the crimson train

June

 

The year the war ended, I was carefully constructed by gentle hands. In an underground London factory I had my silicone skin glossed, my shiny hair plaited, my wooden lips painted crimson. They smoothed my tailored sundress, tightened the ribbons in my braids, took care of any last minute blemishes before packaging me into a velvet box. 

 

They were sure, just as I was, that I would be on popular demand: it was Christmastime and little girls had their noses pressed against the shop windows for just a glimpse of the new dolls. But a dire mistake had been made. I was painted a shade too dark; by the time I made it to the store, I had dried completely, showcasing brown skin. It took exactly two minutes for them to relocate me to the back.

 

Nobody wanted to buy me. And I was cheap too, since the country was running short of men and money. But my fate wasn’t to be a grief-stricken child’s source of comfort. I was undesirable and stowed next to broken yo-yos. 

 

Two years later, I am finally out of that godforsaken box. I have traveled hundreds of miles to be thrust into gentle hands once again. They’re lighter than mine, yet they belong to a foreigner. A foreigner to me, at least. Her grip is tight around my neck, the dampness of her palms doing nothing to alleviate the oppressive heat. 

 

“Where’d you get her?” she asks, inspecting me in awe. 

 

The man who handed me to her beams proudly. “Bought her for a good bargain.”

 

That is a lie. He had stolen me from the cargo ship I was placed in months ago. What a barbaric race. Generous Londoners decided the toys no English child desired should be given to the country’s conquests. I suppose it beats being placed in the trash, then eventually burnt to a crisp, but I can’t help but feel bitter. Nobody back home wanted me, so I’m here, in this uncivilized subcontinent. I am a last resort, a disgrace, bound to be the plaything of an illiterate Indian child—

 

“She’s beautiful,” the girl says earnestly. If I could blush, I would.

 

“Take care of her.” He stands up and I can see the entirety of the house; there is not much. I feel ashamed to have judged him for thievery. The girl turns me around so we’re facing each other. Her eyes are dark, but warm.

 

“I will.” She smooths my dress and tightens the ribbons in my hair. But she does not stuff me into a box. She cradles me instead.

 

July

 

I realize the man who had stolen me from the ship is not Aisha’s father. He is the village’s Robin Hood, who drops by houses at dusk to hand gleeful children stolen goods. Her mother disapproves.

 

“The police will be on to you,” she tells him one night.

 

“Who are the police controlled by?”

 

The woman pauses her cooking. “Money.”

 

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound. “Correct, but I was thinking of the government.” Aisha chuckles with him, and I shake in her lap. “And who is the government controlled by?”

 

“It’s too hot for riddles.”

 

“It’s not a riddle. It’s a simple question, with a simple answer. The government is controlled by the English, but not for long.”

 

Aisha’s mother stares at him. “I don’t understand.”

 

“Oh, bhabi.” He clucks his tongue. “This is why this village needs radio. You have heard of Gandhi, haven’t you?”

 

“I have,” Aisha pipes in. “He’s skinny, like a stick. He will not eat until we’re free.”

 

“You know, Aisha,” Robin Hood says slowly, “I can take you to the city and attend one of his rallies. He speaks like a true patriot—”

 

Her mother slaps the dough, almost angrily. “Enough. We don’t have to be free. We need to live. The English will always haunt us somehow.”

 

Her statement is ominous, but Aisha only focuses on the word free. For she is the definition of unrestrained. The village children all treat her like their leader. Many times the one-legged mullah is a subject of their troubles, but he always takes it lightly. The residents ignore him and his disability out of fear, offer him their pity—all except Aisha, who gives him friendship. 

 

One day they fetch a pitcher of buffalo milk and throw it on him as he lies on his patio. His beard and clothes are soaked, but he chuckles loudly. 

 

“I’m glad you poured that on me. Mashallah, it’s so hot today.”

 

She places me on the ground so she can dab his face with a cloth. The other children take several steps back. Afterwards, she pecks his forehead.

 

“Aisha is diseased!” someone chortles, but her sharp stare shuts them up. 

 

Other times they prance around the corn fields, playing odd games. Sometimes she positions me under her arm to pretend I’m a rifle.

 

Little girls don’t usually envision dolls as guns. Nor do they pretend to be doctors at war afterwards, nursing bullet wounds. One day, after all the noontime play is over, she speaks to me underneath a tree, confessing her father had once been a soldier, dashing and brave.

 

“He fought the Nazis.” She pronounces it as Naz-zees, but even if I could, I wouldn’t correct her. “He fought for England. Then he was shot and the doctor wouldn’t treat him—they had to tend to the other soldiers first. The white soldiers. So he died outside the infirmary.”

 

Aisha says the final sentence casually, as if her father has just gone on a day-long train ride, but there’s a layer of pain in her voice I wish I could heal. “You are the only person I can talk to, and you can’t even respond.” It strikes me that I was made to lift children’s spirits after the war, but my skin was considered too dark to soothe. Yet here I was, doing exactly like that.

 

“Papa understood me. He talked about history and politics, about our path to freedom, simplified it so I could understand. None of the other kids want to do that, we just play pranks on people. Robin Hood doesn’t either, he’s too busy stealing and attending rallies. And my mother—my mother…” 

 

She looks at my painted face. “My mother is nothing like me.”

