By Sweta Srivastava Vikram

“World’s Best Dad!” Sarah picked up the coffee mug in her hand and softly caressed those inscribed words. Her father was dead, but the extant words on the mug reminded her of the last time she and her father spoke. He was holding the mug and waving his hands at Sarah in disagreement. That evening was a display of emotional uproar in the Pandit kitchen in central London.

Sarah thought of the kitchen as the battlefield where every victory was a loss in some way, and every loss, a victory. That evening there were tears, stomping, fiery verbal exchanges, unrevealed secrets, and a relationship altered. Even after five years, Sarah had every word shot out of her father’s lips memorized. Ironically, the same lips proudly drank tea from the illustrious mug every day and gave Sarah a kiss on the cheek when she was a little girl.

Her mother, Mary Pandit, interrupted Sarah’s thoughts.

“What are you thinking, my love?”

“This mug, Mom. I can’t believe Dad kept this mug after all these years,” Sarah confessed and felt tears roll down her defiant cheeks. She had an intriguing blend of accents. Her mother was British, father Indian, and since Sarah attended school in the United States, she had a flavorful American accent.

“He drank his first cup of Earl Grey in that mug every morning. No one was allowed to touch it. Not even me. He would wash it and dry it himself. He never put it in words, but this mug was his favorite gift,” said Mary.

“Mom, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Sarah hugged her mother and mourned the loss of her father amongst other things.

“You didn’t, darling. I promise you. A part of him died decades ago.”

Sarah stared at her mother in confusion. Mary quickly caught the slip of her tongue and corrected herself.

“I mean he loved you. He admired your guts for going against our wishes and achieving your dream.”

“Then what, Mom? Why was Dad so adamant about his decision? So much so that he ostracized his only child?”

Mary looked into Sarah’s eyes with utmost love, as if she understood Sarah’s curiosity. Sarah looked a lot like her father. The same sharp, Kashmiri nose, flawless pink skin, lean body, and undeniable pride. The similarity also reminded her of the fateful evening.

Sarah was in the last phase of her PhD thesis on cultural studies at Columbia University in New York. She had expressed her desire to spend a semester in India and understand the true relations between Indians and Pakistani civilians in vulnerable Kashmir. The preliminary data convinced her that the political figures in both the countries had their own agenda to represent the situation as unstable and chaotic. Sarah was ecstatic because her father was Kashmiri. Her paternal grandparents, whom she had never met, lived in Srinagar, the capital of the volatile state. Ravi Pandit, Sarah’s father, had rarely mentioned his family or India.

Sarah always got the feeling that Ravi wanted to erase his past. The inquisitive soul in her wanted to know why, so after all these years, when she got an opportunity to study her paternal heritage, finally meet her grandparents, and present the real story of the Indian-Pakistani relationship to the world, she was thrilled. But Ravi was absolutely against the idea of Sarah going to India or reconnecting with his parents. He had said, “Bloody nonsense. If you go, you’ll see my dead face.”

Sarah broke Mary’s cobweb of thoughts. “Mom, will you tell me what happened? Don’t you think I deserve to know? For closure?” Sarah was persistent, like her father.

Mary pulled on an old piece of kitchen cloth—in the hope that the cotton threads would unleash the story to her daughter. For forty years, she had known of the truth that corroded her darling husband’s heart. She had wanted to tell her daughter about everything, but he hadn’t wanted to burden Sarah with...but he was no more, so maybe she could…to be fair to Sarah.

Mary made a cup of hot cocoa for Sarah and hot tea for herself. She asked Sarah to follow her into her late husband’s study. It had been five years since Sarah had been this room, but she recognized the rustic smell instantly. It was a mix of wood, old books, and her father’s cologne. She felt nauseous with guilt on seeing the study table with her father’s reading glasses and his empty rocking chair. It was in this room that she had last seen her father alive. She touched his belongings softly and was transported into their conversation while Mary tried opening a cabinet.

“Why can’t I go?” Sarah had asked Mr. Pandit.

“Because I said so,” was his vague, resolute response.

“Uggh! You are so controlling. Where am I going to find the data that I need for my research?”

