by Amrit Chima
He could see that she was trying mightily to rescue this once great house of Toors, but the mortar was crumbling around her, threatening to bury her and take her whole life. Their family was beyond repair. Baba Singh knew that. He did not want to be buried with her.
“I will not be far,” he told her. “Barapind is only a few miles outside of town. You can come any time.”
“No more leaving,” she said flatly, finally acknowledging him.
“Desa,” he replied, trying his best to be gentle. “There is not much left to leave.”
~ ~ ~
It happened quickly. Baba Singh did not have the time to reflect on his choice, which he would later admit to himself was deliberate. It was a plunge into cold water, a swift tear from his old life into a new expanse of possibilities. He did not recall much of the wedding, only a blur of color, being plied with turmeric paste by his family who had come from Harpind, the priest reading prayers, garlands of flowers, Khushwant dancing, Desa’s forced smile—until suddenly he was here, alone with his bride, the two of them standing in his room in Hotel Toor, the simplicity of a single, sputtering candle and the silence between them a great contrast to the cacophony of the day.
He looked sidelong at Sada Kaur now as though peering too hard would crack her to pieces. It was not that she had the appearance of being fragile. She was actually rather stout in shape. She was also direct in manner. That much he could see without having yet exchanged one word with her. Her eyes made that clear. They pierced right through him, knowing him instantly. This both pleased and terrified him. He had the urge to scoop her up, to swing her around with abandon, to play a game perhaps, like old friends. Yet he also felt inclined to be sick.
In the middle of the charpoy lay a partition of rough wool blankets and feather-packed pillows he had earlier arranged. She sat softly on the edge of one side of the bed, smoothing out her wedding clothes before lying on her back to wait, her hennaed toes pointing upward and her painted hands and bejeweled arms crossed over the front of her beaded sari.
She had tremendously attractive feet, small and fine despite her sturdy frame. Her skin was equally as beautiful, luminous like a pane of glass or untouched water. In Amarpur’s gurdwara, as he had pulled aside her wedding veil and beheld her for the first time, he had been instantly transfixed by her rouged cheeks that glowed with absorbed light.
He chewed the inside of his lip, embarrassed, and sat on the opposite side of the charpoy. She was otherwise agreeable, though not spectacular. She had round eyes, a snub of a nose that was out of place in a region where noses were generally quite large, and a severe, thin-lipped mouth that seemed to indicate she would not tolerate nonsense.
She peered around the bedroom, seeming to assess the items within it, the furniture Ranjit had built, the metal pieces Baba Singh had made and carved with Yashbir, the doctor’s vial on the bedside table. He quickly snatched up the vial, putting it in the drawer, shutting it away from her.
Outside, they could hear the murmur of guests settling in for the night. He removed his shoes.
Finally, twisting around to face Sada Kaur, he said, “You do not like her.”
“Who?” she asked. Her voice disquieted him, was young, yet as stern as her mouth suggested.
“Desa. I saw the way you looked at her.”
Sada Kaur assessed him for a moment, then said, “She is very angry.”
“She is not angry,” he said sharply, feeling chastised.
“You both are.”
He stood and she sat up, startled.
With deliberate slowness he said, “I am not angry.” He had to speak calmly so she would believe him.
She did not reply, but he could see that she knew he was lying, that he was afraid. He again sat, slumping, allowing her to place a hand on his back. He did not return her touch, not that night, as was expected of him. He could not remember the first time he was with her, when he finally and gently stripped away her clothes, if it was soon after or much later. On their wedding night they had simply fallen asleep, with no more words, encased in all their wedding finery.
For the remainder of his years, Baba Singh would wade through darkness to try and reach those first moments with Sada Kaur, that night of unblemished and dreamless rest. So slippery to hold, he would always lose it, that peace seeping like water between his fingers. But she would always be there, knowing he was lost, and he would always be able to see her, no matter how far she receded, an oasis of light.
