By Arpit Kaushik
Twenty million fled when the border was drawn. My grandfather received a commendation for handling the dead in our village – bodies strewn like scattered grain. A dog with a white stripe pulls a corpse: one breast, one hand, no head. Trains didn’t stop for bodies on the tracks. In basements, men protected their daughters’ honour with swords, striking them before the other men could. Paradise was the village before: same streets, same wells, same shade trees. After the line, even the birds sang in different languages.