“London is full of immigrants.”

“You expect me to ask random strangers awkward questions? Dad, this is such a fabulous opportunity. You’ve got to…”

“You can ask my friends and me. I’ll tell you whether I hate or love Pakistanis. But no going to Kashmir or India. That’s final, Sarah.”

“Maybe you don’t care about where you come from, but I haven’t forgotten that I am part Indian. You are like those people who are quick to denounce their heritage!”

“Bollocks! It’s not like that, Sarah!”

“Then what is it like? How can you not want to meet your own people? You turned your back on your own family decades ago. How do you live with yourself? What if I did the same to you?”

Sarah’s words opened up a raw, nasty wound in Mr. Pandit’s heart. He collapsed in his rocking chair and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

Sarah stood in front of Mr. Pandit’s face and said, “I am old enough. You can’t tell me what to do. I am going. With or without your consent.”

Mr. Pandit looked at his wife and said, “Mary, can you believe it? Our daughter thinks that I don’t care about family. I am not proud of…I didn’t think I’d live to see this day.”

“Dad, you and your emotional blackmail and drama! *‘I didn’t think I’d live to see this day*.” Sarah repeated her father’s words in frustration. She had always thought her father was the more emotionally stable and rational person but she stood corrected.

Mary felt torn. She knew both her husband and daughter were right in their own way. If she could only tell Sarah Ravi’s reasons. All this drama, tearing her family apart, would be…

Mr. Pandit turned to Sarah. “I can’t tell you why I won’t go or why you shouldn’t go. Clearly you don’t care about our opinion or trust my judgment, but Sarah, one thing I can promise you: If you go, you’ll see my dead face.”

Those were the last words exchanged between Ravi Pandit and his daughter. Sarah had stormed out of the study, packed her bags, and moved to her friend’s place. She took a flight back to New York the next day without saying a goodbye to her father.

While Sarah was taking a trip down memory lane, Mary had managed to unlock the antique cabinet.

“Sarah, come here, darling. I want to show you something.” Mary was holding a folder and an album in her hands.

“What is it, Mom?” Sarah sipped her cup of cocoa.

“The truth. The past. The answers to your questions. I would call it our personal Holy Grail.”

Sarah was confused.

“Let’s start with the album. Shall we?”

“Sure, Mom.”

On seeing the first page of the photo album, Sarah asked, “Where was this taken? That doesn’t look like London.”

“That was taken in our office in Pune.” Mary replied without looking Sarah in the eye.

“Whoa! What? Pune? Where is that? And what office?”

“Pune, India.”

“When were you in India? You mean you worked there?”

“Yes. It was in Pune that I met your father.”

Sarah was livid. “But, I thought you and Dad met in Covent Garden at the Asian festival. Isn’t that what you guys told me?”

“Your father and I met in Pune, Sarah. I worked for the British Council as Indo-UK cultural manager. My eight-month assignment turned into a three-year stay when I fell in love with Ravi, who was the center’s director.”

“You are telling me that Dad didn’t live in Srinagar? I met his family. I mean my family, when I was there. What is going on Mom?”

“I…”Mary fumbled for the right words.

“You guys gave me a different story growing up? Why? Dad was not only an obstinate jerk but also a liar?”

“Watch it, Sarah! Don’t speak such bloody nonsense!”

Sarah, for the first time, saw true anger in her mother’s eyes. In a way she felt good—even after her father’s death, her mother was still in love with him. Sarah’s feelings were nudged by Mary, who was finally willing to share the Pandits’ past.

“Your father was a very good man—caring, honest, valiant, handsome, and a proud Kashmiri. He was well respected by his peers and employees. I remember, at work, we would do a food-based theme, ‘Regional foods of India,’ once every three weeks, to experience the decadent variety of Indian cuisine. Ravi would cook up a storm of delectable *goshtabas *and *rogan josh* when it was his turn. His Kashmiri pride was written all over him.”

Mary sipped her tea and blushed slightly. “The moment I saw him, I fell in love, and I knew I wanted to spend my life with him. It was Ravi who took his time to commit. He wanted to be sure I fit well into an Indian family.”

