‘Brother, that’s how Thaila died . . . and was buried . . . and . . .’
My fellow traveller hesitated and paused for the first time. The train was thundering along, the rattling wheels repeating the same refrain, ‘Thaila died, Thaila buried . . . Thaila died, Thaila buried.’ It was as if there was no space between dying and being buried, as if here he died, here he was buried. The two words blended with the rattle with such a lack of feeling that I had to expel them from my mind. I asked my chance companion, ‘You were about to say something more.’
He looked at me with a start. ‘Yes, the most painful part of the story remains to be told.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘As I already mentioned, Thaila had two sisters, Shamshad and Almas, both stunningly beautiful. Tall, with very delicate features and big beautiful eyes, Shamshad was a superb singer of thumris. People say that she had taken lessons from Khan Sahib Fateh Ali Khan. Musically not much to speak of, Almas was an exquisite dancer, entirely peerless in her ability to express different emotional states through her movements. In mujra performances it seemed that every atom of her body participated in the dance and every gesture carried a meaning. The beauty of her eyes never failed to captivate her audience.’
My companion was taking more time than I thought was necessary in praising the accomplishments of the two sisters, but I didn’t interrupt him as it didn’t seem proper. After a while he broke out of this lengthy adulation and came to the most tragic part of the story.
‘Well, brother, it’s like this: Some bootlicker out to ingratiate himself with the British told the army officers about the ravishing beauty of the sisters. A memsahib—what was the witch’s name? Yes, Miss Sherwood—had been killed in the riots. It was decided to send for the sisters and . . . and . . . take it out on them for the death of the Englishwoman . . . You know what I mean, brother?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said.
‘In times such as this,’ he said, heaving a deep sigh, ‘even dancing girls and prostitutes are like our mothers and sisters. Their honour must be protected. But, brother, would this country ever give a damn about respect and honour? The minute the police chief received the orders from his superiors, he immediately went into action. He went to the sisters himself and told them that the sahib-logs had summoned them . . . to perform. Just think about it, brother. Thaila hadn’t been dead two days, the earth on his grave was still moist, and they were ordering: Come and dance in our imperial presence, for our entertainment. Could there be a more cruel method of exacting revenge? You won’t find any example of a more atrocious way of belittling someone! The people who issued these orders, didn’t they think that even a prostitute has, could have, her honour, her dignity? Of course she could—why not?’ He asked himself, though, clearly, I was his audience.
‘Yes, surely, she could have her honour.’
‘Quite right. After all, Thaila was their brother. And he hadn’t lost his life in a gambling-den brawl or in a bout of drunkenness at some sleazy tavern. He had courageously quaffed the wine of martyrdom for the sake of his country. He was a prostitute’s son but that prostitute was also a mother; Shamshad and Almas were her daughters, Thaila’s sisters first, prostitutes later. And they had fainted at the sight of his corpse, they had poured their hearts out at his funeral to such an extent that whoever heard their wails had broken into tears—tears of blood.’
‘So did they go?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer for some time and then said in a voice laden with sadness, ‘Yes . . . yes they did . . . Fully decked out.’ Sadness suddenly gave way to a sharp tone of bitterness. ‘They went to their callers all dolled up and prettied. It was a lively soiree full of fun and . . . So I’ve heard. Both sisters put on a stunning performance. In their glittering peshwaz dresses they looked like the proverbial fairies of Mt Caucasus. Wine flowed freely and they sang and danced with abandon. The merrymaking continued well into the night until the party ended at a sign from a senior officer.’
My fellow traveller abruptly stood up and began staring at the trees as they flitted by outside the window frame.
The train chugged on. The metallic clatter of the wheels on the tracks seemed to be repeating his words, ‘Party ended . . . party ended.’
Tearing those words from my mind I asked him, ‘What happened then?’
Taking his eyes off the trees and electric poles as they flew by, he replied in a firm voice. ‘What happened? They tore off their glittering dresses and, standing there stark naked, said, “Here, take a good look at us . . . we are Thaila’s sisters . . . you riddled his body with your bullets only because it harboured a patriotic spirit. We’re his beautiful sisters. Come, defile our perfumed bodies with your vile passion . . . But before you do . . . allow us to spit in your faces!”’
