I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

by Singh, Khushwant

  ‘Come in, come in, Buta Singh. Come right in,’ said Taylor pushing a chair beside him.

  ‘Good morning, sir. How cool you have made it here! You have brought Simla down to this hot place. No need to go to the hills.’

  Taylor felt slightly uneasy. He knew the conditions in which his Indian colleagues worked. Small cubicles packed with litigants and lawyers squabbling and shouting each other down; smell of sweat and stale clarified butter churned about vigorously by the ceiling fan. No curtains to keep out the glare; no khas to lessen the heat and bring in the aroma of the damp earth. Just bare white walls with red betel spit splattered on the corners and a calendar bearing a photograph of the Governor of the Punjab looking down upon the scene through his monocled eye.

  ‘I would break down under the heat if I didn’t have all this,’ explained Taylor. ‘It is a matter of getting used to it. You Indians can take it because you eat the right food, wear the right clothes . . . not you Buta Singh,’ he added laughing as he noticed the other’s stiff-collared shirt, necktie, silk suit, and thick crepe-soled shoes. ‘I mean the man in the street.’

  ‘Even so, Sahib, it doesn’t stop us getting prickly heat, sore eyes, and bleeding through the nose. Last two nights I had a servant rub the soles of my feet with the skin of an unripe melon; and still they burn as if on fire. I am sending my family to the hills to escape this heat.’

  That gave Taylor the chance to introduce the subject he had wanted to discuss with Buta Singh for some days. ‘Very good idea! The youngsters must have finished with their colleges. A long three-month break every year is a very good idea.’ After a pause he added, ‘I was glad to see your son was elected President of the University Union. He can go off to the hills feeling pleased with himself.’

  Buta Singh was flattered at Taylor’s knowledge and interest in his family. ‘Yes sir, God has been good to us. We have much to be grateful for.’

  Taylor became more explicit. ‘What are his immediate plans?’

  ‘Sir, we were planning to go to Simla. I really wanted to know what your programme was for the summer before deciding.’

  ‘I don’t think I will take any vacation this summer. Neither should you just yet. Send the family with Sher Singh and join them later.’

  ‘Sher is not free yet. You see, sir, as President of the Union he has a lot of work to do. He is a very serious-minded young man.’

  ‘You tell him from me that it is not wise to work during the summer months. Ask him to see me. I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I will tell him. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’

  Buta Singh purred with gratitude at Taylor’s concern for Sher Singh. He was quietly tapping his knees with his hand when Taylor got up and extended his hand. ‘Well, goodbye, Buta Singh. And don’t forget to give my message to your son. Tell him to drop in whenever he has the time.’

  Buta Singh went out into the glare of the noonday sun; it was some time before he could see properly. It took him yet longer to get over the fact that Taylor had sent for him only to ask about his family. Then an uneasy suspicion crossed his mind; perhaps there was more in Taylor’s tender inquiries about Sher Singh than he knew.

  For the first time in two months, Champak had the house almost to herself. Although Mundoo was there he scarcely mattered.

  As soon as the family had dispersed, Champak bolted the doors of the house from the inside and retired to her room. She changed back from her Punjabi dress to her kimono. She switched on her radio and stretched herself on her bed under the ceiling fan.

  Mundoo finished the little work Shunno had left for him and dozed against the wall. He heard the music coming from the young mistress’ room and sat up. Champak watched his reaction through the chick curtain and turned down the volume. After straining his ears for a few minutes, Mundoo got up, came to Champak’s door, and sat down on the floor beside the threshold. Champak got up and went into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. Mundoo heard his mistress leave the bedroom. He lifted the chick curtain over his head to shade him from the sun. He put his head against the door and shut his eyes in musical rapture.

  Champak bathed and washed her hair. She was in a carefree mood and kept company with her radio music, singing at the top of her voice. Mundoo heard her singing and splashing water; he felt assured that his listening would not be interrupted for some time. As soon as Champak stopped, he sat up. One of his favourite songs was coming over. The mistress would surely take a couple of minutes with the towel. Mundoo thought he could risk it a little longer.

