Bestselling author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni is back with a new novel this year. Titled 'Independence', it is a work of period fiction that touches upon the themes of nationalism and independence. Set in the backdrop of India's freedom struggle, the story follows the lives of three sisters – Priya, Jamini and Deepa-- and their unbreakable bond. This is story of love and loyalty, nationhood and sisterhood.
Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's novel 'Independence' releases on November 30, 2022. Ahead of the book's official release, here we share an exclusive excerpt from the book:
INDEPENDENCE
When the telephone rings, they stare at it, paralysed; fear tightens its claws around Priya’s throat. Finally Amit lurches forward to answer.
It is Nabakumar.
They crowd around the receiver, listening to his voice, faraway tinny beloved. He has reached the clinic without mishap, he will stay there until it is safe to return. There are many injured people there, he is taking care of them. ‘Eat dinner,’ he says. ‘Get a good night’s rest. We’ll be together sooner than you think.’
Priya is ravenous; they all are. They eat without words the dinner prepared for guests who never came. They take second and third helpings, bend low over plates, shovel in food. In their relief, everything tastes marvellous. Immediately after, they go to bed. Deepa offers to sleep with Bina. Priya is certain she is too agitated to sleep, but she sinks into oblivion. She is awakened by a hand shaking her.
It is Jamini, in an ironic reversal of last night, tear-streaked and babbling that something terrible has happened.
*
Now they hurry down the alley, six of them stepping from shadow to shadow, startling at every sound. Raza leading, Amit in the rear, the women huddled in the centre. Raza had brought a skullcap for Amit, and for the women burkhas that belonged to Nurse Salima. It was safer this way because they would be crossing a Muslim neighbourhood. Priya’s burkha smells of clove and garlic. Through its net veil the world shimmers unreal. Deepa supports Bina. Jamini clutches Priya’s hand damply. Priya hears Bina whisper; she is telling Nabakumar to hold on until she arrives.
They have reached the street where the clinic is located, the last, most dangerous stretch. They will have to cross a major thoroughfare, many streetlamps, no opportunity to shelter in shadows. There has been some heavy fighting here recently. Priya sees bodies spreadeagled on the ground. Some have fallen into the drains that line the road. At her feet, a hacked-off arm covered in blood. Hindu or Muslim? In death there is no distinction. She doubles over, retching. Assisting Baba over the last few years, she had believed herself inured to blood, limbs lost to accidents. But the slaughter here is deeply, differently dreadful. The men, too, are shocked into stopping. Behind her, Deepa and Jamini moan. Only Bina remains fixed on her goal. Hissing at them to be silent, she picks up her pace, giving them no option but to scurry after her. Lucky that the rioting has moved away, else no burkha could have saved them.
Even as Priya thinks this, a group of men comes around the corner. Seeing Bina’s small party, they begin to run towards them with frenzied yells. Their leader wields a sword, his forehead is streaked with vermillion.
A Hindu mob.
The girls are frozen. Raza and Amit take a stand in front of them, hands fisted, but they look dismayed. The men are carrying rods and knives; one wields an axe. If only I had the gun, Amit mutters.
Then Bina—how is she able to think so calmly, so clearly?—removes her burkha and drops it to the ground. She orders her daughters to do the same. She pulls the caps off Raza’s and Amit’s heads and throws them down. She pushes Raza behind Amit. Then she joins her palms and speaks loudly, addressing the leader. ‘Dada, Goddess Kali Herself must have sent you to my aid. My children and I are trying to go to my husband, a doctor who was badly wounded trying to save lives tonight. He is in the clinic down the road. Will you help us get there?’
The leader is taken aback. One of his men points to the burkhas and whispers.
Bina says, ‘We were scared to pass through the Muslim neighbourhoods, so we disguised ourselves. But see, we are Hindu.’ She looks the leader in the face and holds up her hands.
The leader notes the sindur, crimson on the parting of Bina’s hair, the iron and conch-shell bangles on her arms. The men mutter among themselves, giving the rest of the group only a cursory glance. Finally, the leader nods. ‘Very well, I will take you to the clinic. But do not venture out again. The next group you meet might not be so kind. Come with us. Quickly now. We have much to accomplish tonight.’
Priya shudders to think what these accomplishments might be. Still, for the moment these men are their saviours. They hasten after them, Bina leading the way. Behind her, Deepa has slipped her hand into Raza’s. Priya prays the mob will not notice this questionable gesture. The short stretch of road takes forever. Jamini pants. Priya takes her by the elbow and pulls her along to help her keep up. Amit follows last of all, looking back from time to time with a wary eye.
At last the clinic entrance. The mob melts into the night. Raza knocks on the door, calls to his uncle. His voice shakes. Is he thinking the same thing that keeps running through Priya’s head? If the mob had realized he was Muslim, he would not be standing here now. The rest of them might have been killed, too, for fraternizing with the enemy.
Dr Abdullah cracks open the door. Hurry, hurry. Just before Priya ducks inside, something makes her look up. The sky is a dull red. Calcutta is burning.
Wounded men everywhere, on pallets, on the floor, propped against the wall. Priya has to step over their legs. Many are groaning. The clinic must have run out of sedatives. A few have fallen over and lie strangely still. She cannot pull her eyes away. Metallic stench in the air. She knows what it is. How carefully Nabakumar had shielded her from death when she worked with him, sharing only the healing side of medicine. The few deceased she had seen were neighbours who passed away from old age or long sickness, their garland-decked bodies. And now these corpses, toppled on the floor, no one to even cover them with a sheet.
*
In the examination room Nabakumar lies stretched on a table, bright red bandages covering his chest and stomach. Dread chills Priya. If Abdullah has been unable to staunch the bleeding, the bullets must have hit a crucial organ. Her father’s eyes are closed, his face pale, his chest still. Are they too late?
Bina grasps Nabakumar’s right hand, speaks in his ear. Perhaps it is the urgency in her voice, perhaps it is the injection that Dr Abdullah is administering … Nabakumar’s eyelids flutter. Priya sees how hard he strains to open them. Deepa holds her mother steady. At Nabakumar’s feet Jamini gabbles incoherently. I made this happen. But no, it is Priya’s fault. She should have stopped her father from leaving the house.
Nabakumar’s left hand twitches. He is trying to raise it. Priya rushes to him.
‘Do not give up, Baba,’ she urges. ‘Is that not what you always taught me? Please try. Please. For our sake.’
His lips tremble. ‘Sorry.’ Even that is too much effort; his eyes fall shut.
She clutches Nabakumar’s hand as though that can stop him from leaving. Another hand closes over hers, startling her. Amit. In her distress she had forgotten him.
Nabakumar speaks so softly that Priya and Amit must both bend closer. ‘Take care of—’
Priya forces back tears. ‘I will, Baba. I will take care of them. Don’t worry.’
Amit speaks at the same time. ‘Be at peace, Kaku. I promise you: I will keep your family safe.’
Priya knows she should be grateful to Amit for being here; instead, she is furious at his presumption. Nabakumar is talking to her, not him. She is the one he trusts to watch over the family. She can do it. She will do it.
She needs to make sure Amit understands this. But not now. This moment is for her father. She focuses on his face. She must hold it inside her always.
(Published with permission by HarperCollins India.)