~ ~ ~
During his first years in Barapind, memories came to Baba Singh sharp as needles, the sounds and smells of his past mixing seamlessly with those of his new life, threatening to undo his attempt at a fresh start. Prem Singh’s two-room mud hut was so much like his home in Harpind that he sometimes saw the ghost of his mother cooking and cleaning, floating between rooms. There was an open shelf in the corner for pots and dishes, dhurrie rugs thrown on the floor, a coal-fire stove in the rear courtyard, soft light penetrating the curtained doorways. Outside, the bleating goats also haunted him, as did seeing farmers leading the bullocks to the village watering hole. He could hear children there, playing, cooling off, making splashes.
But Barapind was not to be entirely confused with the magical place of his childhood. This was a harsh place in a new age of India, where British rule had tightened, choking them with fear. Taxes were raised because of the war, because productive men had been recruited away from the land, because years of drought had yielded so little, all of which deprived the government. The people owed their dues, and the British intended to collect. They stationed officers throughout the country, men of great authority with the permission to employ their weapons liberally on any commoner—Sikh, Hindu, Muslim, or otherwise—who fell short.
Prem rarely slept after planting season. When Baba Singh woke in a sweat from his usual nightmares, he could hear his father-in-law pacing about the hut long into the night praying for rain, praying for wealth, praying for another to suffer the bad luck of a ruined crop. For all his praying—and Desa and Khushwant’s help selling their produce in Amarpur’s market—their village had held up well, had met the challenges the British imposed under impossible circumstances—until the end of Baba Singh’s second season when one of Barapind’s number was defeated.
The farmers were coming in from the fields at dusk, making their way through the wheat crops when Baba Singh saw the silhouette of a British military officer against the setting sun and heard his sharp, booming call. “Ratan Singh, please come forward!”
Ratan, a gap-toothed, easily chagrined farmer with a shrew of a wife and a four year-old son, stopped cold as the officer unholstered his pistol to prevent any of them from fleeing. It was not a conscious movement, but Baba Singh found himself stepping back away from the farmer, as did the other men, rather than coming forth to defend him. He was not afraid for himself. Sada Kaur was at home, shuffling about the hut holding her back and rubbing her belly, which jutted out now past her beautiful, swollen feet. She was waiting for him.
The officer stepped forward and roughly grabbed Ratan by the arm. The poor man stumbled and began to babble incoherently in terror. “Come with me,” the officer commanded, gesturing to the rest of them as he headed toward the village center. “There is something you all need to see.”
Because of the pistol, they followed.
Without freeing his grip on Ratan, the officer kicked aside the charpoys under the largest neem tree where the villagers often rested at midday. He then yanked the farmer’s arms around the trunk of the tree, binding his hands with rope. Baba Singh watched in horror as the farmer began to weep, begging to be released, his face pressed against the bark.
The officer pulled a baton from the loop in his uniform and began to walk stiffly in a slow military march. He coldly gauged the crowd who had gathered to watch, and then, in one sudden motion, he swung around and struck hard.
The muscles of Ratan’s back tightened. He screamed. “It will not happen again, sahib
!”
Baba Singh’s eyes widened in disbelief. He felt his knees weaken as the officer struck again. He had an urge to sink to the ground, to fall within the tide of other villagers. He observed their feet, the nervous twitch of their calves as their muscles tensed with the British officer’s swinging arm. Like a dance, they moved in time with music.
Prem, watching his tormented neighbor, pulled his shawl tighter around his shoulders.
Eyes focused on the cane, Baba Singh concentrated on its swing around and over the British officer’s shoulder, acutely aware of the white-knuckled grip that held it, the heavy-handed surety. He remembered his own hands. A flash of light cut across Mr. Grewal’s spectacles. He clenched his fists, recalling something familiar. The nerve endings of his fingers tingled in protest. The air around him slowed. He no longer experienced the touch of the evening breeze on his face as he tried to comprehend the violence of the cane as an extension of the man who held it, the intention of the blunt force at the end of that arc. He opened his eyes, breathing hard now. The British officer made ready for another swing, even as Ratan slumped unconscious against the tree.
