by John Masters
In this bare square temple, the Sikh gurdwara, the book the Guru Granth Sahib, rested on a white cloth below a canopy. The guru stood behind it, gently waving a fly-flicker back and forth over it.
Ranjit straightened his back, his hands folded, his head bent. He murmured, ‘Wahiguruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fatteh!’ I murmured the phrase in my turn. My mind ran over the things that as a Sikh I must do and have. Had I done them, bad I got them? A plain iron bangle hung round my right wrist. I had not cut my hair since seeing the guru. I wore no lipstick or powder. I was a woman, so I did not have to carry the dagger. There was a comb in my hair. I was wearing pants; they were not anywhere near knee length, but surely no one would look to make sure? I was unveiled.
I stood on the threshold of a new life. It felt more like the edge of a cliff.
There were about twenty men and women there. The five Loved Ones who would perform the baptism stood a little in front of the others. Kartar Singh, the labour leader, was one of the Loved Ones, and his wife another. There was an iron pot on a pedestal close in front of me. Ranjit stood at my right hand. The Sirdarni was not there. Earlier, the guru had refused to let her come because she cut her hair, wore no bangle, and refused to believe in the divine precepts of the Ten Gurus. Also, she had no intention of admitting her faults before a court of five. It hadn’t mattered in the end, because she was in jail.
The guru stood before the holy Guru Granth Sahib, bowed, and opened the book at random. He said a short prayer in a firm voice and then read a passage where he had opened the book. The people stood with folded hands. There were no seats or benches.
Had Pater stopped crying yet?
I was afraid, but there was nothing strange or barbaric about this. Substitute a word or two, make a mental reservation, and it could be a Christian service. But nobody really wanted me to be there except Ranjit, and the solemnity weighed me down. Ranjit was here because this was a stronghold for him. If these people would let him in, he’d be able to stop worrying and fretting.
The Sirdarni was in jail because she wouldn’t say anything about the fishplate. Mr Surabhai and the merchant who rented the little room had also been taken to jail, but after questioning them Lanson had let them go.
I knew why. Govindaswami had said, ‘First, there’s no doubt that K. P. Roy put the fishplate there. Second, he put it there as a follow-up to the “Quit India” which he put on Macaulay’s body—to confirm the impression that Congress was responsible, and that Surabhai knows more than he is telling about the murder. But I absolutely refuse to believe Surabhai knows anything about it. If Roy wants Surabhai behind bars for some reason—and I can think of several—let’s put someone else in instead. The Sirdarni-sahiba. Good heavens, with that fishplate in the house we’re justified in jailing Ranjit if we want to.’
Lanson had argued, but the Collector was firm. So the Sirdami-sahiba was in, and the others out. Surabhai had protested. Ranjit had protested. Even the Moslem League had protested, but the Collector wouldn’t budge.
In the gurdwara, Ranjit left my side, and I began to follow him, but Kartar Singh’s wife motioned me to stay where I was. Ranjit went and stood meekly before the senior Loved One. The old man had a long white beard, and the muscles of his neck couldn’t support his heavy head, he was so old. Ranjit said in a firm low voice, ‘I have broken the Raht. I beg forgiveness. I beg to be received back into the true faith.’
The old man nodded his head slowly. He said, ‘Your fault has been great. For many years you have stayed outside our communion, the only true communion. But there is forgiveness and love in the Guru Panth.’
‘Sat Sri Akkal!’ all the congregation shouted with one voice, and I started nervously.
He said, ‘But you were led astray by one who should know better, one from whom you had the right to expect wisdom and sound advice. Therefore your punishment shall be light.’ ‘Sat Sri Akkal!’ Take this cloth and this water. Go on your knees and wash the feet of each true Sikh in this room. And remember, my son, that this punishment is but a touch from the guiding hand of those who love you, in God. Hold no bitterness in your heart.’
