The History Ate Us Alive

By Vagdha S

I. Crimson-turned Kameez

Gunshots. Blood. Corpses.

The firing was loud enough to make people deaf. But nobody really cared. Some even cried louder than gunshots. People had their best clothes on, now soaked with blood, either theirs or someone else’s. Anyone who tried to escape the garden was pushed down by bullets. It was hard to count how many died or lived. It was even harder to distinguish them. 

“Somebody help him!” A woman screamed as if her lungs would burst open. Her baby softly whimpered, knowing something was wrong. Someone jerked her from behind. Her eyes moved slightly towards that figure.

“Bibi ji, come with me! The bullets.” She pointed to the firing direction. The woman stood up to glance over her husband’s face as if to sketch him and followed the girl to a dried-out bush.

“Please stay here. I-I’ll be back.” 

“But Meher—” but she had disappeared into the smoke.

She runs her eyes through the bloodshed, hoping not to find any familiar faces. 

“Waheguru! Please protect us!" An old woman cried at the sky, wrapping a small boy with her trembling body. It was just enough to save him. Then she caught sight of a teenage boy, too shocked and reluctant to move away from them.

But he is too exposed. The bullets would find him. 

They didn’t. But they found the old woman.

Meher couldn’t handle it anymore—the forced blindness. Pretending that she is helpless. She flew towards them and dragged both boys behind the dead.

“The bullets are raining, and you were too open! Are you alright?” Her voice was steady despite the mess around them.

“My friends, now Bebe,” the older boy said in distress. “They died, all of them.”

Just then the younger boy tugged at the older boy’s salwar. “Jasbir Veer ji? Bebe?” His eyes wandered, frightened. “She wasn’t moving…so she left us? But… who will tell me stories?” 

Jasbir’s shoulders sank. “She’s just in a better world, Chhotey.” Then his gaze drifted towards a spot across the smoke. “What are they doing?”

Meher’s eyes followed him to that desperate act. People had gathered around the well. Jumping. 

“Oh my—” Her voice was barely heard.

It was her—the bibi with her baby.

She rushed towards them, that boy keeping up with her. But it was too late. She jumped. It was a necessary madness. 

“Oh no...no...” she whispered, her eyes welling up with tears. She broke out, sobbing hard, crouching behind the fallen. 

“We need to hide.” He said it tenderly enough to not startle her. Meher took a deep breath to regain herself, but it smelled like blood and smoke.

“Chhotey.” Jasbir’s hands grabbed the boy’s wrist and led him to the uplifted ground that was used as a stage. He was angling his body so the boy got there safely.

“Where are you going?” Meher said while they were rushing. Jasbir didn’t answer, but when he headed towards a bench, she got the plan. He asked the boy to lie close to the stage. He then put the bench horizontally for cover. His act was noticed by the people and copied. At the end, there were no more benches or any cover.

“We’ll duck low in that corner.” Meher said, although it’s not enough to not die. Jasbir nodded and hurried there.

Shot. Shot. Shot.

For a second, they thought it was them. But before they could realize anything, people were falling over them. They were followed, hoping these kids would help them. The bodies were heaping over them. It was hard to breathe. They brushed each other and felt each other struggling.

Then it stopped. Not the massacre. 

But their struggle. They weren’t dead but in a better world.

II. Wrapped in Fragile Folds

The gunshots were muted. It was hauntingly quiet without the rustling of leaves. The sky was grey despite the sun being out. Blood didn’t stink anymore. It was then something more disgusting. 

Meher turned her head to see Jasbir. He was right next to her, as it had been when they died. His eyes were open. He slowly sat up and supported her. Then he looked around. 

“Where or when are we?” His sight was on a poster of Gandhiji, written Quit India, 1943. “W—We are in 1943?”

Meher suddenly stood up, not out of shock but out of terror. Jasbir reached out, catching her wrist to hold her still. The road ahead was a graveyard. 

Bodies weren’t buried but rotted away openly. And there were a lot of them. The air was as lifeless and silent as a thick fog, so her heartbeats were heard by him through his grip. 

“This is crazy.” Meher spoke, her voice barely heard. “We’re sure in hell. Everything around us is absurd, and it is not even 1910 anymore. What did we get into?” She glanced at him, confused, then down at where his hands held hers. He quickly let it go and cleared his throat.

