I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (15 page)

‘Is there any trouble in the Punjab?’ asked Sabhrai.

‘There have been a few arrests including some in Simla yesterday. But no rioting or violence — not so far.’

‘Not by the people perhaps, but by the police,’ added Sita. ‘Last evening I saw a boy volunteer — he couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen — come up the steps of the lower bazaar to picket an English store on the Mall. A European sergeant hit him full in the face. He fell and must have rolled down at least a dozen of those horribly steep steps when one of the crowd came to his help. The sergeant went down and arrested the picket as well as the man who had helped him. I saw them taken to the police station. The boy must have had some of his teeth knocked out; he was bleeding
profusely. There was an uproar on the Mall and many shops closed in protest.’ Sita seldom spoke this way. Her cheeks were flushed.

‘Bastards,’ muttered Madan in great anger.

After a pause Champak said: ‘I suppose this will go on and on.’

‘This sort of thing never stops,’ replied Madan.

Then I must get back to my husband. He mixes with such queer types and gets excited very quickly. Bibiji, don’t you think I should go back? I will do exactly as you tell me.’

Sabhrai did not say anything. Champak sensed that her mother-in-law would not object. ‘If you give me permission, I will leave tomorrow.’

‘You have never travelled alone,’ interrupted Sita. ‘These are dangerous times; Madan Bhraji can go with you. We can look after ourselves for a few days.’

‘No, no!’ protested Champak. ‘He can put me in a taxi. I am bound to meet somebody at the Kalka railway station who can see me home.’

‘That is out of the question,’ stated Madan in a tone of authority. ‘Of course, I will go with you. You are not the only one who wants to see Sherji; I also want to see my brother. He is doing all the work amongst the students and I am having a good time in Simla. I will send him up for a few days’ rest.’

It was agreed that the two would leave the next day.

Madan went to the bazaar to book places in the taxi which was to take them down to the plains. Most of the Indian bazaar was shut. All European and some Muslim-owned shops on the Mall were open. Nationalist volunteers in Gandhi caps came up the long flights
of stairs to picket them. Knots of people collected at a safe distance to watch.

Madan saw the scene narrated by his sister enacted before his eyes. Encouraged by the audience, one of the volunteers shouted defiantly, ‘Victory to Mahatma Gandhi,’ and waved his tricolour flag. A white sergeant walked up to him. The volunteer cowered down and covered his face with his arms. The sergeant hit him from below on the chin and sent him flying backwards down the steps. Two constables ran after him and brought him back handcuffed. His nose was bleeding and he cried like a child. Madan’s blood boiled within his veins; his hands itched to get round the sergeant’s throat.

All that afternoon and evening and the next day, till it was time to take the taxi, they talked nothing but politics. A national crisis had overtaken them and completely swamped their personal problems. Beena did not dare to sulk or even hint that Champak and Madan travelling together might cause people to talk. It seemed treasonable to mention such trifles — particularly when Madan seemed so concerned with the fate of his country and Champak so worried about her husband.

Rumours of road blocks and attacks on trains had caused a lot of cancellations; Champak and Madan had the taxi all to themselves. The momentous events taking place in the country and their own secret desires seemed to create a conflict in their minds which made talking of either one or the other somewhat difficult. They sat in silence at the two ends of the rear seat
looking at the mountainous scenery — the lush green hillsides and endless stretches of valley lost in the haze of tropical sunshine. Champak, who normally took this journey badly, was able to do the sixty miles of tortuously winding road without feeling sick. They came down from the cool breezes of fir and pine of the high Himalayas to the hot, dusty plains of the Punjab.

The railway station at Kalka was crowded with English soldiers and coolies. From the hill cantonments of Taradevi, Kasauli, Dagshai, and Sanawar, British soldiers and officers had come down in lorry loads to go to distant towns to quell the disturbances which had broken out. The European refreshment room was packed with officers drinking iced beer under the mad whirl of ceiling fans. Madan, who had always preferred going there rather than to any of the Indian varieties (Hindu vegetarian, Hindu non-vegetarian, or the Muslim), went straight to the Hindu non-vegetarian. He asked Champak to order the dinner and went out to buy the railway tickets.

