I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (13 page)

On the point of principle, Sher Singh felt that his mind was quite clear: he was a Nationalist and although he had worn a silk suit and tie when he called on the Deputy Commissioner, that was to save Taylor’s feelings. Or was it the fear of his father? He could have told Taylor that he did not believe in the hocus-pocus of traditional Sikh loyalty to the British. In proportion
to their numbers, more Sikhs had gone to jail and to the gallows in the freedom movements than those of any other community in India — Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. In any case, talk of loyalty might have made some sense in the nineteenth century, it was beside the point in 1942. Britain had to get out of India herself, or be kicked out, and Sher Singh would say that to Taylor’s face. Could he? What about his father’s views, his career in the service, and his hope of finding his name in the next Honours list? And the unique honour he was getting in the way of an armed police guard outside his house — the sentry who sprang to attention and smacked the butt of his rifle even when Sher Singh passed by with his college friends? Couldn’t it somehow happen that these opposing factors could be combined into one harmonious whole? He visualized scenes where his Nationalist and terrorist colleagues honoured him as their beloved leader, where Taylor read an address of welcome, and his father proudly looked on. Such were the dreams with which Sher Singh tried to dope himself. They were based on the non-discovery of one party by the other.

Sher Singh tried to dismiss the cartridges on the Deputy Commissioner’s table from his mind. Taylor was known to shoot; they could be from his own rifle. And many people liked playing with empty shells. He tried to reassure himself that a village headman wouldn’t dare to report against the son of as powerful an officer as Buta Singh. Deep inside him he also knew that there were flaws in his reasoning. There was evidence to prove that he was being watched. A new sentry had replaced the old one.

The new sentry was politer than the last one and even saluted visitors who came to the house. He asked their names and business before letting them enter. He also became friendly with Shunno and Mundoo, and both the servants got into the habit of gossiping with him when they were free from work. Then one of the terrorists let him down. He used to come to see Sher Singh off and on and was known to Mundoo. One day he turned up with a false beard and moustache and wearing dark glasses. He announced himself to the sentry by a Muslim name. Even the thirteen-year-old Mundoo recognized him. Before Sher Singh could make up his mind whether or not to tell Mundoo not to talk about it to the sentry, the boy had done so. This was the last straw.

Sher Singh decided to get rid of the arms till suspicion had been allayed. But his troubles had only begun. He tried to arrange a meeting. None of the boys would agree to have it in his own home. One had a sister getting married; another had just lost his aunt and there were mourners in the house. One’s father was already suspicious; another was sure his house was watched by the police. Sher Singh asked them to meet on the canal bank outside the town and come on their own cycles. They grumbled about the heat and the distance and only agreed when Sher Singh lost his temper and gave them a sermon on the greater battles to come. But neither the sermon nor the bad temper would persuade them to take over the illicit arms and keep them in their homes. ‘They are safer in your house than ours. No one will dream that Sardar Buta Singh’s son can be a terrorist, no one will dare to search a
magistrate’s home.’ Sher Singh repeated with exasperation that he was wanting to remove the arms precisely because he was already under suspicion. They offered him much advice but refused to budge from their position: ‘They have to be with either you or Madan; and Madan is away.’

Sher Singh left them, raging and cursing wildly. He realized later that by his behaviour he had turned fellow conspirators into potential informers. If there were trouble, he would be the only one involved. The headman, and perhaps Taylor, knew only of him; the arms were also in his possession. He simply had to get rid of them.

He decided to throw everything into the well in the garden, then changed his mind because it was too obvious a place and the first thing anyone looking for the arms would do would be to send a man down into the well. He planned to put them in the jeep and dump them into the canal. Before he could do anything about it, the jeep was taken away. The driver said that it was wanted for emergency service elsewhere. He could not risk taking the stuff in a taxi or a tonga and once more he reverted to the plan of throwing them into the well. One evening he went out to reconnoitre. He discovered that the sentry who stood by the gate all day, slept by the parapet of the well at night. So the rifles, pistols, and hand-grenades remained where they were. Sher Singh just tried to forget their existence.

