Though he could have easily hired a hundred men for the task, Shair chose to spend the next few days personally involved in the move. He found himself picking up chairs, hanging curtains, hauling countless boxes—all while keeping a watchful eye on the children's safety. He delighted in being there, among them. He felt an almost irresistible urge to join in their laughter, to play and dance alongside them. Yet, no matter what he did, he always seemed to gravitate towards Asiya, sometimes engaging her in conversation, other times simply observing her gentle care of the children. He was captivated by her selfless devotion. Even while performing the most mundane tasks, she moved with an effortless grace, her smile so radiant it stole his breath away.
On the final day of the move, Shair organised a celebratory dinner for everyone at the orphanage. Midway through the meal, he realised Asiya was missing. A sudden, almost involuntary sense of urgency propelled him to search for her. He checked the classrooms, the play area, the dining hall—but she was nowhere to be found.
Shair hurried upstairs, his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet hallway. He searched the staff quarters, but without success. As he reached the corridor leading to the children's dormitories, he heard a soft humming. He tiptoed toward the sound and discovered Asiya gently soothing an agitated toddler. Lost in her own world, she continued to sing, unaware of his presence. Shair lingered outside the room, listening to the unfamiliar melody, his heart strangely touched by the tenderness of the scene. Asiya's face, bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight, radiated pure contentment, making her appear even more beautiful than he had ever seen her before.
Shair stepped out into the clear night, lighting a cigarette as he pondered his latest fascination. He paced the backyard, his thoughts consumed by Asiya: her dark brown hair, knotted in a silky plait, her striking hazel eyes, and the delicate chime of her laughter. 'She makes me smile,' he thought, a genuine smile spreading across his own face. His feelings for her were deepening with each passing moment. 'Could it be?' he wondered. 'Am I falling in love with her?' The thought both thrilled and unsettled him. He felt an overwhelming desire to be near her, to learn everything about her.
He extinguished the cigarette and went back upstairs, deciding to wait for her. Asiya slipped out of the room where she had been tending to the sleeping toddler and found him leaning against the opposite wall.
"What are you doing here, Nawab Sahib?" she asked, glancing around to see if there were other people there.
"Waiting for you," he replied softly, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him. "What language were you singing in earlier?" he asked, hoping the answer might offer a clue to her background.
"It's a Kashmiri lullaby my mother used to sing to me," she said, her voice gentle. She looked down at her hands, then continued, "Hiba, the little girl I was singing to, lost her father last year while they were travelling from Chandigarh. Her mother passed away just a few weeks ago. Hiba misses them terribly and has been having trouble sleeping." Asiya's melodic voice resonated with Shair, stirring something deep within him. 'She's an angel,' he thought, his heart pounding against his ribs.
They settled onto the veranda steps, their shared experience of the past few days creating a sense of ease. The chirping of crickets filled the cool night air, almost completely muffling the sounds of the party still ongoing at the back of the building. The darkness enveloping the garden seemed to embolden Asiya, giving her the courage to speak more freely.
"This is the fourth time I've had to move," she said casually, a hint of wryness in her voice. "And it was by far the easiest. Almost… fun, even!" But Shair detected a note of underlying insecurity beneath her lighthearted tone.
"So, you're from Kashmir?" he asked gently, noticing how she folded her hands on her knees and rested her chin on them, a posture that somehow seemed both vulnerable and thoughtful.
"Yes," she replied, a brief smile illuminating her face. "From Sonamarg—the meadow of gold!" She turned to gaze out at the darkened lawn, her smile fading. "But we lived in Srinagar. My family owned a handicrafts shop there. We were the biggest retailers of silverware and papier-mâché." Her voice held a touch of pride. "But my father wasn't interested in the family business. He moved us out of my grandfather's house to Nowhatta and opened a small private school."
The warm light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a shadow of pain as she frowned, staring intently at the grass before her. "Life was good," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "until the post-Partition riots started. It was… terrible." She paused, struggling to find the words. "They burned Muslim properties, tortured and killed men, and… and violated women in the middle of the town." A long silence followed, and Shair noticed the colour drain from her face.
Pale now, she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "Like so many other families, we were accused of being spies. They burned down our ancestral home, with my entire extended family inside. I was around eight years old. I still remember the… the trauma my parents endured. We couldn't stay there any longer. We migrated to Phillaur, a small town on the banks of the Sutlej River, near Ludhiana. We thought smaller settlements would be safer. We stayed there for almost a year, a year and a half. But… our bad luck followed us. There was intense intercommunal violence. It was… it was genocide."
She paused again, her breath catching in her throat. It was almost unbearable for Shair to witness the pain she was so bravely trying to conceal.
"When they raided our town," she whispered, her eyes distant, "my mother hid me in a large flour bucket, tucked away inside a kitchen cupboard. She… she jumped into our water tank."
Shair felt a surge of protectiveness toward her as she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "When the mob finally dispersed, my mother pulled me from the cupboard. I was trembling like a leaf—no, worse than a leaf. We slipped into the darkness and made our way to the train station. I kept asking her where my father was and why we were leaving him behind. She just… she just kept saying, 'We must hurry!'" Her voice broke. "Military police guarded the station, but somehow, we found our way into the bathroom of a train compartment. It was a bitterly cold December night. My mother… she had been hiding in the water tank for too long. By the time we reached Lahore, she was… she was blue, almost purple. And she wouldn't… she wouldn't move. I tried everything to wake her, but… she wouldn't listen." Asiya's eyes were distant, lost in the haunting memory. She fell silent, struggling to compose herself.
Shair longed to pull her into his arms, to offer comfort, to erase the pain etched on her face. But the rigid social codes of their world held him back. Touching a woman to whom he was not related would be a grave impropriety, and he feared that it would only deepen her distress.
After a long, shuddering sigh, Asiya seemed to pull herself back to the present. Her tone shifted, becoming lighter, almost forced. "I don't remember exactly what happened after that," she said, her voice still a little shaky, "but I do remember the kindness. The people who took my mother away… and the ones who brought me to the guest house… they were good people, sincere. I was terrified and all alone. Irfan Chacha made sure I had food and a safe place to sleep. And… and I've been living at the orphanage ever since." Her smile was brittle, a mere shadow of its former warmth. She looked up at him, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as if half-expecting him to have drifted off.