The Glass Palace (68 page)

‘Drink up. You need it.'

Arjun drained the glass and handed it back. ‘Hardy?' he said. ‘Where's Bucky?'

‘He's resting,' said Hardy. ‘There's a vacant shed down the road. It was the only suitable place for him. His arm's been troubling him. We had to give him painkillers. He's been out all morning.'

The orderly began to swab Arjun's wound and he braced himself by gripping the edge of the bed.

‘So tell me, Hardy,' he said, through gritted teeth. ‘What's going on here?'

‘I'll make it as short as possible,' said Hardy. ‘It happened like this: last night, not long after we lost you, we came across a couple of rubber tappers. They were Indian and when we spoke to them they said we would be safe in the coolie lines. They brought us here. They were very welcoming: gave us food, beds. Showed us the shed where we put Bucky. We didn't know this then, but it turned out that some of them were members of the Indian Independence League. They sent word to their office and this morning Gianiji arrived, in a car—flying the flag. You can imagine how amazed we were. Turns out he's Giani Amreek Singh—recognise the name? His signature was on the pamphlets the Japs dropped on us at Jitra.'

‘Yes,' said Arjun, drily. ‘I know that name. What does he want?'

Hardy paused, humming a tune under his breath. Arjun knew that he was thinking carefully about what he was going to say next.

‘Arjun, do you remember Captain Mohun Singh?'

‘Yes. 1/14 Punjab, right? Wasn't he at Jitra too? I thought I saw him on the way to the Asoon line.'

‘Yes. They took cover in the plantation and headed eastwards just as we did.'

‘So what about Captain Mohun Singh?'

‘Gianiji told me that he'd made contact with the Indian Independence League.'

‘Go on.'

‘Wait.' The orderly had finished dressing Arjun's wound. Hardy saw him out and then shut the door. He paused, running a finger through his beard. ‘Look, Arjun,' he said, ‘I don't know how you'll take this. I'm just telling you what I know . . .'

‘Go on. Hardy.'

‘Captain Mohun Singh has taken a big step.'

‘What step?'

‘He's decided to break with the Britishers.'

‘What?'

‘Yes,' said Hardy in a flat, even voice. ‘He's going to form an independent unit—the Indian National Army. All the 14th Punjab officers are with him—the Indians I mean. Kumar, Masood, many others too. They've invited all of us to join.'

‘So?' Arjun said. ‘Are you thinking of doing it?'

‘What can I say, Arjun?' Hardy smiled. ‘You know how I feel. I've never made a secret of my views—unlike some of you chaps.'

‘Hardy, wait.' Arjun stabbed a finger at him. ‘Just think a minute. Don't be in a hurry. How do you know who this Giani is? How do you even know he's telling the truth about Captain Mohun Singh? How do you know he's not just a Japanese stooge?'

‘Amreek Singh was in the army too,' Hardy said. ‘He knew my father—his village isn't far from ours. If he is a Japanese stooge then there must be some reason why he became one. In any case, who are we to call him a stooge?' Hardy laughed. ‘After all, aren't we the biggest stooges of all?'

‘Wait.' Arjun tried to marshal his thoughts. It was a huge relief to be able to speak out at last, to bring into the open the long arguments that he had conducted with himself in the secrecy of his mind.

‘So what does this mean?' Arjun said. ‘That Mohun Singh and his lot will be fighting on the Japanese side?'

‘Yes. Of course. For the time being—until the British are out of India.'

‘But Hardy—let's think this thing through. What do the Japanese want with us? Do they care about us and our independence? All they want is to push the Britishers out so they can step in and take their place. They just want to use us: don't you see that?'

‘Of course they do, Arjun,' Hardy shrugged his acquiescence. ‘If it wasn't them it would be someone else. There'll always be someone trying to use us. That's why this is so hard, don't you see? This is the first time in our lives that we're trying to make up our own minds—not taking orders.'

‘Hardy, look.' Arjun made an effort to keep his voice calm.
‘That's how it may look to you right now, but just ask yourself: what are the chances that we'll be able to do anything for ourselves? Most likely we'll just end up helping the Japs to get into India. And what would be the point of exchanging the Britishers for the Japanese? As colonial masters go the British aren't that bad—better than most. Certainly a lot better than the Japanese would be.'

Hardy gave a full-throated laugh, his eyes shining. ‘Yaar Arjun, think of where we've fallen when we start talking of good masters and bad masters. What are we? Dogs? Sheep? There are no good masters and bad masters, Arjun—in a way the better the master, the worse the condition of the slave, because it makes him forget what he is . . .'

They were glaring at each other, their faces no more than inches apart. Hardy's eyelid was twitching and Arjun could feel the heat of his breath. He was the first to pull away.

‘Hardy, it won't help for us to fight each other.'

‘No.'

Arjun began to chew his knuckles. ‘Listen, Hardy,' he said. ‘Don't think that I disagree with what you're saying. I don't. I think for the most part you're right on the mark. But I'm just trying to think about us—about men like you and me— about our place in the world.'

‘I don't follow.'

‘Just look at us, Hardy—just look at us. What are we? We've learnt to dance the tango and we know how to eat roast beef with a knife and fork. The truth is that except for the colour of our skin, most people in India wouldn't even recognise us as Indians. When we joined up we didn't have India on our minds: we wanted to be sahibs and that's what we've become. Do you think we can undo all of that just by putting up a new flag?'

Hardy shrugged dismissively. ‘Look,' he said, ‘I'm a simple soldier, yaar. I don't know what you're trying to get at. To me, it's a question of right and wrong—what's worth fighting for and what's not. That's all.'

There was a knock on the door. Hardy opened it to see Giani Amreek Singh standing outside.

‘Everyone's waiting . . .'