At the ticket-booth he was informed that all the first and second class accommodation had been reserved for the officers and soldiers. In the inter and the third class there were no reservations — nor any privacy. Madan bought two seconds despite the clerk’s warning that he would find no berths on the train. He went to the platform on which his train was standing. A group of Indian ticket-collectors were busy checking reservations. Madan took the youngest by the hand, put his arm round his shoulders, and drew him away to a quiet spot.

‘Brother, I have to have a second class coupé at any cost and you have to find it for me.’ He slipped a ten-rupee note into the collector’s hand.

The collector gave the note a quick glance and thrust it into his pocket. A ten-rupee tip for a man whose monthly salary was Rs 50 was nothing to scoff at. Madan also looked familiar and important; he spoke with the tone of confidence which goes with authority. ‘It is going to be extremely difficult,’ replied the collector. ‘The whole train is packed with British tommies; their reservations were made two days ago. But I’ll try.’ After a pause he asked: ‘Are you by any chance Mr Madan, the famous cricketer?’

‘The same, your humble servant,’ replied Madan with a bow.

They shook hands.

The collector took out the ten-rupee note and put it back in Madan’s hand. ‘Keep this. Put your luggage in this second class coupé and I will put a reservation slip in your name.’

Madan forced the note back into the collector’s pocket. ‘What I give once I never take back. After all, getting British soldiers out of a train in these times is not easy. It needs a man of courage to do that.’

The flattery worked. ‘Mr Madan, if you can hit them for sixers, I can write them down on my penis. You will say one day that you met Mussadi Lal, the ticket-collector of Kalka. My name is Mussadi Lal.’ He slapped his chest in a gesture of defiance. They shook hands once more.

Mussadi Lal took out a key from his pocket and unlocked the glass frame alongside the door of the
compartment. He took out the card marked ‘Reserved for B.O.R.’s No. 171/172,’ tore it up and flung the bits in the air with contempt. He wrote out another one in the name of Mr and Mrs Madan and put it in its place.

‘Here!’ he said slapping his chest again. ‘What will you say!’

They shook hands a third time.

‘Mr Mussadi Lalji, I’ll sing your praises. If there were a few more brave people like you, India would have been free many years ago.’

The collector accepted the compliment; they shook hands for the fourth time and said goodbye.

Madan joined Champak for dinner. He ordered two bottles of beer and drank them in the Hindu refreshment room which had no licence to sell liquor nor a permit to allow consumption of alcoholic beverages. Madan was above these petty rules and regulations; and now he was celebrating his victory over the British Army.

He ate his dinner with relish and relaxed with a cigarette. When it was finished, he got up, took Champak by the elbow: ‘Let’s go.’ On the way to the compartment he bought some betel leaves charged with lime paste, cardamoms, and scented betel nuts. He ordered a couple of iced bottles of lemonade to be left in the coupé and told the coolie to spread the bedding rolls on the berths. He left Champak to change while he took a stroll on the platform.

The train was due to leave at midnight but most of the upper class passengers had retired and put up the shutters of their compartments. The inter and third classes were also quiet with people dozing on each
other’s shoulders. The hawkers had packed up and left. The platform was deserted except for the railway staff.

Many soldiers were still in the refreshment rooms drinking beer when the guard’s whistle summoned them to the train. They trudged out in the sweltering heat with their heavy packs on their backs and their sten guns slung on their shoulders. Most of them found their berths indicated on the counterfoils they carried. Only two remained. They went up and down the platform peering at reservation slips to find one that matched their own. The engine-driver blew the warning whistle. The soldiers began to shout for the guard. Instead of the guard, they found Mussadi Lal walking quickly away towards the end of the platform.