Then the village headman came to call on him.

•

Buta Singh had strong views about people coming to see him in his house — particularly if they were unimportant. His principle was that the only place for business was the office: the home was for rest and the family. ‘Otherwise,’ he used to say, ‘fellows not worth the price of a broken shell could destroy the peace of the home.’ He had issued instructions to his servants to tell callers to see him at the law courts. Naturally he was angry when Mundoo casually announced at breakfast, ‘Sardarji, there is a peasant waiting to see you. He has been waiting since the morning. He says he has come all the way from his village.’

‘Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to allow peasants in the house! Tell him to see me at the courts.’

‘Not you, Sardarji. He wants to see the small Sardarji,’ answered Mundoo turning to Sher Singh.

‘Me? What peasant wants to see me?’ Sher Singh got up from the table and went out to the verandah. He saw the village headman sitting by the gate talking to the sentry. After a few moments of reflection he went back to join his parents at the breakfast table. Before they could ask him any questions, he ordered Mundoo to take a tumbler of buttermilk and some chapatis for the visitor.

‘Who is the man?’ asked Buta Singh.

‘Just a villager we met when we were out on the canal bank one day. He was very good to us and gave us tea and food.’

‘We? Who’s we?’

‘Madan and I.’

‘Of course! One should always return hospitality,’ said Sabhrai, backing her son.

That is all right,’ said Buta Singh, ‘but one should not encourage these people too much. They always try to take advantage.’

Buta Singh went off to the law courts and Sabhrai to the kitchen. Sher Singh stayed on to plan his line of approach. He felt cross with Madan for having got him into this mess and having gone away to Simla. But there it was and he had to face the situation alone. At least he could find out whether or not this fellow had told the police or Taylor about the shooting of the crane and given the Deputy Commissioner the fired bullets. He would have to be tactful. Perhaps the best approach would be to give him hope of getting something or other from Buta Singh and keep him hoping till things were easier.

Sher Singh opened the offensive with an enthusiastic greeting. ‘Wall, wah,’ he exploded warmly, ‘you are sitting outside and this your own home! Come inside.’

The headman had just finished the tumbler of buttermilk that Mundoo had brought him. He belched loudly and brushed his moustache with the back of his hand. He got up and made a quick move to touch Sher Singh’s feet. Sher Singh stopped him half-way, put his arm round the other’s shoulders, and conducted him to the sitting-room. The headman left his shoes by the threshold and went in. He smoothed the sofa with his hands and slowly sank into it. Sher Singh sat down beside him. The headman took his host’s hand in his. ‘What wonderful palaces you live in!’ he exclaimed, looking from the carpet, to the pictures on the walls, the radio set covered in embroidered velvet, up to the whirring ceiling fan.

‘What palace? This is our poor home that you have blessed by putting your feet in it. Tell me what service I can do for you. More buttermilk or tea? Our buttermilk is not as good as yours. You get the best milk, butter, and yogurt.’

‘Sardarji, there is no
ours
and
yours
; it is all given by the Great Guru, the True Emperor. You order me and I will bring you an excellent milch buffalo — twenty seers of milk a day and thick with cream. Next time I come I’ll get you a tin of pure clarified butter. Your heart will rejoice.’ He squeezed Sher Singh’s hands with great affection.

They talked of the joys of village life, of crops and cattle. Sher Singh got no closer to the real subject. His patience began to run out; he glanced at his watch.

‘You working people!’ exclaimed the headman giving Sher Singh another sympathetic squeeze. ‘You have to go somewhere. I only came to have a sight of you. Now I have been blessed with that, I can return happily.’

Sher Singh sniggered; then came to the point — first with the bait. ‘If you want my father to do anything for you, tell me. I can speak to him. If you want to be on the panel of assessors in Sessions trials, or entitled to a seat at the Commissioner’s durbars, or anything like a gun licence . . . just anything.’

