All passion spent they lay there fixed. She could hear Gulfam catching breath, numerous gasps and final expulsion of air – neither filled with relief nor resignation – an automated closure to passion. Tara was still looking at the roof, she was clean and didn’t sweat – a quick visit to the bathroom and she would be finished. She heard Gulfam get up and go towards the washroom, obviously she had to wait. She got up to check her phone a few rounds of the room and Gulfam was out. He was tall and shrewd, something that Tara had known all along. She wanted to hug him, but instead went towards the washroom, cleaned herself and remained there. She was beautiful, more so now; as she looked amber under the yellow lights. She washed her face and walked out, Gulfam was waiting, as undressed as he was.

“Do you play chess?” He asked.

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Not as good as me.”

Tara started picking up her clothes.

“You’d stay as long as we play. Then you can leave.”

Gulfam had always remained a servant to his interests. Tara could not bring herself to say no – they had once loved. She slid into her dress and walked towards the mirror. Gulfam had casually started to place the pieces on the board. Buttoning her dress Tara combed her hair, it was like old times, unbothered ease. She glanced at the stack of books and sat looking at them.

“Manto?” Tara exclaimed joining Urdu letters. She held the book in her hands. Though she couldn’t read Urdu she went excitedly flipping the pages of the book.

“Manto ke sau afsaney” Gulfam read the title for her. She felt the urge to ask Gulfam to read a story to her, but she didn’t. She wanted to though. But she kept quite – weakly joining the letters she read the table of contents to herself. She could successfully make out the familiar titles, but rest was struggle. Keeping the book on bed she ran a final glance around the room, checked her possessions and applied lipstick.

The board was set, it was time, and Gulfam knew what he had to do. He began dressing himself.

“Perhaps some other time.” Tara said alluding to chess as she walked towards the door.

“Hmm, sure…”He paused. “Take this.” Gulfam said with a smile, a thing warmest of everything he had.

“I won’t be able to read it.”

“I had taught you well! Practice it, you know most of the stories, it will be easy for you to read once you practice.”

Tara kept the book. She smiled and left, with a copy of Manto’s fables in Urdu. Closing the door behind Gulfam sat before the taut set chess board.

          There was no fire. No light. It might have been cold and dark, but who knows – I wasn’t born; and those who might have been there are long dead.

         Neetu looked at the book, a simplified figure of two men squatting with some stones scattered about. It was indeed a naïve representation, two men with full grown beard – clad in animal skin showing “discovery of fire”- Men indeed had made an accidental discovery. All that running away from Gods and Prometheus – how the race feeds on the stolen property.

            She closed the book, like a devout mother. “Oh how would he have read the poem I sent!” She thought while checking her mailbox. The mail wasn’t responded; she opened the sent-folder and re-read the poem. She obviously couldn’t keep the poem to herself, it was meant to be shared – and it could only be shared with him. Looking at the screen Neetu made up her mind that she should get Shashank ready for tomorrow’s school classes. Opening the book she called out to Shashank, it was as hard for her as her son. Forcing herself she asked “Shashank, Do you know how the fire was discovered?” Looking at a squatting pair of men over stones Shashank answered, “Not by rubbing the stones mummy, I tried – nothing happens.”

“Why! How? What did you do?” asked Neetu flabbergasted.

“I tried it yesterday at school, continuous rubbing made the stones hot. It didn’t work.”

Of course, it was a lie. Rubbing stones against each other could never work, stones cannot produce fire – anguish does.

“Do you know of Tisama Shashank?”

“No”

“Tisama was a girl born of river. She was born of Brahmaputra in the days when river flowed from the eastern end of the world to the western. It was she who produced fire, but that is a secret. No one would tell you that – but you could ask anyone – anyone would know.”

Shashank looked at his mother, he was clever – he could spot a lie from truth.

“When she was born entire Devlok had come down to earth and you could see waves pushing gold on the river banks. Brahmaputra had bought all its resources to the surface, the pearls, gold and glistening stones – all lined up on the river bank. She was soon taken by the fishermen and grew up to be a talented fisherwoman. When she was a little older than you she was taught how to feed and fend for herself. Humans, as you already know, lived on plants and meat. Though she learnt the skill of catching fish she could not bring herself to eat it. It smelled foul and tasted bad. As a deft cook and hunter she would always think of ways to make it taste better and would often go to sleep with unresolved thoughts. Eventually her sleep was filled with recurrent dreams of red, she would sleep in peace, but on shutting her eyes instead of going black, everything went red. Tired of these bizarre dreams she went to her mother, river Brahmaputra. Her mother directed her to Devlok, where the revelation was made that Tisama was born of the union of Agni dev and Brahmputra, and was thus chosen to take fire to earthlings for better tasting food.” Neetu finished with an understanding smile. This seemed close to truth to Shashank.