It was the fist, the ferocity in the officer’s hand that made Baba Singh finally know it. He drew in a sharp breath and bent over, sick. Opening his palms, he shuddered and stared weakly at them, knowing now what they were capable of, remembering the day he had intended to return Dr. Bansal’s packages, remembering that he had stopped at Mr. Grewal’s.
“It was me,” he mumbled, but no one heard him say it. Their legs continued to twitch rhythmically as Ratan regained consciousness and screamed again.
Baba Singh let out a choking cry, for himself, for his wife, and for his unborn child.
He straightened, needing to escape. He turned to Prem, his father-in-law seemingly unable to avert his eyes from Ratan. It was dread that Baba Singh witnessed in Prem’s face, the dread of what they could not control. It was dread of the day when he would be strapped to that tree, a day that he believed was imminent and looming, and which they were all powerless to prevent.
~ ~ ~
The blacksmith’s shop was brighter than usual. The sun had entered through the recently cleaned windows at just the right angle, like God peering in, illuminating every surface, every curve and dent of metal, every particle of dust. From where Baba Singh sat, the two kirpans crossed above Yashbir’s apartment were flashing, frowning eye slits. Admonishing because of the lie, the one he had allowed himself to believe.
“Where is the doctor?” Baba Singh asked.
Yashbir was sitting at his desk. He caressed the various-sized chisels lined up in front of him with the tip of his index finger. He betrayed nothing. “This is not the time,” he said. “Think of your wife now, Baba.”
Baba Singh clenched his fists. He squatted next to his friend. “I need to see him,” he said quietly, looking up.
“Think of Sada Kaur,” the blacksmith said again. “You cannot go chasing phantoms of the past while she is about to give you a family.”
“Where did they send him?”
“He is gone,” Yashbir replied.
“Where?”
“I do not know.”
Rising, Baba Singh paced the room. “You should have told me. I would have stopped them from taking him away.”
“He did not want you to.”
Picking up several stray nails from a shelf, Baba Singh cupped them in his palm. “You must be in contact with him,” he insisted. “You said Amritsar. I will go there.”
“No. He does not want—”
Baba Singh slammed the nails down on Yashbir’s desk.
The old man did not flinch. He collected the nails, some of which had fallen under his desk. He stood and placed them in a box containing a stock of other nails. “Nalin knew what he was doing. He was not happy here. There were things he understood he could never fix. When he realized what you had done, he came to me. He said he could fix this one thing. He wanted you to move on, to be happy.”
“Tell him it did not work,” Baba Singh said. “I have had nightmares. You know that. It was not worth it for him. Tell me where to find him.”
The blacksmith’s face fell. “He knew you would not want to do it this way, that you were a good boy. And then you did not remember what you had done. I was glad I did not have to tell you.”
“Where is he, Yashji?”
The old man sighed mournfully. “He has been transferred somewhere. I have not heard from him in quite some time.”
Baba Singh rang his hands. “I have to see him. We have to undo it. It was a mistake.”
Yashbir looked at his young friend. “Sada Kaur is the most important now. And Ranjit. He is being released in a few days. You have been too hard on him. Apologize and bring him home. It is the best way to honor the doctor.”
Baba Singh began to shake. “I think I knew the whole time. No one will forgive me.”
Yashbir stood. “You never have to tell,” he said, pulling Baba Singh to his chest. The old blacksmith smelled of something woody mixed with the soapy scent of his long beard. Baba Singh was not eighteen anymore. He was a boy again. He melted.
~ ~ ~
The train was jammed with luggage racks, double-height berth seats, and too many people as it jetted through the flatlands toward Amritsar. Baba Singh was squeezed against the wall of the boxcar next to Desa and Khushwant, a cramp in his side from not being able to move. A man above him was sleeping; his arm dangled through the iron bars of the luggage rack. Baba Singh rested his head against the glassless window frame and listened to the teedoo teedoo, teedoo teedoo on the rails as the train sliced through the air. It was his first time on the train; he preferred the slow jostling pace of horse tongas. Things at this speed passed by too quickly.