‘Sardarji, all I want is your kindness. The Great Guru, the True Emperor, has given me all I want. I am a headman and an assessor; I am entitled to sit on a chair at formal occasions; I also have a gun and a pistol. I have cows and buffaloes; plenty to eat and drink and no debts to pay. If I want anything who else can I go
to except you! All I want is your kindness.’ He smacked Sher Singh on the thigh and added, ‘All right, you go to your important business.’

‘It isn’t all that important,’ answered Sher Singh. He knew he was losing the game; he had grossly underestimated the peasant’s cunning. He made a headlong plunge. ‘Friend,’ he whispered, ‘you didn’t by any chance tell Taylor Sahib about our shooting party of the other day?’

‘I tell Taylor Sahib about you? Sardarji, how can you say such a thing?’ The headman looked utterly scandalized.

‘I know you couldn’t have told against your brother. Taylor had empty bullets lying on his table and I thought they might have been mine.’

‘Here, Sardarji, are the bullet cases,’ said the headman untying the knot of a dirty handkerchief. There were three: on Taylor’s table there were also three. Sher Singh had emptied his magazine which took six bullets. He stretched out his hand to take the cases. The headman withdrew the handkerchief and retied the knot. ‘No, Sardarji, they are my property. They remind me of the lucky day when I met you.’

Sher Singh felt cornered and helpless. And that in an encounter with a slovenly Sikh peasant with a shaggy, unkempt beard; a rustic whose clothes were full of grease, whose skin had layers of dirt on it and whose head was undoubtedly full of lice.

‘Sardarji, who were those Hindu boys with you that day?’ asked the peasant again taking Sher Singh’s hands in his.

‘Friends,’ answered Sher Singh. He wasn’t going to
give the fellow any more information even if they had let him down. ‘They were not all Hindus,’ he added quickly. He recalled introducing them with Muslim names.

The headman didn’t seem perturbed. ‘One of them was a gentleman; the tall chap in trousers . . . You know the boy who introduced us!’

‘Yes, he is an important officer — a lieutenant in the army.’

‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed the headman. ‘Big people like you should only have big friends.’ After a short pause he remarked, ‘He looked like a college boy.’

‘Yes, he looks younger than he is.’

They sat in silence for some time. Sher Singh felt like ordering the fellow out of the house or having the servants beat him up. He decided to keep calm and make one more attempt to get round his adversary. He got up abruptly and went to his room. He came back with five ten-rupee notes stuffed in his trouser pockets. ‘All right, Lambardarji, Sat Sri Akal . . . and here is a little present for your children from me.’ He thrust the money in the headman’s hands.

‘Sardarji, what is this? I am your slave. I have no children and if I had any they would also be your slaves. You don’t have to give me anything.’

‘You have come to my house for the first time; you must have something, otherwise it will be an ill omen. Buy some sweets for your wife and relations.’

Fifty rupees proved too much for the Lambardar. He accepted them with lavish expressions of praise. You are an emperor ... I shall always sing your praise.’

Sher Singh paid the money but the headman didn’t give him a chance to ask for the return of the spent bullets. He kept up a flow of flattery till he left the house.

Sher Singh’s illusions about Taylor not knowing of his activities were shattered. He also realized that he had paid the first installment of blackmail money and many more would undoubtedly follow.

S
abhrai was possessed of that sixth sense which often goes with people of deep religious convictions. It had been proved so often that her family believed that she had some sort of intuition which told her of events to come. Once she had returned from her village many days before she was expected, just as her husband was being taken to the hospital for an emergency operation to have his appendix taken out; she had left long before the telegram summoning her had been delivered. Once again she had come to her son’s bedside, who, in her absence, had been suddenly taken ill with typhoid fever. On her arrival she had not shown any surprise but behaved like a doctor who had been sent for and was expected to get down to his job straightaway. She had got down to hers at once: with softly murmured prayers and gentle ministrations of her hands which had the healing touch. There were many other instances. Perhaps they were mere coincidences to which men of science would attach little importance. Her family had learnt to know better. Therefore, when she suddenly declared her intention to go to her daughter in Simla, neither her husband nor her son asked her for the reason.

