A Moment Comes Read online

  I thought Mother would have been as happy as a pig in mud, but after about half an hour she turned to the administrator and demanded that we be put to work. She even ordered Tariq to put down the camera and pitch in.

  She told the doctors that I’d been a volunteer nurse during the war, and they set me up in their infirmary. The other physicians went off to another corner of the camp, another hospital where those with illnesses instead of injuries were being treated. But they left me here with some local women to work on the simple things, things that I could understand the trouble of from only looking. And I’ve been here since, dressing wounds, many of them festering, infected blisters like the ones this woman has.

  They all got the sores the same way. Walking. Some hundreds of miles. This woman keeps pointing at her feet and then off to the northwest. “Rawalpindi,” she says. “Far.”

  I know from Daddy’s maps that it’s nearly two hundred miles. It staggers me to think about her, a woman at least eighty, walking so far. That she would have to walk so far.

  And Daddy even told me the whole thing was voluntary. No one—least of all the British—was making the Sikhs move into India and the Muslims move out to what would be Pakistan. Certainly the whole carving up of the Punjab had to do with creating separate states based on religion, but the “population exchange,” as I heard Daddy call it, began because people on both sides were already starting to get territorial about their lands back when the boundaries themselves were just the whisper of an idea.

  And now this. People without homes, without work, without food or prospects, crowding together in camps like this one on both sides. But it said a great deal about what they were running from if a place like this was better.

  I finish up the woman’s feet and realize how filthy and thirsty and hot I am. It’s been hours since I’ve had a drop of water. I stand up, look around. I can see Mother and Tariq sitting next to some beds in another tent across the little alley. Mother’s got her pencil and some paper out, listening as Tariq translates.

  There is a pump off to the left in a bit of a clearing. I’ve heard it working away all morning, the metal arm groaning up and down, the water splashing in containers.

  I take a step toward it and stumble—now that I don’t have someone to look after, I feel suddenly exhausted. Half a dozen of the children playing around the pump see me at the edge of the tent and run over. They’re so lovely-grubby, and their smiles are so bright. I let them touch my hair and giggle and chatter to one another when I arrived. I never thought I liked kids much, but I think I could spend all day with this lot if they let me.

  The children surround me. I point at the pump and they shout, “Pani! Pani!”

  I nod, repeat “Pani.” They pull me over to the pump, laughing.

  There is a long line of women and older children waiting at the pump, clay pots and jars resting on their hips. But as I approach, the ones near the front smile, grateful smiles, smiles to break my heart, but I suppose they’re just glad to see someone who isn’t here for the same reasons they are, someone who is here to help.

  I smile back. My little friends go to work explaining that I’m thirsty. The women closest to the pump erupt into a sudden flurry of activity, one producing a dipper for me to sip from, another working at the handle with strength I wouldn’t have guessed. But soon a cascade of water is splashing onto the mud. I step forward, let it spray my ankles, then crouch under and let it run over the back of my neck. The children clap and cheer. The women laugh. Mother might be mortified that I’ll spend the rest of the day in a soaking blouse, but I don’t care.

  I move my head from under the flow, pick up the dipper, letting the water collect there. When I’ve gotten enough, I straighten and lift it in my hands. “Cheers,” I call out to the ladies, who smile.

  And just as I’m about to take my first sip, a hand reaches from behind, pulls my arm down hard, spilling the water from the dipper onto the earth.

  I curse and spin around, but freeze when I see Tariq there, eyes wild. “Don’t!” he says.

  His hand is still locked around my wrist. I stare at it. One of the little children steps forward, arms crossed tight across his chest, staring daggers at Tariq. He growls something in Punjabi that Tariq ignores.

  “The water,” he says, and the doctor, the one from this morning, is rushing up behind him. He looks stricken at my wet hair and top.

  “Did you drink any?” the doctor demands.

  “I . . . ” What is going on? “No,” I manage.

  He grabs my other wrist and pulls me away from the pump. The children have gone still. They know something’s up too. The chattering ladies fall silent behind us.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Mother crosses from the tent where she was working. “Margaret?” Her voice is all worry and warning.

  “There is a problem,” the doctor says. “I was coming to tell you—but saw your translator first,” he nods at Tariq. “Good thing you moved so quickly, young man.”

  “Would someone please tell us what is going on?” Mother asks, looking from the doctor to Tariq and back again.

  Tariq’s hand is softer on my arm now, the vise loosening. He leans in and whispers, “There is cholera in the other infirmary tent. We must leave at once.”

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  TARIQ

  “Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Darnsley whispers.

  “You’re sure you didn’t drink any of the water?” the doctor asks Margaret again. She shakes her head, eyes wide with fear.

  “I think it might be best if you go for the time being,” the doctor speaks in English to Mrs. Darnsley, but he cuts his eyes at me as if to say get them out of here.

  “But what about all these people?” Margaret looks back at the line of women still waiting to collect water for washing, drinking, cooking.

  “We don’t know which supply is contaminated,” the doctor says without much hope in his voice. “There are two pumps. It could be either one.”