‘Yes, sure in hell,” he said, trying to sound steady. “It’s 1943, and we don’t know how the hell we landed here. What should we do?” He looked around in confusion. Meher’s stomach rumbled. Then his. “Food. How about we ask someone?”

She nodded subtly, still in her thoughts. They walked along the path, and all the way along, they saw skeletons—living ones. 

One stared at them hard. Their clothes.

No one there wore clothes hardly. But here they were, with their bright festival clothes, immersed in a bloodbath. Meher adjusted her dupatta slightly. They both caught sight of a crowd. Most of them weren’t standing but lying on the ground. They stepped up into the crowd, still getting glares and mutters. A man in his thirties snatched Meher’s dupatta and stumbled away. 

“Allah, please protect him,” a woman whispered, clutching her wailing baby to her chest. The child’s cries were sharp with hunger. 

Meher was left speechless. She somehow realized the situation—he stole it to feed the baby, but she feared whether he'd come back. 

Her eyes were on the figure ahead. A woman in her twenties stood taller than most of the villagers, her off-white dress swayed with the wind, and her low bun loosened from work. The sun has burnt her fair cheeks red, and a wooden cross rested at her collarbone. A missionary.

“My dear, what’s happening?” She spoke with a British accent but fine enough for Meher to understand. She then glanced at no one but Meher.

“Help.” She looked into the eyes of the lady. A silent understanding passed between them. The woman then stared at Jasbir and sighed.

“Come, I’ll help.” She led them to a room-like structure made with old saris and started digging up a bag full of worn-out clothes.

“Sari and blouse for you and dhoti and shirt for you.” She gave those clothes in our hands and said, “This is important for surviving. Blending in. I’m not clearly sure of why God has brought you here, but he has greater plans for you. Now, go stand in the queue. The food will be distributed soon. May God have mercy on you both.” Then she walked off to the camp.

Meher took up on some words and understood her, but Jasbir had no idea. “So we have to wear this?” He asked her, noticing how strange it was.

“Yeah, she said so. I’ll go first.” She then entered the covered area while he waited outside. The blouse was slipping away from her shoulders, and she had to adjust it every minute. She has seen her mother wear saris, but here it’s in a different way. She carefully draped it and tucked it in. It was like being a different person. It was strange. But that was needed. She lifted the cover and came out.

Jasbir glanced at the faded red folds of her sari. Her hair was loosened up and was flowing across her shoulder. She was not that Punjabi girl right now.

“It’s strange, but beautiful.” He said, choosing each word carefully. Her fingers tugged at the fabric frequently. “You’re not comfortable?”

“It’s not staying still. I think I’ll trip over.” She said it slowly, like stating a fact and not like ignoring a compliment.

“It’s because you did it wrong.” A woman with sun-browned skin and the strength of a working Bengali interrupted them. Worry lined her face, but there was enough steel in her to shut them down. “Didn’t anyone teach you anything?”

“I—I don’t know how to do this.” Meher stuttered as if her mother was scolding her. Her mind flinched at the thought of her mother. Where would she be?

“Kids these days.” The woman interrupted her thoughts and sighed at her miserably. “I’ll help you fix it.” She knelt down and started to fix the folds. Whenever Meher moved slightly to observe her movements, she would say, “Beti, stand still. Do you want to knock me over?” 

“Bibi ji, may I know your name?” Meher asked after a few knock-overs. 

“Bibi ji? Are you Punjabi?” The woman looked up to Meher in amusement. “How did you end up here?” She was now eye-level with Meher with a question she couldn't avoid.

“I…uhmm...we—we are from Amritsar, and there was a massacre. It killed everyone. My—” Her stomach twisted, and she felt like she was being choked. Jasbir couldn’t seem to catch a breath. Their faces turned pale with those nightmares on their minds.

“Ranjana. Call me Mashi.” The woman broke the silence with calm. “Beta, I guess you don’t know how to wear a dhoti. I’ll get Baba.” With her eyes along the crowd, she called out, “Baba, here!” An old man, with a thin but strong-willed figure, appeared. His head had gone bald with age, and his wrinkly-skinned nose held up gold-rimmed glasses. 

