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THE GREAT DIVIDE --- SHE TAKES HER CAMERA AND CRAWLS INTO THE TRACTOR WHERE SHE’S WEDGED BETWEEN NINE CLAY JUGS AND THE SEVEN WOMEN WHO SMILE: “COME WITH US TO COLLECT THE WATER.” AND SO SHE RIDES WITH THEM THROUGH MUSTARD-COLOURED FIELDS WHILE THE SUN SHINES DOWN ON THEM, CASTING SHADOWS LIKE SEVEN SCORCHING BINDIS COVERING THEM IN SWEAT. THEY ARRIVE AT THE WATER WELL, CUP THE SWEAT IN THEIR HANDS, DRIPPING THE WARM LIQUID INTO THE SOIL. THEY TAKE THEIR CHUNNIS TO WIPE THEIR FACES. THEY LAUGH. THE FIRST WOMAN IN THE GROUP HAS A SALWAR KAMEEZ, LUKEWARM YELLOW, A CHUNNI THE COLOUR OF LIME. SHE KNEELS ON THE LAND AND TELLS OF THE WILD FISH THAT SWAM IN THE ONCE CLEAN RIVER RAVI THAT NOW STARES AT THEM PITEOUSLY. THE SECOND WOMAN STANDS, HER SUIT THE COLOUR OF MAHOGANY, HER CHUNNI THE COLOUR OF CORIANDER. SHE DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING, BUT HER HANDS STROKE THE SMOOTH BARK OVER AND OVER AGAIN. SHE BENDS TO KISS THE LAST STANDING KIKAR TREE. --- IN THE CORNER, THE TWO YOUNGEST WOMEN SIT ON THE LAST REMAINING PATCH OF EMERALD GRASS. THEY HUG THEIR KNEES TO THEIR CHESTS AND LAUGH SOFTLY— A TEMPORARY REST, A PRIVATE QUIET. THEY’RE ADORNED IN PURPLE AND WHITE CHUNNIS, ORANGE AND SKY BLUE SUITS. THE FIFTH WOMAN IS SOMBRE AND GENTLE. WATER FLOWS FROM THE RUSTY TAP, POURING INTO THE JUG. HER ARM RESTS ON HER LEG, AND SHE SPEAKS OF HER GREAT GRANDMOTHER WHO LOST THE GUNGHAT FLOWER-WORK SHE ONCE EMBROIDERED AND THE JEWELRY SHE ALSO MADE, HEIRLOOMS DESTROYED IN THE BLAZES OF THE GREAT DIVIDE. THE SIXTH AND SEVENTH WOMEN STAND NEARBY, THE QUIETEST AND ELDEST OF THEM ALL. THEY OPEN THEIR MOUTHS. BUT NO WORDS COME OUT. INSTEAD TWO BEAUTIFUL VOICES CHIME IN UNISON— A FOLK SONG BY NOOR JEHAN THAT PIERCES THE FIELDS AND THE SKY. NOOR JEHAN. THE NIGHTINGALE PAKISTAN CLAIMED BUT ONCE --- LOVED BY THEIR GRANDMOTHER ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BORDER, HER RECORDS LOST--DESTROYED IN THE BLAZES OF THE GREAT DIVIDE. NOW SEVEN WOMEN SING. CHANDNI RAATEIN, CHANDNI RAATEIN THESE MOONLIT NIGHTS DON’T LET ME SLEEP THE STORIES OF YOUR LOVE DON’T LET ME SLEEP AND THE SIX AND SEVENTH WOMEN SOON START CRYING THEY CRY FOR THE CORPSES OF THEIR LOVED ONES IN THE POLLUTED RIVERS THEY CRY FOR THEIR DISAPPEARING ZAMEEN THAT ONCE LOVED THEM THEY CRIED FOR THE LONG UNFURLING CLOTH ONCE EMBROIDERED WITH SYMBOLS ALL DISAPPEARING; THE PEACOCKS, THE PUNJABI BIRDS THE MONSOON, THE BLACK SMOKE OF THE TRAINS THAT TOOK AWAY THEIR GRANDMOTHERS, LEAVING BEHIND NOTHING BUT THE NAZAR BATTU. AND THE WOMAN SLOWLY BACKS AWAY FROM THEM, HER CAMERA EMERGING. “LET ME TAKE YOUR PHOTO,” SHE SAYS, AND SEVEN WOMEN NOD WHILE THE SUN SHINES DOWN ON THEM, CASTING SHADOWS LIKE SEVEN SCORCHING BINDIS.