The Little Black Book

As I jumped out, covered in dust, with a tremendous feeling of accomplishment, hubby couldn't help smiling when my massive dust-filled sneeze scared our poor dog "Chocolate," who must've jumped a foot above the ground. We all had a good laugh watching her expressions. That's when Rasna, my daughter, came running to me and almost grabbed the box from my hands. "What's is this box?" She asked curiously. "I have no idea," I replied, shrugging my shoulders while walking towards the family room. I continued, "it’s something Nani (Granny) left at our house. Then she got sick and passed away, and we forgot about this box.” Rasna screamed with excitement, “let’s see, Cmon,” and we sat on the deck and opened the box.

As I opened it and saw what is inside, a flood of memories hit me. I saw - a small beads bracelet that Nani used to use to pray with, a tiny “three by four” wide-toothed comb she would tuck into her bun, her hairpins to keep strands of hair in check, her copper bracelet, and other stuff she used daily.” When I thought of all the times when I put my head in her lap, her fingers moving over the prayer beads, that radiant smile, and her pleasant aura, my eyes welled up. As I began telling Rasna more stories of Nani, I noticed a beautiful little embroidered gold and red pouch and a black book in it along with a key in a rustic gold chain.

“Us meeting wasn’t just a coincidence; God must’ve also indulged in some complicity to make us meet” is the best translation from our mother tongue, Punjabi. She had written lots of notes, quotes, especially for her childhood best friend Sundari. My Nani’s stories of her and Sundari - how they ran for miles by the river, in the fields, played with pebbles, and got into trouble for not doing household chores. They were inseparable. They made a pact to always stay close by even after their marriages. But the unfolding of events during the India- Pakistan partition tore them apart and broke their spirit. I would see the pain of longing and separation in her eyes. Her last note made me cry where Nani described in detail her feelings when she would finally meet her best friend once, before leaving this world. But unfortunately, her desire never came to fruition.

“You are crazy for doing this. Do not be overly emotional. Be practical, Nani’s gone; let it go.” I repeatedly heard those words heard over months from my family, even as I climbed onto the bus. I marveled at the coincidence. A new pilgrimage bus service was recently started to transport travelers between India & Pakistan to the historic places of worship for Sikhs. “When would this ever happen again?” I said to myself. I almost mumbled out loud - “Never”! The back-and-forth argument went on for hours in my head. My family’s biggest worry was that India Pakistan relations could go sour anytime, and I could be in a bad situation. Her village Thanival was about 3 hrs from Nankana Sahib, the Sikh temple.

My visit was a whirlwind of mixed emotions - fear, excitement, determination, & awe. I managed to convince the organizers of the pilgrimage to take me to my Nani’s village. Nervously, I gently knocked the iron handle on the wooden door of Nani’s ancestral house. I almost giggled at the effort. Was I afraid of breaking the iron handle? Just then, a sixty-something-year-old woman opened the door. Then time flew by. I vaguely remember telling her my story while being served tea, water, and all sorts of snacks. We were sitting in a shared courtyard between two houses. I distinctly remember her smile when she said, “My dear, Sundari Baaji (Aunt’s) family moved to Islamabad years ago. We have never met them since”. My heart sank. Coincidence, my ass! Before I could descend into the familiar spiral, she added, “But I know Sundari baaji’s son comes to meet his cousin who lives close by. He must have Sundari’s number”. I nodded so fast that I thought I’ll probably pull a muscle in my neck. While the kind women went about looking for the number, I took a tour of the house. I could easily picture Basant (Nani) and Sundari in this house. Two little girls with a pair of pigtails and ribbons wearing traditional Indian outfits running around, playing, no wall between the homes, no separation, the neighbors living like extended families even though one was a Muslim and the other Sikh.

We then walked through the streets made of stone, broken at many places, and the drain (stream) olden sewage system flowing on the streets' sides. A father driving a steel bike with his son sitting on the rod in the front. The child had the most beautiful smile on his face, totally oblivious to the bumps on the road or the uncomfortable rod on which he was sitting. We got the phone number of Ashfaq Bhai (brother Ashfaq).

I thanked them and left with my family's words, “I told you so, what were you thinking?” going through my head. The way back to my hotel was full of bumpy roads while a stream of self-admonishing words zipping through my head. “Seriously, what was I thinking”? “Are you in a movie that would end in a happy reunion”? “OMG! My family was spot on; this righteous journey of mine was silly”. With Islamabad five hours away, I now had a day and a half left. “What’s Ashfaq bhai going to do? Leave work and come running to this village, just because I brought a letter and some goodies for his mom. ARGHH!!!!” I was deep down in the rabbit hole, by the time I got to my hotel. As I dialed his number, strangely, a part of me did not want him to pick up since I realized the foolishness of my pursuit. But he did pick up. I narrated the same story in a monotone, squirming sheepishly. I almost waited for him to say, “Are you for real? Are you kidding me? So yeah, they were friends. What do you want me to do now?” I shut my eyes, lying down on the bed.

