‘It is not his car, it is mine,’ replied Madan promptly. ‘He does not know the number. You enter the correct number and report it to anyone you like. Tell them it was the car of Mr Wazir Chand, Magistrate, driven by his son, Madan Lal. Now open the gate.’
The tone of authority did not fail to impress the gateman. He walked quietly to the gate and unlocked it. He salaamed as the jeep went past.
Everyone was convinced that Madan had atoned for his earlier indiscretion — if any. Even Sher Singh felt he had been a little mean in his resentment. ‘If we let ourselves be bothered by informers and canal road gatemen, we won’t get far with our plans. To hell with them. Revolutions cannot be stopped by vermin,’ he proclaimed loudly.
‘Indeed not,’ added Madan. ‘And what has anyone learnt anyhow? That you have a gun. Of course you have a gun — and a licence for it too. And that your father’s jeep used the canal road! What more?’
Sher Singh felt very relieved. His fears were purely imaginary. He pulled up the jeep. ‘I’ve had too much tea,’ he announced. ‘I will dedicate its remains to the lambardar and the gateman.’
They roared with laughter and leapt out of the jeep. They lined up along the deserted road. ‘On the headman,’ said one.
‘On the headman and all informers.’
‘On the headman, all informers, and all Englishmen.’
‘No,’ said the smallest boy, ‘mine is for the Englishmen’s Memsahibs.’ They laughed louder and continued laughing for a long time.
‘Quiet!’ ordered Sher Singh. ‘Listen.’
The laughter died down and they listened. Above the purring of the motor engine they heard the cry of the Sarus crane. They looked up into the black sky studded with stars. A large grey form flew up from the side of the road they had come. It circled over the jeep a couple of times and landed right in front of the glaring headlights. The crane called to its mate.
‘It’s been following us all the way; thinks we’ve got the other one in the car,’ said the little boy. Even he could not bring himself to repeat the suggestion that Sher Singh should kill the bird. ‘Brother Sarus,’ he said addressing the crane, ‘your dear mate is in heaven. Don’t cry. Go and find yourself another wife.’
The crane turned to him without any sign of fear. It spread out its enormous wings and charged. The boy ran round the jeep. Dyer began to growl and bark but even he did not have the courage to attack the angry bird. Other boys came up yelling loudly and the crane retreated. It kept calling all the time.
The boys got back into the jeep and Sher Singh stepped on the accelerator as hard as he could. They heard the crane calling above them for a little distance till they mixed with the traffic going into the city.
After dropping the boys near the main bazaar and Madan at his house, Sher Singh drove home. He took the jeep into the garage which was at the back of the house alongside the servants’ quarters. He locked the box containing the rifles and hand-grenades and put it back in the trench in the centre of the garage (meant for the mechanic to examine the car from the bottom) and covered it with greased rags and motor tools. He took his father’s shotgun, bolted and locked the garage door and leant back against the wall to spend a few moments with himself before facing his wife and parents. Quite involuntarily he looked up into the sky. The figure of the crane flying in the dark and its crying came back to his mind. Then the picture of the wounded bird kicking its legs, the deafening reports of the pistol shots and the end of its struggle in an attitude of prayer like the effigies of ancient English kings on their tombstones. Now that Madan and the other boys were not there, the sense of assurance also left him and he began to be assailed with doubts. Would the headman report him to the police and the police to the Deputy Commissioner? Mr Taylor had been particularly good to his father whom he trusted more than any other officer in the district; that trust would be lost for ever. His father’s career in service and hopes of recognition for what he was doing for the war would be dashed. And what would Buta Singh do if he came to know that his son had been misusing the jeep given by the government to further war work, to take out terrorists training for sabotage and to destroy people like him and Taylor?