‘Hey you, Babu. Where’s our berths?’

‘Sir?’

‘Them places to sleep on you know!
Charpoy bashin!
’ One of them shut his eyes and put his cheek against his hand. ‘Unnerstan?’ The other showed him the counterfoil. Mussadi Lal examined it carefully and consulted the reservations in his book.

‘Sir, I have no record of this reservation. There is no place on the train. You can go by the morning express.’

‘Mawhnin? Wot you talkin Babu? Court martial if we don’t get there tomorrer. Court martial you know?’ The soldier unslung his sten gun, stuck the nozzle in Mussadi Lal’s belly and explained ‘Tatatatatatattat — bang.’ He fell back a step to indicate the effect of the firing. ‘Unnerstan? Give us them berths or we’ll stick the gun up your tail. Hurry
-juldi
.’

The guard blew his whistle and waved his green
lantern. The engine gave another blast and jerked the train into movement.

‘Sir,’ stuttered Mussadi Lal, ‘there is no time now. I will ask the guard to let you sit in his compartment. He may find you a place at the next station.’

The tommies began to shout. ‘We are fighting for the King and country. Our f . . . King and your f . . . country and you can’t find a charpoy on this ’ere trayn?’

Many shutters were let down and genteel ears heard the inebriated tommies blaspheme and curse on the deserted platform. The shutters were quickly put up. The train began to gather speed.

‘Where’s the f . . . guard’s van?’

Mussadi Lal and the two soldiers ran to the tail end of the train. The guard stood in the open door of his van. Mussadi Lal breathlessly explained to him in Hindustani, ‘Let these whites who sleep with their sisters get in till they can find a place. They are drunk and may let off their guns. One never knows with these people!’

The soldiers leapt into the guard’s van hurling insults to the King and country. Mussadi Lal waved them a goodbye and then shook his arm from the elbows to make an obscene gesture. ‘Ride on my pony if there is no room on the train,’ he roared.

The occupants of the soldiers’ berths did not hear the abuse. The musical hum of the fan and the tipity, tipity, tap of the wheels beating time drowned all unpleasant noise. A cool breeze came through the shutters smelling of the green rain-washed forest. Champak went into the bathroom and took a shower. She came
back wearing her transparent kimono. She went to the window and let down the shutter. A gust of wind blew the kimono on either side, baring her from her feet to her waist. Her hair flew wildly like the snakes on Medusa’s head. Madan got up, switched off the lights, and came towards her.

‘Can’t you bear to see me as I am? Why do you want it dark?’

Madan pressed the switch. Champak took off her kimono, tossed it on the rack and lay down on the berth.

‘Now you can switch off the lights if you want to.’

Madan stared at the girl stretched out on the white bedsheet. He had never seen a woman like that — not even his own wife.

‘Don’t look at me like that; it makes me ashamed of my nakedness,’ said Champak turning her back and hiding her face. ‘You look as if you had never seen a woman.’

Madan switched off the light and came to her. ‘No, I have never seen one with absolutely nothing on — never,’ he said hoarsely.

‘I still have my wrist-watch.’

S
her Singh saw the morning paper before his father. He read the news of the arrests of the Indian leaders and of the strikes and demonstrations taking place all over the country — except in the Punjab. At the breakfast table he read out the headlines to his father. They were discussing the consequences of the action taken by the Government when an orderly came with a message asking Buta Singh to come to Taylor’s bungalow at once.

