Read Online Ticket to India by N. H. Senzai - Free Book Online

at the building, Naniamma ran on, past old, decaying mansions.
    â€œNaughara Lane, it should be here,” muttered Naniamma , stopping at the third street. She froze, ­staring at a large house on the corner. “This is my uncle’s house,” she said, her voice hoarse, filled with excitement. She walked to the house next door and stood shaking at the crumbling steps.
    The girls followed her up to a faded and scarred set of double doors, where their grandmother took a deep breath and knocked. When no one answered, she thumped again. Finally, they heard feet running up from the other side of the door.
    â€œWho is it?” came a child’s voice, speaking Hindi.
    â€œI’m looking for the family of Mir Hayat,” responded Naniamma .
    There was silence.
    â€œPlease open the door,” said Naniamma .
    The door creaked open, and a small boy stood at the entrance. Maya peered over his head and glimpsed a vaulted passageway that led to a dusty courtyard.
    â€œSalaam Alaikum,” said Naniamma . “Is your mother here?”
    The little boy frowned and looked at them­suspiciously. Then he pivoted and ran back through the open-air veranda and disappeared into the house. As Maya eyed the lone, stunted tree growing in the ­middle of the courtyard, the boy came back, a woman trailing him, dressed in a faded cotton sari, and with a red bindi marking her forehead, the sign of a married Hindu woman.
    â€œWhat do you want?” she asked, approaching the door with a frown.
    â€œI am looking for Mir Hayat’s family,” said Naniamma , her voice a little uncertain.
    The woman shrugged. “There is no one here by that name.”
    â€œAre you sure?” asked Naniamma .
    â€œYes, yes. We’ve had this house for over twenty years,” said the woman, her tone brusque. “My father-in-law bought it from an old man.”
    â€œThe old man, where is he now?” asked Naniamma .
    â€œGone,” said the woman. “I can’t help you.” Then she shut the door.
    â€œThis is not good,” said Zara, a frown settling over her brow.
    â€œBut Mir Hayat said they would never move,” said Naniamma .

7
    Days Long Gone
    T WO HOURS LATER, AFTER meandering through the back streets of Old Delhi, they finally stumbled upon what they were looking for: a storefront with a dusty green awning. After getting the door to Mir Hayat’s old house shut in their faces, they’d stood on the steps, bitterly disappointed. Naniamma , pale and exhausted, had been about to say something, when they heard guttural singing from down the street.
    â€œCome, examine my lovely, plump eggplants and sensational squash,” warbled a grizzled old man, pushing a wooden cart piled with vegetables. “My tomatoes are incomparable and my okra divine!”
    A hopeful smile lighting her face, Naniamma hurried down the steps—it was a known fact back in Karachi that vendors knew all the local gossip, since they came through the neighborhood every day. As Naniamma purchased a bag of limes from the man, she asked what had happened to the Hayat family. With a sigh, he told them that they had to move after their business fell on hard times. Although he didn’t know where, he knew they still ran their bookshop in Urdu Bazaar, near Jama Mosque.
    Maya found Urdu Bazaar on the map and off they went, passing yet another crumbling mansion, ­encircled by a protective metal gate. “This one’s listed on the map,” she said. “Haksar Haveli, where Nehru, the first prime minister of India, got married.”
    â€œYes,” said Naniamma , recollection animating her weary features. “Nehru’s daughter, Indira Gandhi, became the second woman to rule India, after Razia Sultana. And when the Pakistani president came to Delhi for peace talks, he passed by here on the way to the house where he’d been born.”
    â€œThe president of Pakistan was born in