“What happened, Beti? Come, the food will be distributed soon.” Then he let his eyes wander through the young faces. “And who are these young ones with you?”

“Baba, they are from Amritsar. This boy needs your help with his dhoti.” 

“Amritsar? How—” Ranjana shook her head anxiously, breaking his sentence. “Ah, anyway, I’m Keshab, but you may simply call me Dadu.”

Meher and Jasbir smiled vaguely. They felt everyone was pitying them, although they were not quite aware of their past. But their words had spread warmth across their body.

“As Baba dresses him, let’s both go and stand in the line.” Meher nodded, and they strolled off to that long line. Some of them had their plates filled. It was rice with dal. Though it looked bland, Meher’s mouth still watered with hunger. 

She clung to her salwar kameez against her chest, and her eyes darted along the crowd, looking for that missionary lady. Before she could wonder how she would thank her, Jasbir reappeared. He was bizarre, but somehow he blended in with the crowd. His shirt was clunked onto his body perfectly, but there weren't any buttons. The dhoti had yellow stains at the ends and was dusty like rags. 

Meher stared at him, top to bottom, and opened her mouth to say something but closed it abruptly. Then hastily said, “You look like a Bengali. But it’s good.” 

Jasbir smiled at her with his cheeks red. They gazed at each other awkwardly. Meher saw Mashi and went to her. 

“Mashi, you stay here?” She asked out of curiosity. 

“No, my house is nearby, Beti. You both come and stay with us, okay? Our house still has a bit of last year’s harvest, so don’t worry about anything.” Ranjana offered. She was bringing warmth beneath their skin after blood washed it off.

“Well, the kids bring joy in these times.” Keshab laughed off, his fingers brushing Jasbir’s hair. Meher’s face widened with a smile after a long time. It was heartfelt, and it brought back memories. Jasbir looked helplessly at her, as if he knew what was going on in her mind.

The times in Amritsar flooded their brains. Oh god, they didn’t want them.

It wasn’t a massacre. But their dreams. Their lives. 

And what they left behind.

III. A Salwar of Dreams

“Where do you get ALL OF THESE? This is why I raised you? To bring disgrace to our family?” A big man with a beard stood opposite Meher. His wide eyes with raised eyebrows didn’t shudder her. Her feet were grounded with courage.

“Your job is to get married into a good family. You can’t at least do that? I always thought that school was a bad idea.” Behind that man, a woman accused her without raising her voice. Meher wanted to scream out her lungs and shout out the reasons for her actions. But she wouldn’t let her years of dreaming go in vain in just seconds.

“I just did it for fun.” The lie felt sweet on her mouth. She acted the tears out. It was kind of a habit for her.

“Fun? Do you have any idea what happens if anyone reads this?” The man raised a few papers and started to rip them. 

Weeks of hard work ripped apart in seconds.

Revolutionary ideas sparkled in the shreds. The ideas were so controversial that even nationalists would hire her. Well, she craved it.

“Bapu! Maa, please stop him.” Meher really meant it this time. 

“Off to school. Now!” Bapu told her. “And don’t even think about learning or writing about nonsense again.”

Meher ran off, wiping tears away from her face. She smiled to keep herself together. As some Bau jis strolled past her, she greeted them with a smile, just as a well-raised girl of Amritsar would do.

“Jasbir? What garbage are you planning here? Didn’t I tell you to give the clothes to the missionaries an hour ago?” A voice from a nearby shop caught Meher’s attention. A boy about her age was sketching something on a small notebook. The voice was definitely his father’s, provoking him. She thought, why is everyone denied their desires? 

Her thoughts were now of the figures that boy drew. It was surely a change in the dyeing procedures. The structure looked mechanical and easier than the hand-stirred vats.

Well, unfortunately, people hate change.

Jasbir kept back the notebook in his pockets and ran off with the clothes to the St. Mary’s mission school. Meher also took that direction to continue her day. Not even a girl’s sound was heard there. They were always soft-spoken and mostly in English. And Meher quietly turned into that. Never raising her voice and never writing anything controversial. 

“Oh, good morning, Meher. How is your day?” She was an Indian missionary. Meher greeted her with a smile and glanced over to the pile of books in her arms. “Yes, here is the book you asked for.” She handed over a dusty textbook. 