Ranjit stepped back, knelt, and began to wash the feet of an old Sikh coolie near him. Next to the coolie stood the Buick driver. I had seen his two-tone shoes in the courtyard, and now Ranjit was stooping over his bare feet, washing and drying.
The old man cried, ‘Let us all beg forgiveness for our sins, in our hearts, even as this our brother has begged forgiveness.’
‘Sat Sri Akkal!’
Ranjit did not wipe my feet. I was not yet a Sikh. He passed by behind me, moving slowly on his knees. I heard a low sound and knew he was sobbing gently as he did his penance. He came back to my side, and I turned to look at him. He was proud and exalted.
The old man stepped closer to us and looked us in the eyes, first Ranjit, then me. He began to speak in a quavering voice that strengthened as he went on:
‘Hear me. This is the faith of the Guru Panth.
There is one God.
In the love of God is the only hope of salvation.
We believe in Guru Govind Singh and we say every day five prayers, as he taught us.
We believe in the five Ks. The kes—the unshorn hair, which is a sign of devotion. The kachh …’
I knew this part by heart. I began to think of K. P. Roy. That hurt—but nothing else could stop me from thinking of the cliff-edge gaping before my feet.
‘… do you hear? Will you obey?’
Ranjit raised his head and shouted, ‘Wahiguruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fatteh!’—Glory to the Khalsa, which is ever victorious! The congregation shouted it after him.
For a second I thought I would not be able to get out the words. They stumbled together in my throat, but the second time I managed to say them, softly and clearly, ‘Wahiguruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fatteh!’
The other four Loved Ones approached and stood in a circle with the old man round the iron pot.
‘This is the water of immortality in God,’ murmured one, and poured water into the pot.
‘This is the sweetness of God’s love,’ murmured another, and shook a handful of sugar candies called patashas into the pot.
The five squatted down in the ‘heroic attitude’ round the pot, left knee up, right knee on the ground. Ranjit did the same, and slowly I followed.
Kartar Singh drew from his belt a twelve-inch double-bladed dagger and held it out in his hand. He began to stir the patashas into the water, reciting as he stirred:
‘The One, Aum,
The true word,
The creative spirit,
Free of fear and hate,
Timeless, birthless, self-existent …’
His voice went on and did not become a drone. All the congregation knelt around. But their kneeling was not humble. This ‘heroic attitude’ was the position from which a warrior could best spring up to thrust his spear into the stomach of an enemy attacking him.
This was not like the padre’s Christianity, after all. There was nothing formal here, norhing taken for granted, nothing half-believed, nothing polite. Ranjit had changed so that I did not know him any more.
Kartar Singh finished the Japji and handed the dagger to the old man. The old man began to recite as he stirred the pot. The other four held the rim of the pot with both hands.
‘The One, Aum,
By the Grace of the Guru—
Thou the formless, colourless, markless,
Thou the casteless, power beyond measure,
Thou the light that knows no wavering …’
I had read it all in a little book they’d given me a week before. Reading it by myself in Number 4 Collett Road had not been like this.
‘Thou beyond all action,
Thou beyond all desire,
Thou beyond all enjoyment,
Thou beyond all protection,
Obeisance to Theel’
The words beat down like big steady hammers, merciless, emphatic. I used
to ignore the padre’s drone. Even K. P. Roy wasn’t any good to me now. Another Loved One took the dagger, stirred, and began on the Swayyas:
‘Some worship stones and place them on their heads.
Others suspend the lingam round their necks.
Some see God in the south, others bow to the west.
Some fools worship idols,
And others worship the dead.
In false ceremonial the whole world is enwrapped.
They cannot find the secret of God.’
Suddenly it was over. Ranjit made a cup of his hands, the right above the left. I did the same. In turn each Loved One poured the amrit into our hands. Five times we drank. Five times the amrit was touched to our eyes and hair. Five times we cried, ‘Wahigwruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fatteh!’ Everything that was left in the pot we drank, sipping in turn.