It was strange, thought Sher Singh, that he had not really considered these possibilities before committing himself to the venture. He had somehow believed that he would muddle through, getting the best of the two worlds: the one of security provided by his father who was a senior magistrate, and the other full of applause that would come to him as the heroic leader of a band of terrorists. Now for the first time he realized how utterly incompatible the two were and he simply had to make a choice. He began to feel tired and depressed. There was his home with its high walls like those of a fortress. They enclosed the courtyard and the lit up rooms; it looked snug and friendly. From within came reassuring sounds: the voices of his mother and sister welcoming the dog who had gone in and his wife shouting to the servant to go and see why the young master was taking so long in the garage. And there was the world outside — dark and lonely. The gardener had flooded the lawn; it looked like a black sheet. Fireflies flitted about the ghostly forms of orange trees.
The courtyard door opened and the boy servant, Mundoo, came out to look for him. Sher Singh handed the shotgun to the boy and went indoors.
Although he had no appetite, he sat down to dinner to avoid the women nagging him. His wife and sister joined him. His mother, Sabhrai, who never ate before her husband had been served, also sat down with them.
‘Did you get anything?’ asked Champak.
‘No, there is very little game about this time of the year. I thought I might get a pigeon or two, but we didn’t come across any.’
‘I am glad,’ interrupted his mother. ‘I don’t like this business of killing poor, harmless birds.’
‘Where is father?’ asked Sher Singh.
‘He hasn’t come back from the club,’ answered his mother. ‘He had to ask a friend to give him a lift since you had taken the car. He was cross.’
‘How was I to know he wanted it?’
‘Son, it is not our car,’ remonstrated Sabhrai gently. ‘It has been given to your father for war work. He doesn’t mind your using it but you must ask him. Also, he said if you are keen on shikar, you should apply for a licence and have the gun transferred to your own name.’ She added, after a pause, ‘If you ask for my advice, I would say, “Sell the shotgun.” It is the cause of sin. To take the life of innocent creatures is sin.’
Sher Singh did not contradict her. Sabhrai tried to make up. ‘You did not kill anything, so you don’t have to bother.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘Why don’t you help your sister with her examinations now you have the time? She has to go out to other people’s homes to prepare for them.’
‘No, thank you,’ interrupted Beena hastily. ‘Sita is giving me all the help I need. She is the best in our class.’
Mother and daughter began to argue. It gave Sher Singh the chance to get away. ‘This heat has given me a headache,’ he complained and stood up. ‘I am going to bed.’
‘Yes, you must be tired,’ agreed his mother. ‘Champak, press his head, he will sleep better.’
‘I will,’ replied Champak standing up. She bent her head to receive her mother-in-law’s blessing. ‘Sat Sri Akal.’
‘Sat Sri Akal,’ replied Sabhrai lightly touching Champak’s shoulder.
‘Sat Sri Akal,’ said Sher Singh.
‘Live in plenty. Live a long age,’ replied Sabhrai taking her son’s hand and kissing it. ‘Sleep well.’
Sher Singh and Champak retired to their room on the side of the courtyard.
It was one of Sher Singh’s grievances that since his marriage he had to give up sleeping in the open because his wife wanted privacy. The rest of the family slept on the roof and the courtyard was visible from it. So they had to be in the room and suffer the hot air churned up by the ceiling fan. They had been married only one year and Champak felt that wasn’t asking too much. She for
estalled his complaint. ‘You have a bath and let the breeze of the fan dry you. That is the advantage of having a room of one’s own. I will press your head and legs and you will sleep nicely.’
