I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (11 page)

‘Good morning, sir,’ repeated Sher Singh a little louder.

‘Hm?’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Sher Singh a third time.

Taylor looked up and smiled. ‘Oh, good morning, Sher Singh, good morning. Didn’t notice you come in. Do sit down,’ he said, pointing to a chair.

‘Good morning, sir,’ stammered Sher Singh for the fourth time, ‘thank you, sir.’

‘Well, how are you? And how is your good father? I haven’t seen him for some days.’

‘Very good, sir. Very good, sir. Thank you.’

‘I am glad. And how are your politics? You are a leader of the students, aren’t you? Your father told me you had become President of the Students’ Union. He is very proud of you.’

A kind word from anyone one fears or hates has quicker and greater impact than it has from another — and Sher Singh had worked up both fear and hatred for Taylor. The Deputy Commissioner’s friendly tone and praise won him over completely. He did not know what to say. ‘It is nothing, sir, nothing,’ he replied with gratitude. He could hardly believe his own ears when
he heard himself say, ‘It is all the kindness of people like you. The students were being led astray by these Communists and other political groups. At a time like this, when the enemy is at our gates, we should be united and strong. The way the English are standing up to their adversities should be a lesson to us.’

‘Things are not going too well for us, are they?’ queried Taylor. He picked up a shiny metal tube from his table and tossed it in the air several times. Sher Singh was not sure what it was but he was fascinated by the object. Taylor went on: ‘It could put ideas in the minds of people who do not like us. Of course, we can rely on our friends. The Sikhs have a long tradition of loyalty to the British. We trust them more than any other community in India. And you know, your father is my closest colleague. He is a very good man.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

Taylor smiled looking straight at Sher Singh. He put one of the tubes to his lower lip, blew into it and made it whistle. It was an empty cartridge. Sher Singh went pale.

Taylor continued in his friendly manner: ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you from your work,’ he said. ‘It’s nice of you to have come. Drop in any time you want to see me about anything — not on a visitors’ morning like today — any other day. And if I can do anything for you, don’t hesitate to ask me.’

Sher Singh stood up and saw two other cartridges lying on the table beneath the table lamp.

‘Nice of you to have called.’

‘Goodbye, sir. Thank you very much, sir.’

‘Goodbye. Remember me to your father. What do
you Sikhs say — Sat Sri Akal. That’s right, isn’t it? I am told it means “God is truth.” ’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sat Sri Akal.’

Sher Singh walked out of the room and left the bungalow without saying goodbye to the other visitors. He brushed off the orderlies who ran after him to collect their tip. As soon as he was out of the gate, he pulled off his tie and thrust it into his coat pocket; then took off the silk coat and hung it on his shoulder. He walked aimlessly down the road till he found a quiet spot. He sat down on the grassy curb with his head between his knees. He was angry, humiliated, and frightened. He wanted to cry but no tears would come into his eyes. He sat like that for a long time till the anger and humiliation receded to the background and only fear remained. Fear of what Taylor might do to him, fear of what the whole family would have to say for the way he had disgraced his father.

For the first time in many years, Sher Singh went to the big temple in the city to pray.

T
o know India and her peoples, one has to know the monsoon. It is not enough to read about it in books, or see it on the cinema screen, or hear someone talk about it. It has to be a personal experience because nothing short of living through it can fully convey all it means to a people for whom it is not only the source of life, but also their most exciting impact with nature. What the four seasons of the year mean to the European, the one season of the monsoon means to the Indian. It is preceded by desolation; it brings with it the hopes of spring; it has the fullness of summer and the fulfilment of autumn all in one.

Those who mean to experience it should come to India some time in March or April. The flowers are on their way out and the trees begin to lose their foliage. The afternoon breeze has occasional whiffs of hot air to warn one of the days to come. For the next three months the sky becomes a flat and colourless grey without a wisp of a cloud anywhere. People suffer great agony. Sweat comes out of every pore and clothes stick to the body. Prickly heat erupts behind the neck and spreads over the body till it bristles like a porcupine and one is afraid to touch oneself. The thirst is unquenchable, no matter how much one drinks. The nights are spent shadow-boxing in the dark trying to catch mosquitoes and slapping oneself in an attempt to squash those hummings near one’s ears. One scratches
and curses when bitten, knowing that the mosquitoes are stroking their bloated bellies safely perched in the farthest corners of the nets, that they have gorged themselves on one’s blood. When the cool breeze of the morning starts blowing, one dozes off and dreams of a paradise with ice cool streams running through lush green valleys. Just then the sun comes up strong and hot and smacks one in the face. Another day begins with its heat and its glare and its dust.

After living through all this for ninety days or more, one’s mind becomes barren and bereft of hope. It is then that the monsoon makes its spectacular entry. Dense masses of dark clouds sweep across the heavens like a celestial army with black banners. The deep roll of thunder sounds like the beating of a billion drums. Crooked shafts of silver zigzag in lightning flashes against the black sky. Then comes the rain itself. First it falls in fat drops; the earth rises to meet them. She laps them up thirstily and is filled with fragrance. Then it comes in torrents which she receives with the supine gratitude of a woman being ravished by her lover. It impregnates her with life which bursts forth in abundance within a few hours. Where there was nothing, there is everything: green grass, snakes, centipedes, worms, and millions of insects.

