City of Ghosts (5 page)

Gurdial pulled her closer still until her breasts pushed against his side and he could feel her breath on his cheek. He ran his hand along the curve of her hip and let it rest on her thigh. Even through her clothes, he could feel the heat that emanated from her skin. He longed to touch her bare flesh, to ease into her and listen to her as she whispered her love into his ear.

‘So when will you ask my father?'

‘I don't know,' replied Gurdial.

‘And what if he says no?'

‘Then we will have to think of something else.'

‘We could run away,' Sohni suggested.

‘Perhaps,' said Gurdial. ‘But where would we go?'

Sohni turned and lay on top of him. She looked into his eyes and smiled. ‘I don't care where we go,' she told him. ‘As long as we go together.'

Later, as Sohni sat in the kitchen with Mohni, her stepmother asked her where she had been all afternoon.

‘I went to run the errands you gave me,' she replied.

‘And it took
three
hours?' snapped her stepmother, looking at her with disgust. Who did the little bitch think she was? ‘If you are lying to me I will slap you,' she warned.

‘I'm not lying,' said Sohni. ‘Ask anyone. I was at the market and then I went to see my friend, Yasmeen—'

Darshana spat in horror. ‘The Muslim girl?'

‘Yes!' said Sohni.

‘How dare you spend time with that whore when you should be here,' fumed Darshana.

‘But I was only doing what you—' began Sohni.

Before she could finish Darshana pounced on her and began to beat her about the face. Sohni cowered from the blows but did not cry. She knew that her stepmother was a weak woman; that her rages subsided quickly. By the tenth blow Darshana was red in the face and breathless. The sour, dank smell from her armpits, like rotten vegetables and putrid milk, made Sohni want to heave.

‘We shall see what your father has to say,' her stepmother told her, before storming out of the kitchen.

Once she was gone, Sohni washed her face and straightened her hair. As Mohni apologized for not being able to help her, she took his hand.

‘I don't want you to help,' she told him. ‘She'll
only take it out on you and I'd rather she hit me first.'

‘But—' began Mohni.

‘No,' replied Sohni.

‘I should have cut out her heart on the very first night she arrived here,' whispered Mohni. ‘Your mother always knew that she was an evil woman—'

Sohni started in shock. ‘My
mother
? How did she know who Darshana was?'

Realizing his mistake, Mohni backtracked. ‘She used to work in the market,' he lied. ‘Your mother never liked her, always making rude comments and swearing at people. There were rumours that she practised witch craft too.'

‘Oh,' replied Sohni. ‘I didn't realize that she was around when my mother was still alive.'

Mohni cursed himself silently. There were many things the young girl didn't know and it was best that it remained that way.

‘How would you?' he asked Sohni. ‘You were only a child.'

‘One day you will have to tell me everything,' she said to him.

Mohni smiled. ‘You know it all, my child,' he lied again. ‘Perhaps I can fill in the
minor
details.' He looked away in shame.

GURDIAL STOPPED AT
a stall and feigned interest in the brightly coloured fruits.

‘What are you doing now?' asked Bissen.

The young man shrugged.

‘Come on,' urged Bissen. ‘Don't lose your will now.'

They were on their way to confront Sohni's father. After days of trying to get Gurdial to change his mind, to think more carefully about what he was doing, Bissen had given up. If Gurdial wanted to do what he thought was the right thing, then so be it.

Bissen had tried to reason with the boy. He'd told him that he and Sohni were still young and had plenty of time to consider their actions. That Sohni's father, Gulbaru Singh, would not be open to his request if it came out of the blue.

‘But he won't say yes, anyway,' Gurdial had replied.

‘Perhaps. But he might be more willing if there was a
more . . . er . . . adult approach made on your behalf.'

‘And what adult can I send?' the boy had asked. ‘I have no mother, no father and no older brothers.'

It was good to see the determination on the boy's face but Bissen also knew that once Gulbaru Singh found out about them, the young lovers would have trouble meeting. Hope was hope and dreams were dreams but the reality of life in Amritsar was harsh. The poor never married the rich – never – and that was just the way things were.