“Thank you, miss.” Meher exclaimed. She strolled towards the washroom and locked herself in a toilet. Then she opened that gloomy book to find a bright paper with her favourite word─ Azaadi. It was a pamphlet, letting her know about an event that would be held during Baisakhi. She read about an act that was recently introduced by the Angrez Sarkar. The idea was disgusting. The event was organized against this. This was a golden opportunity for her to fly with her dreams. 

She was going to become a nationalist. 

***

The evening sun rushed into Jasbir’s room through the windows. He was fidgeting with the pages of his notebook, questioning his father’s actions. We can do better, he thought. The middlemen in the business were always playing with his father. His father knew but was too afraid to react. 

“Jassi? Your friends are here.” His mother informed him. He put his work behind and climbed down the stairs hastily. “Come back early, okay? We need to go to the Gurdwar.” 

Jasbir and his friends ambled along the village square, sipping on sugarcane juice. “Hey Jassi bira, have you heard about what Bittu is doing tomorrow? He plans to impress the girls with his harmonium again. The thing wasn’t even in tune last time.” They all then fell into laughter.

“Jassi, don’t let him win over your Mehriya.” His friend tickled him. Jasbir’s cheeks flushed at the sound of Meher’s name. “She will be at the fair tomorrow. You better tell her and don’t act like you don’t care!” 

“Well, I won’t let you win that teddy bear this time. Just watch!” His friend challenged Jasbir. Jasbir stuck his tongue out at him playfully. Their voices echoed throughout the whole bazaar. 

***

Meher stood in front of the mirror, admiring herself. The deep maroon kurta, which was snatched at her waist, showed off her poise delicately, and the soft cream phulkari dupatta rested on both her shoulders. 

“Mehru, put on the glass bangles.” Her Maa insisted on her. She looked down to the glass bangles on the table. She didn’t feel like wearing it.

“Maa, is it necessary? These jhumkas are gorgeous alone.”

“No, you should wear it. Girls should behave like girls.” Meher wore it reluctantly. She gave herself a last look at the mirror and went off to the greatest moment in her life. The bazaar was vibrant and bustling with people. Baisakhi had quite an effect on people. 

“Meher! Here!” Two girls shouted from a nearby jewellery shop. Meher gave her family goodbyes and joined them. They were headed to every single shop in the bazaar. Meher's eyes were on a nose ring. She put it on her nose and glimpsed at the mirror.

“Meher Kaur, this is magnificent! I wish my parents would allow me to wear one.” Her friends cheered her up to buy it. She exited the shop with the nose ring. That’s when Jasbir’s gaze fell on her. His eyes were fixed on her.

“Mehru, that Jassi boy is fixed on you.” Meher turned her head towards Jasbir. He looked away quickly. His ivory kurta with the blue sadri showed off his broad shoulders and looked royal on him. The sun kissed his face, and his jawline dripped with sweat in the heat of Meher’s stare. She kind of expected him to look back at her.

But when she looked down at her watch, it was time. Meher with her friends strolled off to the garden. Her heart was racing, and she was blushing constantly.

“Come on, Jassi. Talk to her; we’ll come with you.” Jasbir’s friends pushed him with them and carried him away to the garden.

The garden was enclosed with high walls and had narrow entrances, so Jasbir struggled through the crowd to not miss the glimpse of Meher. They were now inside the garden and seated. Jasbir’s friends urged him to talk to Meher, whose eyes rested on a local activist speaking about Free India. 

Jasbir stood up with courage and walked up to her. But something was wrong.

Meher’s eyes lost their charm. It was packed with horror now. Everyone was screaming and crying. It was a total massacre out there.

Gunshots. Blood. Corpses. 

IV. A Starved Drape

Jasbir was shaking Meher softly at first but turned vigorous when she was not waking up. He reached out his finger, with fright, to her nose. Is she breathing? His chest burned slightly, and his vision blurred. 

She blinked. He shook her gently and called out her name. Her drowsy eyes blinked again normally. He poured some water into her mouth to revive her. Her fragile body sat up and took deep breaths. He pulled her towards him. He let out soft cries of panic. 

“Are you okay, Meher?” Jasbir’s exhausted voice reached out to her.

“I think so.” Her head was lowered with shock. “Would I be dead if you didn’t wake me up?”