The monsoon had settled down to a routine of rain. People no longer risked sleeping in the open or on their rooftops; too often had a clear starlit sky suddenly become overcast and without warning it had begun to
pour. Buta Singh, Sabhrai, and Sher had taken to sleeping in the verandah under a ceiling fan. Dyer slept on the floor beside his young master on a trough of sand on which water was sprinkled from time to time. The servants slept in the humid heat of their quarters.

Sabhrai always felt uneasy when all the members of her family were not with her. She talked about those who were away, wrote them long letters full of quotations from the scriptures and sermons to be good. She thought of them in her prayers — particularly with the last one she said before going to sleep. She was doing this the night before she announced her intention to go to Simla. She sat cross-legged in her bed telling the beads of her rosary. After the prayer she shut her eyes and thought of her family by turn. For many days her main concern had been her daughter, Beena. That evening she could think of nothing else and even at prayer her mind had strayed from her God and her Gurus to her daughter. When she went to bed the argument went on in her mind. Although Beena was not alone, she was unprotected. She could be the victim of Madan’s wiles. Madan’s wife had probably not turned up in Simla. Even if she had, she was not likely to be able to keep her husband straight. For some reason men were inclined to be more promiscuous when their wives were pregnant. Sabhrai tried to drown these ugly thoughts with more fervent praying. But they persisted and when she finally went to sleep somewhat exhausted, they turned into a nightmare. She dreamt that her daughter was being pursued by a band of hooligans wanting to ravish her and was frantically calling for help. As the pursuers gained
ground, Sabhrai’s agitation changed from dream to reality. When they bore upon her child, she yelled at them and opened her arms to protect her daughter. One of them tried to kiss Sabhrai by force. She began to moan. Dyer got up and came to her bedside and sniffed enquiringly in her ear, then licked her on the nose. Sabhrai woke up with a start and smacked the dog on the face. Her husband and son also woke up.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Sher Singh turning to his mother.

‘This Dyer of yours. He put his cold nose against my face. Don’t know what’s come over him.’

Dyer was told off by all three and slunk back to his place. Father and son resumed their snoring. Sabhrai returned to her prayers.

At the breakfast table next morning she was quieter than usual. When her husband and son had finished discussing the morning’s news, she said, ‘We haven’t heard from Beena for some days.’

‘She must be having a good time. After examinations no one wants to be worried with reading or writing — not even letters,’ answered her son.

The concern on Sabhrai’s face indicated that she had other things on her mind.

‘You must be imagining she is ill. No one falls ill in the hills,’ assured Buta Singh.

‘Has Madan’s wife joined them in Simla?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, but I can find out,’ answered Sher Singh.

‘I would like to know.’

Neither father nor son followed the trend of her thoughts. That evening when Sher Singh told her that
he had found out from Wazir Chand’s house that Madan’s wife was still with her parents, Sabhrai stated firmly, ‘I should go to Simla.’

‘I asked Wazir Chand myself,’ replied Sher Singh somewhat nonplussed. ‘He said Madan’s wife would rejoin her husband after having her baby which is expected in a month or two.’

After a pause, Sabhrai repeated: ‘I ought to go to Simla. Beena wants me.’

‘Why do you get so bothered and impatient?’ protested her son. ‘Champak is there; so are Sita and Madan. And if there were anything wrong, they would send us a telegram.’

‘No, I will go tonight.’

To such determination there was no answer. It only aroused apprehension: anything that could bother Sabhrai so much was not to be trifled with. Buta Singh waited for his son to volunteer to accompany his mother. Sher Singh did not look up from his plate. ‘All right,’ said Buta Singh at last, ‘I will send one of my orderlies with you.’