He fell silent, as if he had nothing more to say.
‘What happened after that?’ I asked quickly.
His eyes welled up with tears. ‘They were shot . . . shot dead on the spot.’
I didn’t say anything. The train slowed and pulled into the station. He hailed a coolie to carry his bags. As he was leaving, I asked, ‘The ending of the story you just told . . . it seems as if you made it up yourself?’
He started and looked at me. ‘How did you know?’ he asked, surprised.
‘How? Your tone was filled with incredible agony.’
Swallowing his bitterness with a glob of saliva, he replied, ‘Yes, those bitches . . .’ He held himself back from cursing and added after a pause, ‘They disgraced their brother’s selfless martyrdom.’
With that he got off the train and walked away.
Frozen
The instant Eshar Singh stepped into the room Kalwant Kaur sprang up from the bed, walked over to the door and bolted it, glaring at him. It was midnight. The suburbs were sunk in an eerie quiet.
Kalwant Kaur sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. Eshar Singh stood quietly in a corner holding his kirpan, perhaps trying to straighten out his muddled thoughts. A tense silence prevailed for some moments. Kalwant Kaur didn’t like the way she was sitting, so she lowered her legs and started swinging them. Still Eshar Singh didn’t say a word.
Kalwant Kaur was a plump woman with a heavy, broad rear end and oversized, fleshy breasts projecting upward a bit too much. A bluish shadow covered her upper lip and the shape of her chin betrayed that she was no less than an Amazon.
Eshar Singh still stood in the corner with his head drooping downward. His tightly wrapped turban was beginning to come loose and the hand holding his kirpan was trembling a bit. Despite that, his tall frame and his appearance left no doubt that he was every bit the man for a formidable woman like Kalwant Kaur.
The relentless silence raised her hackles and her patience soon ran out. She glowered at Eshar Singh but could only exclaim, ‘Eshar saiyaan!’
He raised his head and looked at her, only to quickly turn his face away from the penetrating intensity of her sharp gaze.
‘Eshar saiyaan,’ she started to scream, but quickly stifled it. Hopping off the bed, she walked over to him and asked, ‘Where have you been hanging out all these days?’
‘I have no idea,’ he replied, running his tongue over his parched lips.
‘What kind of fucking answer is that?’ she asked in a rage.
He tossed the kirpan aside and slumped down on the bed, looking as though he’d been feeling ill for some time.
She glanced at the bed, now dwarfed by his big, burly body. A surge of compassion for the man swelled in her heart. She touched his forehead and lovingly asked, ‘Jaani, what’s wrong?’
Eshar Singh was staring up at the ceiling but turned his gaze and probed the face he knew so well. ‘Kalwant.’
She could sense a distinct pain in his voice. The whole of her seemed to have gathered in her upper lip. ‘Yes, jaani?’ she said tenderly, biting her lip.
Eshar Singh took off his turban and looked at her, his eyes begging for understanding and comfort. He slapped her big, fleshy
bottom, jerked his head and said to himself, ‘I’m going nuts.’
His kes came undone with the jerk. Kalwant Kaur started combing her fingers through it and asked lovingly, ‘Eshar saiyaan, where have you been all this time?’
‘At my enemy’s mother’s!’ he said, looking at her intently. All of a sudden he started kneading her fleshy buttocks vigorously. ‘I swear by Wahe Guru, you’re one awesome woman!’
She pushed his hands away indifferently and asked, ‘Tell me, on my life, where have you been? In the city?’
With a single movement Eshar Singh wound his hair into a bun and answered, ‘No.’
She was ticked off. ‘Damn it, you did go there. And you stole a lot of money that you don’t want to tell me anything about.’
‘May I not be my father’s son if I’m lying to you!’
That seemed to quiet her down, but only for a while. Within seconds she flared up again. ‘But I can’t understand what got into you that night. You lay beside me after you gave me all that jewellery you looted in the city . . . you were madly kissing me all over . . . And then, abruptly, you just got out of bed, put on your clothes and dashed out.’
Eshar Singh blanched. She was quick to notice how his colour had paled and immediately said, ‘Look how your face has changed. Eshar saiyaan, by Wahe Guru, something is fishy here.’
