‘That’s much the same thing as withdrawing the order.’
‘No, sir, not at all. This will be a special dispensation for a few hours. After all you are not banning people going in procession with a wedding or a funeral!’
‘That’s true. O.K. You make out an order and put it up for my signature in the office.’
‘Perhaps Sahib should send for the Hindu delegation and convey the order personally. It will be better than letting someone else do it. That will also avoid wrong interpretations by mischief-makers.’
Taylor thought for a moment. ‘I think you are right. Tell them to come and see me at the law courts.’
‘Right, sir. I will bring them in personally. Good morning, sir. Change your shirt before you catch a chill.’
Beena had reason to be in a bad temper. Without any reason her mother had started an argument about going to Sita’s house. ‘Why don’t you work at home instead of going to Sita’s every day?’ she had asked. ‘Because Sita is very good at her studies and can help me.’ ‘Why don’t you ask her to come here?’ ‘Because it is much quieter there. Here there are you and Champak. There, there is no one.’ ‘What’s happened to Madan’s wife and child?’ ‘I don’t know; she has gone to her parents.’ Then her mother came out with a suggestion which made Beena positively angry. ‘Your sister-in-law is left alone in the house when I go away. Today even Shunno is not in. You take her with you.’
‘What will she do there?’ asked Beena in an exasperated tone. ‘We go away to study in Sita’s room, what will she do, kill flies?’
‘She can knit or read; she is lonely. Anyhow, I do not like you being alone in the houses of strangers. People talk.’
‘Talk about what? What do I do there?’
‘I do not care; you have to obey your mother. You take Champak with you today and see how it goes. If she does not like it, she can come away.’
Beena walked out of the room in a huff. ‘After today, I am never going to Sita’s. I don’t care if I pass or fail.’
Champak did not protest as much as was expected. Although she was being deprived of a chance of being alone in the house, her curiosity about Wazir Chand’s household, which had become the chief topic of conversation over the last month, had been thoroughly roused. Buta Singh often spoke of Wazir Chand, sometimes critically, as people do about their colleagues. Beena was full of the family, particularly Sita. And her husband had begun to see a lot of Madan. She had never met him but had seen him play against the English eleven. ‘I am not at all lonely here,’ she said in the dutiful tone she adopted in speaking to her mother-in-law. ‘But if you want me to go with Beena, I will.’
There wasn’t much conversation in the tonga. Sabhrai made some feeble attempts to make up but Beena continued to reply in gruff monosyllables. When they got to Wazir Chand’s, the roles between mother and daughter were reversed. Sitting in the verandah was Madan, smoking and reading a newspaper. It wasn’t such a quiet place to study after all; Sabhrai felt she had done well to bring her daughter-in-law along. Beena knew her mother would not believe her if she told her that Madan was not usually at home in the mornings. ‘Bhraji, you haven’t gone to college today?’ she asked begging for an explanation.
‘I am taking the day off. Sat Sri Akal, auntieji. This is the first time you have entered our home; it will rain today.’ He threw down his half-smoked cigarette and crushed it under his foot. ‘Do come in.’
‘I will another day, son. I am late for the gurudwara. Look after your sisters and see them home when Beena has finished studying.’
‘Do you have to say that? Of course, I will see them home. Have absolutely no worry.
The tonga drove away with Sabhrai.
Beena did not bother to introduce Champak. She did not seem to need an introduction or being put at ease. ‘You go and work and don’t bother about me,’ she said making herself comfortable on the drawingroom sofa. ‘I will stay here and do my knitting. I have promised to knit your brother a sweater before the winter.’
Beena went off to Sita’s room and Champak took her knitting out of her bag. Madan came in from the verandah. ‘Would you like something to drink? Shall I send for some cold butter-milk?’
‘No, thank you, I am not thirsty. I will ask for anything I want. After all this is like my own home.’