 

That’s where she’s wrong. Both are fierce, like the sweltering sun. Yet there is another side to Aisha, one she only presents to me, as she had underneath that tree. It also appears when she lies on her bed and whispers one-lined poems Robin Hood recites when he stops by. Freedom which divides / Is not freedom at all.

 

And the softness of her mother appears after Aisha is fast asleep. The crackling fire outlines premature wrinkles on her face as she picks me up from the floor. She carefully tucks me in again, for Aisha hates when I do not wake up beside her.

 

August 

 

When it’s officially announced India is free, celebrations stay at home.

 

New words are introduced. Jinnah, the leader of the Muslims. Pakistan, the country for Muslims. Since Aisha is no longer allowed to go outside, we play at home. I am Gandhi, and she is Jinnah, both of us making tough political decisions.

 

Yet it stops being a game fairly quickly. The evening rain splatters on the roof, and Aisha howls as her mother hastily packs their things. I lay on the quilted cot, immobile and helpless, wishing I could comfort her.

 

“I’m not leaving!” she wails.

 

“You’ve heard the stories!” Aisha’s mother roars. “Hindus against Muslims, Muslims against Sikhs, everyone’s killing each other. We’ll be raped and murdered in broad daylight. I told you the English would haunt us after they left— everything is divided. Our country is Pakistan now!”

 

You would think, after a century-long rule, the English would help the divide occur more smoothly. I suppose they have their own troubles to tend to. Yet even if they’re in debt, they still have their looted jewels. Robin Hoods, I once heard her mother spit out, they’re Robin Hoods without the principles. Sugarcoated pleasantries don’t hide how they’re just as barbaric as us. I wonder how I could have ever viewed them otherwise. 

 

My friend bows her head in defeat, a single tear trickling down her face. “Let me say goodbye to everyone at least.”

 

“Quickly. Our train departs by sunset.”

 

Aisha runs out of the home and I see her embrace Robin Hood, her body shaking with suppressed sobs. Her mother utters an urgent prayer as she sweeps possessions into a small sack, including me. I don’t think she even notices my presence.

 

Silently the Muslims of the village march to the train station, their Sikh and Hindu brothers weeping at their departure. The military ordered them to evacuate to prevent any chaos, even though this particular land has been religiously harmonious for decades. The rest of the country has changed, it’s best to take precautions, they’re told.

 

Aisha helps the one-legged mullah situate himself in the crowded train. The overwhelming smell of sweaty life causes her to wrinkle her nose, sighing against her mother. All of a sudden, her eyes snap open.

 

“My doll,” she whispers frantically. “My doll.”

 

“It’s okay,” her mother comforts immediately, “we’ll get a new one in Pakistan—”

 

“No!” she shrieks, squirming from her hold. “I need her. I’ll go get her, and come back—”

 

“You’re just like your father!” her mother snaps tearfully. “I told him, begged him, not to enlist for a country where your stupid toy comes from—did you know that? She was stolen from a cargo ship from London—a country that enslaved us, a country that let him bleed to death because his skin was not white. But no. He said, India can only be free once this war is over.”

 

“Well, he was right!”

 

“There is no such thing as freedom!” she screams. “Look at us, we’re not even considered Indians anymore. There’s just division, no matter what.” 

 

Aisha pauses, perhaps recollecting Robin Hood’s poems, or realizing she doesn’t want me anymore. But then she speaks.

 

“My doll makes me feel free.” 

 

“Don’t you dare—!” But Aisha has already broken away from her grip, stepping over tired bodies and breaking into a run. One jump, and she is gone, her legs speeding towards the village.

 

Her mother shrieks, an anguished sound. She begins to go after her, but she’s pulled back by the force of the train beginning to move. A man grabs her waist as she attempts to get up again.

 

“Let me go, let me go, I need to get my daughter—”

 

“You’ll die if you jump, madam, the train is moving!”

 

People begin to crowd around her, attempting to stop her hysteria, but it only increases when she sees my head sticking out of the sack. She pulls me out and snaps me in two. I drop to the floor, her screams and sobs overpowering the rumble of the train.

 

September

 

Around me is crimson, the same shade of red as my lips.

 

I can hear their quiet words, distressed whispers.

 

Who did this? A Sikh, Muslim or Hindu gang?

 

Why does it matter, at this point?

 

Look at these bullet holes. .22, you think?

 

Don’t talk to me, I’m going to be sick—look at how their eyes are open. This man’s leg is gone!

 

Maybe it was like that before—

 

CRUNCH.

 

“God, I stepped on something.” The man groans, turning green. “I don’t want to look.”

 

“It’s a doll,” the other man sniggers. He’s wearing a police uniform.

 

“Oh God, it’s snapped in two. They didn’t even spare the toy.” He buries his face in his hands. “Didn’t even spare the goddamn toy.”

 

“Freedom comes with a price, sahib. It always has.” His nose wrinkles. “We’ll need more kerosene, there are too many bodies.”

 

“I can’t—” The man stops and heaves. “I can’t do this anymore. How is this freedom? This country is full of animals.”

 

“The world is full of animals. We’re the sheeps, I suppose, all of us turning against each other because we follow the herd. And the English—consider them the snakes.” He sighs. “They slithered out of here. And now we have to start cleaning up the mess in our land.”

 

The two men stepped out of the train, the way only Aisha did. The rest of us stay slathered in crimson, the passengers who can never disembark, our fate written in ashes.