‘Nothing is fishy, I swear by your life.’
But his voice lacked conviction, which reinforced her suspicions. Pursing her lips and enunciating every word emphatically, she asked, ‘Eshar saiyaan, come clean. You’re not the man you were eight days ago.’
He sat up with a start, as if he’d been attacked. Gathering her in his robust arms, he started gnawing at her vigorously. ‘Jaani, I’m the same Eshar. Squeeze me harder, so it cools off the heat in your bones.’
She didn’t resist him, but kept up her earlier litany. ‘What happened to you that night?’
‘The enemy’s mother got fucked, that’s all.’
‘Come on, won’t you tell me?’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘May you cremate my body with your own hands if you don’t tell me the truth!’
He flung his arms around her neck and pressed his lips to hers. A few bristles of his bushy moustache tickled her nose and she sneezed. They both laughed.
He took off his quilted vest and ogled her lustily. ‘Come on, let’s play a round of cards,’ he said.
Tiny beads of perspiration sprouted on Kalwant Kaur’s upper lip. She rolled her eyes coquettishly and blurted out, ‘Get lost!’
He pinched her ample bottom hard, making her flinch. She withdrew to one side. ‘Don’t do that, Eshar saiyaan, it hurts.’
He went over to her and pulled her upper lip between his and started to nibble at it. She melted away. He took off his shirt and tossed it away, saying, ‘Well then, let’s get on with a round of trumps.’
Her upper lip began to quiver with anticipation. With one quick movement Eshar Singh peeled off her shirt like an experienced butcher pulling the hide right off the body of a slaughtered animal in a single perfect motion. Staring lasciviously at her naked form, Eshar pinched her arm and said, ‘Kalwant, I swear by Wahe Guru, you’re one hell of a delicious woman!’
Kalwant looked at the red welt slowly appearing on her arm. ‘You’re really a brute, Eshar saiyaan.’
He laughed through his bushy moustache. ‘So let brutality reign tonight,’ and with that he launched into more of the same. He scraped his teeth against her upper lip, nibbled at her earlobes, ravaged her voluptuous breasts, whacked her bottom resoundingly, kissed her cheeks raw, sucked her nipples so much that the drool was smeared over her entire chest, until she began to boil. But none of this foreplay helped rouse him, to create even the slightest tremor of passion. Like a beaten wrestler flat on his back, he tried all the holds and manoeuvres he knew. None worked. Taut as a string ready to be strummed, and frustrated with all these unnecessary preliminaries, Kalwant Kaur said, ‘That’s enough shuffling, Eshar saiyaan, throw the card now!’
Eshar Singh felt as though the entire deck had slipped from his hands, and plopped down on to the floor. He gasped and threw himself down beside Kalwant Kaur, his forehead drenched in a cold sweat. Kalwant Kaur made frantic efforts to instil some passion into him but failed. So far everything had proceeded without a word, but when her overheated female parts didn’t receive the expected gratification, she got out of bed in a huff. Pulling the sheet hanging from the peg, she quickly threw it around herself. Her nostrils flared and she fumed. ‘Eshar saiyaan, who’s the bitch you’ve been with who’s squeezed you dry?’
Eshar Singh remained in bed, panting, and didn’t answer.
She exploded angrily, ‘I’m asking you—who’s the whore? Your lover, your trump card?’
‘No one, Kalwant,’ Eshar Singh mumbled, his voice sounding drained, ‘no one.’
With her arms akimbo Kalwant Kaur thundered resolutely, ‘Eshar saiyaan, I’ll get the truth out of you today, I swear by Wahe Guru. Isn’t there a woman lurking behind all this?’
Eshar Singh wanted to say something but Kalwant Kaur didn’t let him. ‘Before you swear, don’t forget, I’m Sardar Nihal Singh’s daughter. If you lie to me, I’ll make mincemeat out of you. Now, swear by Wahe Guru. Isn’t there a woman behind all this?’
In great agony Eshar Singh nodded in affirmation. Kalwant Kaur went completely wild. She leapt towards the corner and grabbed his kirpan. Ripping away the sheath like a banana peel and tossing it away, she struck Eshar Singh.
