I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (4 page)

Taylor received him in his dark, air-cooled office. They shook hands and Buta Singh took a chair on the other side of the working table. Taylor helped himself to a cigarette and pushed the box in front of his guest. Buta Singh shook his head.

‘Beg your pardon, Buta Singh. I keep forgetting I mustn’t offer a cigarette to a Sikh.’

‘That is all right, Sahib. Just an old superstition,’ explained Buta Singh. His reaction to a similar indiscretion by a fellow Indian would have been a little more emphatic.

Taylor lit his cigarette; a cigarette usually determined the length of the interview.

‘Sorry to have sent for you on a holiday; it’s something like Christmas for you, isn’t it? I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Mind?’ queried Buta Singh in a tone of righteous indignation. ‘Mind, Sahib! It is our duty. What impression would the people in Delhi get if they heard that while these Japanese are at our gates, we can’t even keep law and order in our towns just because it is Baisakhi Day and the magistrates want a holiday? Sahib must have seen what the American paper,
The New York Times
has said: “India talks —Japan acts!” There is some truth in that. Air raid warnings in Calcutta, bombs dropping on Colombo, and here, our so-called Nationalists and Muslims are quarrelling about little
details with the English instead of getting on with the work.’

‘I wish other Indians talked like you, Buta Singh! I rely on you to guide them. I do not anticipate any trouble today but one never knows. A small incident may lead to a major riot. There are some politicians looking for trouble. I am told there are many meetings this afternoon.’ Taylor paused to drop the ash off his cigarette. As Buta Singh made no comment, he continued, ‘The Superintendent of Police informs me that your son has also organized a meeting of students. I told him not to bother about him. “If he is Buta Singh’s son,” I said, “we can trust him, even if he is a Nationalist or a Communist or anything else.” ’

‘You are most kind, Sahib. He is a young man and you know what youth is! Hot and full of ideas. But he is all right. He is, as you say, Buta Singh’s son. And through his hobnobbings with these Gandhi-capped Congress wallahs and Red flag wallahs, Buta Singh knows what is going on in the city and whom to watch.’ Buta Singh’s accent and vocabulary changed when he spoke to Englishmen. ‘Wallah’ figured prominently in his speech.

Taylor stubbed his half-smoked cigarette. Buta Singh understood that the interview was over. ‘What are the orders for the day, Sahib?’ he asked, standing up.

‘No orders, Buta Singh,’ answered Taylor, coming up. ‘Just tell the magistrates to leave information of their movements so that we can get them quickly at short notice; you can organize that. I will be at the fair. Shall I see you there?’

Buta Singh was not going to lose the opportunity of being seen in Taylor’s company by milling crowds. Almost the entire Sikh population of the district turned up to see the procession and the fair outside the walls. ‘Yes sir. I will be there in the afternoon and then with the procession.’

‘Well, see you later, Buta Singh. Your excellent work in the collection of war funds and in recruiting soldiers will not go unrewarded. I will speak to the Commissioner.’

‘Thank you, Sahib. Thank you. You are most kind.’ Buta Singh knew that this was a reference to the next Honours list. That sort of thing still mattered although other things mattered more. ‘Sir, I have a small request to make.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know, sir, I do not like to ask for personal favours.’

‘Yes, yes, Buta Singh. Anything I can do for you, I will. What is it?’

‘Sir, my work in collecting funds and furthering the war effort has caused a lot of envy. I receive letters threatening my life. I am not afraid, but if I could get a police guard at my house for a few days, it would stop evil designs. If it is at all inconvenient . . . ’

‘No, no. I will speak to the Superintendent of Police; this is a very small matter. Well, goodbye, Buta Singh. And thank you once more.’

‘There is nothing to thank me about, sir. I thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir.’

Buta Singh emerged from the meeting wreathed in smiles.
‘Chutti!’
he announced triumphantly clicking
his thumb and middle finger in the air. ‘Holiday! Go home or wherever you like.’

‘Why, what happened?’ asked his brother magistrates getting up from their chairs.

‘Why do you want to know? I promised you a holiday and I have got you a holiday. Haven’t I been true to my word?’

Buta Singh extended his hand. The magistrates smacked it in turn. ‘Can I be of any other service?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness when Wazir Chand touched him with his limp hand.