The wind whipped at his face, drowning and suffocating him. He yelled into it, “I am sorry.” But all sound was carried away to the pinnacles of the distant Himalayan Mountains where it meant nothing.
Despite the nerves twisting his stomach, he smiled a weak, involuntary smile as he pictured Kiran and Avani on board, the way he preferred to think of them. Even now they hurtled through India, untouchable angels, laughing at how fast they could fly.
They arrived two hours later, pulling into Amritsar’s train station, which was as loud and massive as Baba Singh remembered. Wafting in from outside the station were the heavy smells of oil, spices, and smoke from an army of vendors bellowing, “Gharam chai, chana, chana! Hot tea, chickpeas, chickpeas!” Motor rickshaws buzzed in swarms like insects, exoskeletons weaving in and out. Bike rickshaws were slower, but no less aggressive, lawless rebels tinging their tinny bells.
Baba Singh followed Desa and Khushwant on the long walk down Grand Trunk Road and onto Queens Road where they passed a number of government buildings until they reached the jailhouse. Several Indian guards were just inside the entrance, wearing turtle-green British police uniforms.
Approaching the head guard who was sitting behind a desk, Khushwant said, “We are here for Ranjit Singh Toor.”
The guard gave a bored nod and rifled through some papers.
Baba Singh stepped forward, his heart thumping in his ears. “And doctor Nalin Bansal. I would like to see Dr. Bansal.”
The guard stopped and glanced up irritably. “I only have release papers for Ranjit Toor.”
Desa nervously pulled her brother back. “Yes, that is right.”
Baba Singh pried her fingers from his arm. “I have to see the doctor,” he said again. “He was brought here from Amarpur in 1912.”
The head guard set his pencil down, his jaw tightening. “Crime?” he asked.
Baba Singh lowered his voice. “Murder.”
The guard peered at Baba Singh momentarily. Then, nodding brusquely, he gestured to one of his men. “Vakash,” he said. “Look up Bansal.” He appraised them all, raising a menacing eyebrow. “Anyone else?”
They shook their heads.
“Ranjit is that way,” he said, coming around from b
ehind his desk holding a familiar hand-painted wooden elephant.
“Where did you get that?” Baba Singh demanded.
The guard tapped the elephant into his palm. “Ranjit had it on him. Personal possession.” He turned to the other men and asked mockingly, “Should we give it back?”
“Should we?” one of the others laughed.
The head guard’s face suddenly hardened. “Perhaps he does not deserve it. He is a traitor who conspired with other traitors.”
“The government deserved it,” Baba Singh said.
The guard tapped his uniform, a threat. “The government takes care of me,” he replied.
“You can keep the toy,” Khushwant said hastily. “We don’t need it.”
The head guard smiled with hostility. “Vakash, the key,” he called over his shoulder as he led them down a corridor to Ranjit’s cell.
“Baba,” Desa whispered. “You have not seen him. He will not look like himself. He—”
“He was lucky,” the guard said, overhearing. “We know what he did, but they say he is not a threat. Who are we to argue? We tried our best to get him to talk. We think the elephant made him look innocent. Terrorists do not play with toy elephants, right Vakash?”
“No, sir,” Vakash grinned, jogging toward them with the key.
The head guard stopped in front of Ranjit’s cell. “Right baby Ranjit? Ranjit baby?”
Baba Singh peered into the dark cell, his eyes slowly widening when he found his brother. Ranjit sat cross-legged on the cement floor against the far stone wall. His turban was off, crumpled in the corner. His hair draped down his back in frizzy clumps. He had lost an eye, a patch of scarred skin where the eye once was. His lips were cracked, his body—clothed only in a dhoti—was covered with half-healed scars from whip lacerations, and some of his fingernails were missing. His feet and wrists were chained.
