Chapter 17: Finding Farida

The search for Farida in Doiwala began with: the obvious.

Death records. Marriage records. Census entries. The specific documentary trail that a person left when they existed in a: town, when they paid: taxes and bought: rations and visited: doctors and attended: funerals and performed the thousand small acts of: living that bureaucracy: recorded.

Pandey ji at the Nagar Panchayat searched the: registers. Birth and death registers, Doiwala, 1970 to present. Electoral rolls. Ration card records — the ration card being: the Indian identity document that preceded: Aadhaar, the card that every household possessed because the ration card meant: subsidised grain, and subsidised grain meant: survival, and survival meant: existing in the government's records.

Nothing. No Farida Khatoon. No Farida Ahmed. No: F.K. or F.A. or any variation that might have been: an alias.

"She's not: here," Meri said. "Not officially."

"She might be here: unofficially."

"Unofficially meaning: living without documents?"

"Unofficially meaning: living as someone else. She disappeared in 1944. She reappeared briefly in 1952 — the property sale. She reappeared in 1971 — Riyaz's deathbed. Each time, she: disappeared again. A woman who has been disappearing for: thirty years doesn't suddenly start filing: tax returns."

We tried: the hospitals. The government hospital in Doiwala — a primary health centre, technically, the kind of facility that served the town's medical needs with: three doctors, one X-ray machine, and the: perpetual optimism of an underfunded institution. The records went back: twenty years. No Farida.

We tried: the schools. Doiwala Inter College, where the children came to read Amar Chitra Katha in my bookshop. The school records were: meticulous — the headmaster, a man named Tiwari who ran the school with the: specific precision of a man who believed that education was: the solution to everything and that record-keeping was: the first step of education. He checked: forty years of admission registers. No child named: Ahmed or Khatoon.

We tried: the temples. The Tapkeshwar temple, where Professor Qureshi lived nearby. The Daat Kali temple on the Dehradun road. The gurudwara. The mosque — the small mosque on the road to Rishikesh, where the imam, an elderly man named Hasan, had served for: thirty-five years.

"Farida Khatoon," Imam Hasan said. We were sitting in the mosque's courtyard, the courtyard that was: cool, the marble floor: white, the: peace of a place dedicated to: prayer creating a stillness that was: physical.

"She was a: performer. In the 1940s. We think she may have come to Doiwala: later in life."

Imam Hasan considered. The considering of a man whose profession was: contemplation, whose life was: the space between question and: answer.

"There was a woman," he said. "An old woman. She came to the mosque in — I think — 1983. The year I: arrived. She came for: prayers. Friday prayers. She sat in the women's section. She was: alone. Always: alone."

"Her: name?"

"She gave her name as: Fatima. Fatima Bibi. A common name. She said she was: a widow. She lived in a room — a rented room — on the back road, near the railway crossing."

"How long did she: come?"

"Years. Many years. She came every Friday. She was: quiet. She prayed and she: left. She never: spoke to anyone. The other women — they tried. They invited her for: chai, for: gatherings. She always: declined. Politely. But: firmly."

"Is she: still alive?"

"She died. I think — 2006. Or 2007. The winter. She was: very old. She died in her room and the: landlord found her. I performed the: funeral prayers. We buried her at the: cemetery near the canal."

"2006 or 2007," Meri said. "That would make her — if she was born around 1920—"

"Eighty-six or eighty-seven," I said.

"The right: age."

"The right age for: many women."

"A woman named Fatima Bibi. Who was alone. Who was a widow. Who came to Doiwala and told: no one who she was." I looked at Imam Hasan. "Did she have any: possessions? When she: died?"

"Very little. A few clothes. Some: books. And—" He paused. "And a: harmonium. A small harmonium. I remember because it was: unusual. An old woman, living alone, with: a harmonium. I asked the landlord about it. He said she played it: sometimes. At night. Quietly. The sound barely: carried."

A harmonium.

A woman who played a harmonium. Alone. At night. In a room in Doiwala. The sound barely: carrying.

"Imam sahab," I said. "The cemetery near the canal. Is the: grave marked?"

"It is: marked. A simple marker. The name: Fatima Bibi. The year."

"Can you: show us?"

*

The cemetery was: small. On the bank of the Tons river canal, the canal that carried water from the: mountains to the plains, the water that was: cold and clear and that sounded like: the constant murmur of a: country talking to itself. The cemetery was: old — graves dating back a hundred years, the markers ranging from: elaborate (the marble headstones of the: prosperous dead) to: simple (the stone tablets of the: ordinary dead). Trees — neem and: sheesham — provided: shade. The shade was: cool, the temperature of a place that was: still, that was: finished, that had: nothing left to: argue about.

Imam Hasan led us to: a grave. In the back corner. Under a neem tree. The marker was: simple. A stone tablet, the kind that the local mason carved for: two hundred rupees. The inscription:

FATIMA BIBI

d. 2007

No birth date. No: parents. No: husband. No: history. Just a name and a: year. The minimum that a: grave could: say.

"This is: her," I said. Not a question.

"We don't: know that," Meri said. The rational voice. The digital voice. The voice that required: evidence.

"A woman. Alone. Widow. Came to Doiwala. Played a harmonium at night. Told no one who she was."

"That could be: anyone."

"It's: her."

Amma knelt. The kneeling of a woman who was: seventy and whose knees: protested but whose: will was: stronger than her joints. She knelt at the grave. The grave of a woman who might have been: Farida Khatoon. Who might have been: the woman her husband had loved, had protected, had kept a trunk for.

"I lived in your: house," Amma said. To the grave. To: Fatima. To: Farida. "For sixty: years. I raised my daughter in your: rooms. I cooked in your: kitchen. I: didn't know."

The words settled on the grave the way: leaves settled — naturally, becoming: part of the surface.

"But I'm: here now," Amma continued. "And my daughter is: here. And my granddaughter is: here. Three women. Standing at your: grave. Which is more than you had when you were: alive. You were: alone. But you're not alone: now."

The canal: murmured. The neem tree: sheltered. The grave: listened.

I placed: a marigold. The flower I had bought from the: vendor outside the mosque. The same flower — the same: orange — that Farida had placed next to Riyaz's tabla in: 1971. The marigold. The flower of: offering. The flower of: finding.