“No, never. You’re alive, and nothing’s going to happen to you. You are going to be alright.” He caressed her shoulders with reassurance. “I’ll go and bring food from the camp.” Meher didn’t let go of him. 

“You are not going without me.” 

“But you can’t—”

“Jasbir, I’m okay. I’m just afraid that we won’t see each other again if we separate even for a minute. I’ll come with you.” Jasbir didn’t argue with her. He just helped her get up. They held each other’s arms for support and paced little by little to the camp. The typical long queue stood under the scorching heat of the sun. Their faces fell with upset, as they were the last. Still they stood with hope.

The queue got shorter and shorter. But when it was their chance, the missionary looked at the container with disappointment and said, “Sorry, dears. There is gruel only for one.”

They took what was left and sat in a sheltered area. They ate in silence. Both of them didn’t take a spoonful, although they were starving. Jasbir stopped eating and leaned backwards. 

“I’ve hit my food limit. You can have the rest.” Then Jasbir’s stomach growled with hunger. He flinched with embarrassment. 

“Hit your food limit?” Meher chuckled softly.

“’Eat, Mehriya. You need it.” He poked her gently and giggled light heartedly. She blushed and started to gulp it down, as she needed it so badly. The weight of her head eased a bit. They sluggishly walked back to Ranjana’s hut.

They rested their backs on the wall of the hut and looked over the quiet path, hoping for Ranjana. A figure appeared in front of them. Small and petite, she was wiping her cheeks. 

“Help.” She whimpered slowly. “My parents…they left me.” Meher got up and held the girl’s hands to ease her. 

“Chhoto meye, where did they go? What’s your name?” Meher asked the girl softly.

“Dipa.” Her voice was barely heard. “The station, with trains. They left me there and went somewhere.” Her watery eyes glimpsed at Meher with hope. Jasbir came behind Meher to look at the little girl. Her words have made their hearts ache further. 

He hunched down to Dipa’s height and whispered to her, “It’s okay, don’t cry. We’re there for you.” Then realization dawned on them.

“Wait, trains? Like real, big trains, to where?” He asked Dipa hastily. She glanced at him with wide-eyed innocence. “Okay, trains do come there, right?”

She nodded. Jasbir smiled at Meher with overjoy, who was in complete awe. Ranjana gasped from outside the hut on hearing those words. 

“Mashi, we’re going to live.” Meher exclaimed. Ranjana smiled widely, although a grief lingered in her face. 

“When is the train? Go today itself; otherwise, you’ll miss it. Dipa Beti, don’t worry. They will get you to your parents.” Ranjana spoke anxiously.

“We? Why just us? Mashi, you’re coming, right?” Jasbir asked with concern.

“Bacchara, I can’t. I can’t come without making sure Baba is at peace. He needs to be buried. And I don’t know where he is!” Ranjana burst out. She kneeled down and sobbed hard. There were no tears, just pure despair. She steadied herself as crying was exhausting her.

“Go live your life, Bacchara. Live it for me. And don’t argue; this is not the time.”

Ranjana’s words got no response from them. They squeezed their Mashi between their arms for a long time. 

Slowly, they let go of her. They smiled at her with tears in their eyes. They started to pack some old clothes and food. Dipa helped them while talking about what she’ll do when she reaches Calcutta.

“Take this, Mehru.” It was an earring. A single one. “I sold the other for food and have kept it in your sack. But take this one and sell it in Calcutta, not here. It must be worth much more there.” The earring was of a child—Ranjana’s child. 

“Mashi, it’s yours to keep. It’s—” 

“If I keep it to myself, there is no use. But for you, it is indeed valuable. Besides, I want my daughter to be remembered. I’ll only make her bury.” Ranjana said.

Meher embraced her and let out soft cries. Ranjana gently let her go and reached onto a basket to take Dadu’s glasses. She handed it out to Jasbir.

“You don’t need glasses, Jassi, but this rim is made of real gold. Sell it when in need.” She laughed softly and gave a heartbroken smile. He just returned the smile and dropped a tear on the rim of the glasses. 

They separated. Meher, Jasbir, and Dipa walked off to the railway station. Ranjana waved them goodbye and prayed with her hands held together for them.