The problem for Bissen was trying to justify his arguments to himself: it was something he just couldn't do. Here he was, a lovesick fool, waiting for an invitation to return to England – to the woman of his dreams – hoping and praying that she would ignore the social taboos inherent in English society and step away from her own race and religion and culture. And yet he was telling Gurdial that taboos could never be broken, and at the same time urging him to follow his dreams. The opium-induced fog in his head had grown so thick that he jumped from contradiction to contradiction like some kind of agitated toad.

‘What if he laughs at me?' asked Gurdial as the stallholder shooed him away.

Bissen sighed. Laughter would be the least of Gurdial's worries. ‘We've already spoken about this, Gurdial. You can't control how he will react.'

‘And that means . . .?'

‘It means what it means,' said Bissen. ‘Don't worry about his reply before you've even asked the question. Once he makes that reply, then you can try to do something about it.'

‘I don't want to make things difficult for Sohni.'

Bissen shook his head and placed a hand on Gurdial's bony shoulder. ‘But what you're about to do
will
make things harder,' he told him. ‘That's something both of you already know. It's the risk you've both chosen to take.'

Gurdial put his hands to his head in confusion. ‘Oh, why can't this be easy?' he cried.

‘Because nothing ever is. Because if things were easy, life would be much less interesting.'

‘Now you're just teasing me,' complained Gurdial.

‘No I'm not. I'm just trying to explain how things are.'

Gurdial stepped aside as a short, squat market trader barged past them, his eyes blazing with anger. The man swore at them before beginning an argument with a younger, taller trader.

Bissen ignored the disagreement and pulled Gurdial after him. ‘Come,' he said. ‘It's now or never.'

Gulbaru Singh was a happy man because he was making money – lots and lots of money. The Rowlatt Act, introduced by the British to try and keep a lid on the growing tensions in the Punjab, had also pushed prices up, and that suited Gulbaru down to the ground.
After all, people were never going to stop buying cloth, were they? No matter how expensive it was, they were still going to need it – no one was going to start walking around the streets of Amritsar naked.

His shop, situated in the middle of the main shopping street, was packed with buyers. There were overbearing mothers buying expensive material for their daughters' weddings, and grim-faced fathers hoping not to have to spend too much; men looking for turbans, and women who wanted the latest fabrics for their
salwaar kameez
and saris. And all of them were going to have to pay much more than they would have even three months earlier.

‘God bless the British,' Gulbaru said to himself as yet another mother dragged her daughter into the shop.

He turned to his assistant. ‘Moti-Lal – run and fetch some tea!' he ordered.

‘Yes, boss,' replied Moti-Lal.

The very least he could do was offer them some tea, Gulbaru thought to himself. After all, they were about to make him even richer.

‘
Bhai
– how much is that new fabric over there?' asked a woman with a pronounced widow's peak and three large moles on the left side of her face.

Gulbaru looked at the fabric she was indicating and smiled to himself. ‘What can I tell you, sister?' he said with a fake sigh. ‘This Rowlatt business is killing me.'

The woman scowled as he told her the price. Her husband, a man half her size, went red.

‘But,' added Gulbaru, ‘it is the freshest design we have. Perfect for any daughter.'

‘Brand new, you say?' asked the woman.

‘Arrived yesterday,' Gulbaru said, lying through his rotting teeth. ‘As yet no one in Amritsar has bought even a scrap of this fine cloth . . .'

He pulled a length from the roll and laid it out on the counter in front of the customer. ‘Feel how opulent it is,' he told her. ‘And ask yourself if your daughter is worth the extra premium that you'll pay – I know mine is—'

‘And no other person has this?'

‘No,' replied Gulbaru. ‘I swear on the life of my own beautiful daughter.'

‘I'll take it,' decided the woman.

Gulbaru tried not to grin as the husband went even redder and started to cough. As he asked the woman how much fabric she wanted, a gunshot rang out in the street. Everyone in the shop ran to see what was happening. Across the road, a group of policemen had detained two young men at gunpoint. No one seemed to have been hurt. A crowd had gathered and three British soldiers tried to keep them at bay. It was yet another incident in a growing catalogue. Amritsar was heading for trouble.

