No Country: A Novel (24 page)

“What—” began my father as the lawyer led us briskly to a horse-drawn tonga.
Later,
the lawyer gestured as we bundled into it. I had impulsively climbed in front with our bag beside me, next to the syce who flicked his whip on the scrawny horse, while my father sat with Mr. Singh in the seat which faced backwards. I immediately regretted my decision, for the sorry nag farted viciously as it attempted to speed. The syce turned towards me, shaking in soundless mirth at my discomfiture.

We trundled past where the English lived in white-walled bungalows with perpendicular lanes bordered by feeble beds of daisies and wilting lilies. Here and there on whitewashed trunks of trees I noticed pasted signs in English, forbidding assembly.

Away from this part of town, we moved slowly now, into the serpentine lanes of the old quarter which seemed to pacify the animal enough to stop its relentless rear fusillade. Local shops spilt into the pavement full of morning crowds amid a cacophony of haggling. Here, in the heart of Amritsar, amid pungent whiffs of pepper and frying parathas, odours of asafoetida and ginger, the recently seen imitation of England felt impossibly distant.

“What happened,” my father asked, “what do those posted signs mean, Amrik-ji?”

“You know the recent Rowlatt Act curbs the vernacular press and gives the government the power to arrest Indians at will, without warrants. So, there was a demonstration here, and the police fired
fatafat
on the crowd.”

“Peaceful demonstrators?” pursued my father.

“
Arre
Brendan-ji, would our Gandhi-ji have it otherwise? But it did get a bit out of hand at the end. Some
badmaash
threw bricks at a government office. The police arrested two respected persons, Saif Kitchlu and Satya Pal, one Muslim and one Hindu, who had nothing to do with the rowdiness. The government chaps have managed to upset both communities.” The Sikh grimaced and added, “But what takes the slice of cake is the latest event. Would you believe it was precipitated by a little
bacchhi,
yes. Right near Rafe Sahib’s house.”

“By a child?” I was surprised. “And the English have brought out troops?” The lawyer twisted around to face me, and nodded. “Okay, I will tell you the whole story.”

•  •  •

“A
MIDDLE-AGED SCHOOLTEACHER,
Miss Marcella Sherwood, was bicycling home, taking a shortcut through some lanes,” began Amrik-ji. “She is known to be high-strung and given to tirades about idol worshippers.
Bahoot strict-sa
, she regularly canes her pupils—especially if their little palms are decorated with henna—as they often are after a wedding or a Puja worship ceremony. On this afternoon, Memsahib Sherwood turned a corner and ran smack into a naked toddler on its way to its aunt’s home across the narrow lane. I know this
bacchhi
Binni and her mother, Anju. So did
hamara
Rafe-sahib, your uncle. The little
ladli
was a great favourite of his, as it happens.” Amrik-ji smoothed his beard.

“Little Binni was more frightened than hurt, but the outraged Miss Sherwood screamed at the top of her lungs at the feckless behavior of heathen parents and their heedless infant. Showing a flagrant disregard for her British presence and Christian authority,
Binni’s mother pounced upon Marcella Mem-sahib, boxed her ears, trampled on her solar topee, and spat on her.
Whaak-thhoo!
She concluded the exercise by picking up the bicycle and,
fataak,
flung it to the side of the lane.”

I burst out laughing. “And that’s all?”

“No, not quite, Master Aherne,” he said.

“Call me Robert,” I said.

“All right, Robert. By this time the sleeping menfolk emerged, and sensing that trouble could be on its way, tried to pick up the Englishwoman from the dirt. In hysterics, she cried out at their sight, snatched her battered bicycle and sped off as fast as she could, howling in panic, her face
ek-dum
scraped by maternal fury. Our furious Anju Kaur is a sight to behold, believe me, my
dost
. Her mild-mannered
chooha
husband, Chakra Singh, just goes into hiding.” I laughed again, but noticed that my father was listening seriously.

“She lurched into the English section of town and collapsed in hysterics. The police were informed that an English lady, a teacher, a person of impeccable virtue, had been set upon by a stealthily gathered Indian mob. By the grace of Christ she fought them off, escaping with her life. I got that all these details from Harpal Chand, a constable who lives next door to me. The English authorities wanted to know immediately if her virtue had been molested, but thank Heavens again, she had escaped that specific harm,” said Amrik, “although according to them, that surely was the intention of the native
junglee
mob.”