  Champak decided that it would be cooler under the breeze of the ceiling fan. She stepped into her bedroom with her long hair and naked body dripping with water. Mundoo edged back thoroughly frightened.

  ‘Why don’t you ask before you come into the room?’

  Mundoo murmured something incoherently.

  ‘Fool! Hand me the towel.’

  The towel lay on a chair facing her dressing-table. Mundoo went across the room and gave it to her.

  ‘You can sit inside and listen,’ said Champak and went back to the bathroom. Mundoo came in and sat down beside the table on which the radio was placed.

  Champak came back wearing her thin cotton kimono. She had a towel about her shoulders to take the drip from her wet hair. She went to her dressing-table with its three full-length mirrors and sat down on a chair facing them. From the corner of her eye she noticed Mundoo looking at her reflection. She casually undid the belt of her kimono and put her feet on the dressing-table drawer. The kimono fell on either side of her legs, baring her to the waist. She dabbed talcum powder from the neck downwards to her breasts, belly, and thighs. Then threw her head back and let her wet hair fall behind the chair. She shut her eyes to enjoy the cool breeze and the music.

  Mundoo sat and stared at the reflection in the mirrors. He felt hot and the palms of his hands became wet with perspiration. His little virginal mind was swamped with lustful longing. All he could do was to stare, squeeze his hands between his thighs, and drool at the mouth. The torment ceased after a few minutes; he felt tired and ill. He got up to go back to the kitchen.

  ‘Press my legs. I am very tired.’

  Champak got up from her chair, flapped the sides of her kimono, and tied the belt. She lay down on her belly clutching a pillow between her arms.

  Mundoo began pressing his mistress’ feet and ankles with his damp hands.

  ‘Here,’ ordered Champak, slapping her calf muscles. ‘It hurts here.’ She drew up her kimono to her thighs and spread out her legs. The boy pressed without daring to look up. After a few minutes he looked up to press the other leg. His mistress was bare up to her buttocks. She seemed fast asleep. The boy was overcome with a maddening desire. He clutched his mistress by the waist, then sank back exhausted.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Champak waking up.

  ‘Nothing, Bibiji,’ answered the boy trembling.

  ‘Go back to the kitchen. You don’t know how to press.’

  Champak let out the boy and bolted her bedroom door. She switched off the radio and fell asleep.

  When she woke, the shadow of the wall had spread across the courtyard. Sparrows were gathered by the hundreds for their evening twitters before going to roost. All the family were in except her husband.

  Champak’s mood changed when her husband came back. She had slept all day, and was wide awake and full of herself. After a perfunctory inquiry about what he had been doing, she came back to her favourite subject — herself. ‘I had a very quiet day. All your family was away so I washed my hair and read and read and read. Did you know John Barrymore was dead? He died yesterday. I was very sad. He was my favourite film star. I wish we had someone like him in the Indian films. Our films are just singing and dancing. Nothing else. That reminds me, you must do something about this Mundoo, you really must.’

  ‘What has he been up to?’

  ‘Without knocking or warning he came into the room. I had n
othing on, not a stitch. My God!’

  Sher Singh knew that this sort of conversation always ended in the same thing and he wasn’t in the mood.

  The fellow said nothing. Just gaped at me stupidly with his mouth wide open as if I were something to eat. I ran into the bathroom and put on my dressing-gown.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tick him off?’

  ‘I did. I told him if he came into my room again without knocking I would have him whipped. He simply said he had come in to listen to the radio. He has got film music in his blood. It’s these films that give him ideas. How old do you think he is?’

  ‘I don’t know; thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen.’

  ‘I used to be so innocent at that age. We were brought up so strictly and Mummy did not tell us one single thing about life. This fellow, I am sure, knows all about sex already. Don’t you think so?’

