Amil and the After: Chapters 17–27

“Just remember, no matter what ails you, a day at the cinema will fix it. At least for a little while.”

So Papa relented, and they helped Dadi down the stairs and out to the street where Ashok’s car waited.

Nisha tapped him on the leg, and he jolted out of his thoughts.

The film title, Ziddi, sat in black letters over a white background in the huge marquee.

As the film reel started, he heard a rush of noise.

“He probably went back to the camp. I think we should try to find him there,” Amil said, a pang of guilt spreading over his chest.

A pile of chopped onions sat on the counter, and Amil could smell the cumin seeds that had been crushed with the mortar and pestle, the same set Kazi had given Nisha to carry with her when they left.

He remembered leisurely following behind as Kazi picked out his vegetables, or spices like saffron threads in a little glass tube, a bundle of cinnamon bark, or fresh gingerroot.

“We’re going to look around if that’s okay,” Kazi said, and took Amil gently by the arm, ushering him away from the laughing man, who didn’t stop them.

“If we leave you, Vishal, you will die,” Kazi said in a stern voice.

Kazi said Vishal or Vasim could have cholera or typhoid—many did in the camps—and that they should be careful, they shouldn’t share any food or water and they should wash their hands.

Amil didn’t know much about cholera or typhoid, but they sounded very bad.

Vasim closed his eyes and slumped forward a bit.

“Would you be so kind as to make our friend here a hydrating elixir? That one with ginger and lemon?”

He walked over and remembered what Papa did to check them when they were walking across the desert and rationing their water.

“Thank you,” Amil said, and lathered his hands thick with soap.

“And Kazi as well! Both heroes,” Ashok said.
“No, no,” Kazi said, waving the compliment off.

He felt a fury churning inside him.

“The former doctor is not coming back, but they don’t like how I do things. I’m not sure I want to stay,” Papa said.

He longed to feel the hum of regular day-to-day stuff, punctuated with a bit of fun.

When they walked in the door, Kazi and Dadi sat at the table, the radio blaring.

We will not run to him for advice and seek solace from him, and that is a terrible blow, not to me only, but to millions and millions in this country.

“And yet,” he said, “there has been enough of poison spread in this country during the past years and months, and this poison has had an effect on people’s minds. We must face this poison, we must root out this poison, and we must face all the perils that encompass us, and face them not madly or badly, but rather in the way that our beloved teacher taught us to face them.”

Suddenly his thirst was unbearable. He needed water.

He saw his drawing pad on the daybed, opened to the big picture of his coveted bicycle.

Just a few weeks ago, Amil had been naive enough to only hope for a new bicycle and a friend to ride with. When would his world be ready for a simple wish like that?

“I once heard a story about Gandhi. I’m not even sure if it’s true. That’s the thing with the Mahatma: The idea of him became bigger than he was. Ultimately, he was only a man.”

They listened to Gandhi’s funeral procession in New Delhi on the radio.

The announcer said there were over a million people in attendance, and it lasted for hours as the people there walked the five miles to the funeral pyre where Gandhi would be cremated.

As Amil pedaled, Vasim sat on the rear rack and Nisha rode in front, on the crossbar, sitting on a makeshift seat pad Kazi had helped create out of a rolled-up towel.