          Obviously, truth is always stranger than fiction – And so she kept the truth to herself. Tisama was never given the bounty of torch and fresh fish from the water never tasted foul to her. Tisama, like all ordinary girls had fallen in love – And fortunately unrequited love. Her beloved had left her waiting on the bank of river Brahmaputra. Where she waited for 500 days – on fifth hundredth and first day all the fisherwomen who had been looking for her finally found her. But she was not the same – she was red and ablaze releasing embers. Any woman who tried to save her turned to ashes. Since then, love has been cursed and that is how fire came to earth. A boon with a curse, much like love.

“You have sturdy stock of Mules Jamnadas.”
“Thank you Sahib.”

           Jamnadas was a sturdy old man with thinning beard and moustache in service of British since long. Like a non-believer of kismet his hands had only marks of rope for lines to offer any astrologer. British were reliable men; Jamnadas provided his mules on rent to the company and lived off security. Khyber Pass was always filled with camels and mules, motor car was only a rare sight; in such times Jamnadas never was ambitious enough to own camels, he was content with ownership of over 25 mules, his fat poultry, cattle and two stallions.

It was summer while other traders like him were waiting at the bank of the stream to go across to their villages. It was a routine; most of the population in the villages of Swath had taken up horse-keeping, though mostly camels, and rented them to traders travelling on Grand Trunk road. A sheer fatigue of going to the caravanserai in wee hours of morning, covering a distance of miles and travelling over river stream to reach the rest-house on GT road was part of work and excursion to them.

“Would you sell your mules?” Kishanlal asked in speculative tone.

Jamnadas remained silent. Jawantsingh’s mule was stubbornly standing at the bank of the stream some 150 meters away from Jamnadas and Kishan. They both observed the mule’s obstinate desperate attempts of moving away from the stream. Mule’s knees were in air when Jawant pulled the reins and slapped hard on its loins, the donkey started moving into the river with exasperating sighs.

“River current is terrific today.” Remarked Kishanlal, attempting to break the silence.

“Kishan, I might have to sell some of my mules.”  Jamnadas explained in composed voice. “Sahib told me, they are drawing the border, Rawalpindi will be with India. I will sell the poultry and mules; I’ll buy some land there.”

“And Mardan?” asked Kishanlal.

“Sell some of your mules to Azizuddin, keep a few with you. Keep the ones good enough to travel for four – five days. ”

Kishanlal got up with a decisive humph. Jawant’s livestock had passed. Kishan started directing his mules towards the stream. He would sell his mules. It seemed to be the final command. Piece of information from the sahib was the word of gospel; it could never be untrue. Kishan heard Jamnadas clicking at his mules behind him. Kishan kept walking. Partition was imminent, it was true. Kishan slowed his pace – He could hear Jamnadas at a distance. Pushing some mules ahead Kishan decided to walk behind the heard. He looked back and saw Jamnadas’ herd crossing the stream. Halting his herd Kishan waited for Jamna and matched his steps once he was close.

“Did sahib show you the map?” asked Kishan.

Jamnadas was astonished at Kishan’s doubt about the gospel of the sahib. Jamna knew he was being tested. Sahib could be doubted, but Jamnadas’ affairs and dealings with the sahibs, or his banters, could never be.

“He came for a pony the other day. A memsahib from England wanted to see the valley. He told me; Peshawar, Mardan, Nowshera – all would become Pakistan… – They are drawing the border till Attock.” Jamnadas paused and looked at Kishan, He knew he had made his point, Kishan’s face was strained.

“We have to go beyond Attock Kishan.” Jamnadas said with tired banality.

Kishan looked at Jamna’s faded tired face; he was hit with exhaustion of living. Kishan suddenly realized Jamna’s thin old skin, concentrated like a clump of pink flesh in the middle of the face. Jamna’s thinning beard, which was once fuller, had left no space on his face. Squashed between his turban and beard Kishan could only see his pink sunburnt nose and cheeks – and ordinary pair of eyes, lacking depth or vigour.

Kishan was dumbfounded – and none could realize the silence spreading between them. The stream flowing some 600 meters behind them had grown louder, it was summer – in winters the stream usually froze. Traders, horse-keepers, carts would cross the stream before sunrise and would come back after sunset, stream only lived and flowed during short hours of noon in winters. But it was summer; gushing stream echoed in the hills, mules were sluggishly walking towards home and Kishan languidly following his herd repeated in his head – “Attock”.