Sher Singh did as he was told and let his wife press his limbs. The service demanded returns to which he attended with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
Neither the day’s fatigue nor the sex produced the deep sleep they are reputed to produce. For a long time Sher Singh lay awake, staring at the ceiling and the walls. He saw the emblems of strength with which he had surrounded himself. Above the mantelpiece was a shield with the Sikh sabers crossed behind it. On his desk, the porcelain bust of the Mahratta warrior Shivaji; on the wall facing him a colour print of Govind Singh showing the Guru on horseback — his falcon with its wings outspread on his hand. On the other wall was a panel of photographs pinned on a wooden board. They showed him with the Student Volunteer Corps which he had organized the year before at the University. The one in the centre was of him in uniform taking the salute at a march past; another, receiving Mahatma Gandhi when he had come to visit his college; and two more shaking hands with VIPs. He saw these things and felt ashamed that the simple killing of a bird should have upset him. He had shrunk in his own estimation. He tried to recover his faith in his own courage and his future. He tried to seek solace from Madan’s assurance that all the headman could tell was that Sher Singh had used his father’s jeep and shotgun — nothing more. It was of little avail. He could not sleep. Four figures kept going round and round in his tortured mind. They were those of Madan, the headman, his father, and Mr Taylor. Then he began to dream. He saw himself crossing railway lines. There were four tracks with trains coming towards him from either side. He crossed one track and a train came up from the other direction. He jumped clear of the train on to the third track — only to find yet another train almost on him. He jumped clear of that too but found himself right in front of the engine on the fourth. He woke with a cry of terror and looked round for his wife. His cry had not wakened her. She lay like a nude model posing for an artist: one hand between her thighs covering her nakedness and the other stretched away to expose her bust.
Sher Singh wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. He put on his pyjamas and looked out of the window; it was dark without a trace of grey anywhere. He looked at the clock on the table; it was just after 3 a.m. He went back to bed and tried to sleep. Once more the four figures came back: Madan, the headman, his father, and Taylor. When sleep overtook him again, he found himself crossing the rail tracks once more. This time he kept reminding himself in his dream that this was only a dream. When one of the trains bore upon him he woke up — but without the cry of terror. The sky had turned grey and the morning star shone brilliantly. His mother and Shunno were already up and at work in the kitchen. He sat down in his armchair and tried to calm himself. A drongo started calling. Crows began to caw softly in their morning sleep and sparrows twittered dreamily — uncertain whether or not it was time to get up. Then all the crows began to caw furiously and all the sparrows began to chirrup. The spell was broken. A kite perched itself on the roof of the kitchen and let out its shrill piercing cry for food: Kreel . . . Kreel . . . Kreel. . . Kreel.
Sher Singh got up to face another day.
It was New Year’s Day by the Hindu calendar. Sabhrai was expecting all the family in the temple for the first-of-the-month ceremony. Shunno, the maidservant, came twice to say the others were waiting. Sher Singh had a quick bath and hurried to the room set apart for worship. His father and sister sat cross-legged on the floor facing the Granth. Buta Singh wore his magisterial dress of grey turban, black coat, and white trousers. A band of muslin ran round his chin and over his turban (it was meant to press his beard in shape). His grey drooping moustache fell on either side of the band. Both his sister, Beena, and his mother, Sabhrai, wore bright pink headpieces above their white Punjabi dresses. The prayer room also wore a festive appearance. The Holy Granth had been specially draped in silks for the occasion, with roses, marigolds, and jasmines strewn in front of it. From the four points of the velvet canopy above the holy book hung chains of coloured paper. From either side, sticks of incense sent spirals of scented smoke upwards to the canopy till the breeze of the ceiling fan scattered them about the room.
Sabhrai was reading the Granth quietly. She looked up and spoke to her son: ‘We have been waiting for you for the last hour. Your father is in a hurry. He has to go to see the Deputy Commissioner.’
‘How was I to know this was New Year’s Day?’ answered Sher Singh. ‘Nobody told me.’ Everyone knew that Sabhrai’s remarks were really meant for her daughter-in-law. Before Champak could make her excuses, Buta Singh intervened. ‘Let us get on with the service instead of arguing,’ he said.
Sabhrai picked up the fly-whisk lying beneath the cot on which the Granth was placed and began to wave it over her head. She started with the hymn to spring:
It is spring and all is seemly —
The bumble-bee and the butterfly
And the woodlands in flower.