  Sher Singh did not like after-dinner conversation turning to sex, so he changed the subject abruptly. ‘It must be the heat or something. I have never felt as tired out as I do today,’ he said, speaking through a yawn.

  ‘I’ll press your legs and you will sleep much better. Take off your clothes; it is so hot.’

  Sher Singh was late for breakfast. Shunno knocked at the door twice to say that the others were waiting. He quickly wound his turban (his father objected to people coming to the sitting-room or dining-room bareheaded), brushed his little beard and tied a muslin band round his chin to press it. He hurried to join the family at the breakfast table. He interrupted his father’s monologue with a loud ‘Sat Sri Akal’ meant for everyone.

  ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ replied his mother. ‘Now that he has no college to go to, Sherji finds it hard to open his eyes before midday.’

  ‘I came back rather late last night. Our meeting did not end till then.’

  Buta Singh resumed his discourse. ‘As I was saying, these Englishmen take a lot of interest in other people, and it is not just curiosity, it is a genuine concern with their problems. Now Taylor knows all of you by name, what you are doing, how you have fared in your examinations — everything. He has an excellent memory.’

  ‘They have learnt from the Americans,’ answered Sher Singh. ‘They have reduced human relationships to a set of rules. They say you must know the name of the person you are talking to and use it as often as possible. You must know his or her interest and talk about them and never of your own. They write down whatever they have discussed with anyone in their diaries and refresh their memories before the next meeting. It does not mean much because their real desire is to create a good impression about themselves. They are not one bit concerned with the affairs of the person they happen to be talking to.’

  Buta Singh did not like the way his son twisted everything he said in favour of Taylor. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Mr Taylor asked me about your election and where you planned to go for the summer. He also asked you to come and see him. He does not take that sort of interest in everyone nor invites people to see him. Many rub their noses on his threshold and are not allowed to enter.’

  ‘He must have politely mentioned my name.’

  Buta Singh flared up. ‘I don’t understand this attitude. Even if he mentioned your name out of politeness, you can at least pay him a courtesy call.’

  ‘What will I say to him?’

  Buta Singh was too angry to be coherent. ‘I don’t know what is happening to young men today. I wonder when you will learn about the world.’

  Once more an academic discussion had turned to an unpleasant personal argument between father and son. Sabhrai stepped in. ‘Why don’t you go to see the Deputy Commissioner if he wants to meet you?’

  ‘I did not say I will not see Mr Taylor,’ protested Sher Singh. ‘I simply asked what use it will be and you all start getting angry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will send him,’ said Champak smiling. ‘I will make him ring up for an appointment today.’

  ‘Good,’ pronounced Buta Singh. ‘When a man is friendly and also happens to be an important officer, one should take advantage of it. Ring up his PA, tell him who you are — mention my name — and say the Sahib wanted to see you. He will give you an appointment.’

  When Sher Singh rang up the Deputy Commissioner’s office, Taylor himself answered the telephone. Sher Singh’s English crumbled to a breathless stutter punctuated with many ‘sirs.’ Taylor brusquely ordered him to come on Tuesday which was the visitors’ day.

  Visitors’ day came a week later. Sher Singh had expected to be received alone. When he got there, the Deputy Commissioner’s regular hangers-on were already waiting their turn to be called. There were village officials in their starched turbans and baggy trousers, with their pistols strapped on their sides and cartridge belts running across their chests. There were fat businessmen from the city in their thin shirts and dhotis. There were officials in silk suits and ties. They sat in a row of chairs in the verandah. Sher Singh had great contempt for such people; but here he was sitting alongside them waiting his turn to be summoned. His father had terrified him into submission. He had visiting-cards specially printed so that one could be sent in to the Deputy Commissioner. He had his own silk suit altered and made Sher Singh wear it instead of the militant-looking open-collared bush shirt made of coarse hand-spun cloth. The process of humiliation was carried a step further by the reception Sher Singh got at Taylor’s bungalow. One of the regular callers, a colleague of Buta Singh, recognized him and proceeded to introduce him to all the others. ‘Wah bhai, wah,’ he went on after the introductions were over. ‘We used to ask how long will it be before this disciple of Gandhi will become his father’s real son! Today in your European outfit you look like the heir of Sardar Buta Singh.’

