I saw Mariam Bibi and Rahim Dad for the first time a few days ago. They looked old, older than their wrinkles. Both were crying, their faces fraught with untold pain. Mariam Bibi had gone to see her brother in Pakistan after, perhaps, many years. Brother and sister hugged and cried together. He took her home and over a meal the two shared some bittersweet memories. For a while, two pairs of misty eyes shone like four bright stars in a dark sky. They remembered the house they grew up in, the little games they played on each other. Rahim's marbles and Mariam's dolls, the school he went to and she didn't, the mangoes they stole together, the fun, the happiness... They sat laughing and crying, lapsing into nostalgia. Nostalgia and romanticism -- twins in Time's womb. One, a memory of yesterday, the other, a dream of tomorrow. The two old people didn't know what tomorrow would bring, if indeed they lived to see it. They hadn't forgotten their first separation when a handful of strangers drew an invisible line across their land. This side, those people announced, would be India and that, Pakistan. Mariam and Rahim still bore the wounds of the riots that even many years and many tears later hadn't stopped festering. In one swoop, children of the same mother had become citizens of two different worlds. Two pieces of paper had given them two different identities. Mariam had become Indian and Rahim Pakistani. Henceforth, each would need their government's permission to eat together, laugh together and cry together. The invisible line, like the hand of a malevolent god, was going to dictate their lives. Each time, the sound of bombs and bullets on that line was going to wrack their souls, torment them and bring back the ghosts they hadn't been able to exorcise for 50 long years. That day Mariam Bibi was holding her brother's face in her frail hands as if it were a dear, fragile thing that would break if she let go. The two were sobbing away at the Attari railway station near Lahore, oblivious of all else. Their hearts bled at being torn asunder yet again. The train that had taken her to the brother's home was being withdrawn in a few days. She could do nothing but return to her own before that. It was part of her country's graded response to his country's hand in raining terror this side of the line. His country hadn't forgotten the ignominy of 1965 and the insult of 1971. Her country hadn't forgiven his for fanning the fires in Punjab and Kashmir. Following the latest assault on its democracy, her government had withdrawn the train and the bus of friendship. It had also withdrawn Mariam Bibi and Rahim Dad's right to see each other. Perhaps forever. But then, what are a few people in the face of a vast nation? Indeed, what do a brother's sorrow and a sister's tears matter when pitted against the might of two countries? Mariam Bibi and Rahim Dad were simple people. Their minds, in a forgotten time warp of birds, songs, dolls and mangoes, could hardly comprehend the complex world of war songs, political manoeuvring and cold diplomatic battles. But both knew, more than most, that "there is a today. Then a tomorrow. And then there is a day after tomorrow." They hadn't forgotten 1947. Their countries didn't seem to remember. Each continued to empty bullets by the barrels, and Mariam and Rahim's life continued to ooze out slowly. A handful of unknown people had divided them for the second time in their lives. And there was little that an ageing brother and sister could do beyond crying uncontrollably on an invisible line of control. I saw Mariam Bibi and Rahim Dad just a few days ago... on page one of a newspaper. The two, like their tears, were frozen forever on its top fold, now perhaps buried under the fold of Time. I haven't met them. But I feel like I know them a wee bit more while telling their story. Then again, their story could have been badly told. It may have factual errors. In fact, this may not be their story at all. But this one thing is true. The photographer just planted, to misquote Ben Okri a bit, "an epiphanic dynamite" in "an innocent-seeming image". Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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