“I find something new about Dad every minute, literally. He cooked but was also a male chauvinist…”

“Your father loved me but he also loved his country. From day one, he didn’t lie to me. He never wanted to leave India, and at the same time he didn’t want me to sacrifice my life. In fact, Ravi eventually wanted to settle down in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. He wanted to be sure I was okay with that decision. Aside from our common love for tea, your father and I would spend hours discussing books and world history. We wanted to travel and imbibe the essence of various cultures. My favorite author was Rabindranath Tagore, and Ravi admired Winston Churchill’s ideologies. He introduced me to flavors and spices of Kashmir while I helped him develop a taste for shepherd’s pie.” Mary was misty-eyed reminiscing about her late husband.

“Plus, Ravi really cared for his parents then. He didn’t want to displease them by springing up a foreigner as a daughter-in-law. We were shocked by how accepting his parents were of us. Almost too eager. We should have known.” Mary’s tone had changed from gentle to vicious.

“Did dad’s parents live in Srinagar when he worked in Pune?”

“No. Aarti and Bansi Pandit, Ravi’s parents lived in Pune with Ravi.”

“So, when did they move to Srinagar? I met them there.”

“When Ravi was about eight or nine, Aarti and Bansi decided to move to Pune from Srinagar. They felt the political situation in Srinagar was out of control, with constant attacks on the civilians and the Hindu-Muslim riots.”

“Well, you don’t sound very convinced.”

Mary ignored Sarah’s piercing look and harsh tone.

“You are just like Ravi—curious and suspicious. So, after dating for over two and a half years, your father and I decided to tie the knot. Ravi wanted to get married in the city he was born and remembered very little about—Srinagar. He felt hungry for his family tree. He wanted to find out about his people and his beautiful town. Every time he approached the subject with Aarti and Bansi, they would avoid it. They didn’t want Srinagar mentioned in their conversations. There was a large Kashmiri community in Pune but they didn’t interact with anyone. In fact, Aarti and Bansi had no friends or relatives whatsoever. Ravi always wondered about his parents’
detachment and sheltered life. Aarti and Bansi used the tribulations-of a-refugee-life as a reason to close all doors that led to their past.

Though Ravi respected their sentiments, he felt he had to go to Srinagar to find out more about the five generations of Pandits and their ancestral home overlooking Dal Lake. His only direct connection to the town, aside from his fading memories, was Abdul Aziz.

“Who is Abdul Aziz?”

“Abdul Aziz, true to his name, “servant of the powerful,” was the help’s son in Ravi’s Srinagar house. Ravi and Abdul were best friends growing up—more like brothers. Without Aarti and Bansi’s knowledge, Ravi had managed to stay in touch with Abdul. They wrote letters to each other once a month. Abdul was Ravi’s only link to his past, and Ravi was Abdul’s only family in this world. His parents were killed in one of the treacherous attacks on the Srinagar residents.

When Ravi suggested that we get married in Srinagar, I agreed. Ravi needed closure, and I wanted my Ravi happy.”

“How did Dad’s parents react?”

“How do you think? Aarti threatened to commit suicide and Bansi vowed to disown Ravi.”

“Well, what did Dad do then?”

“We went to Srinagar. You get your stubbornness from your father, you know.”

“Well, Dad should have understood where I was coming from, right?”

Sarah was glad that she could blame her obstinacy on her own parent. But she was happier that her statement had brought a smile to her mother’s melancholic face.

“It wasn’t that Ravi didn’t care about what his parents said, but his heart told him to go to Srinagar. You can’t steal away someone’s childhood memories. In his letters to Ravi, Abdul never revealed much about Ravi’s past. Without telling Aarti or Bansi, your father, a few of our colleagues, who would be a witness to our wedding, and I took a train to Srinagar.”

Mary paused for a moment and stroked the rim of the cup. “Srinagar was romantic and Abdul’s hospitality, remarkable. I had never seen Ravi more content. He was delirious.”

“Did you guys see the ancestral home and all that?”