“Harpal told me the English officers concluded that she had probably been assaulted by demobilized soldiers who had been around white women during furloughs in France and thereabouts,” the lawyer added.

“That’s what they believe of the soldiers with whom the British fought side by side just last year?” My father’s voice sounded hoarse. “So they called out the troops we saw at the station?”

Amrik nodded. “Those posters you saw were issued by order of Mr. O’Dwyer, the lieutenant governor. But these are in English, and few villagers arriving here can read Gurmukhi—let alone
salaa
English.”

“But why are these villagers coming now?” I broke in.

“
Dekho
Robert
bete
, around this time, give or take a few days on the lunar calendar, we hold our festival of Baisakhi, bringing in the New Year,” explained Amrik-ji. “It’s the only festival in Punjab and most of North India for a while—for hard summer follows and then the monsoon rains descend. So Baisakhi is our last
akhri
festival for months when family members can visit their wedded daughters, grandchildren, and kin, and congregate at our Golden Temple here in Amritsar.”

My father looked troubled. “These villagers know nothing about the news here!”

“No, they don’t,” said Amrik with a grimace. “Many families, taking their old and even their youngest
bacchhi
, started their travel as much as a week ago and have already begun to arrive.”

•  •  •

T
HROUGH THE LANES,
we had finally reached Uncle Rafe’s house in the heart of old Amritsar. It was old, with steep stairs and dusty rattan furniture, the rooms below dark and stacked with a medley of boxes and chests, odd bits of machinery, large numbers of empty bottles. In the upstairs living room stood a hookah and an old Victrola with its enormous silver horn, and stacks of records. I
found among them the arias of Caruso, orchestra pieces by “Pryor’s Symphony,” and assorted records of popular songs. I immediately set out to play a scratchy rendering of the comic song “The Monkeys Have No Tails in Zamboanga.” As the jaunty music filled the room, I went to a small window that overlooked a narrow lane below, then leant out of the bay window on the adjacent wall, which opened onto an enclosed piece of ground. Houses backed into it on all sides, effectively making an unbroken wall all around. The space below was treeless, no more than a huge backyard.

“That’s the Bagh—the garden,” said Amrik-ji, stroking his beard.

“What garden?” I protested. “It’s just a piece of bare ground.”

“Ah, the clear eyes of youth,” he quipped. “Nonetheless it is what we in Amritsar call the Bagh, Robert.”

I went to the window and watched the rural families making themselves comfortable under the sky. Amrik-ji came and stood by me. “These villagers . . . they have been coming here for decades,” he reminisced.

“When can I see the car, Amrik-ji?” I asked, unable to contain my eagerness.

“Oh yes, the car. Nathwa, the driver, has put it away in its garage a few streets away. This
galli
is too narrow for it.”

“Please, can I go see it now?” I asked eagerly. My father was incurious, standing beside the lawyer, far more interested in looking at the gathering below. I knew that they still had to discuss the sale of the house. I would just have to wait.

•  •  •

T
HE NEXT MORNING
we finally went to see my car in its garage on a wider street some four lanes away, escorted by Amrik Singh’s office
boy. The automobile had been taken out and parked outside, but the driver was nowhere in sight.

“It’s an Armstrong-Whitworth!” I burst out, breathless with joy.

The elegant black machine, with wide running boards, a spare tyre in a metal circle at the rear, gleamed in the sunlight. My heart sang. I wanted to have the driver summoned and have a ride right away, but my father had to go to the lawyer’s office nearby to sign papers and affidavits to finalise the immediate sale of the house.

“Oh yes, Robert,” he added, “Amrik Singh sent word that Uncle Rafe’s chauffeur has offered to work for us. He will drive the car down to Calcutta.” My father had forgotten to give me this momentous bit of news.

“Nathwa Singh Isser,” he added.

“What?” I said completely at a loss.

“That’s his name, Robert. Retired army man, decorated and all that. And he understands engines—or at least this one. He’ll teach you to drive in Calcutta.”

“But couldn’t I just learn here—then I could share the driving. Is his salary high?” I wanted to anticipate any future problems.

“Apparently Nathwa made some kind of promise to Rafe when he was hired. I’ll get all the details from Amrik. And his salary can come from the sale of the house,” my father said, adding, “so don’t fret, Robert.”