But there is sorrow in my soul,
For the Lord my Master is away.
If the husband comes not home, how can a wife
Find peace of mind?
Sorrows of separation waste away her body.
The koel calls in the mango grove,
Its notes are full of joy.
But O Mother of mine, it’s like death to me
For there is sorrow in my soul.
How shall I banish sorrow and find blessed peace?
Spake the Guru: Welcome the Lord in your soul As a wife welcomes her master when she loves him.
Everyone bowed as the last words trailed off. Buta Singh invoked the Guru loudly. Sabhrai ran the palms of her hands along the broad pages of the holy book and placed them on her eyes.
Shunno came in carrying a steaming tray, placed it on a low stool in front of the Granth, and sat down in a corner. On the verandah outside, Mundoo bullied little children from neighbouring houses into keeping quiet and sitting in a row. Behind him, whining impatiently, was Dyer.
Sabhrai closed the massive Granth, holding the ends reverently in her hands and then let it open as if it had a will of its own. She scanned the opening lines of the first verse and, having assured herself that they prophesied no misfortunes to her family, read in a calm clear voice:
When I think of myself
Thou art not there;
Now it is Thee alone
And my ego is swept away.
As billows rise and fall
When a storm sweeps across the water;
As waves rise and relapse into the ocean
I will mingle with Thee.
How can I say what Thou art
When that which I believe is not worthy of belief?
It is as a king asleep on the royal couch
Dreams he is a beggar and grieves;
Or as a rope mistaken for a serpent causeth panic.
Such are delusion and fear.
Why should I grieve?
Why be panic-stricken?
If God is in every heart
And in every soul
He is in mine.
He has many manifestations
Yet is closer to us than our hands or feet.
These passages were always listened to carefully as prophetic announcements on problems which were uppermost in their minds. To Sher Singh the only lines that had significance were those asking him to discount delusions that caused fear and panic. The Guru himself had given him a personal assurance that he had mistaken a rope for a serpent and had really nothing to worry about. He was not religious or superstitious; nevertheless the words had a strange reassuring effect.
The ceremony ended with a short invocation recited by Buta Singh during which everyone remained standing. It was followed by the distribution of the prasad — a hot syrupy batter made of flour, sugar, and clarified butter. There was an awkward silence which made people conscious of t
he noise they made eating.
Buta Singh took off the beard-band and wiped his greasy hands on his beard and moustache. He looked at his wrist-watch. ‘I must be going,’ he announced in a tone of finality and stood up. ‘A quick cup of tea and I must run.’
Everyone made a last obeisance in front of the Granth and went out into the verandah and put on their shoes. Sabhrai threw Dyer’s share of the prasad into the air. The Alsatian leapt up and caught it in his mouth. They all adjourned to the breakfast table.
Buta Singh opened the morning paper. The family sat in silence waiting for him to say something. Sher Singh was particularly nervous. Would his father ask him about taking the government jeep for a private outing?
‘The war seems to be going badly for the English,’ he said at last, putting down the paper.
‘Things are not too good for them,’ answered his son, somewhat relieved.
Shunno brought a tray full of fried chapatis and vegetables. Sabhrai poured out the tea. The meal continued to be described as ‘tea’ although it was the main meal of the day, combining both breakfast and lunch.
‘You take a lot of interest in politics,’ continued Buta Singh, sipping his cup of tea. ‘What do you think will happen to the British? The Japanese have driven them out of Burma. This chap Rommel has defeated them in Africa. German submarines sink British ships in English ports. They seem to be losing on every front.’
Sher Singh was always somewhat non-committal on political topics when talking to his father. ‘I think we should be more concerned with what will happen to us,’ he replied. ‘We are far too concerned with other people. Our Communist friends are only worried about what will happen to Russia; others think only of what will happen to Britain. Very few of us are bothered with our own future.’
I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Page 2