“Oh, mashallah, this is fabulous, so you are Basant Baji’s granddaughter. What a beautiful surprise,” Ashfaq said. I opened my eyes and almost jumped to attention with excitement. With an awkward silence and lots of ooh, aahs, and umms, our conversation lasted for an hour. We discussed our families and how times have changed. The best part and music to my ears was when he said, “I am so thankful you called. My mom had something that belongs to Nani’s family. Now I can hand over your ‘Amanat’ (token) to you”. My eyes glistened as I tried to control my tears while gloating and thinking, “I can’t wait to tell this to everyone. YEAH BABY!” For just a brief moment, my self-doubt’ turned into ‘supreme-confidence’.

My euphoria did not last long as I heard him say, “But how am I going to manage this? Such unfortunate timing. We are five hours away from you. You only have one and a half a day left”. He went quiet, trying to think of a way out. Rabbit-hole, here I come. Barely holding on, I remember saying, “Well, we now have each other’s information. At least there’s a connection now”. We both agreed. He promised to keep thinking of ways to get the box delivered.

I waited the whole day while I went about walking around and then prayed at the historic worship place. I observed several Muslim families come there to pay their respects. Within the building walls, time seemed to have frozen. As I talked to several locals, I found no religious animosity, no inhibitions, everyone praying side-by-side, and a genuine reverence for the Sikh place of worship. I found myself at peace and in bliss. I would check my phone, waiting to hear from Ashfaq Bhai. Even though I could not fulfill Nani’s wishes, I was content with my decisions so far.

“Hello, madam? Hello, are you there?” said the heavy male voice. I opened the door in my hotel room, still drowsy, I said, “Yes, yes, Sorry, I just woke up. Everything ok?” I asked, worried. “Yes, madam. There is a man here to see you. He says his name is Ashfaq.” I rushed down the hotel stairs beaming with joy.

Ashfaq and I spent the entire day together, almost like long lost siblings. I knew we would always stay in touch for the rest of our lives. Back in the room, I was on top of the world. I could not stop staring at the box that Ashfaq brought. It signified closure and an accomplishment. I knew it was now time to leave. As I set about to pack the box and my luggage, I could not hold back. I had to open it. It was symbolic that The Key from the red and gold pouch which sparked my journey and opened the box. In that beautiful box there was a red shawl, woven intricately. I picked the shawl, sniffed it so hard as if to feel Nani’s presence. Then I saw another heavy pouch in the box. My eyes popped open when I saw Nani’s gold jewellery in it. Her bangles, necklace, some coins, and other stuff. I packed it all carefully and plopped back on the bed, ready for the journey back to home.

Weeks later, as I sat in the comfort of my home, the events played on repeat. The courage to travel so far, to an unknown place. It felt more like a pilgrimage than leisure? I would sit for hours on end, looking at the box and its contents. Nevertheless, I settled back into my busy life. There was, however, a sense of joy and peace. Nani’s jewels worth $20,000 were in a locker at the bank, “the little black book” tucked away in my side drawer. I had not yet decided what to do with the Jewels and didn’t want to give up on the little book of powers. (Secret: It felt like it gave me special powers!!!).

I sat on the side of the bed with the pillow to hide the sound of my crying. It had been three weeks since the news. My head spun from exhaustion, helplessness and rage. My doctor’s words rang in my head “I am sorry. You have breast cancer. There are lot of….” Everything after that was a blur. I would barely get out of the bed. The distress, doom, and self-pity I felt was unbearable. How will my family manage without me? These thoughts ran through my head as I fumbled through my drawer. I longed to see baby pictures of Rasna and to read the little black book one more time.

Something changed this time around. For the first time, I started to understand the contents of Nani’s spiritual verses. I started, once again, to feel peace wash over me. Afraid that the feeling was fleeting, I held the book close to my heart. As the last few tears trickled down my cheek, I took a deep breath. I felt calm, and realized to my surprise, what I was feeling was not temporary. Over the next months, I could recite her verses from memory. Calm and bliss replaced the thoughts of anxiety, depression, and fear. I felt “This black book is a Note from heaven,” that Nani is watching over me. When I was a toddler, Nani would hold my hand so I would not stumble. She held my hand, once again, when I needed it the most, and did not let go. I knew now that all will be well; I will be well. I will be a better sister, wife, and mother. Most of all, a better human being.