‘Long live Sardar Buta Singh!’ answered Wazir Chand.

Wazir Chand’s home was very much like Buta Singh’s except that it was Hindu instead of Sikh and not so concerned with religion and ritual. As a matter of fact the only evidence of religion in the house was a large colour print of Krishna whirling a quoit on the mantelpiece of the sitting-room. Wazir Chand’s wife occasionally put a garland of flowers round it and touched the base of its frame as a mark of respect. She did the same to a portrait of Mahatma Gandhi which was kept discreetly away in the bedroom.

The real ‘god’ in Wazir Chand’s home was the son, Madan Lal. He was a tall, handsome boy in his early twenties. Being the only son, he had been married as soon as he had finished school and had become a father in his second year at college. He had not made much progress in his studies, but had more than compensated for that shortcoming by his achievements in
sports. His promotion from one class to another had to be arranged by the college authorities. He was doing his sixth year at the college and had not yet taken the degree which normally took four. But the mantelpiece of every room in the house displayed an assortment of silver trophies which he had won in athletics and other team games. He had been captain of the University cricket eleven for three years and had played for his province against a visiting English side. His performance at this match had made him a legend in the Punjab. There were few days in the year when the sporting columns of the papers did not have some reference to his activities. This was a matter of great pride for his parents. They gave into every one of his whims; they practically worshipped him.

The only thing in common between the tall and broad Madan and his slim, small sister, Sita, was their good looks. He was bold and easy with strangers; she almost tongue-tied and shy. His obsession for games was matched by her aversion to any form of sport. He avoided books; she spent all her time with them. He had barely scraped through the exams he had passed; she had won the highest scholarship for girls in the University. The combination of the athletic prowess of one and the academic distinction of the other and the looks of both had made them the most sought after couple in the University circles. It was after several months’ abject admiration and hanging around that Beena had succeeded in getting to know Sita.

Beena’s anxiety to please Sita made her gushing and enthusiastic about everyone and everything in Wazir Chand’s home. She addressed Sita’s parents in English
as ‘uncle’ and ‘auntie.’ Madan and his wife she addressed as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ in Punjabi. She spent hours playing with their son and teaching him to call her ‘auntie.’ Sita was just Sita; but Beena repeated her name as often as she could in every sentence almost as if she feared losing her if she did not.

Madan had just returned from an early morning practice at the nets when Beena came in. His shirt was drenched with sweat and clung to his body displaying a broad hairy chest. Although it was hot, he carried his white flannel blazer on his shoulder. Its outside pocket bore the insignia of the University with rows of letters in old Roman embossed in gold lace beneath. He was playing with his son who was trying to walk in his father’s cricket boots. The scene was too overpowering for Beena. She rushed to the child, picked him up and covered him with kisses.

‘Ummm, ummm. Little darling wants to wear Papa’s shoes. Namaste Bhraji.’

‘Sat Sri Akal,’ replied Madan without getting up or removing the cigarette from his lips.

Beena hugged the child and wheeled him round and round; her pigtails flew in the air. The child began to whimper. She thrust him into his father’s lap. ‘He likes you more than he likes me. Bhraji, where is Sita and Lila sister and Auntie and Uncle?’

‘Father has gone to see the Deputy Commissioner. Mother is in the kitchen. Sita is studying. Lila is in her room; she is not feeling too well. And yours sincerely is at your service.’ Madan got up and bowed.

Beena ignored his pleasantry. ‘Hai! What’s wrong with Lila sister?’ she asked with exaggerated concern;
she frequently used ‘hai’ to express it. ‘Nothing serious, I hope. I must go and see her.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing, really nothing. Just a little out of condition,’ answered Madan. ‘She is in her room.’

Beena picked up the child once more and hurried to Lila’s room. Lila explained that she was not really ill; the feeling of nausea came on only in the mornings. When Beena persisted in her inquiries, Lila patted the back of her hand and said she would understand better when she was married. Beena understood and blushed with embarrassment. She sat with Lila till Sita came to take her away. ‘Madan says he can take us to a matinée show this afternoon. We can work for two or three hours and go with him. Lilaji, you will be all right by the afternoon, won’t you?’