Sher Singh took the paper to the sitting-room and scanned the details. As he went from page to page he realized that everywhere in India the people were protesting; only the Punjab was peaceful. He thought of his own inactivity. He too was doing nothing except lie on the sofa and get worked up. Just then Mundoo brought the post and handed him a letter. It was a cyclostyled circular in English with the caption, ‘A Manifesto of the Hindustan Socialist Republican Army.’ It drew attention to the arrests of the leaders and asked the youth of India to rise and rid themselves of foreign rule. It did not mince its words. ‘Shoot English officials and the Indian toadies who serve them. Destroy roads and bridges; cut telegraph and telephone wires; create chaos and paralyse the administration. This is your sacred duty. Long live the revolution.’ Sher Singh examined the postmark. The letter had been posted the evening before from
the city. He had heard of the terrorist organization which went under the name of the Hindustan Socialist Republican Army but had never met anyone who belonged to it. Could someone have told them that Sher Singh was a secret sympathizer?

Sher Singh stayed at home and brooded. He listened in to the news over the radio each time it came on. Each time it was the same story — demonstrations, violence, arrests everywhere — everywhere except in the Punjab. Wasn’t it time for him to throw caution to the winds and strike a blow? He was like the rest of his countrymen, frittering away his energies in quarrelling with his colleagues. How could he get them to collaborate in any plan of action which required courage and daring for its execution? He spent that day and night in these thoughts and decided that the hour of trial had come. At some time or the other in their lives, men had to gamble with fortune. Those that won, became great; those that lost, lost; those that refused to take the chance, made up the mass of mediocrity.

Next morning one of the boys of his group turned up at the house. He walked straight into his room. ‘Sher Singhji,’ he said without a word of greeting or explanation, ‘the time for quarrels is over, we have to do something.’

‘Do what?’ asked Sher Singh sitting up.

‘Something or other. You are our leader, we will follow you.’

Sher Singh ran his fingers through his thin beard, pulled out some hairs and examined them thoughtfully. After a minute he answered, ‘O.K. I will be in your
house in half-an-hour. Ask the others to come too. Tell them to come at different times with books on their carriers; there are bound to be a lot of policemen about.’

A few minutes later, Sher Singh cycled out of the house with his hockey kit on the carrier behind him. In the bag were also six hand-grenades which had been lying with him for many months.

All the boys who had taken part in the shooting practice were there; only Madan was missing. Since he was in Simla, and there was no time to waste, they got down to business. The first thing they did was to take an oath of secrecy. They spread out the Indian tricolour flag on the table and put their hands on it. Someone produced a picture of Mahatma Gandhi and set it in the centre.

‘No, not Gandhi,’ said Sher Singh. ‘What has he to do with bombs and pistols? We are not launching a campaign of passive resistance. We will take the oath in the name of our martyrs. Have you a picture of Bhagat Singh?’

The host fetched a card with the photograph of the handsome, clean-shaven Sikh terrorist who had been hanged twelve years earlier and laid it on the flag. They took the oath to liberate their country from foreign rule. Then Sher Singh got down to explaining the line of action. ‘The call is to destroy means of communication,’ he said. ‘A few bridges blown up, a few roads barricaded, and the British Army will be stuck where it is.’

‘How is a bridge blown up?’

‘They are heavily guarded. We’ll have to kill many soldiers before we can tamper with a bridge.’

‘I have never blown up a bridge,’ replied Sher Singh, ‘but we can learn. We will try our hand on something small and unguarded. I have six hand-grenades. I am sure they will knock down one of the canal bridges. Later on we can have a go at a bigger one — perhaps a railway bridge.’ Sher Singh opened his bag and showed them the grenades.

‘What do you do with them?’

Sher Singh unfolded a piece of paper on which he had written down the instructions and read them out.

‘Let us blow up the little bridge near where you shot the crane.’

‘That’s what I had in mind too,’ agreed Sher Singh. ‘It is in a deserted spot. We can test the power of these grenades without anyone bothering us.’

They agreed to go back to their homes and meet in the afternoon outside the city. Sher Singh decided to stay where he was rather than go back home and be seen again by the sentry at the gate of the house.