It is not surprising that much of India’s art, music, and literature is concerned with the monsoon. Innumerable paintings depict people on rooftops looking eagerly at the dark clouds billowing out from over the horizon with flocks of herons flying in front. Of the many melodies of Indian music, Raga Malhar is the most popular because it brings to the mind distant
echoes of the sound of thunder and the pitter-patter of raindrops. It brings the odour of the earth and of green vegetation to the nostrils; the cry of the peacock and the call of the koel to the ear. There is also Raga Desha which invokes scenes of merrymaking, of swings in mango groves, and the singing and laughter of girls. Most Indian palaces had specially designed balconies from where noblemen could view the monsoon downpour. Here they sat listening to court musicians improvising their own versions of monsoon melodies, sipping wine and making love to the ladies of their harem. The commonest theme in Indian songs is the longing of lovers for each other when the rains are in full swing. There is no joy fuller than union during monsoon time; there is no sorrow deeper than separation during the season of the rains.

An Indian’s attitude to clouds and rain remains fundamentally different from that of the European. To the one, clouds are symbols of hope; to the other, those of despair. The Indian scans the heavens and if cumulus clouds blot out the sun his heart fills with joy. The European looks up and if there is no silver lining edging the clouds his depression deepens. The Indian talks of someone he respects and looks up to as a great shadow; like the one cast by the clouds when they cover the sun. The European, on the other hand, looks on a shadow as something evil and refers to people of dubious character as people under a shadow. For him, his beloved is like the sunshine and her smile a sunny smile. He escapes clouds and rain whenever he can and seeks sunnier climes. An Indian, when the rains come, runs out
into the streets shouting with joy and lets himself be soaked to the skin.

The fact that the monsoons come at about the same time every year gives expectation a sort of permanent place in the Indian’s mental calendar. This does not happen with other people, e.g., the Arabs, who also thirst for water and bless its descent. (If the Arabs had the monsoon turning up with the same regularity, their calendar would have taken note of changes of seasons instead of being linked with the vagaries of the moon.) All the different calendars current in India are a dexterous combination of the lunar and the solar systems. As a result, the correspondence between the month and the season is much closer. On the official day heralding spring, the chill winds of winter mysteriously vanish and a warm breeze begins to blow. Similarly, while the coming of the monsoon may be any day in June or July by the Roman calendar, more often than not the first of Sawan will see it in full force all along the Western Ghats and well inland up to the plains of the Punjab.

Sawan is the month for lovers. Just as spring turns a young man’s fancy to thoughts of love, in Sawan an Indian girl longs to be in her lover’s arms. If her lover is not there, she languishes away singing songs of sadness. That spirit is expressed by the Guru in his composition on the monsoon, in which, following the literary tradition of the time, he describes God as the Great Lover and the devotee as His mistress yearning for union with Him.

The season of rains is here

My heart is full of joy

My body and soul yearn for my Master.

The Master is away and if He return not,

I shall die pining for Him.

The lightning strikes terror in my heart.

I stand alone in my courtyard

In solitude and in sorrow.

O Mother of Mine, I stand on the brink of death.

Without the Lord I have no hunger

Nor any sleep;

I cannot bear the clothes on my body.

Spake the Guru: She alone is a wife true

Who loseth herself in the Lord.

The monsoon had burst some time after midnight. The thunder and lightning was enough to wake the dead but people had just lain in bed pretending that they were asleep. It came as usual: first a few heavy drops and everyone announced to everyone else, ‘It is going to rain,’ then suddenly it began to pour. There was shouting on all the rooftops and much bustle and activity as servants ran from their quarters to help bring the charpoys and bedding down into the verandahs. It took some time to get back to sleep again — but not too long. Nerves which had been frayed by the heat were soothed. And the sound of water spouting down from the roof, the gurgle of the gutters and of the rain falling in torrents was like a lullaby.

‘Today we have Simla here,’ said Buta Singh. He
made the remark in the hope that his son would start some conversation. When Sher Singh said nothing, Buta Singh made another attempt. ‘What wonderful weather we are having,’ he repeated looking out of the door of the temple room. The chicks had been rolled up. The rain pock-marked the puddles as it fell.

‘Yes,’ answered Sher Singh without looking up; he held his father chiefly responsible for what he had suffered at Taylor’s hands, and had avoided meeting him for some days. Buta Singh had sensed that the meeting had not been a success and wanted to know what had happened. ‘How did your interview go?’

‘It was on the morning meant for visitors; there were many others there.’ The tone of resentment was unmistakable.

‘Did you have to wait long?’

‘No! He sent for me before any of the others.’ Now father and son were on the same ground. Sher Singh mellowed at the thought that Taylor had sent for him first.

‘He is specially kind to me,’ added Buta Singh glowing with pride. ‘One should take full advantage of his friendship. You should not bother about what people say. After all you are the President of the Students’ Union and may be seeing him in connection with the students’ demands.’

