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Sikhs;of cabins filled with slaughtered Muslims reaching Pakistan.”
    â€œOnly I and two others survived,” said Naniamma . “Ever since that day, I prayed that I would return. And here I am.”
    â€œIt is a miracle you lived, my dear,” said Tariq Sahib . “I’m so happy that you’ve returned to breathe the air and touch the soil where your family originated. At the stroke of midnight on the day of Partition, our family went into hiding, taken in by Hindu friends who protected us. For months the city burned and the people went mad. When we emerged, hardly any of the old inhabitants were left. Outsiders had taken over. Even our language was dead.”
    â€œHow can a language die?” blurted Maya.
    He waved his hand around his cramped shop. “Urdu, the language associated with Muslims, became an enemy, and was slowly purged from public life.”
    â€œBut Urdu is still spoken here,” said Maya, confused.
    Tariq Sahib wrinkled his great long nose. “Urdu is an aristocratic language—the language of the poets. Now all that is left is its shabby ghost,” he lamented. “People no longer have the knowledge of the tehzeeb , or culture, of the once glorious Delhi. Old Delhi isgone. . . . It’s all gone, and those who were left behind are in misery, and those who were uprooted are in misery.”
    â€œThat’s terrible,” said Naniamma .
    Maya stood behind Naniamma , saddened by the anguish in the old man’s face.
    â€œBut it’s not just that,” he continued. “Partition has left its poison in the blood of the people. Every other day there is terrible news of Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs turning on one another. Just a few years ago, in the city of Ayodhya, an old mosque was torn down by Hindus claiming it had been built over their god Ram’s temple. In the ensuing violence, thousands were killed.”
    Killed . The word ricocheted through Maya’s mind.
    â€œWe read about the riots in the newspaper,” said Naniamma . “It’s a shame that the damage done at Partition continues to this day. Even in Pakistan, created to protect the interests of Muslims, there is corruption and unrest among the different ethnic and religious groups—the rich become richer while the rest wallow in poverty, without proper health care or education.”
    In the silence that followed, Zara gently tugged on Naniamma ’s arm. “The keys . . . ,” she whispered.
    â€œOh, yes,” said Naniamma . “Tariq Sahib , my fatherleft the keys and the deed to our house with your father. Do you have them?”
    Tariq Sahib paused to think, stroking his beard. “I do recall some such things.” He looked up, eyes brightening with remembrance. “Before my father passed away, he told my brothers and me about your father and uncle. And showed us a sealed package, telling us to give it to them if they returned.”
    â€œDo you still have it?” asked Naniamma eagerly.
    â€œThey should be in my father’s old suitcase,” he said. “Let me go to our apartment upstairs and check.”
    He returned a few minutes later. “These are the items that your family left in my father’s care,” he said.
    â€œThank you so much for keeping them safe,” said Naniamma as she stared at the frayed velvet pouch in his hands.
    â€œOf course, of course,” said Tariq Sahib . He loosened the strings of the pouch and turned the contents over into her open hands: a jumble of iron keys and a yellowed bundle of papers.
    Naniamma stroked the largest key, engraved with a series of numbers in Urdu. “This is for our house in Aminpur.”
    Tariq Sahib sadly shook his head. “Although the deed and key prove ownership, it will be very difficult to claim your house. Even if you do, you’ll have a nightmare of a time trying to legally evict those who’ve moved