other through the mud of narrow alleys between shelters or playing marbles in the dirt; an infant howling behind a makeshift curtain of cloth thrown over a rope, was soothed, lulled, and must have slept; cooking fires were being fanned, hot sparks flying into the hot air. He walked on through the sound of men's voices, the chatter of quarelling children, a woman pounding clothes in the scanty water from a tap—signs of humani- ty obstinately alive in the nowhere of displace- ment. In a patch of shade two old men squatted, staring into space. They, at least, had recognized the permanence of their plight. Coming to a tent at the end of his area he called out and lifted a tent flap by its corner, hoping to get some infor- mation from those within, and let it drop, paral- ysed by his transgression. A woman labouring strenuously to give birth lay on straw matting on the ground, her legs wide open, her body writhing, her groans unmindful of all but the merciless rhythm of labour. The woman keeping vigil between her legs had paid him no attention. He walked back, his stomach convulsed by the sight and sounds of birthing, the ultimate act in defiance of extermination. On their way home, an hour's drive, Rahman at the wheel, there was little to be said about the failure of their mission. Their separate silences bound them closer than talk. Prabhakar, sitting beside Rahman, felt sickened at the thought that Rafeeq might have been beaten to death and his body left rotting on some roadside. Where could his family be hiding and how long could they hide? He understood why Rahman had nothing to say. In deep mourning for the man he had known, for the faith they had shared, and for their brotherhood with all others under the Indian sun, what is there to say? Nayantara Sahgal is the author of several works of fic- tion and non-fiction, the first of which, Prison and Chocolate Cake, an autobiography, was published in 1954. Her works include classic novels such as Rich Like Us, Plans for Departure and Lesser Breeds. She has received the Sahitya Akademi Award, the Sinclair Prize and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. This is an excerpt from The Fate of Butterflies written by Nayantara Sahgal and published by Speaking Tiger. Republished here with permission from the publisher through Indian Writers Forum
'How did she know? Did she see one of these camps?' asked Salma. 'She lived in one of them. She was one of the herd driven into them. She said guards used to come at night and separate the women from the men…' Katerina sensed violent recoil like a live pres- ence in the room and gave it a minute before con- tinuing, 'We will have to find out where those vil- lagers are, if they've been put in a camp, and go there.' Another second of silence told her no one else's mind had jumped ahead to that course of action. 'Of course, Rafeeq may not be there but that's where he's most likely to be. We'll have to go and see.' She must not go with them, they protested. Rahman, with his habitual tenderness for mankind and more especially for womankind, said it would be exhausting and emotionally too much of a strain after all she had been through. As if she hadn't heard, Katerina told them she would make enquiries tomorrow morning and go with them. She had never met Rafeeq and wouldn't recognize him, but Rahman had said he had a wife and two children so she would ask among the women. It could be useful. It had to be agreed she would go with them tomorrow after- noon after classes, giving her the morning to find out where the camp, if there was one, was locat- ed. At the sprawl of tents, hutments and flimsier shelters concocted out of tin and tarpaulin, Katerina suggested they divide up for a thorough search for Rafeeq, not just look around for him but keep asking if anyone knew him or had seen him. Prabhakar took the direction given. He had not imagined quite this. There was a finality about this mass removal, clealy no hope of escape from it. There would be no going back to where they had come from, or forward to elsewhere, for those expelled from their village lands and their livelihoods who now had nothing to do and nowhere to go. This squalor had no shape or form and no connection with anything he thought of as human habitation. Yet human voices were telling him they knew no one called Rafeeq; the sun was beating down on barefoot children chasing each
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