The Same Wind

By Seerat Virk

Content warning: The following story contains a depiction of physical assault.

My dupatta draped over my shoulders and head flies in the wind with my hair. The intricate mirrorwork in the design reflects the golden rays of the sun to mimic miniature stars. The summer air carries the fragrance of mature mustard plants from the vast green fields. The children of the haveli, our home, pick the delicate yellow flowers of these plants and braid them into their hair as if Mother Earth had adorned them herself. I brush my hand over my own braid at this thought, thinking about the comfort of my mother massaging oil into my scalp before weaving my hair.

She always tells me, “Ajooni, your flowy locks are as if the ripples of the ocean have been pulled out and strung together”. My mother compliments every feature of mine even though I don’t measure up to a fraction of her beauty.

My mother, her wise eyes the shade of the most perfect chai, and her cheeks a red that not even the sweetest of fruits can reach. Her skin is sun-kissed, no, that doesn’t do her justice. It’s as if the sun had bowed down to her for a blessing, and she had given him a pat.

I return from being aloft the clouds of my thoughts as the bull cart hits a bump in the dirt road, and I look down at Amreen. She’s been resting on the sacks of wheat, beading a bracelet with her thin, skillful hands. The bump has barely affected her pace; the only difference is the sweet jingle that her silver anklet lets out. She glances at me, and I admire her eyes which are filled with a kohl darker than the longest of winter nights. Amreen and I have been friends for a while now. It wasn’t us who found each other though. It was our voices, our singing. Amreen’s voice is the stamped envelope for a love letter; it wraps around my words and soft hums to deliver them flawlessly.

Tonight, we have another gathering, or mehfil as we like to call it, where our voices along with Zoya’s sitar and Kiran’s tabla will create magic. Our music strings the haveli together, making the evenings extra special. Life feels light and airy like our music is the caressing breeze easing the weight of heavy soaked clothes on the line.

I think about how perfect those nights under the stars look. The oil lamps lighting everyone’s faces, the clinking of bangles joining conversations, and the haveli’s decor setting the stage. On those nights, I had never thought about our differences. Religions were just like different art forms reaching the same purpose of expression. Just like how our music was no less beautiful than my mother’s pottery. However, others did not think the same.

The haveli walls once glowing a golden red cast by the lamp light mixing with the mud brown architecture, now wore a different hue. It is no longer our melodies filling our nights, instead it is wrathful voices. The chords of Zoya’s sitar are now replaced by gunshots. The thumps of Kiran’s tabla are a rampage of footsteps. The nights are even darker than Amreen’s kohl; they are full of uncertainty.

I hear my mother’s radio booming with the hostility of the riots one day. Tensions have been crawling up, but now the plague of hatred is rapidly spreading. Hindus and Sikhs were attacking Muslims, and Muslims were attacking Hindus and Sikhs. It was a never-ending game of predator and prey. Hundreds were dying. Then thousands. The line between religion and politics was blurring and with each passing day, I feel like that heavy soaked cloth on the line with the rainstorms around me only adding to the weight.

The grey clouds from the riot fires are now our morning mist over the fields. My mother’s cough is only getting worse in these conditions. We are making do with the medicine we have at home; no one goes out. I miss bull cart rides with Amreen, nights in the haveli, and mornings out on the fields.

Days pass with air getting thicker from smoke and fear. Today is a particularly gloomy morning. I am grinding the cardamon and cloves in my mother’s favourite mortar and pestle to make her chai. That’s when I hear knocking. Not knocking but pounding on the gate. I’m getting up to check on my mother when I turn too quickly and cause the hot pot to tip over. I watch the hot water create streams in the dirt before I whip my head around the opening in the kitchen wall to see the gate demolished. My mother is being dragged to the centre of the courtyard by a furious mob of men. I lurch forward, but the ground beneath me feels as though it’s sinking in and swallowing me whole. The evil men are preoccupied wielding their weapons, using the butts of their guns to beat her. Hot tears roll down my cheeks as I scream. I keep screaming until the monsters are called by another pack outside our gate. They run over my mother’s skillfully sculpted garden pots, scattering them and leaving nothing but shards of clay behind.

One man with a scraggly beard and grim eyes turns. He props his gun on his shoulder and aims it at my helpless mother on the courtyard floor. My eyes widen, and I fight my sinking state to force my feet forward. The shot leaves a ringing in my ears. He doesn’t even look back once. My mother’s dupatta, once covered with white lilies, is now covered in red poppies. I get close enough to see the lines in her face defined more now than ever before.

My beautiful mother, whose eyes were the colour of warm chai, whose cheeks were cheery pink, and whose skin was adored by the sun. My mother who braided my hair and told me my locks were luscious. My mother who now laid on the ground before me. Her eyes were closed and skin and cheeks were smeared in dirt. The sun beat down on her still body. It beats down on me until my vision blurs, and my head falls into her lap.

There is a rag over my body. I feel my warm breath heating up the space around me. My eyes flutter open gently. I am no longer in the lap of my mother. My head rests now in the lap of a woman I don’t know. She looks wise with her silver hair tucked behind her deep indigo dupatta. She looks down at me and tells me I’m going to be okay. That we are escaping. That we are finding a haven. Still, all I can think about is my mother’s lifeless body on our lifeless courtyard. Tears trickle down, washing away some of the gunk that’s been collected on my face. The woman holds me close and once again, I slowly drift off feeling the rhythm of the trolley we’re on. The bumps in the dirt road remind me of my times with Amreen. Amreen. A friend that shared a different faith than me. The friend whose strong voice amplified my hums and lyrics. My Amreen. My friend who I might never see again.

Months have passed since that day. I now sit on the rooftop counting the stars. I’m still trying to find my mother in them. The partition has happened. There now stands India and Pakistan. Both stand tall but shuffle their feet to find a balance. For my Punjab alone, this means the separation of Amritsar and Lahore. The land might have borders, but the wind still carries pollen from our fields to their fields.

Jyoti calls me. The woman who had wiped my tears that day. She had lost a son herself. Now, it was just us taking care of one another. I tell her I’ll be down in a bit and start humming. The wind picks up. My dupatta flies. The night reminds me of Amreen’s kohl as the stars set up my stage. I like to think the wind also carries my voice over the borders. Maybe the wind carries it to Amreen, who completes my song by catching it like a leaf and framing it in a scrapbook just like she always has.