The Loved Ones stood up, and all together shouted, ‘By the Grace of the One Supreme Being, of the True Name, of the Breath, devoid of fear and enmity, immortal, unborn, self-existent—the Enlightener!’
Five times they shouted it. They were holy, and I was not holy. They were leaning over me, threatening. But I knew why Ranjit had to come back to this.
The old man boomed, ‘And these are the four chief sins—the cutting of your hair, the eating of halal meat, the committing of adultery, the use of tobacco. Do you swear to forgo these sins, now and for ever?’
Ranjit shouted, ‘Wahiguruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fatteh!’
But I didn’t love Ranjit. I liked him, I respected him, I wanted to look after him and rescue him, but I didn’t love him. I whispered, ‘Wahiguruji ki Fatteh!’
‘Sat Sri Akkal!’ hissed the congregation like a hundred snakes.
The old man stepped aside, the perspiration pouring down his face. The guru behind the canopy opened the holy book and looked at the top left-hand corner. He cried, The first letter of the first word is K—a good omen! What name shall we of the Guru Panth give this our new sister?’
The Buick taxi-man said, ‘Kalwant.’
Kartar Singh’s wife said, ‘Kirat!’
But my name was Victoria. Victoria Jones. I was a cheechee engine driver’s daughter.
My name was Victoria.
I stumbled to my feet and ran out of the gurdwara. The congregation fell suddenly silent behind me. I grabbed my bag, left my sandals, ran across the little square by the pool, turned, and ran down the street. Pieces of the service thundered round like chariots in my head:
Conquering various countries of the world,
With the beat of drums and kettledrums and tambourines …
If Ranjit came after me I might even now stop and go back with him and submit my neck to the two-edged sword, my spirit to the iron faith. But it was terribly important that I should not stop for him or go back of my own accord. He must break away from them for my sake, and come running after me, whatever the congregation thought, whatever the Loved Ones said.
Having first remembered God the almighty,
Think of Guru Nanak.
Then of Arjun Guru and Amar Das and Ram Dass …
It was awful of me to run away and leave him. But he didn’t need me, however much he loved me—and I thought he did love me, in his fashion. He didn’t need me; he did need the Guru Panth.
Remember the five beloved ones, the Master’s four sons, the forty saved ones, all the righteous …
I slowed a little and looked over my shoulder. The people in the street were staring at me, but Ranjit was not coming. None of the Sikhs had left the gurdwara.
O joy! My mother, I have found my lord and guide!
I saw the station in front of me, and black smoke drifting away at the north end. It must be a goods train, but 98 Up was due in any minute now—the train Pater would take from Bhowani on to Gondwara. No, to-day he was going only as far as Timrai Junction—another driver ill, some changes in the rosters. I broke into a run.
The blest! they attach themselves to the Enlightener,
Who rings unbeaten bars of music on their souls!
I reached the station yard as 98 Up whistled for the Farriers crossing. That was not music for the soul; it was one of our people, his hand on the whistle cord, sending the shrill voice of the engine out over the roofs of the city, over the plains, reminding them of steel and people and wheels grinding on the rail.
I ran on to the platform and stood on the edge, breathing in great gasps, my sari billowing about me.
Ninety-Eight Up came snaking in under the north gantry, under the high tower of the North Box, past the mud wall behind the Parcel Shed. Farther back and there was a gold mohur tree in bloom, its branches leaning out over the carriage roofs. The line of dark red carriages, swaying and grinding slowly, followed behind the engine. Each jerked to the left, to the right, as the bogies caught the points. The driver sat there on his jump seat, leaning out over the red-hot iron wall of the cab, his eyes screwed up in the glare. The engine ground to a stop in front of the Up Starter.
Pater came out of the Stationmaster’s office, his red bandanna on his head and the tin box with food and a thermos flask in his hand. I ran to him and threw my arms round his neck.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Pater put down the box and patted my shoulder awkwardly.