  “Or both,” Margaret says, her hand pressed against her chest. Her blouse is damp from all the water she poured over herself. It clings to her skin and I can see . . .

  Stop looking . . .

  The doctor is talking again. “—will dig new latrines and issue warnings to boil all water,” he says, but he sounds like he’s already given up. I know enough about cholera to know why. Whole villages can be leveled by it. He turns to me, switches from English to Punjabi. He tells me to take the women home, that he will send word when it is safe for them to return.

  “But if we don’t drink any water, we’ll be fine, won’t we?” Margaret asks after I translate. “I’d like to stay.”

  No one’s listening. They’ve all scattered, sending runners to spread the word. The doctor hurries over to the pump, announces that the water might be contaminated, that it must be boiled. Before he even finishes speaking, the women hurl questions at him about where will they find fuel to burn, what can they boil water in if they have no kettles, how long it will go on. There’s nothing we can do.

  “Follow me,” I say to Mrs. Darnsley and Margaret, walking toward the tents where we had been working. I’d been helping Mrs. Darnsley record information about the people residing in the camp. I admit, I’m not sorry we got cut off. It was heartbreaking work. And sort of hopeless. I felt lower than a dog, sitting there as they told me their stories, all the while knowing that they knew I was Muslim. They’d all been pushed out by Muslims so that other Muslims could come and take the homes and lands that had been theirs.

  The same thing was happening here, only in reverse. My family would go to Pakistan when India became too dangerous for them. Would they end up in a camp like this one?

  I prayed they wouldn’t.

  There wasn’t much we could do, but we tried. While Margaret worked in the medical tent, Mrs. Darnsley and I were making two lists: one of the people living in the camp, and another of the people they’d lost during the
migration. The people told us their stories, gave us their names, looking at me with fear while I translated for Mrs. Darnsley.

  Everyone has lost someone. Lost as in dead and lost as in simply misplaced. One little girl clung to an old man—too old to even be her grandfather—while she told her story. Her parents were killed and she was separated from her two brothers near Rawalpindi. I never worked out her connection to the old man, but they held on to each other as if they were all they had left in the world. And then there was the woman, maybe a bit younger than my mother. Every time she opened her mouth and tried to speak, she’d fall apart, sobbing. We never got a word out of her.

  They’re just two of hundreds. Of thousands. In just one camp.

  And with every terrible story, the image of that man I hit reared up in my mind again. Every time.

  Still, I’d stay and listen all day if I thought it would do any good. If I thought—yes, I admit to this, too—that it would make up for what I did at the gurdwara. But the truth is, I think they were as uneasy with me there as I was being there. And I don’t want to add to anyone’s suffering or pain or fear, especially in a place like this.

  They don’t deserve it. Maybe I do, but they don’t.

  So I’m relieved for a real reason to get out of here. For their sakes. And mine.

  I grab the camera from the tent—I think I only snapped half a dozen photographs. I hope Mrs. Darnsley won’t take it badly.

  “This way,” I say to the ladies, cutting a path through the crowd. They still stop to stare at Margaret and her mother, who look as out of place here as I feel.

  “Tariq!” Margaret calls nervously behind me. I’m moving too fast. I push my way through the crowd to collect them again. This time Margaret grabs my arm and holds on.

  I lead them back to the edge of the camp, where the car waits by the road. A crowd still follows us, for no other reason than there is nothing else to do, nothing else to see.

  Margaret keeps her hand clenched around my bicep. She holds on tight, squeezing, even though we’re in view of the car, even though we’re not going to get separated again.

  And I’m a murkha, but I like her hand there. I can’t help thinking, There’s a pretty girl on my arm. A pretty English girl who needs me to protect her. I stand a little taller. It feels good.

  But then I think of Darnsley. What would he say?

  I expect his reaction would be a little like the driver’s when he sees us coming up the rise toward the car. His mouth falls open and his face grows dark.

  And even though I know it’s gavara, I stare at him, dare him to say something. I slow down, let Margaret’s arm sort of creep forward in mine until we’re almost walking arm in arm, climbing up the hill. The driver is furious, and it feels good. Really good. Until Mrs. Darnsley reminds me how dangerous this is.

  “Margaret, would you walk with me?” her voice breaks in suddenly, sharp edged. I feel Margaret’s arm tense on mine briefly before she pulls away and goes back to lock arms with her mother, who helps her to the car.

  Bewakoof! What did I just do? Of course she’d see. And now she might tell her husband. Hey, Allah . . .

  I don’t dare turn around. Maybe if I don’t react, it will blow over. Maybe her mother will let it go. Maybe Margaret will let it go.

  We reach the car. The driver opens the back door for the ladies, but before her mother can scoot over, like they did at the house, Margaret runs round to the passenger side, chasing after me as I move for my own door. We stand there a moment, alone, but not alone, and I wonder what I have gotten myself into. She is looking at me. Looking. At me.

  This is bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad.

  Mara.