‘Absolutely!’ he emphasized warmly. ‘You must consider this your own home. Don’t wait on formalities.’ Madan seemed uncertain of the next step. He went over to the radio set, took off the embroidered velvet covering, and began to fiddle with knobs. He could not find a station on the air and switched it off. Champak went on with her knitting without taking any notice of him. But as he moved towards the door she asked, ‘Bhraji, when is sister coming back?’
‘She has gone to her parents for the summer. It is very hot here and it wasn’t good for her and the little boy’s health.’
Madan looked out on to the verandah and slowly opened the door.
‘There is nothing wrong with sister’s health, I hope?’ she asked, putting down the knitting in her lap.
‘No, just the heat,’ he replied turning back. He realized that his presence was not unwelcome. It was up to him to make the next move. ‘Your husband and I have become great friends.’
‘Nowadays he talks of nothing but you. He is a great admirer of yours.’
‘And I am a great admirer of his. He is a wonderful orator. Today he is only the leader of the students; tomorrow he will become a leader of the country. I am sure he will be a minister or something really big one day.’
Champak laughed. She took up her knitting again and without looking up said, ‘I suppose you have thousands of admirers all over the city since you scored that century against the English eleven. You saved your country’s honour that day.’
Madan smiled and sat down in the armchair facing the sofa. ‘Have I your permission?’ he asked, taking out a cigarette from the case. He lit it without waiting for a reply. He sent a jet of smoke straight at Champak; then tried to fan it away with his hands.
‘Where does cricket get you? In five years I will be forgotten. Sher will be the Chief Minister of the Province and you his great lady. When I come to your door you will ask your servant: “Madan? Who is Madan? I don’t know any Madan. Send him away.’’’
‘You are making fun of me. How can anyone forget the great cricketer, Madan! You know, Bhraji, one of the sixers you hit, the ball came flying towards me. I thought it would hit me right here in the middle.’ She dug her finger in the center of her low cut shirt to indicate the spot. She flung away her thin muslin head-covering, put her arms behind her head and smiled.
Madan looked from the spot between her breasts to her face. Their eyes met and were fixed on each other for a few seconds.
‘My husband,’ said Champak looking away, ‘takes no exercise and has started to get a paunch. You should teach him cricket.’
‘I will teach him anything you command; I will be always at your service,’ replied Madan putting his hand across his chest and bowing slightly.
‘If you make fun of me, I will not talk to you.’ Champak took off her shoes and tucked her feet under her on the sofa. She put aside her knitting and said with a deep sigh, ‘This will never get done and you know whose fault it will be!’
‘I am a great sinner,’ answered Madan bowing again. They both laughed. They sat and talked of many things: Sher Singh’s election, the growing friendship between the families, the hot weather, films and film stars. Then the clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve and Champak got up; one of her knitting needles fell on the floor. Madan picked it up and came near her to hand it back. ‘You are wearing khas? On a hot day it reminds one of rain. I think it is the best perfume in the world; better than anything made in France.’
‘Is that all you know of perfumes, Mr Madan?’ she answered coyly. ‘For your information this is French and is called “chasse garde,” which means “hunting forbidden.” So there!’ She tapped him on his chest. One of the buttons of h
is shirt was open; she buttoned it, then picked a piece of thread off his sleeve and slowly released it in the air.
‘Hunting forbidden! What does it mean?’
‘Find out for yourself.’
‘It’s a silly name for a perfume.’
‘Isn’t it? I am sure the girls have done enough work for the morning. We must get home now. Namaste.’
‘Namaste. And don’t forget humble folk like us when you are the wife of the Chief Minister,’ said Madan joining his hands as if in prayer.
Champak caught his hands in hers and pressed them. ‘Don’t make fun of me. I don’t like it.’
Sher Singh always had a good look at himself in the mirror before taking off his uniform. He examined his profile from both sides and then gave himself a steady stare to study the effect it could have on other people. At these moments he was reminded of newsreels showing busty Russian women soldiers marching fifty abreast through Moscow’s Red Square on May Day parades. The crash of bands, the deep-throated chorus, and, above all, the command to salute, gave him a tingling sensation along his spine. If no one was looking, he would stretch his hand sideways and like Hitler clutch his belt with his left hand. Thereafter he looked at himself again in the mirror as each garment came off.
