After a long day at school, I came home, tired and hungry, that evening. Twelfth Grade is a

gruelling period that decides the future. I was tallest in the class with an unusually fair complexion,

earning top grades. I had always wanted to become a Doctor. Tossing my bag aside, I went to the

kitchen looking for my mother. Grandfather was solving 'The Hindu' Crossword his favourite

past time. I said, 'It is a long weekend, Monday being a National Holiday. Three days of no study

and no home work. Where is my mother?' Without moving his eyes from the paper, he said, 'She

has gone to the temple. She said she will be back in an hour. Asked you to have idlis, that she has

kept on the dining table.' I sighed without energy. My Grandfather was a learned Pandit who had

spent the better part of his life teaching Sanskrit at the local college. Friday Prayers from an Old

Mosque down the street, filled the air, loud and clear. 'Why can't they pray quietly?' I asked

irritably.

'Let them Pray and remind us that they are praying for the welfare of mankind,' muttered my

Grandfather. I could never argue with him. He continued, 'I need a small help from you. When

you are free, can you climb up the attic and get me the old Chamber's Dictionary? I am too old to

climb. It is in my old trunk that I got from my Grandmother.' I did not reply. I would have to do it.

Otherwise he will keep reminding me till he got what he wanted.

After my meal, I went to his bedroom and climbed up the attic looking for his old trunk. There it

was, in a dark dusty corner. Little would I have known that my life was going to be changed for

ever. Opening the trunk, I looked for the Dictionary. There it was beneath an old green leather

book. I opened the book and saw that it was written in, what looked like Urdu script, with many

passages underlined. Brown and yellow, the papers would crumble in a firm hand. I held open the

book to the light below, trying to make sense of the book. Between the leather wrapper and the

book cover, thro' the gap, fell a folded paper that had stood the test of time. Opening it gently, I saw

that it was again, neatly hand written, in Urdu, and it looked like a letter. Keeping it in my shirt

pocket, I closed the trunk and brought down both the Dictionary and the Green book. As I gave the

Dictionary to my Grandfather, I asked him about the Green book that I had. He chided me and

said,'I asked you for the Dictionary alone. Why did you bring this book? My grand mother used to

say that it was gifted to her father by his friend at work. I have just kept it in her rememberance.

Put it back where it belongs in the attic.' I put the Green book back in the attic. The paper in my

pocket needed to be translated. I sent an SMS to my class friend to call back after his evening

prayers, since he was a Muslim, and lived nearby. He came home and I took him upstairs to my

room. I closed the door and showed him the paper. He looked at it carefully and said,'This is not

Urdu. It is Arabic. Both look the same, but they are different. There is an old Moulvi at my

neighbour's house who reads Arabic and served the British. He has been unwell. I will see if he

can translate it for you.' I gave the paper to him, though I was unwilling to part with it. Something

was telling me that it was a treasure for my life. Saturday was uneventful. I had left a message for

my friend and there was no reply or call. I was lazing around, watching television programs, with

my mind adrift.

It was around 8 AM on Sunday morning that my mobile phone rang. It was my friend. He said, 'I

could not call you yesterday. I gave your letter to the old Moulvi on Friday night. He was not well

and was breathing hard. He said he will translate it. Unfortunately, he passed away on Saturday

afternoon. We buried him by evening. I had to be there. I forgot about your paper. This morning

his son called me home and handed a cover. He said that the Moulvi had given it to him in the

morning, after a restless night. I think it is the translation of your paper. I will come and hand it

over to you sometime today.'

I had been to the barber's shop and returned home in the evening. My mother said that my friend

had been home and had left a letter for me in my room. After my bath, I went upstairs to find a

sealed cover on my table. 'May Peace be with you' was scribbled across the cover. Anxious to

know the contents, I opened the cover to find my paper with the Moulvi's English translation in his

dying moments.

'May Allah Grant him Peace' was the title. I was not sure whether it was an invocation. Then it ran

thus.

Dear Grand Child:

I think I can address you thus. It is quite possible you found this letter passed on thro' generations.

My name is Mohammed Jassem from Akshak in Iraq. I lived peacefully on the banks of the Dijlah

river along with my wife Nazeerah, sons Amal, Jabir and daughter Jamila. One day, in the month of

Qudrat, our town was invaded by the Ottomans on their way to Baghdad. I returned from our field,

just before sunset, to see our home run down. Jamila, then 2 years of age, was sitting next to

motionless Nazeerah, crying. She had seen her mother die, not knowing what happened. My sons,

playing on the street were caught under the hoofs of the horses of the invaders, I was later told.