Jets of fresh, warm blood flowed down his body. Still not satisfied, Kalwant Kaur started pulling his kes like a wild cat, all the while hurling obscenities at her anonymous rival.
After some time, Eshar Singh said in a tired, meek voice, ‘Let it go, Kalwant, let it go.’
The pain in his voice was heart-rending. Kalwant Kaur took a step back.
The blood spurting from his neck was staining his moustache. He opened his trembling lips, and looking at her with both protest and gratitude he said, ‘My darling, you acted hastily, but I guess I deserved it.’
Kalwant Kaur’s jealousy flared up again. ‘Who is she—that . . .’ she screamed.
The blood had now reached his mouth. As he tasted it a shiver ran through his body. ‘I’ve killed six men with this very same kirpan . . .’ he said.
Kalwant Kaur’s mind was completely occupied with the other woman. ‘Who is she—the bitch? I’m asking you.’
A glint appeared in Eshar Singh’s eyes, which had begun to glaze over. ‘Don’t call her bad names.’
‘I’m asking you to tell me who she is!’ Kalwant Kaur screamed again.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he began but his voice choked. He ran his hand over his neck and smiled as he looked at his fresh, warm blood. ‘What a motherfucking creature man is!’
Kalwant Kaur, waiting for his answer, yelled with impatience, ‘Eshar saiyaan, get to the point.’
His smile widened behind his blood-soaked moustache. ‘I am coming to the point . . . My fucking throat is slit . . . I can only talk slowly.’
A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he spoke. ‘Kalwant, my darling, I can’t tell you what happened with me. Man is one weird creature. When looting broke out in the city, I joined in. Whatever jewellery and money I was able to lay my hands on, I gave to you, but I didn’t tell you one thing.’
A jab of sharp pain in his wound made him groan in agony. Kalwant Kaur paid no attention to him and asked ruthlessly, ‘What one thing?’
He blew away the specs of clotted blood from his moustache and continued, ‘The house we broke into had seven people inside. I killed six of them . . . with this very same kirpan you’ve . . . But never mind. Listen . . . There was a girl . . . ravishingly beautiful . . . I threw her over my shoulder and . . . walked away with her. . .’
Kalwant Kaur listened attentively. Once again Eshar Singh blew the blood off his moustache. ‘Kalwant jaani, I can’t begin to tell you how
staggeringly beautiful she was. I would have killed her too, but I thought, “No Eshar saiyaan, you enjoy Kalwant Kaur every day, have a taste of this fruit too.”’
Kalwant Kaur only muttered, ‘Huh!’
‘I slung her across my shoulder and kept walking. On the way . . . What was I saying . . . yes, on the way, near the riverbank, I put her down under some cactus bushes. I first thought to shuffle her some, but then I changed my mind . . .’ His throat went completely dry.
Kalwant Kaur swallowed nervously and asked, ‘What happened then?’
He could hardly get the words out in his faltering voice, ‘I threw the trump . . . but . . . but . . .’
His voice sank.
Kalwant Kaur shook him violently. ‘What happened?’
Eshar Singh laboured to open his eyes and stared at Kalwant Kaur, her whole body quaking with rage. ‘She was dead . . . a corpse . . . a hunk of cold flesh . . . Give me your hand, jaani . . .’
Kalwant Kaur put her hand on his, which was colder than ice.
Open It!
The special train left Amritsar at two in the afternoon, taking eight hours to reach Mughalpura. Quite a few passengers were killed along the way, several received injuries, and some just wandered off to God knows where.
At ten in the morning, when Sirajuddin opened his eyes on the bare, ice-cold ground of the refugee camp, he saw a surging sea of men, women and children swirling around him, and whatever little remaining ability he had to think and comprehend deserted him. He stared at the murky sky for the longest time. Despite the incredible din, his ears seemed to be deaf to any sound. Seeing him in this state anyone would have concluded that he was deeply engrossed in thought. That, of course, was not the case. He was totally numb. His entire being seemed to be suspended in space.
Gazing blankly at the dull sky his eyes collided with the sun and a shaft of intense light penetrated every fibre of his being. Suddenly he snapped back into consciousness. A series of images flitted across his mind—images of plunder, fire, stampede, a train station, gunshots, night, Sakina . . .
My Name Is Radha Page 28
