My parents looked up, smiling, and my father sighed and said: Yes, of course, I knew she would.
My grandmother was chewing her lip now and looking down at her plate. Softly, she said: I don’t know if I should go.
My parents exchanged an astonished glance.
Of course you must go, Ma, my father said.
Why, said my mother, even a few months ago you were saying that it was the one thing you really wanted to do.
I know, my grandmother said uncertainly. But now … I don’t know. I feel scared. Do you think it will be wise after all these years? It won’t be like home any more.
The cham-chams and all the other sweets will be the same, my mother said encouragingly. And so will all the fish. And there’ll be all those lovely Dhakai saris to buy.
And imagine, added my father, you’ll get to fly in an aeroplane for the first time. It’ll be a lovely holiday.
This stung my grandmother. Glaring at my father, she said: If I go it won’t be for a holiday. You ought to know I don’t believe in luxuries like that. I haven’t taken a holiday all my life and I’m not going to start now. If I go it will be for the sake of Jethamoshai. Since I am the only person in the family who cares, it is my duty to see if I can bring the poor old man back.
So you are going then? my mother asked anxiously.
At that my grandmother’s uncertainty returned. I don’t know, she said. I really don’t know …
Over the next few months my parents tried often to push her gently to make up her mind. But every time they brought up the subject my grandmother would either shake her head or simply get up and leave the room.
Then, in June, after three months had passed, our phone rang late one evening. My father happened to answer it. He listened, and then told me to fetch my grandmother — it was a trunk call for her from Delhi. From Mayadebi.
A trunk call from another city was a very exciting matter: a kind of minor miracle, but also cause for anxiety until one found out whether the news was good or bad. I ran up the stairs so fast that when I got to her room I was too breathless to explain. Instead I simply grabbed her hand and dragged her down the stairs.
My parents and I hovered around as she stuck a trembling finger in one ear and raised the instrument to the other. We heard her say: Yes, yes, I don’t know, I can’t make up my mind, when are you leaving? There was a short pause as she listened to Mayadebi. Then, at the top of her voice, she began to explain that their uncle was still alive, still living, in Dhaka, in their old house; that she, Maya, must go and look him up as soon as she reached Dhaka, something had to be done about bringing him to India … She ran out of breath and listened again, for a bit. I don’t know, she said in response to a question. No, really, I can’t decide — it’s not for myself, I’m worrying about Jethamoshai. Then again she listened, smiling now, and at last she said: All right, I’ll come, I give you my word.
Mayadebi, the Shaheb and Robi had flown into Delhi last week, she explained to my parents after she had put the phone down. They were leaving for Dhaka a couple of days later — they weren’t going to be able to stop in Calcutta — they didn’t have enough time.
But are you going to Dhaka too? my father said. That’s the important thing.
My grandmother shrugged helplessly. What else can I do? she said. It’s out of my hands now; everything seems to be pointing in that direction.
When will you go then?
If I go, she said, it will have to be in January next year. I must give them some time to settle down in their new house.
A few weeks later, at dinner, my father, grinning hugely, pushed an envelope across the table to my grandmother. That’s for you, he said.
What is it? she said, eyeing it suspiciously.
Go on, he said. Have a look.
She picked it up, opened the flap and peered into it. I can’t tell, she said. What is it?
My father burst into laughter. It’s your plane ticket, he said. For Dhaka — for the third of January, 1964.
That night, for the first time in months, my grandmother seemed really excited. When I went up to see her, before going to bed, I found her pacing around the room, her face flushed, her eyes shining. I was delighted. It was the first time in my eleven-year-old life that she had presented me with a response that I could fully understand — since I had never been on a plane myself, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to me that the prospect of her first flight should fill her with excitement. But I couldn’t help worrying about her too, for I also knew that, unlike me, she was totally ignorant about aeroplanes, and before I fell asleep that night I resolved that I would make sure that she was properly prepared before she left. But soon enough it was apparent to me that it wasn’t going to be easy to educate her: I could tell from the direction of the questions she asked my father that, left to herself, she would learn nothing about aeroplanes.
For instance, one evening when we were sitting out in the garden she wanted to know whether she would be able to see the border between India and East Pakistan from the plane. When my father laughed and said, why, did she really think the border was a long black line with green on one side and scarlet on the other, like it was in a school atlas, she was not so much offended as puzzled.
No, that wasn’t what I meant, she said. Of course not. But surely there’s something — trenches perhaps, or soldiers, or guns pointing at each other, or even just barren strips of land. Don’t they call it no-man’s land?
My father was already an experienced traveller. He burst out laughing and said: No, you won’t be able to see anything except clouds and perhaps, if you’re lucky, some green fields.
His laughter nettled her. Be serious, she snapped. Don’t talk to me as though I were a secretary in your office.
Now it was his turn to be offended: it upset him when she spoke sharply to him within my hearing.
That’s all I can tell you, he said. That’s all there is.
My grandmother thought this over for a while, and then she said: But if there aren’t any trenches or anything, how are people to know? I mean, where’s the difference then? And if there’s no difference, both sides will be the same; it’ll be just like it used to be before, when we used to catch a train in Dhaka and get off in Calcutta the next day without anybody stopping us. What was it all for then — Partition and all the killing and everything — if there isn’t something in between?
I don’t know what you expect, Ma, my father retorted in exasperation. It’s not as though you’re flying over the Himalayas into China. This is the modern world. The border isn’t on the frontier: it’s right inside the airport. You’ll see. You’ll cross it when you have to fill in all those disembarkation cards and things.
My grandmother shifted nervously in her chair. What forms? she said. What do they want to know about on those forms?
My father scratched his forehead. Let me see, he said. They want your nationality, your date of birth, place of birth, that kind of thing.
My grandmother’s eyes widened and she slumped back in her chair.
What’s the matter? my father said in alarm.
With an effort she sat up straight again and smoothed back her hair. Nothing, she said, shaking her head. Nothing at all.
I could see then that she was going to end up in a hopeless mess, so I took it upon myself to ask my father for all the essential information about flying and aeroplanes that I thought she ought to have at her command — I was sure, for example, that she would roll the windows down in midair unless I warned her not to.