  ‘Yes, Sardarji,’ drawled another who looked like a common informer: stiffly starched turban with its plumes waving in the air and a shifty, cunning look in his lecherous, antimonied eyes. ‘What is there in Gandhi’s followers? When an Englishman says, “Git awt you biladee,” they will run like jackals. Sardar Sher Singh, your father is a wise man. You should follow in his footsteps.’

  Sher Singh did not say a word. He was angry with his father for having sent him and angry with himself for having come. He felt angrier with his wife — he always felt angry with her when he could not find reasons for his temper — for not having stopped him from coming. And of course he felt angry with Taylor for having suggested his calling on a Tuesday and belittling him by keeping him waiting with the crowd of sycophants. ‘Never again,’ he kept saying to himself. This time he would go through the ordeal even if it meant sitting out till the last snivelling, fawning caller had had his say, but ‘never again.’

  Sher Singh was still immersed in his angry thoughts when the orderly came to say that the Sahib would receive him. Him, Sher Singh, before any of the crowd of corrupt businessmen wanting to be made honorary magistrates; before the boot-licking peasant informers begging for the privilege of being seated beside the Deputy Commissioner at formal functions! It could be because he was Buta Singh’s son; it could also be because he was the leader of the students. In either case it was something which raised him above the sort of people who called on Taylor. Sher Singh’s temper cooled a little.

  The orderly conducted him through the verandah, lifted the chick, and peered in. Taylor was dictating to his stenographer. The orderly asked him to wait till the Sahib had finished.

  Taylor finished dictating. The stenographer read out what he had taken down and left. Taylor picked up the first visiting-card on his table, turned it about, and put it down. He lit his pipe, and after looking vacantly into space for some time, tapped the bell on his table. The orderly raised the chick and hustled Sher Singh into the room.

  ‘Good morning, sir!’ said Sher Singh a little nervously. Taylor picked up the visiting-card again and scrutinized it carefully. He did not hear the greeting.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ repeated Sher Singh a little louder.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Good morning, s
ir,’ said Sher Singh a third time.

  Taylor looked up and smiled. ‘Oh, good morning, Sher Singh, good morning. Didn’t notice you come in. Do sit down,’ he said, pointing to a chair.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ stammered Sher Singh for the fourth time, ‘thank you, sir.’

  ‘Well, how are you? And how is your good father? I haven’t seen him for some days.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Very good, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘I am glad. And how are your politics? You are a leader of the students, aren’t you? Your father told me you had become President of the Students’ Union. He is very proud of you.’

  A kind word from anyone one fears or hates has quicker and greater impact than it has from another — and Sher Singh had worked up both fear and hatred for Taylor. The Deputy Commissioner’s friendly tone and praise won him over completely. He did not know what to say. ‘It is nothing, sir, nothing,’ he replied with gratitude. He could hardly believe his own ears when he heard himself say, ‘It is all the kindness of people like you. The students were being led astray by these Communists and other political groups. At a time like this, when the enemy is at our gates, we should be united and strong. The way the English are standing up to their adversities should be a lesson to us.’

  ‘Things are not going too well for us, are they?’ queried Taylor. He picked up a shiny metal tube from his table and tossed it in the air several times. Sher Singh was not sure what it was but he was fascinated by the object. Taylor went on: ‘It could put ideas in the minds of people who do not like us. Of course, we can rely on our friends. The Sikhs have a long tradition of loyalty to the British. We trust them more than any other community in India. And you know, your father is my closest colleague. He is a very good man.’