‘These rebels are making things very difficult,' said a red-turbanned man.

Gulbaru shrugged. ‘How is an honest man supposed
to make a living?' he asked as a gaunt-looking youth walked past him.

The man in the red turban scoffed at Gulbaru's words. ‘Some of us,' he said to no one in particular, ‘are making plenty of money.'

Although his remarks were aimed squarely at Gulbaru, the cloth trader ignored him. Instead he watched his assistant returning with the tea. ‘Quickly,' he ordered. ‘Get them back inside before they change their minds . . .'

Moti-Lal took the tea inside and then returned to round up the customers. ‘
Chai – chai!
' he shouted. ‘Come inside and drink.'

Gulbaru watched as his customers returned to the store. ‘Now let's see if we can't lighten your pockets for you,' he whispered to himself.

Bissen Singh stood at the entrance to Gulbaru's shop. It was much like every other store in Amritsar: open to the street. At the end of the day, all the merchandise was shut away in a storeroom to the rear and wooden shutters locked across the opening. It sat between a jeweller's and a food store, with a narrow gulley running between each shop. The gulleys were overgrown with weeds and stank of human and animal waste. Stray dogs and homeless beggars used them as resting places, away from the bright glare of the sun.

Gurdial stood behind Bissen, his eyes wide with fear and anticipation. His mouth felt as dry as kindling and
his stomach made strange gurgling noises. He looked into the shop and saw Sohni's father talking to a customer.

‘I'm not sure I can do this,' he said to Bissen.

‘It's too late to turn back now.'

‘But I am an orphan,' Gurdial moaned. ‘An orphan who wants to marry a rich girl.'

Bissen sighed. ‘Very well. It's decision time. Either you go in and speak to him or we leave right now and never come back.'

Gurdial looked at his mentor. His eyes filled with tears and his heart sank. A creeping realization dawned on him. Whether he asked Sohni's father or not, it did not matter. There was no way Gulbaru Singh was ever going to agree, so it mattered little whether he went inside or skulked away like a thief.

‘Well?' asked Bissen. ‘Are you going to live on your knees or be a man?'

Gurdial wiped away the tears and stood up straight, shoulders back and chest out. ‘I'm going to ask him,' he said defiantly.

Bissen put his hand on the boy's shoulder. ‘Come on then,' he said sympathetically. ‘I'll be at your side, brother. But for God's sake do not tell him that you are already lovers.'

Gurdial waited a moment longer before striding into the store with as much confidence as he could fake. Bissen paused for a few seconds, shook his head and followed.

Inside Gulbaru Singh's shop the temperature was stifling. A layer of greasy sweat clung to Gurdial's forehead as the sour smell of body odour and musk and incense made him swallow air. Despite the heat, he felt as though someone was stabbing him in the guts with an icicle. He found himself unable to look Sohni's father in the eye as the words he had so carefully rehearsed disappeared from memory. He turned to leave but felt Bissen's hand in the small of his back, preventing any escape.

Gulbaru Singh, for his part, had barely noticed the arrival of the two men. His eyes were firmly fixed on the bosom of a short Hindu woman in a tight gold and yellow sari, who was looking at various fabrics. Gulbaru studied her rounded hips and strong buttocks and wondered whether such a woman would have provided him with the male heir he so desperately craved. With his first wife dead, her replacement had promised much but delivered nothing. Each evening she ate away at Gulbaru's patience and showed herself for the useless whore she had always been.

Now she resorted to pills, potions and black magic to try and conceive a son. Nothing worked, as if he had been cursed for some reason. But Gulbaru Singh had always had plans – his whole life had been run according to them – and he was not about to let his second wife deny him his due. Perhaps there were more permanent solutions to his problems, he thought to
himself. And the fresh scent and, perhaps, virginal touch of a new bride was certainly something he would welcome. He sighed to himself.

Gurdial stepped forward and tried to get Gulbaru's attention, his heart pounding in his chest. Blood thumped behind his eyeballs.