Trying to save them, in vain, Nazeerah had thrown herself under the rampaging horsemen, only to

die. Hurriedly, I buried them where our home used to be. With no family or roof, Jamila in arms, I

took all the money and gold we had hid in a pot under floor and left for the river. A ferry was about

to leave when I jumped in tossing some coins to the boatman shouting 'Basra.' Dazed and clueless

about the future, I hugged onto Jamila who was fast asleep. At the first light of dawn, Basra

appeared in sight. Tired and distraught, I got out of the ferry. A steamer Safinat al-Rusul was

getting prepared to leave. A Britisher approached me and asked,'Lost everything in the war?' With

little knowledge of English, I affirmed with a nod and he continued, 'Go to Hindustan and be at

peace. This steamer is leaving with horses to Bengal. First port of stop is Mangalore. Go there and

start a new life. If you tend the horses, I will take you and your child for free.' With no option left,

I nodded. 'Take this key and go to chamber 101 across the deck. Wash and go for breakfast. I will

meet you there.' Taking care of horses was tiring. Between horses and Jamila, days passed. We

reached Mangalore. 'Go to Tungabhadra river and live there. May peace be with you and your

child,' he said, as I alighted and kissed the earth. I thanked him and walked down the pier with my

child in hand, my only treasure and link to life.

I muttered to a man, standing nearby, clad in robes, 'Tungabhadra.' He saw me from head to foot,

then my child and signed me to follow as he was going there. It felt like a planned trip. I gave him

a gold coin and asked for dress. He returned the coin and took me by hand to a waiting horse drawn

cart. We went past many towns taking rest on the way. Jamila had milk and bananas. He gave me

fruits, rice and vegetables that I had never had before. After a night stay at a community hall, we

reached Tungabhadra river by sun rise. He took us to his house and showed a room, where we

could stay. We had a bath. He had a wife and two girl children. I could communicate with him

only by sign. I did not know their language. Some words sounded familiar. His wife was

preparing breakfast. She came to see us and took Jamila by hand. Jamila went to her as if she was

her mother. I knelt on the floor in the room preparing for my namaaz. Looking at me kneeling on

the bare floor, he came and gave me a coir mat that I treasured for my life. Sometimes silence

conveys what words cannot. My child and his wife bonded well over the ensuing weeks. I was

introduced to others, as Ji's distant brother from Persia. I became a part of their family. Later on, I

came to know that his name was Ranganath and his wife was called Padmavathy. He was a

Sanskrit teacher, scholar and above all, a very good human being who took me into his fold, without

any doubt. He called me Saheb. I addressed him as Ji. Students came home to learn Sanskrit from

him. My daughter was picking up words in Sanskrit. Backyard of the house was large and unkept.

I carried a spade and showel to build a small farm with fruits and vegetables. Tungabhadra River

became my mother. Going long walks, sometimes with Jamila, I was at peace that Ihad enjoyed on

the banks of Dijlah. Years went by, my daughter was growing up. Growing fruits, vegetables and

doing errands were my earnings to the family. Having listened to Ji's Sanskrit classes, I had become

familiar with reading and writing in Sanskrit. I always carried my Green Book. It offered me

solace, peace and tranquility that I absorbed and cherished.

Ji used to recite from his prayer books. He always kept a Book with him that I assumed was Holy.

One day, I chanced to open it and I started reading it. It was titled Shrimadh Bhagavadh Gita. My

interest in this Book grew by the day. Seeing me read his Book, Ji went inside and brought another

copy of the Book and gave it to me. I kept it along with my Green Book and read it daily.

My daughter has been growing up to look like her mother. Today she has turned 12. It is a full

moon day, and she looks bright as the sun at night. I am looking at her and started to write this

letter. As I am writing this, I am feeling a shooting pain in my left arm, radiating from my heart. I

am calling Ji over. My daughter is coming to me running. I give her hand over to him. I say to him

in Sanskrit, 'She is your dauther Gitanjali my Gift to you for, your favours. May Peace be with

you....'

I returned to the present, my eyes barely seeing the paper on hand, moistened by a revelation that is

inexplicable. I was speechless and I do not remember for how long, I sat in my room with closed

eyes. Confusion about my identity was sapping my energy. I do not remember when I went to

sleep. I got up early, by 6 AM, the next day. I came down the stairs and saw my Grandfather

turning on the radio. Passing by my Grandfather who was comparing his cross word answers, I

non-chalantly asked,' Grandpa. What was your grandmother's name?' He said, without looking at

me, 'Gitanjali. She used to be called by her nickname Jami' Mahatma was looking at me with a

toothed smile, on his Birthday, from the frame above Grandfather's chair. Ram Dhun was being

played on the radio, ' Ishwar Allah tere naam, sab ko sanmathi de Bhagwan'. I smiled and thanked

the Mahatma for the answer.