Champak was already in bed waiting for him, so he could not go through the saluting ceremony. However, the Russian troops in the Red Square started a sequence of thought. ‘You know what these bastard Communists want to do now?’
‘What?’
‘They want our peasants to fight the Japanese army. They say we must help Russia to win the war.’
The statement did not register on Champak whose notions of politics and geography were somewhat hazy. She gave a noncommittal answer: ‘Funny, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not funny at all; it’s serious. For the Communists, one day it is an imperialist war, the next day it becomes the People’s War. One day they call the Muslim League a tool of British imperialism, the next day they describe it as the only true representative of the Muslims. One day they decry the demand for Pakistan, the next day they support it. They say what Moscow tells them to say. It is always Russia this and Russia that. They never think of India. I will teach them a lesson one day. My S.V.C. will knock the hell out of them.’
‘Incidentally, you have a great admirer.’
Admirers always interested Sher Singh. ‘Oh! And who would admire me?’
‘Your dear sister’s friend, Madan.’
Sher Singh felt a little uneasy. He recalled Beena’s going to the pictures with Madan and his sister on New Year’s Day and her keeping quiet about it. He was not sure if it meant anything, but it made him uneasy. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said you were sure to become the Chief Minister one day.’
Sher Singh laughed. The cinema episode could not have meant anything since Sita had also gone with them and Madan was married. But why had she kept it a secret?
‘And he said he was going to get his friends to vote for you in the Union elections. He said you were sure to win.’
‘Madan is a first-rate chap. We have got to know each other recently but I know he is one of those to whom loyalty to friends comes above everything else. Don’t you think so?’
‘I have only met him once. You should ask your dear sister. I think she will agree with you. The way she goes on, “Bhraji this and Bhraji that,” I think she is a little gone on him.’
‘He is a bit of a rascal,’ admitted Sher Singh.
‘You are telling me! He’s a big rascal. The way he looked at me! My God, it made me feel as if I had no clothes on. He had his eyes fixed on my breasts all the time. I couldn’t look up.’
Sher Singh knew what the turn of conversation to sexual matters before bedtime meant. ‘I don’t bother about his morals. I like men who have courage and daring, and he has both.’
‘He certainly has daring; I can tell you that after one meeting. I think your mother is quite right in sending someone to keep an eye on Beena — particularly when it is obvious to everyone how she feels about him.’
‘Oh, I am hot,’ said Sher Singh trying to change the conversation. ‘Why can’t we sleep out in the courtyard now that the rest of the family sleeps on the roof? It would be much cooler. Even Dyer refuses to stay with me at night.’
‘What privacy is there in the courtyard? They can see everything from the roof. There is also that not-so- little Mundoo of yours who sleeps in the courtyard these days. I don’t think he likes being on the roof of the servants’ quarters next to Shunno.’ There seemed no way of stopping Champak from giving a slant to the conversation.
‘This heat is terrible,’ he grumbled, taking off his vest. ‘I feel so sleepy.’ He yawned to prove what he had said.
‘Just take your clothes off; they make you hot. I am going to strip myself. Have you bolted the door?’
Sher Singh bolted the door. He went into the bathroom to pour tumblers of cool water on his hot, sweaty body and went to bed. Fifteen minutes later he went back to the bathroom to wash himself.
A late moon rose over the line of trees and the day’s heat was slowly wafted away by a cool breeze. Buta Singh, Sabhrai, and Beena had their charpoys on the roof. The father and daughter were asleep; Sabhrai sat cross-legged on her bed saying her bed-time prayer. The sound of footsteps coming up distracted her attention. Dyer began to growl but as the steps came closer he recognized them and began to wag his tail. Shunno heaved herself up the stairs invoking the assistance of the Guru at each step. She sat down on her haunches beside Sabhrai’s bed and began to press her mistress’ legs. Sabhrai finished her prayer, made her obeisance, and spoke to the maidservant in an undertone, ‘Where have you been all day? I went to look for you in the servants’ quarters in the morning and afternoon.’