I nodded my head in relief. “May I stay back and just look?”

He smiled indulgently. “Oh, Robert, of course. It’s your car after all.”

I crossed the street to admire it, then got in and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, shutting my eyes in bliss.
My car.
Then I heard the cough. Startled, I sprang up and saw the top of a head. The man sat stooped on the running board on the other
side. As he stood up and turned, I took in his enormous height, his luxuriant beard, and across his chest a leather band in which was sheathed a ceremonial Sikh dagger. He wore a khaki turban.

“Nathwa Singh Isser reporting for duty,” his voice rumbled.

“I . . . I’m Robert Aherne,” I managed.

“You call me Nathwa,” he said gravely, and I nodded. One eye was a scarred hole, and a folded seam of skin ran from his right temple to the thatch on his cheek. “My uncle hired a one-eyed chauffeur!” I thought.

Nathwa looked steadily at me, his left eye unblinking, and simply said, “Ver Doon,” which sounded like the nearby Doon foothills of the Himalayas.

He saw my confusion and repeated, “Ver Doon. The battle in Sahib-land.”

Verdun
. I nodded.

“I drove Rafe Sahib’s car before I became a
fauji
in the army.” His Hindustani had a strong Punjab accent, but I understood him well enough. “When I was wounded, the army let me go. No other job. Rafe Sahib gave me back my job of driver. I have no family, just the car. I promised Rafe sahib, I look after the car, no matter what. My word, my
jabaan
. That I gave him. So I go now to Kalkaatta.” That’s how he pronounced Calcutta.

“Could I—” I began, but he anticipated me, holding up his enormous palm.

“Of course, Robert Sahib, but not here. We need open ground, for this is like a great horse. You need to get used to each other first. If you press something without knowing, this horse might trample everything in its way. Very powerful,” he added, caressing the side-mirror as if it were an ear.

“I think we leave tomorrow,” I said.

“I am ready for your command. It is your car, no?”

“Yes”—I was grinning from ear to ear—“yes, it is my car.”

•  •  •

I
RETURNED HOME,
and waiting for my father to finish, listened to a number of Caruso songs until I tired of them, and stood at the window, watching the lane below. A few older women squatted around their doors, chatting, and I could hear the tinkling of their bracelets punctuating their words as they gestured. I went over to the other window that overlooked the park.

The villagers had spread out their pots and pans. I could see the glint of some of their utensils. On little fires, the women prepared their meals of chapati and lentils whose aroma sharpened my appetite. I watched their poise, the rhythm of their accustomed actions. Leaning over their fires, they held the chapatis with tongs, turning them into round flour balloons over the flame, removing them one by one, perfectly done. Infants sat about, being fed slices of mango and guava. Some older children were throwing a red rubber ball with cries of triumph, while their mothers called out, reminding them to be careful of the fires and the well, for there was a deep one at the centre of the Bagh. A few toddlers moved about sucking their fingers and ogling each other. All the mothers had remembered to put smudges of kohl on their babies, on the side of their foreheads—to ward off the evil eye.

The children tossing the ball happened to come under my window, and when they noticed me looking at them, they waved gaily and shouted, “Hullo, sahib,” adding their greeting,
“Sat sri-akaal, Ingrez sahib!”
Some of the families looked up curiously and waved at me.
Ingrez sahib! They think I am English, these village folk,
I thought
in amusement, simply because I was fair and wore a shirt and trousers.

Some Sikh men had taken off their turbans and oiled their long hair, combing it out in the cooling air. A colourful group of women were drawing water and filling their pots by the well, chatting as each waited her turn. I could also hear the strains of a woman singing a devotional
bhajan
in an adjacent house.

Suddenly I heard rhythmic footfalls in the lane, almost like the beginning of a folk dance, where the group stamps before the elaborate moves begin. Not wanting to miss any part of the performance, I rushed across to the window overlooking the lane, and leaning out, saw a narrow column of marching soldiers. They were stocky men I recognized as Gurkhas—mountain troops from faraway Nepal—noticeably shorter than the local Punjabis. They were now marching quickly up the narrow lane, two abreast, clutching Enfield rifles, which I recognized, used recently in the Great War. They were led by a single English officer who held a slim baton, hardly larger than a conductor’s.