A TALE : History Never Told Us- 1947

“Abdul! Ram! The tea is ready. Are you both done loading!?” Jalander Singh paced towards the bullock cart, where Ramgopal held a bundle of small household items wrapped up in a big piece of cloth, and Abdul Rehman was patting one of the bulls. He stood there with an expression that said it was he and not the cart, who carried all the weight.

“Yes yes, almost done,” Ram concluded, while piling the last bundle on the cart. Jalander looked at Abdul Rehman and then to Ram, they both exchanged knowing glances. Then Jalander moved forward and placed his hand on Abdul Rehman’s shoulder and said, “ Don’t worry Abdul. Bolli  will be an excellent companion. I raised him up to this day and if he can’t help you in need, then there was no point in raising him all along.” 

Abdul Rehman felt as if Jalander shared some of the burden, but he could only reply with a faint smile.

“ You sentimental lot, the tea is waiting for us!” Ram exclaimed.

Abdul called out his wife from the front door of their small earthen home, “ I will be back in a while! keep Kareem ready!’’ Then the three walked towards Jalander Singh’s house.

Jalander Singh and Ramgopal Sharma were not only Abdul Rehman’s friends. They were the brothers he was bestowed while being the only son of his parents. Three individuals bonded together to compose a symphony, that everyone is Chandni Chowk could play by the mere mention of any one of their names. They have known each other for as long as one can remember. They lived a few houses apart in a diverse neighbourhood amidst the chatter of Chandni Chowk. A place where diverse people dwelled like flowers in a garden. The Hindu were like the roses: glorious in their treads and sweet in their voices. Then came the Sikh. They were similar to sunflowers; they illuminated the place with their brightness and vibrance. Lastly, the Muslims resembled dandelions. The heavy blow of partition compelled them to migrate to Lahore and Punjab. Abdul Rehman and his family: his mother, wife and a small son were among the dandelions that were still left, but soon they were to be plucked and blown into nothingness.

                                                      ***

The ghastly figures dancing on the hot cups of tea carried uncountable memories. Recollections strong enough to lower the backs, however the figures kept twirling. It was a delightful burden. Abdul Rehman pressed the edge of the tea cup onto his lips. It was a peculiar taste of belonging, he thought to himself. 

“Wah Wah!! (an informal expression used for praising) Bhabhi ji makes the best tea in all of Chandni Chowk–” Rampal proclaimed, as he took the first sip of tea.

“Not only Chandni Chowk. I believe, no one can make such an incredible tea in the whole of Delhi,” Abdul Rehman added.

 Jalander Singh guffawed and almost spilled his tea, “Ha ha haha, you both never fail to find new ways of gratitude, han?!”

“Arey bhai, just like you never fail to disrespect the tea,” Abdul remarked.

“Exactly, you should drink sharbat, at least it tastes better than cold tea.”

Abdul Rehman and Ramgopal both chuckled, but soon their chortles died leaving a deep sorrowful groan. They have been escaping reality for quite a while now. It was time to face the truth. 

They held the tea cups and the warmth reached their souls. The morning tea was more like a tradition. It was like a holy prayer which the three had to offer together, before they went on with their daily chores. The setting may change between a nearby dhaba or one of their houses. Sometimes it included freshly baked bread or papay (rusk). Still and all, the tea had to be there despite any season.

Jalander Singh began, “Do you have any idea how many people are travelling with the caravan?”

“I’m not sure, but I heard someone saying yesterday at the bazaar, that there might be around 50-60 people,” Abdul said as he took another sip of tea.

“Quite a lot of people,” Jalander felt a shiver down his spine as he said the last words, “I hope you reach safely.”

“Have you packed enough food? And water?” asked Ramgopal.

“Yes Ram, Parveen have packed food for days. I think that will be enough, afterall we are not alone. There are other people with us. You need not worry.” Abdul knew no matter what he said Ram would still be worried.

The misty figures on Jalander Singh’s cup looked as though they were getting weary, since now they swayed with less enthusiasm. For about another ten to fifteen minutes they continued to make small talks. Ram and Jalander did what they most dreaded. They gave Abdul few instructions regarding the arduous travel. They discussed the route the caravan was supposed to take. They talked about how the other caravans reached safely and so will his caravan. They conversed slowly as though doing so will stop the time. 

Abdul placed his empty cup on the table. He was about to say something, when Kareem came running from the wooden gate into the veranda. “Abu ji, Abu ji! Dadi jaan said we should get going or we will be late” Kareem conveyed the message, and ran out again with the same speed he came.

The words melted on Abdul’s tongue and suddenly there was nothing else to say. A meaningful silence engulfed them all. A silence predicting a catastrophe; a silence before a loud roar.

                                                   ***

The next day Jalander Singh and Ramgopal sat in the same chairs, while Baljeet Kore brought two cups of tea. Abdul’s chair was empty and so were the hearts of his two most dearest companions. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night..,” Ram confronted while he looked at the cups resting on the table. Today the misty figures looked rather discontented, running here and there as if they’re trying to convey something, but their nature caused them to vanish before they could behold what horrors they carried.

“Me neither,” that’s all Jalandar Singh was able to respond to. They sat in the same positions for a few minutes before Jalander felt a strong impulse to turn on the radio. It was placed next to the tea cups.

“..that is all from All India Radio today, Thank you..” a voice filled their bubble with his thick Indian accent. 

They had missed the daily news bulletin. As Jalander was about to turn it off,something stopped him mid motion.

“This is another Breaking News from All India Radio. We are broadcasting from Delhi station-” the same thick voice transmitted.

Something inside them stirred. They looked at each other. Their eyes mirrored the same stillness which prevailed before the onset of a tempest. Somehow, they already knew what the speaker was going to say.

 “–A caravan is looted and mass murdered near Haryana. Almost all the people are killed and no casualties are reported.’’

Ram got up in a flick of a motion and held the radio in his hands, but he couldn’t stop the speaker from continuing.

“Someone reported that the caravan left from Delhi yesterday morning and they were supposed to reach Lahore,” the speaker took a slight pause.

Jalander Singh felt as if his heart beated with the same pace as the voice from the radio, and it ceased for a while.

“However, no one is found alive.”

Ram fell to his knees clutching the radio to his chest.

“ This is all for now.We will keep you updated on the further details ”

Jalander remembered what Abdul whispered in his ear when they embraced the last time, “The magic wasn’t in bhabhi ji’s hands, but it was your company that always made the tea exceptional.”

“ That is all from All India Radio.”

Two untouched cups of tea remained on the table. The hazy figures faded. No twirling, no warmth. They had their fair share of life. 

                                                 *****

Note: All events and characters are fictional.