Sabhrai reached the house in Simla as the siren boomed across the hills and valleys to announce the middle of the day. She found the doors and windows wide open with no one about. She left the orderly to haggle with the rickshaw coolies and went in. The sitting-room had not been swept; the dinner table was littered with the remains of the morning’s breakfast; one teacup had cigarette stubs floating in a mixture of tea and ash. The next room was obviously her daughter-in-law’s: on the
table beside the bed was a photograph of her son. The door of the room beyond that was shut. Sabhrai opened it gently. One bed was empty; her daughter was fast asleep in the other. She had a woollen scarf round her neck and was breathing heavily through her mouth. Her nose was raw and there were marks of dried tears on her cheeks. She had a heavy cold.

Beena opened her eyes as Sabhrai’s soft hand touched her forehead. Sabhrai sat down beside the pillow and took her daughter’s head in her lap. Beena clutched her mother by the waist and burst into tears. Sabhrai began to chant:

‘The True, The True
The Great Guru.’

The mother pressed her daughter’s head as she chanted. The girl cried, sobbed, sighed, and then fell silent.

‘You have no fever?’

Beena shook her head.

‘When did you catch the cold?’

‘Night before last. We were all drenched.’

‘The True, The True
The Great Guru.’

Sabhrai was still with her daughter when Madan and the two girls returned. She heard the servant tell them of her arrival and Madan’s loud guffaw, ‘Wah ji wah! It is our good kismet that has brought auntie to our home. Where is she?’

‘I will get news of my Sardarji,’ added Champak jovially. ‘He is such a bad correspondent.’

The three came into the bedroom, led by Madan. They bowed to her to receive her blessings.

‘Auntie, you did not write about your coming; I would have come to receive you at the taxi stand.’

‘No, son, it was only yesterday that I decided to leave; there was no time to write a letter. And I do not like sending telegrams.’

They sat down on Beena’s bed. ‘First tell me the news of my Sardarji. Why didn’t you bring him with you? I don’t like it here without him. Now you have come, I can go back,’ said Champak.

‘Everyone is well. Sherji is very busy with whatever he is doing. He leaves early morning and seldom turns up for dinner.’

‘He’s got into the rut of leadership,’ explained Madan. ‘It is very demanding, but it will take him far, very far.’

Sabhrai changed the subject abruptly. ‘Madanji, have you good news of your wife?’

‘It is quite some time since she wrote,’ he replied without any hesitation, ‘but you know what girls are when they are with their mothers! All must be well otherwise I would have certainly heard.’ He did not let Sabhrai pursue the subject further. ‘Auntie, we must celebrate your arrival. I will take you all to Davicos for tea. They have a European band and all the world turns up. It will do Beena good; fresh air is good for a cold.’

Beena waved her hand to say no.

‘I think I will stay with Beena,’ said Sabhrai.

‘Bibiji, you go, I will stay with her,’ insisted Champak.

‘No, no, no,’ protested Beena angrily, ‘I don’t want
anyone to stay with me. I have no fever. I will sit out in the garden in the sun. I don’t want to meet people; I can hardly talk. My nose is clogged.’

‘That’s settled then,’ said Madan triumphantly. ‘I will book a table. We will steal some of the sandwiches and small cakes and bring them home for Beena.’ He laughed at his own joke.

After lunch they left Beena at home and went out for tea. The sun had come out after two days and people came out of their homes as ants emerge out of their holes after rain. The Mall, on which the big stores and restaurants were, was crowded. The Viceroy sped past in his Rolls Royce. The Muslim Chief Minister of the Punjab strode down the slope like an elephant at a ceremonial parade; he wore a white turban whose stiffly starched plumes waved in the air. He was surrounded by a horde of bowing and scraping ministers and civil servants. Behind him followed a train of liveried coolies, bearing his crest on their blue turbans, pulling brightly polished rickshaws. Fashionable women, both English and Indian, strolled about showing off their clothes and exuding expensive French perfumes. Batches of college students went up and down the three hundred-yard stretch of road displaying their college badges and eyeing girls. It was like a fashion parade where everyone was both the mannequin and the audience. Madan had his admirers all along the route. He stopped every few yards to greet them and exchange the three stock questions which people ask each other at holiday resorts: ‘When did you come up? Where are you staying? How long will you stay?’ And then rejoined Sabhrai and the girls.