      Narrow streets of cities always find a large heart to accommodate all its denizens at once in the evening – And busy populous of the cities, always manages to find time to crowd its roads, markets and by lanes in the evening. Manjeet took his evening tea sitting on the porch of his house listening to young men drive past on their dazzling bikes, or crowding near the lamppost to talk. Children going to tuition-classes would often cross him, greet him – but he would only respond with a nod. Young men though, seemed dear to him, companions and recluses of his ebbing youth. Enjoying the boisterous conversation of two young men standing across the street by lamppost Manjeet had withdrawn into casual sipping of tea. He knew both of them (neighborhoods in cities are closer than assumed) and was keenly trying to follow the boisterous conversation of the two men.

“I am sure it was 2011” claimed Daman in unruly confidence.

“It was 2001, it cannot be 2011” snapped Atul, “uncle was it 2001 or 2011?” Atul began walking towards Manjeet, who swiftly replaced the tea cup in his hand with mobile phone. Deft with technology Manjeet started fiddling with his mobile to fix the facts.

“It has to be 2001, I remember Raunak was 6 year old and he was assigned the task to read the news in school assembly the next day. I had asked him to get the day’s newspaper.”- He said, while enthusiastically pushing the search button. As any other evening, this evening in narrow Delhi-street of Azad nagar was site for weak network. Manjeet was waiting for Google to work its magic and resolve the squabble.

“It has to be 2001.” Asserted Gurtej, Manjeet’s wife sitting at a distance on her house porch “Don’t you remember we went to your father’s house and the telecast was running on the T.V?” She addressed her assertion to her husband.

“Look! Teji aunty also says so.” Cried Atul with anguish of an almost-winner.

“Here it is, didn’t I say it was 2001, it was 9/11/2001. I remembered opening the paper to Raunak, It was news? It was major news!” Manjeet concluded with a triumphant laughter.

“Exactly!” shrieked Atul, “Exactly, this is what I was thinking, because papa passed away in 2012. It had to be 2001.”

“you must have confused or assumed 9/11 to be 9/2011” He continued.

“Yes, I guess, I must have confused it so.”

  It was evening and shutting the windows was almost necessary. Sana was expert at fixing the scarlet scarf in the loose hinges of the window to close passage for any stray mosquitoes or bugs trying to get in through the window. It was a usual weekday and after ceremonial closing of the window Sana found her room empty and silent. Obviously, windows in cities are not built to let-in air, but to let-in the hustle and noise of streets, a vague reminder to the self of living. In numerous such empty hours Sana had thought of keeping a dog, or initiating a new hobby, of dating someone , scheduling a walk and often negotiating with suicide. She was 30 and privileged – a definite contradiction to her exhausted attempts of self-killing.

After a long introspective stare at the roof she concluded that it was a cold but proper marriage, she shouldn’t have walked out on her husband – It was ordinary, as ordinary as the hard times of life, which come and go. Or so she thought.

“You have killed my child.”

Sana’s face drained colour, she grew pale and looked at Kabir with reproach. It was 5 days since the tragic loss of their first unborn child.

“You aborted the child, didn’t you?”

Sana dashed out of the room evading the reminiscence of past, in her accustomed negotiation she pacified herself. Kabir was only going through hard time, it was the miscarriage, not him – she put the pot on stove – added water, tea leaves, sugar, milk and waited. It had been 2 years of divorce to a 1 year marriage. Love she held for her former husband had started ebbing; it would have been easier had she not felt the tumultuous excitement of being a mother. Forgetting a pregnancy was hard, a miscarriage – even harder.

Overflowing pot distracted Sana and she simmered the stove. She waited for the tea to be boiled a little more and poured it to serve herself. Putting the pot away for washing she thought of Shivang, how unlike Kabir was he. An absolute darling; not always there to fill her empty room, but there nonetheless. Perhaps had she not been pregnant the room wouldn’t seem so empty to her, but she was and the room did seem empty. Perhaps she wouldn’t have thought about Kabir, had she not been pregnant – she thought sipping on her tea.

Her tea was darker today, as brown as chipped coffee coloured nail paint on her fingers.  Coffee was never her colour, She had only painted her nails coffee to match the sari she wore three weeks ago. It had looked beautiful, she had decided to wear chestnut brown cotton sari with deep coffee coloured nails. She wanted to look subtle and composed while meeting Shivang’s family. Ofcourse it was going to be a child out of wedlock, there was nothing traditional about it, so why should be the colours. But now she was alone and done with the cup of tea, She would go back to her usual self – looking at the chipped nail paint, she thought she’ll colour her nails crimson.