The group reassembled a few hours later and made for the canal. They wore coloured sports shirts and carried their hockey sticks. They passed many policemen on the way but no one took any notice of them. When they reached the bridge, there was still daylight. Some of the boys took off their clothes and jumped into the canal; others went with Sher Singh to examine the bridge. It was barely ten feet wide, made of red bricks. The thick layer of dried dung showed that it was mainly used by cattle. They came back and joined the bathers.

The sun set and the short twilight quickly darkened into night. There was no moon. It was silent except for
the croaking of frogs. Sher Singh took out his flashlight and produced one of the grenades. ‘I suppose the first honour goes to me,’ he said gravely.

‘Sure, leader. But tell us how it is done,’ they said closing round him.

They went down the canal embankment to take cover. Sher Singh stood up. He pulled out the pin of the grenade with his teeth, counted five, hurled it on the bridge, and sat down. The grenade bounced off the parapet and fell into the water with a loud splash and exploded. It sent a jet of water flying into the air. The next one, thrown by one of the other boys, exploded on the bridge and sent up the debris all round. So did the remaining four. The boys ran up through the dust and the smoke to see the damage they had caused. Sher Singh flashed his torch. There were big dents in the centre of the bridge and the parapet had been knocked off at several places; but it was still serviceable. They mounted their bicycles and sped back as fast as they could.

Sher Singh went to the bazaar near the railway station where there was a row of eating places. He sat down on a steel chair on the pavement and ordered himself a plate of meat and raw onions; he ate onions to his heart’s content when his wife was away. The cook slapped a few chapatis and baked them in the oven. Sher Singh had his dinner on the pavement along with a motley crowd of peasants and labourers, and listened to the music coming over the radio. He heard the nine o’clock news. He heard about the Allied victories in the face of Fascist advances and the calm in the country despite thousands
of arrests. It did not irritate him any more. He knew they were lying.

Sher Singh got home after 10 p.m., his mouth still on fire from the chillies and raw onions he had eaten. Finding his wife at home was not a pleasant surprise. She made it unpleasanter. ‘Hullo, hullo, when did you turn up? You did not send any word!’

Champak was too angry to talk. She just looked out of the window. Sher Singh came to her and put his arms round her shoulders. ‘Don’t be cross. How could I have known you were coming?’

‘This is what you do when I am away.’

Champak covered her nose with her handkerchief; the reek of raw onions was overpowering. Sher Singh kissed her on the back of her neck and then on the cheeks. She shook herself free. ‘Now I suppose it is my turn. I am just the wife you can have whenever you want . . . after you’ve had your own good time,’ she said bitterly. The suspicion of infidelity amused Sher Singh. He became more amorous. ‘I am not like one of those chaps . . . like your Madan,’ he said laughing. ‘That type go about sleeping with anyone they can. For me it is only you. I was at a meeting, that is why I am late. If I had known you were coming I would have left it and come straight home.’

The reference to Madan changed Champak’s attitude. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all day. I nearly died of worry,’ she complained. ‘You must not be out late these days. These are dangerous times.’

Sher Singh promised not to be late again. They forgave each other in their usual way. Only Champak kept thinking how different this was from the evening
before. That man’s breath was perfumed with cardamoms and scented betel nuts; and this man’s! She could not avoid smelling the onions even when she breathed through her mouth.

The orderly took Buta Singh’s cycle from him and stood it against the wall. Buta Singh unfastened the metal bands he wore round his shins to save his trousers being soiled and put them in his pocket. ‘Have the others come?’ he asked.

‘Yes sir, but not all; the Sahib is waiting for them. He has ordered me to inform him as soon as everyone is here. Please sit down.’ He held up the heavy khas fiber chick. Buta Singh ducked under it and joined his fellow magistrates. They stood up to shake hands with him.

‘Buta Singh give us some news. You are in the know. What itches the Sahib today?’

It was a Muslim colleague and with Muslims it was not wise to be honest about politics. They pretended to be against the idea of Pakistan when they were with non-Muslims but gave it their support in every way they could.