Sher Singh recalled Taylor playing with the empty cartridge and the two lying on his table.

Sabhrai interrupted their conversation. ‘You have plenty of time to talk about these things later on; why start on them in the gurudwara?’ she said crossly. She
opened the Granth and, without scanning it silently before reading as she was wont to do, began to recite:

O, Black Buck, why lovest thou
The pasture of fenced-in fields?

Forbidden fruit is sweet but for a few days

It entices and ensnares

Then leaves one sorrowing. . . .

Sabhrai had brought a pen and paper to take down the passage to send to her daughter and daughter-in- law who were away in Simla. The verse made her a little uneasy, but it was the Guru’s word and she copied it down as it had come. Shunno distributed the prasad to her husband and son and the children outside.

It was obvious that Sher Singh was not in a mood to talk; Buta Singh made no further attempt to make him do so. Sabhrai broke the silence at the breakfast table. ‘I wonder what the girls are doing today?’ she asked.

The monsoon couldn’t have got to the hills yet,’ answered her husband. They must be having a good time strolling about on the Mall looking at the shop windows or meeting friends.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I was wondering if they’d know it was the first of the month and go to a temple or at least say their prayers.’

There were no rickshaws available to take them out to the picnic. Madan had looked for them at the stands and on the roads and drawn a blank: all had been reserved by the English folk the day before. They give bigger tips than we do,’ he explained.

‘We can’t walk all the way to Mashobra and back,’ complained his sister. ‘It is more than seven miles from here. And now we have the lunch things ready.’

‘The best I could do was to reserve bicycles in the Carpenters’ Bazaar,’ said Madan. ‘He had only three left. One of us could take the other on the back.’

After all the preparations, the girls were in no mood to spend the day at home. They set out with their lunch packed in a basket and their raincoats slung across their shoulders. In Simla, most people carried raincoats as a matter of style; news of the advancing monsoon had provided the habit an additional excuse. They came to the shop owned by the Sikh who combined making furniture, toys, and walking-sticks, with hiring out cycles. Of the three bicycles, two were ladies’: these were taken over by Sita and Beena. Madan took the man’s.

For the first mile the road climbed steeply, so there was no question of anyone cycling. When they came to the flat stretch they noticed that there were no carriers on any of the cycles. The only possible way Champak, who could not cycle, could get a lift was by riding on the handlebar of Madan’s cycle. Nothing was said on the subject. But, instead of mounting their cycles, they went on walking. Madan was in great form. He made funny remarks about the people they passed — in Punjabi about the English and in English about the Punjabis.

Mashobra bazaar and hotel were crowded with holiday makers so they went a little farther to an old rest house in the midst of pine trees. Madan found an isolated spot above the roads. They hauled
their cycles up the hillside and flung themselves on the bed of pine needles.

They ate their lunch and again spread themselves on the ground for an afternoon siesta. It was pleasant lying in the sun, breathing the warm, resiny odour of the pines and listening to the breeze soughing through the trees. There were a few white clouds. Lammergeiers circled lazily, high above in the deep blue of the sky. In the valley below a barbet started calling in its agitated, breathless way. Then a woman started to sing in a plaintive voice which seemed to fill the valley to the brim. Beena sat up to listen. She looked at her companions; they seemed to be fast asleep. She got up and quietly walked away in the direction from where the song was coming.

The hillwoman stopped singing as soon as she saw Beena and began to call to her goats, ‘Hurrieyeh . . . urrieyeh. Aoh, aoh, aoh.’ The goats paused in their grazing and looked up.

‘Why have you stopped singing? I came to hear you.’

‘What singing, Bibi? This is only to while away the time. We poor people can’t go to the cinemas and learn new songs . . . aoh, aoh.’ The goats looked up again, saw their mistress busy, and resumed their nibbling. The woman sat down on her haunches. She was old and full of wrinkles but her smile had the gay abandon of youth. She had a flat gold coin of the size of a rupee on one side of her nose and her arms were full of cheap glass bangles. ‘What can we sing, Bibi!’ she repeated. ‘Aoh, urrieyeh.’

‘Your song was better than the songs in the films. Why don’t you go on?’ asked Beena sitting down a
little distance from her. The old woman just looked down at her feet.

‘Have you a family?’ asked Beena to encourage the other to talk.

‘Family? Don’t ask me anything. Five daughters!’ she replied, slapping her forehead. ‘It was written on my forehead; I cannot grumble.’ She smiled baring a set of pearl white teeth.

‘What’s wrong with having five daughters?’

The peasant woman spat on the ground between her legs. ‘One has got to get them married; that costs money. We can’t pay our debts and now we have to borrow more because the eldest is thirteen. We are marrying her off next month. You can’t keep a young girl in the house, can you?
You
must be married.’

‘No, I am single.’

‘You rich people have no worries. It’s us poor folk who can’t get enough to fill our bellies. Five daughters and nothing to give to any one of them.’ She smacked her forehead again. ‘It is all written there’ — and smiled again. Her worries did not last long.