***

The sun was low. The evening sunlight flashed on their faces when they entered the railway station. The place was full of noise, desperation, and suffering. People like them were crowded in every corner of the station. They found out the next train wouldn’t arrive until the next morning.

They sat in a corner, leaning on a pillar of the station. They shared the bread that Ranjana brought. It was dry but filled their stomach. Dipa was drowsy and slept on Meher’s lap. 

“I wish Mashi was with us. Not just her — Dadu, Maa, Bapu, everyone.” Meher told Jasbir, looking farther into the fields there. 

“Me too. But I’m also grateful that we’re together.” Jasbir looked at her and smirked. She sighed. They didn’t speak for a second, both lost in their own thoughts.

“I was really scared this morning.” Meher looked at Jasbir, helplessly. “I have never been afraid like this. But dying without saying goodbye is scary. If I’m going to leave this world, I want to do it wholeheartedly with a smile.” Meher admitted. Jasbir frowned at her.

“Don’t even think about dying, Mehriya.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “I already imagined us in Calcutta. You will be doing your nationalism in the streets, and I will be running a food stall. Dipa will be going to school and becoming someone big.”

“Big dreams, huh?” She smirked. “Yes, let’s dream high. Again.” She chuckled and let out a yawn. He slightly moved his shoulders close to her. She put her head on his shoulders and closed her eyes. He rested his head above hers.

They slept, hoping they would wake up tomorrow.

V. Drape Freed Of Ash

The sun burnt like a fireball. Throats were dry as a desert. Growling sounds echoed across the Barddhaman Junction. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the rails to spot any vibrations. But nothing. Just pure silence. 

People collapsed every minute, yet the train didn’t arrive. Two days passed; still their destination seemed far away. Dipa’s stomach growled louder and louder. 

“It’s okay, Dipa. We’ll eat at Calcutta.” Jasbir consoled her.

Meher let out a deep sigh and put her hands together to pray. She repeated to herself about escaping out of this hell. As if someone heard her prayer, the rails vibrated. The train entered the station. Everyone in the station, despite their worn-out selves, started running towards it. Jasbir caught Meher staring at him with a wide smile. He chuckled back. They both held Dipa’s hands at two ends and rushed into a compartment. The moment they were inside, the train started moving.

The compartment was packed with over a hundred people. People were crushed onto one another, making it difficult to breathe. Jasbir made space for Meher and Dipa inside his arms. Dipa clung on to his shirt tightly, and Meher’s face was placed on his chest. She glanced up to see his flushed face. Her cheeks got red at the sight of him. 

The train stopped at a station after an hour. More people rushed into the compartment. It was suffocating. And they got crushed into each other even more. Jasbir grinned slightly. Meher shot him a confused glance.

“What?” She asked while trying not to blush. 

“Nothing. Just dreaming about our Calcutta life.” He shrugged off and grinned.

Meanwhile, Dipa was dozing off constantly. But her excitement returned when Meher woke her up while reaching the Bandel Junction. 

“Didi, did we reach Calcutta?” She asked with her wide smile.

“No, Dipa. It’s Bandel Junction. I heard it’s a very crowded area, so stay close to Dada, okay?” Meher said. Dipa nodded.

The train stopped at the station. Many came inside, and many went outside. A sudden thrust pushed Jasbir from behind. He was carried away by the people with Dipa at his side out of the train. Meher was crammed with the other people. She yelled out their names with her face pressed onto the window. Jasbir was stepped upon by the crowd while he was trying to get a tight grip on Dipa.

The engine rumbled, and the train started moving. Meher’s eyes became motionless. Her stomach twisted and turned. Dipa’s loud cries echoed throughout the station. Jasbir was still trying to get back, but the crowd in front of them made it impossible. He screamed Meher’s name and let out a soft cry.

Meher’s face fell down with hopelessness. Every single bit of hope they had got buried that moment. Her mind raced with thoughts. They are never going to see each other again. 

She smiled wholeheartedly at Jasbir, her last smile. Then at Dipa. Tears ran down her cheeks. Jasbir cried out one last time and wiped his tears on his shirt. He whimpered softly while giving her one last smile for her to carry to the end.

She waved him goodbye.

He waved back.

And the train passed the station for a different journey. It never returned, ever again. And yet they both walked on, carrying with them the sweetest bruise of memory.

By Vagdha S