‘It must be the arrests of the Nationalist leaders. I suppose he expects trouble in the city,’ answered Buta Singh.

‘The police brought papers of some of these Gandhi disciples to my house yesterday,’ continued the Muslim a little maliciously. ‘I sentenced them to six months’ detention under the Defence of India Rules.’

Buta Singh knew that if the papers had concerned
a Muslim supporter of Pakistan, the same magistrate would have argued with the police. In that case the police would undoubtedly have arranged to bring the papers to somebody like Wazir Chand or himself and they would have taken pleasure in locking up the Muslim for six months. That was the accepted method of dispensing justice from the lowest tribunal to the highest.

Four magistrates, including Wazir Chand, arrived together. The newcomers greeted the others very cordially and took their seats — the Muslims with the Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs with the Hindus and Sikhs. That sort of division took place automatically.

Wazir Chand embraced Buta Singh and the two sat down next to each other. Their families had brought them closer than they believed possible.

‘Did daughter Champak reach home safe and sound?’ asked Wazir Chand.

‘Champak! Is she back? I left home very early.’

‘Yes, Madan escorted her from Simla; that is why I am late. She wanted to come back to Sher. Youth, you know! How long can a young wife keep away from her husband?’ Wazir Chand smiled mischievously.

‘It is good she is back. Sher has been very lonely and working too hard with his student organizations. Everything else O.K.?’

Wazir Chand wagged his head contentedly and then asked in a whisper, ‘What is all this about?’

‘I suppose he wants us to do special duty. He’s expecting trouble after the arrests of the leaders.’

The chaprasi came out and asked the magistrates to come into the sitting-room. He held the chick up
for them and they filed in. Taylor got up and shook hands with them. He was smoking his pipe and looked completely unruffled: he was keeping up the tradition of the British Civil Service of appearing calm in times of crisis. He pretended that it was the sort of meeting he called on the eve of religious festivals. He did not ask them to sit down but dismissed them with a short speech: ‘Gentlemen, I am sorry to have sent for you at short notice. You have no doubt read the news of the arrest of some political leaders. We are not concerned with the rights or wrongs of the decision; we have to carry out the orders of the Government. Our hands are strengthened by the fact that the Government of the Punjab thoroughly disapproves of the position taken by the leaders of the Nationalist Party and fortunately the Nationalists have very little following here. We are not expecting any trouble from our own people but mischief-makers may come in from other provinces. We have to be vigilant. We have powers to detain people on suspicion. These powers are not to be abused; but we must not hesitate to make use of them whenever necessary. We have to co-operate with the police in maintaining law and order. If you have any information of importance or need my advice, come to me without hesitation. That is all for the moment. Thank you.’

Taylor turned away without shaking hands again. He paused at the door. ‘Buta Singh, do you mind waiting. I want to have a word with you.’

A minute later Taylor came back to the sitting-room and asked Buta Singh to sit down beside him on the sofa. He knocked his pipe against his heel and blew in
it. He filled it with tobacco, lit it, pressed the tobacco with the matchbox, and took a few puffs with noisy ‘Urn ums.’ Buta Singh was quite used to the trick; it no longer played on his nerves. He waited patiently for the Englishman to begin.

‘Buta Singh, I am a little worried and want your advice.’

‘Whatever little service I can perform! I am at your disposal.’ Buta Singh rubbed his hands with obsequious eagerness.

Taylor produced a copy of a cyclostyled leaflet, Buta Singh read the exhortation by the Hindustan Socialist Republican Army to rise against the British. ‘The Police Commissioner has given me this thing,’ continued Taylor. ‘The envelope bears a city postmark. He says we can presume it was also printed here. That is the most he can say. It may be the doing of some one individual who may do nothing more. It is also possible that there is some sort of organization in the city which has violent aims and is planning to put them into effect. If that is so it must be tracked down and its plans nipped in the bud.’