  There is nothing I can do but reach down and open the door for her. She gives me a faint little smile, one just for me, as she climbs into the backseat.

  And in spite of everything, the heat rises in me. I close the door slowly.

  She likes me. I’ve sort of known it from that first day. And it isn’t like I haven’t thought about her. About it. Her body . . . the way she looks sort of dangerous and exciting when I see her in the garden smoking one of her cigarettes. And she’s English. I’ve thought about what it would be like to be with her. Or girls like her when I’m in England.

  This is stupid. Murkha! She’s even more off limits than Anupreet. She’s Darnsley’s daughter! His daughter! Everything hinges on impressing him, and I don’t think sneaking around with his daughter—no matter how much she might want it—would do the trick of getting me to Oxford.

  Unless . . .

  Unless.

  She could be helpful.

  She is his daughter, after all. And a kind word from her on my behalf couldn’t hurt.

  Not that I’d do anything wrong. Just be her friend. Or maybe a little more. Just enough. It could work.

  But I have to be careful. Very careful. A thing like this is like dynamite. Powerful. Unpredictable.

  And dangerous.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  ANUPREET

  I love Sunday afternoons. Every week, right after lunch, Mrs. Darnsley gives me my wages. Then Manvir comes to fetch me, and I spend the rest of the day at home, eating Biji’s fine curry, and remembering what it was like to be with my family whenever I wanted.

  But today Manvir did not come.

  I waited at the gate for almost two hours, passing a few words with the guard stationed there as I wondered where my brother could be. After an hour I began to worry what might have happened to him, worry that a gang of boys—like the one that followed us in the market that first day—might have caught up with him. Worry that riots or violence in some other part of the city might have swept him up in its wake.

  And then the worry passed to knowing. The only reason Manvir would not come was if he could not come.

  But still I waited. Still I hoped. I had the small fold of rupee notes Mrs. Darnsley had just paid me in my little bag, ready to take home to Biji and Papaji. I thought to use some of it to hire a rickshaw. Papaji would be furious if I walked home, so maybe this once he wouldn’t mind if I used some of the money to get a ride.

  But what if Manvir turned up and found me gone? Part of me believed that as long as I waited in the shade of the sal tree, Manvir would come. If I found my own way home, it would be like giving up on him.

  So I waited.

  But then Mr. Darnsley must have noticed me standing there. He sent Margaret out to see what was the matter, and before I knew it, the driver had been summoned and I was leaving the gates of the yellow house in the backseat of the great black automobile.

  I was riding in a car!

  I’ve wondered a thousand times what it would be like. And now here I am.

  But I feel awful for being so happy. Awful for letting my fear for Manvir get elbowed aside. But a car . . . carrying me.

  It is almost too wonderful.

  I’ve seen cars plenty. I’ve stepped out of the way of them when they come inching up a crowded margh. I’ve gazed at the faces inside, wondering what it would be like to be wrapped up in so much glass and metal, to have people scurry out of your way, to move without moving.

  But being inside it is even better than I ever dreamed. The seat is warm and soft, like the bellies of the goats we kept when I was small. The car jerks and starts as the driver cuts a path through the street. The engine roars like a living thing, announcing it has somewhere to be, someone to carry there.

  And I imagine for a moment that I am Margaret.

  She’s ridden in this car many times, and in probably dozens of others like it in London. I wonder if people stare at her there as they do here. Certainly not only because she’s in the back of a motorcar. She looks as if she belongs in this seat, behind a driver, sealed up behind sparkling windows against a world, as if the car has its own air to breathe.

  And now the people who look at her look at me. I’m not silly enough to think they’re staring because my own black braid dazzles like her gold hair. They s
tare because I do not belong back here. I belong on the street with them, dodging the puddles and cattle and cart horses. They are wondering—I know they are—what I am doing in the backseat of a car, this car.

  But I can pretend. I can pretend that this is what it feels like to be her. That this is how I’d feel all the time if someone drove me around. And the pretending takes me all the way home. The pretending helps me imagine I am someone else, keeps me from imagining what I will find at the end of this ride. Not a girl going to her house to see if it is still there. To see if her family is still there. To see . . .

  The driver pulls up to the door, and I find it shut tight. Biji usually keeps it open during the day to let the air cool the house as it pulls through the front door and back through the cooking porch. But it is shut now. Shut tightly against whatever evil wind has kept my brother from coming to fetch me.

  I spring out of the car, all the good feeling from the ride run dry as I try the latch. Locked.

  “Papaji?” I call softly, drumming my fingers against the splintered surface of the door.

  They take a long time to come. And when my father does finally call from the other side, I can hear the joy and worry in his voice. “Anu?”

  “It’s me,” I say, hitching my dupatta around my shoulders and turning to wave the driver on. Margaret ordered that he wait to see me safely inside, but he seems anxious to get the car back.

  I hear the sound of something heavy being moved, then the door opens. Papaji’s eyes are red. He pulls me inside and into his arms. He murmurs a blessing, the words choked from his throat, and I begin to cry, so ashamed for having enjoyed my car ride so much.