Lines That Shouldn’t Exist
907 Words
Chapter 2 – Lines That Shouldn’t Exist
Noorpur, Punjab
April, 1947
The morning sun rose slowly over Noorpur, spreading soft golden light across the endless mustard fields. A light breeze moved through the village, carrying the smell of wet earth and fresh clay. Birds flew low across the sky, and everything felt calm—almost untouched by time.
In Noorpur, mornings always felt the same. Peaceful. Familiar. Safe.
For Joravar Singh and Afsana, it was a holiday.
And holidays meant only one thing—being together from morning till evening, like the world outside didn’t matter at all.
Joravar was sitting under the old banyan tree when Afsana arrived, holding a small cloth bag.
“You’re late,” Joravar said immediately.
Afsana raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not late. You’re just early for no reason.”
“I was born early for a reason,” he replied proudly.
She shook her head and sat beside him.
“Then tell me that reason someday.”
Joravar smiled. “I will… when I figure it out.”
Afsana laughed softly.
“So what’s the plan today?” she asked.
Joravar looked at the open fields like he was making an important decision.
“First… we do nothing.”
Afsana nodded seriously.
“I like your planning.”
“And after doing nothing?” she asked.
“Then we go near the well. And after that… you lose a race again.”
Afsana immediately stood up.
“In your dreams, Joravar Singh.”
The village slowly came alive around them. Children ran through narrow lanes, goats moved freely between houses, and smoke rose gently from morning stoves. Life in Noorpur continued the way it always had—simple and unhurried.
For a while, time passed easily.
They played near the fields, ran along dusty paths, and argued over small things that never mattered. Joravar tried to act serious, Afsana teased him endlessly, and somehow they always ended up laughing again.
It felt like the world was made for moments like this.
By noon, the sun was high, and the warmth in the air grew heavier. Their energy slowly faded, replaced by hunger.
Afsana wiped her forehead.
“I’m going home for lunch.”
Joravar nodded.
“Same. My mother will shout if I’m late.”
They walked together along the narrow path, dust rising softly behind them.
When they reached the fork in the road, Afsana suddenly stopped.
“Joravar,” she said.
He turned.
“What now? Another race?”
She shook her head.
“Come eat at my place today.”
Joravar blinked.
“Your house?”
“Yes. My mother cooked extra food today.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
As children, sharing food between homes was normal. But as they were growing older, things around them were slowly changing—things no one openly spoke about, but everyone quietly followed.
Joravar hesitated.
“I don’t know…”
Afsana tilted her head slightly.
“It’s just food, Joravar. Not a war.”
He smiled a little.
“Alright… I’ll come.”
They turned toward her home.
But as they entered the village lane, a few elders sitting outside noticed them together.
Whispers began immediately.
“A Sikh boy going into a Muslim house…”
Another voice followed quietly,
“These friendships don’t stay innocent for long.”
Joravar heard it.
Afsana didn’t.
But his steps slowed slightly.
At Afsana’s home, her mother welcomed him warmly, just as always. There was no hesitation in her voice, no change in her smile. She treated him like he had always belonged there.
“Come, beta. Sit,” she said kindly. “Eat first.”
Joravar sat down, but his mind was restless.
As Afsana served food, she noticed his silence.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
“Nothing,” he said quickly.
But outside, voices continued faintly.
“People should think before mixing too freely…” someone muttered.
Joravar’s fingers tightened slightly.
Suddenly, he stood up.
Afsana looked surprised.
“What are you doing?”
He looked toward the doorway, then outside at the villagers. His voice came sharper than usual.
“Why are you all talking like this?”
The lane slowly quieted.
An elder spoke.
“We are only saying what is proper.”
Joravar stepped forward.
“Proper according to who?”
Silence followed.
His voice rose with emotion.
“Did God ever divide people into groups? Or did humans create these lines because they cannot accept equality?”
Afsana stood behind him, shocked—not by what he said, but by the intensity in his voice.
Joravar continued,
“We all breathe the same air. We all live under the same sky. Then why act like we are different?”
No one answered.
Afsana gently touched his arm.
“Joravar…”
His anger slowly softened when he looked at her.
For a moment, only silence remained.
Then an old man said quietly, almost reluctantly,
“Times are changing… and not everyone will accept it.”
Joravar didn’t respond.
He simply sat back down.
But the air no longer felt the same.
As they ate, neither of them spoke much.
And far beyond the mustard fields of Noorpur, something unseen was beginning to shift—quiet, slow, and impossible to stop.
That night, Joravar lay awake longer than usual.
For the first time, he felt something unfamiliar about his own village.
Not fear.
But change.
- Writer
