Mona’s Story

I first met Mona at a birthday party in a graveyard. That proximity of birth and death has stayed with us through the many years of our friendship. The back wall of her home abutted that of the morgue of a local hospital and Mona would often say to unsuspecting visitors – knowing full well the possible impact of her words – ‘I have the dead behind me and the dead beneath me.’ Then she might point to the graves on top of which people had built houses and add: ‘It’s a good way to live.’

At the time of that first meeting, I was looking for unusual stories about the Partition of India for a book I was researching. Friends suggested I talk to Mona and offered to take me to meet her. More than a decade has now passed since we met and got to know each other and, looking back, I sometimes wonder what either of us wanted from this unlikely friendship which crossed the barriers of class and gender in curious ways. I’m not sure I am any closer to understanding what, if anything, we’ve gained.

It was the 26th of January in Delhi, a crisp, clear, spicy-radish-and-tomatoes-in-the-sun winter morning that makes you glad to be alive. On this date, some fifty years ago, India had become a republic. Mona had chosen the anniversary to celebrate the birthday of her adopted daughter Ayesha; it pleased her that Ayesha had come into her arms precisely on the 26th of January. She would be free, like India.