“Yes, we did. It was a mansion with skeletons in the closet. I couldn’t believe a place as beautiful as Srinagar could ever hold a dark secret as...slowly, the ominous truth started revealing itself when Ravi tried interacting with the local people. There were very few families left behind whom Ravi or his family knew. The others had fled Srinagar around the same time. “

Mary looked outside the window, hoping the rain would complete the remaining story.

“Then what, Mom?”

“Have you read about lepers and the way they are treated?”

“Huh?”

“That’s how everyone looked at Ravi. People closed their doors on our faces the minute he mentioned his family, like they were some demons. Ravi was curious. He had made an effort to reconnect with his past, much against his parents’ wishes, but for some reason his past wanted to avert its face.”

“Couldn’t you have asked someone there? In Srinagar, I mean?” Sarah asked impatiently.

“Aside from Abdul, and the local librarian, no other soul would entertain our presence.”

“Did Dad find out anything?”

“We went to the local library in Srinagar, which holds a public record of every single person born there. Ravi, Abdul, and I rummaged through the records to find some link to Ravi’s family tree. We spent days and nights hunting. Finally, Ravi found the record of the Pandits. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

“You are scaring me Mom.”

“A big part of Ravi died that day, Sarah.” Mary’s tears had found a path to follow.

“What happened?”

“Ravi’s parents didn’t flee Srinagar like the rest of the terror-struck refugees. They left because there was an arrest warrant out for them. The Central Bureau of Investigation of India had given shoot-at-sight orders for Aarti and Bansi. “

“What? Why? What did they do?”

“Ravi’s parents ran a terrorist training camp on the border of India and Pakistan. They were responsible for the death of several hundred people, including Abdul’s parents. The chief of the Srinagar police was involved with them too. When he found that the CBI was sending bloodhounds to arrest the Pandits, he warned them ahead of time. Overnight, Aarti, Bansi, and Ravi caught a train to New Delhi and from there to Pune.”

Mary’s face had turned red with angst. Her eyes had welled up with horrific memories of the past. Sarah was too shocked to breathe. She looked at her mother with innocent eyes, hoping she would say that this was all a bad joke.

“Ravi was never the same after that day. To find out that your own parents are murderers…And to think, Ravi couldn’t even hurt a fly. After that day, we never saw his parents. Thankfully, our company’s Indian headquarters were in New Delhi. We got married and stayed back in New Delhi until Ravi’s papers came through. Once his visa was sorted out, we moved to London.”

Mary was sobbing inconsolably. Sarah wiped her mother’s tears and stared at the folder in Mary’s hands.

“Mom, what’s in this folder?”

“Visualization of the gory past.”

Mary handed the folder to Sarah. Sarah could hardly wait to open it. She first stared and then read the newspaper clippings from decades ago, all indicating and proving the gruesome deeds committed by the Pandits. There were pictures of babies covered in blood, men with amputated legs, pregnant women with daggers in their chest, and little boys with guns in their hands.

Sarah felt nauseous. She could not muster the courage to read through the rest. Just as she was going to close the folder, her eyes strayed to: “Srinagar slayings by the Pandits.” She looked at the photos closer.

“But Mom, these are not my grandparents. I stayed with them in Srinagar for fifteen days. I recognize them. These are some other people. Who are they? Maybe the CBI was confused?”

“These are your grandparents, Sarah. You never met Aarti and Bansi in Srinagar.”

“What?” The folder slipped from Sarah’s hands.

“Ravi knew you would go to Srinagar. He recognized the persistence in his own blood. He was cognizant of people’s reactions if they found out your true identity. You wouldn’t have come back alive. He called up Abdul and asked him to make arrangements.”

“What arrangements? Are you telling me that I lived with a fake family?”

“You lived with the only true family Ravi ever had—Abdul and his wife, Barkha.”

About the Author: Sweta Srivastava Vikram is an author, poet, writer, blogger, marketing professional living in New York City. In 2008, her first book of poetry, Pabulum (Lelo Media), was published. In March 2009, one of Sweta’s stories, “Challenges of Breaking Rules,” was published as part of a short stories collection, Inner Voices (Mirage Books). Sweta’s fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Desijournal, Rangoli Magazine, Kala Kahani, and Recovering Self. http://www.swetavikram.com/