He stood a bit away from me and said sadly, ‘You are still glad to see me? That is good, anyhow. What is your name now?’
I wiped the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and answered, ‘Victoria Jones. Oh, Pater, I was frightened.’
Pater’s eyes grew and grew and became blurred and watery. He put out both hands, caught mine, and pressed them, but could not speak. The driver from the train came and stood beside us. Pater turned to him, and they talked. The other man handed over a small box and a book and walked away.
I said, ‘Pater, I must get away from here. I’ll go and stay with the Roviras in Gondwara for a few days. Let me come with you. In the cab.’
He said, ‘In the cab, girl? Oh, I wish you could, but I would lose my job. This is Ninety-Eight Up, man, not a night slow goods on the branch!’
I knew it was useless to argue, although at that moment I wanted nothing in the world as much as I wanted to be on the engine with Pater, rushing noisily away from Bhowani and the Sikh congregation and the new name beginning with K, which had bright new iron chains hanging from it.
Savage came up to us. He said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Jones. I’m coming down to Gondwara on this train. I’m coming in the cab as far as Shahpur—military duty’—he winked—‘a personal reconaissance of the rail, from the engine driver’s point of view.’
‘In the cab?’ Pater said. ‘On military duty? Why, that is the answer! My girl here has just been asking to come in the cab with me, and I had to say no. But if you order her, on military duty, no one can say no, eh? She is going to Gondwara. And—oh, Colonel I must tell you. She is out of this damned nonsense about becoming a Sikh. I am so pleased, and I bet you are too.’
Savage said to me, ‘You’re going to Gondwara?’ I waited for him to ask nastily who gave me leave to go anywhere, but he didn’t. He said, ‘Consider yourself so ordered. And you didn’t have time to change into uniform.’
Pater pulled out the big railway watch from his trouser pocket. ‘We must get a move on. You will dirty that nice uniform, sir. You ought to wear old chothes for this job.’
‘It’s an old set,’ Savage said. ‘After you.’ He followed Pater and me up into the cab. Pater picked a piece of dasootie out of a box and began to rub his fingers through it. From then on he did that all the time. He settled himself on the jump seat, put on a single glove, and told the fireman to hose down the footplate.
A pea-whistle shrilled down the platform. I saw Mr Glover, the conductor-guard, his white uniform glittering like a jewel as he stepped out into the sun from under the shade of the platform canopy. He waved a green flag. The Stationmaster passed on the signal to Pater.
Pater said, ‘We are quite a crowd in here,
aren’t we? But I have had more than this, when half a dozen of those damned inspecting officers want to see why the drivers are using so much coal.’ He laughed delightedly, grabbed the whistle-cord, which stretched in a tight loop over his head, and tugged sharply. ‘Show me the key, Mothi,’ he said.
The first fireman reached down the bamboo hoop with its slotted steel ball from its place. Pater began to explain to Colonel Savage what it was for.
‘You only have to use these on a single line?’ Savage asked, handing the key back. It was good to hear him asking silly questions. I didn’t understand how any grown-up, educated person would not know at least that much.
Pater said, ‘All ready now?’
He slapped the younger fireman on his bare brown shoulder. They were both burly fellows, Hindus, bare to the waist, below that wearing blue dungarees cut off at the knee into long shorts. Each wore a filthy white turban on the back of his head. Mothi was about thirty-five, Tamoo about twenty-five.
Mothi opened the firebox door. The furnace was a deep roaring bed of violet flames. Tamoo shovelled in coal. The safety valve on the firebox crown, a little in front of the cab, burst into a drumming buzz, and steam shot up forty feet into the air.
Pater tugged the whistle-cord again and opened the regulator, which is a long lever. Whooof! the platform began to slide back. The safety valve shut down with a click as the steam went into the cylinders. Whooof! I saw the Stationmaster writing in a notebook; whoof—a man could still walk beside the train; whoof—he’d have to run; whoof—run fast; whoof, whoof, whoof, whoof!