Davicos Restaurant was jammed. The air was thick with cigar smoke, perfume, and the smell of whisky. Sabhrai drew one end of her shawl across her face.

The steward conducted them to their table at the farther end of the hall close to the orchestra. Madan surveyed the room, waved to the people he knew, and sat down. ‘Auntie, you would hardly believe there is a war on and these English chaps are getting the beating of their lives,’ he said to Sabhrai.

Champak answered, ‘When they work, they work hard. When they have a good time, they have a really good time. So my Sardarji says.’

‘You don’t know what the Germans and the Japanese are doing to them! And so far they have had the Indians to go to the front to receive the enemies’ bullets. That won’t last for long. When it starts here, they will forget about having a good time; then they will think of their maternal grandmothers.’

Sabhrai looked up sharply. Before she could speak, the bearer came with the tray of teacups and started laying them out on the table. As soon as he left, Madan started again, ‘Auntie, you think we Indians can do nothing! Wait and see what happens; you just wait and see. We will give them a shoe-beating such as they have never had before.’

Sabhrai did not want to be rude to Madan; nor let him get away with saying things she did not like. She remonstrated gently, ‘Son, your father and uncle would not like to hear you talk like this.’

‘Auntie, you have old-fashioned ideas.’

‘I am an old woman.’

They had their tea without further conversation.
Madan turned his chair away to look at the crowd and resumed waving and smiling to his friends.

The setting sun broke through the clouds and came streaming through the large bay windows of the restaurant. It was a magnificent view. Immediately below them was the unshapely mass of grey and red of the tin roofs of Simla’s bazaar. Kites dive-bombed into the narrow streets and reappeared with food in their talons. They fought in the air and went whirling down in pairs. Beyond the bazaar yawned an enormous valley with its terraced fields and tiny farm houses; in the centre of the valley was a silver stream with its banks flecked with white where the washermen had spread their clothes to dry. Beyond all these were the vast plains of Hindustan with the river Sutlej winding its way through the golden haze like a gilded serpent. The sun went down behind a range of low hills. Twilight spread over the city and the mountains like the hand of benediction. Some English people came across with their whisky glasses to admire the scene; many Indians followed their example.

Sabhrai got up. She did not like to be surrounded by people smoking and drinking. The evening star was up in the deep blue sky and it was time for prayer once more.

The bill had to be paid so Madan suggested their going ahead. Champak volunteered to stay and come with him; it was her only chance to agree to explanations if any were called for. Sita went home with Sabhrai.

Madan and Champak came out in the brightly lit and crowded street. They went across to the ridge
which was less crowded. There were many benches on the sides but they were all occupied.

‘Can’t we find any place where we can be alone for a few minutes?’ asked Champak, taking Madan’s hand.

‘Let us go to the tennis club,’ he replied. ‘After dark there is no one there.’ He marvelled at the woman’s daring.

They went down a steep road and came to the club. The courts were absolutely dark and deserted. They found a bench and sat down. Madan pulled Champak onto his lap. He pressed his lips on hers and his hands sought the cord of her trousers. Champak pushed him back rudely and stood up. ‘I did not come for this,’ she hissed angrily. ‘I am not a bazaar woman who sleeps with men in the open.’

‘I am sorry,’ replied Madan tamely. ‘I thought you wanted to say something to me alone.’

‘Say, not do,’ she replied. She sat down beside him and took his hand in hers. She put her head against his shoulder. ‘I am so worried and you don’t care at all.’