‘I’d better not go. The stuffy atmosphere of the cinema will make me sick and your brother will get cross with me. You two go with him.’

Beena had a twinge of conscience. Studies were considered sacred enough to excuse going to the temple. But in her home the cinema was still associated vaguely with sin. The only time the family went to the pictures was to see the life of some saint or other or some story with a religious theme. Regular cinema goers were contemptuously described as tamasha-lovers. If her mother learnt that she had spent the afternoon at a cinema instead of the temple, she would use it as an excuse to stop her coming to Sita’s house. ‘No, I really could not. I haven’t asked my mother,’ said Beena quickly.

‘She would not object if you came with us. I am sure she would not,’ assured Sita.

‘And yours sincerely is not going to invite you every
day,’ added Madan in his half-baked stage manner as he came in. ‘Besides we won’t tell anyone. We will go in when the show has started and you can cover your face during the intermission.’ He drew his hand across his face to imitate a woman drawing her veil.

‘It’s not as bad as that,’ answered Beena laughing. ‘If I had asked first, it would have been better.’ Before she could check herself in her imaginary flight to freedom she heard herself say: ‘Of course I’ll go with you but we must work first.’

During the time that Beena went over her notes and textbooks in Sita’s room she was bothered by what she would say when she got back. If she said nothing and her parents found out it would take many months to re-establish her credit. Perhaps she could mention it casually as something she had been compelled to do. She was seventeen and wasn’t going to be bullied by her illiterate mother any more. Pictures could be instructive; maybe this one would have a religious theme and she could persuade her mother to see it too. By the time they left the house, her mind was a muddle of fear and rebellion.

A tonga was sent for the two girls. They took their seats in the rear while Madan rode on his bicycle behind them. He wore a new silk shirt with short sleeves and carried his white flannel blazer on his shoulder; the gold crest and rows of initials glittered in the sun. He kept up a loud conversation with the girls, in between nodding and waving to the many acquaintances he met on the road.

The cinema was crowded. Peasants who had turned up for the Baisakhi festival from neighbouring villages
were milling round the cheaper ticket-booths and around the stalls selling soft drinks. The tonga made its way through the crowd and drove up to the porch. Two cinema assistants rushed to take Madan’s bicycle. He was a regular visitor and had admirers all over the city. Besides, he was the son of a magistrate; and magistrates, policemen, their friends and families, had privileges which go with power.

The manager of the cinema came out to welcome them and show them to their seats. Madan took out his wallet and pulled out a ten-rupee note. The manager caught his hand and pressed the note and wallet back into Madan’s pocket. ‘No question of money,’ he protested. ‘It’s on the house.’ Madan whispered in his ear that the other girl was Buta Singh’s daughter. The manager turned to Beena with an obsequious smile. ‘How is your revered father?’ he asked, rubbing his hands. Beena replied politely that he was well. ‘So glad to hear it. We pray to God he should always remain well. Do convey my respects to him. And any time any of your family want to come to the cinema, please ring me up. It will be an honour for us — a great honour.’ Beena promised to convey the information to her father.

The party was conducted to a box reserved for VIPs and pressed to take something to eat or drink. The manager withdrew after extracting a promise that his hospitality would be accepted during the intermission.

Madan took his seat between the two girls. He lit a cigarette and the box was soon full of cigarette smoke and the smell of eau de cologne with which he had daubed himself.

The lights were switched off and the cries of hawkers
of betel leaves, sweetmeats, and sherbets, and the roar of hundreds of voices died down. First came a series of coloured slides advertising soaps, hair oils, and films that were to follow. The literate members of the audience read their names loudly in chorus. Then the picture started and the few recalcitrant talkers were silenced by abuses loudly hurled across the hall.

Madan stubbed his cigarette on the floor and lit another one. In the light of the flame he saw his sister completely absorbed in the film. He held his cigarette in his left hand and put his right lightly on the arm of Beena’s chair.

Beena’s mind was still uneasy about the consequences of the escapade. She tried to drive away unpleasant thoughts by concentrating on the film and enjoying the feeling of being with Sita and her brother. He looked so dashingly handsome in his silk shirt, flannels, and sports blazer; he smoked with such compelling non-chalance and exuded that heavenly, cool, and clean fragrance of good eau de cologne.