Under the Moonlit Sky. Nav K. Gill

      Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

      Gill, Nav K., 1983-

      Under the moonlit sky / Nav K. Gill.

      ISBN 978-1-894917-99-5

      I. Title.

      Dedicated to the memory

      of my late Father, Nazar Singh Gill,

      whose love and encouragement dared me to dream.

      The first four chapters were written in his presence,

      while the rest of the novel was completed in his memory.

      To my mother—if anything is possible,

      it is because of you and your strong belief that there

      are no limits in life and that dreams can come true.

      You inspire me.

      To Sony and Harry—you stuck with me

      from the beginning and made sure I got here.

      There is wisdom in every story told,

      every experience shared;

      a wisdom that can become a beacon

      for hope and change for the future.

      But first, we must listen.

       PROLOGUE

       November 1st, 1984

      The air is polluted. Instinctively I bring my hand over my mouth and nose, but I can still feel it seeping into my lungs. My heart is racing and my legs are tired, but I’ve kicked into survival mode, and I know that right now it’s the only thing that is keeping me alive.

      “Chase her! Don’t stop until you get her! Remember, blood for blood!”

      “Blood for blood! Blood for blood!”

      I can hear the chants of the mob chasing after me as I force myself to continue. Keep running, Esha. Just keep running!

      The streets are tight and the gates to the houses are either shut or have been broken down by the angry mobs. With the shouts getting louder, I race on, trying not to pay too much attention to the charred and dismembered bodies lying in the streets. Up ahead, the road breaks off into two. I decide to go right, and as I turn the corner, I immediately trip over a body and crash to the ground, scraping my knees. Covered with blood, not my own, I can smell the stench of death. It hovers in every street and alley. A reality that, just one day earlier, I would never have imagined possible.

      The footsteps of men can be heard clearly now as their pace quickens. I don’t have much time. If I am to survive, I must press on. I gather what strength I have left, stagger to my feet and start running again. I can sense the fear sitting deep within me, waiting to get loose and take over. It is a fear that I can’t afford to entertain, for if I do, then I’ll definitely fall victim to the mob’s hunger.

      Hope quickly slipping away and my legs feeling heavier by the second, I begin to tremble. How is it possible to reach such a hopeless moment?

      I remember the beautiful, bright and sunny morning, the laughter in the house. I remember thinking that it was going to be a nice day. But the screams of innocent victims and roars of angry mobs took control. As much as I tried, I could not force myself to stop thinking, stop remembering what I’d seen. How could I? I was still here, running to survive with nowhere to go.

      Had I known what my decision was leading me into, I would never have taken such a risk. I would never have boarded that flight, and I would never have come to Delhi.

      “Never lose sight of who you are,” my grandma had told me. This exact phrase has been repeated to me over and over again, but it has never taken on the significance that it does now.

      These words are at the very core of identity. This damn word, identity, has haunted me for months, and now suddenly it has tipped the scale between life and death. I don’t even belong here, but still they chase me, because to them I am a Sikh.

      Now, as I fight to keep ahead of the pursuing mob, I realize that this struggle with identity has become my story . . . and ultimately landed me in this hell.

       ONE

       May 1984

      I felt a tingle go down my spine. Am I sweating? If so, can he tell? His scent was getting stronger. It was a mix of leather and the fruity shampoo he used in his hair. Usually his fruity smell was the butt of my jokes whenever I was close to him. But this moment was different. He was closer now . . . much closer. He looked me dead in the eyes, oh, with those gorgeous blue eyes. He brought his left arm to the small of my back and pulled me closer.

      “Johnny!” I gasped.

      “Esha, I’ve wanted this for a long time now.”

      My heart was beating rapidly. As he leaned in, I held my breath. I couldn’t function well enough to breathe. This was Johnny! My friend, but also the guy I had been crushing on for a very long time. He came closer and closer, and I could feel him breathing now . . . here it goes . . . and . . .

      “ESHA! Hey! There you are! It’s our song! Come on!” Johnny and I almost tripped

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