We sat crouched behind the banyan tree in our backyard – Devi, my pregnant wife and I.

There was an eerie silence all around.

Slowly, we edged towards the boundary wall.

Something sailed past, grazing my skin. I winced.

“Someone’s here,” I whispered.

Together we crawled past the wall and headed towards the gate at the back. There was a tiny pathway that led to Hakim Chacha’s house. He was Baba’s friend.

I grabbed Devi’s hand and walked down the cobbled path, skirted the hedges surrounding his house and entered through the backdoor.

He was alone.

“Could we stay the night?” I asked.

He nodded and hurriedly drew us in.

The house was dark.

“Six more hours before we are free,” his voice was heavy. “But what kind of freedom is this? The bloodshed, the hatred.”

Before I could reply, we heard a loud hammering on the door. The sound of glass shattering, followed. We ducked behind the sofa.

“You Muslim devil, come out if you have the guts,” a voice roared.

Chacha took us into the basement.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “They may think you are Muslims and attack you”.

“No, Chacha, you stay here. I will deal with them,” I said.

He shook his head vigorously. “You have to think of this little girl and the baby,” he said pointing to Devi. “You stay here”.

Minutes later, we heard a crash and shouts. We were sure Chacha would be killed.

After what seemed like an hour, we crept out slowly.

Chacha lay tangled in a heap of broken furniture. His head was bleeding but he was breathing.

I pushed away the furniture and dragged him out. He was in deep pain.

Outside we could see tongues of flames leaping towards the sky. We sat beside Chacha, nursing his wounds. He was half conscious and kept murmuring something incoherent. I bent towards him, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

“What is it, Chacha?” I asked.

He opened his eyes, stared at me and then pointed towards a window to the west.

“You want something,” Devi asked.

He shook his head and then closed his eyes.

We looked at each other.

“He is trying to tell us something,” I said.

I rose and moved towards the window. It was half closed. I looked out. Below it was a stretch of unkempt shrubbery.

The garden had grown wild with brambles and weeds. Skirting it was a broken fence. Beyond it stood my empty house – the house that had been home to me for over two decades. A lump welled up in my throat. We had spent countless days playing in this garden – my siblings, I and Chacha’s children. Little had I known during those sunlit afternoons after school, when we climbed the mango trees, plucking luscious mangoes, that everything would end one day. An entire family, an entire lifetime was washed away in a wave of bloodshed and hatred.

I turned back to look at Chacha. He was staring at me.

“Nothing remains,” he whispered. “Everything comes to an end. That’s the law of the Universe.”

I slumped down onto the ground and sobbed. We were about to be a free nation, but the cost we had paid was tremendous. Love, laughter , compassion and brotherhood had been trampled, crushed and reduced to dust.

Devi came towards me and held me in her arms. We remained like that for a long time. The only sound that could be heard was of our pounding hearts and silent sobs.

Hours later, the sound of crackers rent the air. He stirred.

“We are free,” he whispered .

“Yes,” I nodded through my tears.

He pointed to Devi. “Are you alright?”

She nodded. She was tired and her swollen feet were aching. She was likely to go into labour in a couple days.

He closed his eyes. “Your baby will have a new beginning.”

Elsewhere, people were celebrating the end of their fettered existence.

 

Image : Bruno Guerrero ( Unsplash )