Bibi-ji had the walls painted her favourite shade of strawberry pink and asked two of the men who had then been house guests to make wooden tables for the café. An assortment of chairs was acquired from second-hand shops and cheap furniture stores. Another long-term visitor was set to work making table cloths from a roll of blue and pink fabric that Bibi-ji had bought cheap at the fabric store across the road. Over the fabric she put sheets of plastic to minimize laundry costs. A single brass vase bearing a plastic rose adorned each table. Every morning when Bibi-ji came into the restaurant, the first thing she did was sprinkle water on the plastic roses. On one wall she hung lithographic prints of the ten Sikh gurus, a highly coloured painting of the Golden Temple with a garland of flashing bulbs around it, maps of India and Canada, pictures of Nehru, Gandhi, Bhagat Singh, Marilyn Monroe, Meena Kumari, Clark Gable and Dev Anand. On another wall were clocks displaying the time in India, Pakistan (East and West), Vancouver, England, New York, Melbourne and Singapore. The clocks were Pa-ji’s favourite items of decoration—at any given moment, he could see the time in the many countries that carried the offspring of Punjab in their bosoms. It pleased him to be reminded that Sikhs were scattered all over the world, like seeds that had exploded from a seed pod.

  The clocks were also appreciated by the customers, who imagined a grandmother bending over her work in her yard in Patiala, a mother performing her evening prayers in Lahore or a brother heading for school in Chittagong. It gave them the illusion that they could reach out and touch their distant loved ones.

  Bibi-ji had chosen the menu items carefully, making sure that neither beef nor pork were included so as not to offend any religious group. She hired a cook and paid him an excellent salary, aware that the restaurant’s success depended on him. She saved on the wages of the waiters by taking advantage of the ready-made, unpaid and therefore floating staff drawn from the people who continued to move through her new home—in even larger numbers now that the Canadian government had opened its doors to immigrants from India. On weekdays, while Pa-ji manned the cash register, Bibi-ji helped with the service. She had a good memory and remembered the names of her customers, their villages, their wives, children, mothers, sisters and brothers. She remembered who liked fresh chillies served on the side with the chholey, and she knew whether they preferred the roti with ghee or well roasted on the fire. Sometimes, to please a regular, she would offer to make puris instead of rotis for a change. To the new arrivals in Canada she handed out advice on visas and immigration procedures, work permits and rents, the best places to buy vegetables and groceries, as well as a free bowl of sugary kheer if this was their first time at The Junction, as the regulars now called it.

  Both she and Pa-ji were glad to see the new immigrants. They felt a deep affection for these people, even when they were not from Punjab. Fuelled by frequent infusions of tea, they liked to discuss things. They were old hands at gup-shup and welcomed Pa-ji’s loud interventions from his station at the cash register.

  As for the children—the boys with their little topknots if they were Sikh, and the girls with their swinging braids and ponytails—they were allowed to eat for free. It was not good for business, Bibi-ji knew, but she counted on The One Up There to witness her act of kindness and grant her a dupattaful of blessings. At one time she had hoped that these blessings would take the form of children of her own.

  Then on Saturday last week, she had turned forty-five and finally relinquished hope of ever becoming a mother. She had gone to The Delhi Junction feeling depressed until Pa-ji, on a rare day off, surprised her by showing up in the middle of the morning with Lalloo in tow.

  “Come, I have to show you something,” he had said mysteriously, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “What? Now?” Bibi-ji asked, her bad mood compounded by the fact that he was dragging her off somewhere in the middle of a busy working day. “And the restaurant? Who …”

  “Don’t worry, Bibi-ji,” Lalloo had said, handing her her purse and pushing her out the door. “I will take care of it. You go.”

  Bibi-ji had climbed into the car wondering what was going on.

  “What’s wrong? Where are we going?” she had asked the unusually silent Pa-ji, who was driving as fast as he could without breaking the speed limit.

  “Wait and see,” he replied mysteriously.

  Driving past their own home to a large, newly built white house at the end of the road, they stopped at the ornate wrought-iron gates. With a flourish, Pa-ji opened the passenger door and offered Bibi-ji his hand to step out of the car. With an even greater flourish, he gave her a small box wrapped in gift paper. Inside it was a key.

  “Happy birthday, my Bebby,” he said. “This is our new home.”

  Bibi-ji was struck dumb.

  “What do you think?” Pa-ji asked. He caught her hand and pulled her towards the wroug
ht-iron gates. “I’ve named it the Taj Mahal,” he said, pointing at a brass plate, inscribed with flowing letters, on the faux-marble gateposts.

  “For me? A Taj Mahal?” She was simultaneously thrilled by the size and grandeur of the gift and alarmed at the thought that they must be mortgaged up to their eyeballs for this extravagance. She had never outgrown her childhood hatred of poverty and her suspicion of moneylenders, and the banks, as far as she was concerned, were only suited and booted versions of Ramchand, the dhothi-clad moneylender of Panjaur.

  Pa-ji chuckled and pinched her cheek as if she were a little girl. “Why not? If that Shah Jahan could build a palace for his Mumtaz Begum to lie dead in, why can’t I build one for my queen to live in?”

  Bibi-ji slowly traced the name and number on the brass plate.

  “I tried to get those idiots at the municipal office to let me number it 1922, your birth year. But they refused. If this was India, I could have named the entire street Sharanjeet Kaur Avenue if I wanted to!” Pa-ji reached out to open the gates and pulled her after him. “These gates will always remain open,” he declared. “For all those who need a place to stay.”