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

India?” asked Zara, surprised.
    â€œYes, his family left Delhi after Partition when he was a baby. He came back for the first time with his mother.”
    Maya gazed at the forlorn building with a pang of sadness. It had been a critical part of India’s history and now it was just another ruin, home to wandering goats rummaging through the rubbish. The girls and their grandmother traveled east, past sizzling kebab stalls, a shop specializing in birds—homing pigeons, partridges, and songbirds—and a warehouse crammed with fireworks. A group of kids paid for a bagful and ran off, whispering and giggling with excitement.
    â€œWhat are these used for?” Maya pondered out loud.
    â€œThey are set off during religious celebrations,” explained Naniamma . “There is Muslim Eid, Zoroastrian New Year, Christmas, and the many Hindu holidays.”
    â€œKids must be off from school for vacation all the time,” said Maya, as they encountered a stall of garland makers preparing flower necklaces that brides and grooms wore at their weddings. Nanabba should be here with us, she thought glumly, trying not to trample the stray rose petals littering the ground.
    â€œWe’re nearly there,” said Zara, turning onto a quiet street. A jumble of bookshops lined both sides, including the one they were seeking. It was located beside Rizwan Book Depot. The crooked sign inUrdu, Hindi, and English, announced: HAYAT’S BOOKSHOP AND HOUSE OF CALLIGRAPHY . Past the cracked glass Maya spotted a wizened old man in a crisp white kurta pyjama hunched over a desk, running his hand through his silky white beard as he read a newspaper. On either side of him stretched rickety bookshelves crammed with books, manuscripts, and journals.
    â€œThis is it,” whispered Naniamma , pausing to smooth her sari before entering.
    â€œCan I help you?” asked the old man eagerly, folding away the paper. “I have rare tomes that may interest you: poetry by Faiz or Ghalib, newly printed novels— Umrao Jan Ada . Or I can prepare a letter in Urdu if you need.”
    â€œUh, no, thank you,” said Naniamma nervously. “I’m looking for Mir Hayat’s family.”
    â€œEh, speak up; I don’t hear so well anymore,” he said, cupping his ear.
    â€œI’m looking for Mir Hayat’s family,” Naniamma repeated louder.
    â€œOh,” he said. “I am Mir Hayat’s youngest son, Tariq.”
    â€œTariq Sahib ,” said Naniamma , cheeks flushed with relief and excitement. “I’m so pleased to meet you. My father was Rayyan Mohammad Tauheed. Hisbrother, Hamza, had a house next to your father’s.”
    Recognition sparkled in the man’s cloudy gray eyes. “Oh, yes, my brothers and I played with his sons as children—stickball in the streets! I remember one of the boys—I think his name was Firaz—got us to steal jalebis from a sweet shop down the street. We got caught and were in so much trouble.” He chuckled. “And your father—he used to come over for dinner whenever he was in town.”
    â€œYes,” said Naniamma , smiling. “My name is Alia, and sometimes my sisters and I would accompany him to Delhi from Aminpur.”
    â€œYes,” said Tariq Sahib . “I remember the fancy parties your uncle threw in your father’s honor.”
    Naniamma nodded, relieved that he remembered.
    â€œBut I recall that your family moved to Pakistan,” said Tariq Sahib . “Whatever became of them?”
    Naniamma ’s face tightened. “They didn’t survive the train passage.”
    Tariq Sahib took a ragged breath, additional creases weighing down his wrinkled cheeks. “‘Surely we belong to Allah and to Him shall we return,’” he recited. “My heart aches at the news. Of course we heard such tales of horror—of trains arriving from Pakistan filled with murdered Hindus and