Free Closure by Jacob Ross

“That’s Khalid Masih,” and disappeared into the bazaar
    As soon as she saw Khalid Masih, she cried, “Ya rabbah, oh God.”
    Khalid Masih was a small, dark man, with a deeply wrinkled face. On his raeree he had combs, socks, locks, mirrors and other small things.
    She walked up to him ever so slowly. When she got close, she asked, “Are you Khalid Masih?”
    He looked up at her and nodded.
    â€œDo you remember Karamjit Singh, son of Harjit Singh Kataria?”
    Khalid Masih’s small eyes became even smaller. A sad smile flashed across his toothless mouth. “Kamli Kaur. You? Here?”
    She hugged him and cried, “Babajee, you are still alive and still have your raeree!”
    â€œI died a long time ago, daughter,” he replied.
    Pulling away from him she examined the raeree. “At least this one doesn’t have a broken wheel.”
    He shook his head.
    â€œDo you remember my house?”
    He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
    â€œWe have searched everywhere for my house. Nothing looks like what I remember. Is my house still here?”
    He nodded.
    He left the raeree and we followed him. He had taken only a few steps when she asked, “What about your raeree?”
    He turned around and pointed at the bazaar and smiled. Everyone was looking at us.
    For an old man he walked fast. We went through countless narrow streets, until we came to a big house. “That is where you were born.” He turned to leave.
    â€œCome with me,” she said to the old man.
    He stepped away from us. “I am still an untouchable. They will think I have contaminated you.”
    She watched Khalid Masih until he went out of sight and then said to me, “This is not my house; maybe he is mistaken.”
    â€œWe’ve come all this way. Let’s knock.”
    â€œMaybe if they find out I am a Sikh…”
    I interrupted her, “I’m with you and the Almighty is my witness, I will let nothing happen to you.”
    She knocked on the door.
    After a little while, a woman’s voice from inside the house called, “Who?”
    â€œI’ve come from India and I am looking for the house where I was born,” Kamli Kaur replied hesitantly.
    There was a little pause and then the door opened. A young woman with a child on her hip stood in front of us. Kamli Kaur’s face turned white. She pointed to the veranda. It was an old wooden one, with carved curving arches. It was painted blue. With tears streaming down her eyes Kamli Kaur pointed inside saying, “My name is Kamli Kaur. This is the house where I was born. And the veranda is still blue.”
    Beckoning us in, the young woman said, “It is still your house, Majee, and the veranda has always been blue.”
    As we stepped inside, the young woman handed her baby to Kamli Kaur and ran towards a tandoor, saying, “My roti is burning.”
    Whilst the young woman retrieved her rotis, Kamli Kaur walked around the veranda, holding the child close to her. I stood where I was.
    A few moments later a frail old woman, much older then Kamli Kaur came out. “Kamli!” she cried.
    I went outside, stood by the door and lit a cigarette. A short while later, a door close to me opened and a young man asked me to come inside. He pointed to a tray of food on a small table and said, “Eat, Ustad,” and walked back into the house.
    On the way back to Islamabad, Kamli Kaur sat in the front passenger seat. She looked much younger now.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.
    â€œIqbal. Raja Iqbal.” I replied. “We are refugees from India.”
    â€œDo you know where from?” Then she added quickly, “How could you, you were not born then.”
    â€œNo Majee, I wasn’t born then,” I said, “But my mother, may the Almighty grant her a place in heaven, never stopped talking about her house. She said we had a great