‘Don’t ask me anything,’ moaned Shunno. ‘It was written in my kismet.’ She slapped her forehead and sighed. ‘Stretch your legs, I can press them better.’
‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Sabhrai lying down and stretching her legs.
‘Hai, Hai, Hai. Ho, Ho, Ho,’ wailed Shunno. ‘It would be better if you didn’t ask. I could have died of shame.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked Sabhrai impatiently.
‘Bibiji, I am so ashamed, I can’t even talk.’ Shunno explained her ailment at length.
‘How old are you?’
‘I don’t know; between forty-five and fifty-five.’
‘It may be more serious than you think! Bleeding at this age can be dangerous. Did you go to a doctor?’
‘It is all right. If it is written that I have to die, I will die.’
‘Have you been to a doctor?’
‘What do doctors know? Only God knows. I went to the Peer Sahib. He has some miraculous prescriptions which his ancestors have left him. Many women, who had remained barren for years and whose husbands threatened to take other wives, have been cured by Peer Sahib. He is a magician — a divine magician. Sometimes he writes verses from the Koran Sharif and makes people swallow the paper; sometimes he just blows magic formulas in their ears. There is a big crowd there every day — Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs — everyone. I had to wait till I got a chance to speak to him alone. You can’t mention such things before others, can you, Bibiji?’
‘Did he give you a magic potion?’ asked Sabhrai, sarcastically.
‘No, Bibiji, he said he couldn’t find out the trouble by feeling my pulse. He has asked me to come another day when there is no one and he can examine me carefully.’
‘Won’t you be ashamed showing yourself to a Muslim rascal?’ hissed Sabhrai.
‘Na, na,’ protested Shunno. ‘Don’t use such words for him; he is a man of God. He doesn’t charge any fee.’
‘Go to sleep. I don’t want any pressing.’
Shunno took no notice of her mistress’ temper and went on pressing. After a while she started again. ‘We have heard other things today.’
‘Bus, bus, it seems you can’t digest your food
without slandering people.’
‘As you wish. Don’t be angry with me later on for not having warned you in time.’
The mistress relented. After waiting some time for Shunno to continue, she lost patience and asked meekly, ‘What is it?’
‘Don’t blame me! We have heard that Wazir Chand’s son’s wife has gone away to her mother’s.’
‘She is going to have a baby. What is so important about her going to her mother’s to have it?’
‘We have heard that she has been turned out; she was old-fashioned.’
Sabhrai made no rejoinder. She had also heard from someone else that Madan had been describing his wife as illiterate.
‘Our Beena is growing up fast,’ continued the maidservant after a significant pause.
‘What’s that to you?’ snapped Sabhrai; she knew what it was leading up to.
‘It is not good to keep a young girl at home. It is time we thought of her marriage. If you find a nice Sikh boy . . . ’
‘You find one and then talk.’
Shunno realized that any talk about Beena would only lead to a snub, so she changed the subject. ‘Our queen, our daughter-in-law, is idle all day.’
‘What shall I do? Beat her?’
‘It is not good to be idle all day. She reads stories and listens to film songs over the radio.’ As her mistress did not reply, Shunno went on, ‘How long has she been married? Isn’t this the second year? There are no signs of a child appearing!’
‘You ask her to have one.’
‘I? She doesn’t even talk to me; as if I was an enemy. She won’t let me press her when she is tired. She is always asking Mundoo.’
Again Sabhrai made no comment.
‘This Mundoo is getting very cheeky.’
‘Is there anyone in the world you do not malign? Whether you are well or ill, you never curb your tongue from gossip and slander.’
‘Hai, Hai,’ protested Shunno. ‘Whatever I say is gossip.’
She pressed her mistress in silence for a few more minutes, then heaved herself up and went down moaning about her age and illness and invoking the Great Guru.
‘We Indians have no character.’
I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Page 7