‘Gianiji,
ek minit
. . .' Hardy turned back to Arjun. ‘Look, Arjun—' his voice was tired after the effort of the argument— ‘I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Gianiji has offered to take us through the Jap lines, to Mohun Singh. For myself I've made up my mind already. I'm going to explain this to the men; I'm going to tell them why I think this is the right thing to do. They can decide for themselves. Do you want to come and listen?'

Arjun nodded. ‘Yes.'

Hardy handed Arjun his crutch and they went together to the communal shed, walking slowly down the gravel track. The shed was full: the soldiers were at the front, squatting in orderly rows. Behind them were the inhabitants of the coolie lines: the men were in sarongs, the women in saris. Many of the tappers had children in their arms. At one end of the shed there stood a table and a couple of chairs. Hardy took his place behind the table while Arjun and Giani Amreek Singh seated themselves on the chairs. There was a lot of noise: people were whispering, talking, some of the children were giggling at the novelty of the occasion. Hardy had to shout to make himself heard.

Once Hardy began, Arjun realised, with some surprise, that he was a talented speaker, almost a practised orator. His voice filled the shed, his words echoing off the tin roof—
duty
,
country
,
freedom.
Arjun was listening intently when he became aware that a film of sweat was running down his face. He looked down and realised that he was dripping—sweat was pouring off his elbows and off his legs. He felt himself growing feverish as he had the night before.

Suddenly the shed rang to the sound of massed voices. The noise was deafening. Arjun heard Hardy bellowing into the crowd: ‘Are you with me?'

There was another eruption; a huge burst of sound welled up to the roof and came echoing back. The soldiers were on their feet. A couple of them linked arms and began to dance the
bhangra
, shaking their shoulders and stamping their feet.

Behind them the workers were shouting too—men, women, children—throwing things in the air, clapping, waving. Arjun looked at Kishan Singh and saw that his face was flushed, joyful, his eyes alight.

Arjun noted, in a detached and almost disinterested way, that since the time he'd entered the shed, everything seemed to have altered. It was as though the whole world had suddenly changed colour, assumed a different guise. The realities of a few minutes before now seemed like an incomprehensible dream: had he really been surprised to look over the bluff and see an Indian flag in the coolie lines? But where else would such a flag be? Was it really true that Kishan Singh's grandfather had won a decoration at Flanders? Was it true that Kishan Singh was the same man that he had always taken him to be—the most loyal of soldiers, descended from generations of loyal soldiers? He looked at the dancing men: how was it possible that he had served with those men for so long and never had an inkling that their acquiescence was not what it seemed to be? And how was it possible that he had never known this even of himself?

Was this how a mutiny was sparked? In a moment of heedlessness, so that one became a stranger to the person one had been a moment before? Or was it the other way round? That this was when one recognised the stranger that one had always been to oneself; that all one's loyalties and beliefs had been misplaced?

But where would his loyalties go now that they were unmoored? He was a military man and he knew that nothing— nothing important—was possible without loyalty, without faith. But who would claim his loyalty now? The old loyalties of India, the ancient ones—they'd been destroyed long ago; the British had built their Empire by effacing them. But the Empire was dead now—he knew this because he had felt it die within himself, where it had held its strongest dominion—and with whom was he now to keep faith? Loyalty, commonalty, faith—these things were as essential and as fragile as the muscles
of the human heart; easy to destroy, impossible to rebuild. How would one begin the work of re-creating the tissues that bound people to each other? This was beyond the abilities of someone such as himself; someone trained to destroy. It was a labour that would last not one year, not ten, not fifty—it was the work of centuries.

‘So, Arjun?' Suddenly Hardy was kneeling in front of him, looking into his face. He was beaming, glowing with triumph.

‘Arjun? What are you going to do then? Are you with us or against us?'

Arjun reached for his crutch and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Listen, Hardy. Before we think of anything else—there's something we have to do.'

‘What?'

‘Bucky, the CO—we have to let him go.'

Hardy stared at him, without uttering a sound.

‘We have to do it,' Arjun continued. ‘We can't be responsible for his being taken prisoner by the Japs. He's a very fair man, Hardy, and he's been good to serve under—you know that. We have to let him go. We owe him that.'

Hardy scratched his chin. ‘I can't allow it, Arjun. He'd give away our position, our movements . . .'

Arjun interrupted him. ‘It's not a question of what you'll allow, Hardy,' he said tiredly. ‘You're not my senior, and I'm not yours. I'm not asking you. I'm letting you know that I'm going to give the CO some food and some water and then I'm going to let him find his way back across the lines. If you want to stop me you'll have a fight on your hands. I think some of the men would take my side. You decide.'

A thin smile crossed Hardy's face. ‘Look at you, yaar.' His voice was acid with sarcasm. ‘Even at a time like this you're a
chaploos
—still thinking of sucking up. What are you hoping for? That he'll speak up for you if things don't turn out right? Take out a little insurance against the future?'

‘You bastard.' Arjun lurched towards Hardy, reaching for his collar, swinging his crutch.

Hardy stepped away easily. ‘I'm sorry,' he said gruffly. ‘I shouldn't have said that.
Theek hai.
Do what you want. I'll send someone along to show you where Bucky is. Just be quick—that's all I ask.'

thirty-eight

A
lison and Dinu spent an hour clearing out the dark room. There was no electricity and they had to work by candlelight. They took down his enlarger, stacked his trays, packed away his prints and his negatives, wrapping them in old cloth and laying them in boxes. When they were done, Dinu snuffed out the candle. They stood still in the airless warmth of the cupboard-like room, listening to the night-time buzz of cicadas and the croaking of wet-weather frogs. Intermittently they could hear a distant, staccato sound, a kind of barking, as though a pack of dogs had been disturbed in a sleeping village.