I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

by Singh, Khushwant

  Madan let go her hands and assumed a very hurt expression. ‘Let’s go back.’

  ‘Please don’t be angry with me,’ pleaded Beena. She came up to his side and took his hand. He did not reply; he withdrew his hand from hers and started to walk back. ‘Please don’t be angry with me, Bhraji, please!’ she pleaded tearfully. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to do, but don’t be cross with me. I will do anything. . . . ’

  Madan stopped and turned to her. He held her firmly by her arms. ‘You swear you will do anything I ask?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Come to my room tonight when everyone is asleep.’

  Later in the afternoon more clouds appeared in the sky and a black wall came up on the southern horizon. There were flashes of lightning which could be seen across the bright sunlight.

  ‘I think the monsoon is here at last. We should get back home before it starts,’ said Sita.

  They sat up and saw the black clouds towards the south looking like a range of mountains. The cicadas had begun to call. Then the bells of St. Crispin’s Church in Mashobra began to toll for evensong.

  ‘We must have tea at Gables Hotel,’ said Madan.

  ‘They have excellent sandwiches and cakes. They charge you just the same whether or not you eat them.’

  ‘In which case we better eat all they give us,’ said Champak laughing. ‘We have no dinner ready and it will be too late to cook anything.’

  They got their things together and began to walk homewards. The road was too rough to cycle and was crowded with people going to Gables Hotel for tea. By the time Madan found a table and got a bearer to serve them, the wall of black clouds from the southern horizon had spread over the sky and a strong breeze sprung up. People started to leave. Rickshaw coolies and syces of horses were agitating to get their clients to move on before the downpour started. They were amongst the last to be served. Madan was in a bad temper. He did not mince his words with the bearer. ‘You serve Indians after the English people have finished! Is their money better than ours?’

  The bearer grinned sheepishly. ‘No, sir, for us all are the same. They were in a hurry; it might start raining any moment.’

  ‘Don’t Indians get wet?’

  The bearer shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

  ‘Jao — go’ roared Madan, ‘get me the bill.’

  Madan’s outburst gave him a sort of right to command. He proceeded to order everyone. ‘I think you girls should be on your way,’ he told his sister and Beena. ‘I shall be slower as I have to bring Champak. We may catch you up at the Carpenters’ Bazaar. But don’t wait for us. Go home and get something hot ready; tea or something.’

  The two girls got up. ‘Don’t go too fast,’ warned Madan. ‘The road will be crowded with horses, rickshaws, and mule caravans.’

  ‘We can look after ourselves,’ replied Sita. ‘Don’t be too long.’ They waved a farewell and left on their cycles.

  Madan scrutinized the bill carefully before paying. When the bearer brought him his change, he left a large tip on the plate and asked for a packet of cigarettes. The bearer brought him the cigarettes. Madan lit one, stretched his legs on another chair, and relaxed. After everyone had left, he stubbed his cigarette, looked up at the sky. ‘We’d better be moving,’ he said at last and got up.

  They walked up the road to the Mashobra bazaar and stopped to survey the scene. Twilight was rapidly sinking into the night. Across a range of hills, the lights of Simla sparkled in stellar profusion all over Jacko Hill. Shopkeepers were putting up the shutters of their shops; smoke oozed through the crevices of the wooden planks smelling of wood and spices and tobacco. There were muffled sounds of the hubble-bubble of the hookah, of coughing and spitting and subdued conversation. The chirping of millions of cicadas was like the deafening roar of a waterfall.

  Madan folded his raincoat over the bar of his cycle and smoothed it with his hand. Champak came on the other side. He put his arm around her waist and gently raised her on to the raincoat. He put his right leg across to the other side and got on the saddle. Once more he put his arm round Champak’s waist and brought her closer to him till her head touched his chin and her thighs were between his knees. He let the cycle roll down the hill.

  They had hardly gone a hundred yards when it began to rain. ‘We will get wet,’ said Champak turning her face backwards.

  ‘We’ll stop under the cliff which is sheltered from rain.’

  When they came to the cliff, they saw many people with bicycles taking shelter. Madan slowed down but did not stop. ‘I know a house farther down the road which has an arched entrance thickly covered with wild roses; that will be better.’

  The house was another half-mile. By the time they got to it their clothes were completely wet. Madan put the bicycle against the wall and opened the gate. They went in and stopped under the arch made by the creeper. There were no roses, but honeysuckle, which grew with it, was in full bloom. Its acid-sweet smell was heavy in the dark, leafy tunnel.

  ‘I am absolutely drenched,’ said Champak holding out her shirt in the middle. ‘How foolish of us to sit on the raincoat instead of wearing it. You put it on before you catch a chill.’

  ‘We can share it,’ answered Madan. He spread the raincoat over his shoulders and put his arms around her waist. She leant back and let her head rest on his chest.

  ‘Your shirt is soaked,’ she said turning back. She opened the slit below the first button and drew her finger across his chest. ‘You will catch a cold,’ she murmured turning away from him and pressing her head back on to his chest.

  ‘You are also wet,’ replied Madan in a whisper. He undid the top button of her shirt and let his hands slip on to her warm, rounded breasts. She turned her face up to him; their mouths met with hungry passion. Madan gently pushed her against the wall on the side and kissed her on her eyes and glued his lips on hers. The breath in his nostrils became heavy.

  Champak wriggled out of his grasp: ‘What will the girls say if we are late?’

  ‘What will they say? They must have been held up by the rain! What else?’ He waited for her reaction. She flung her arms about his neck and bit him fiercely on the nose. Madan kissed her on her nose, chin, and neck; then buried his face between her breasts. She pushed him back. ‘Not here,’ she whispered. ‘Somebody will see us.’

  Madan became impatient. As he moved towards her his shoulder brushed against a pole supporting the arch on which the roses and honeysuckle grew. A heavy shower of raindrops came down from the leaves. ‘You see,’ said Champak laughing, ‘the gods also say not here. Come along.’

  Madan caught her by the arm. Before he could pull her towards him, a tinkle of bells came round the corner and a line of mules carrying wooden crates filed past. The muleteers coming behind paused by the gate and then moved on. They had hardly gone out of view when half-a-dozen rickshaws came round the bend. There was more tinkling of bells. ‘Hosh . . . bacho,’ shouted the coolies as they ran past on their bare feet.

  ‘Even the coolies say, “Careful . . . keep off,”’ said Champak teasing. ‘If you behave like a good boy, I will come to your room after the others have gone to bed.’

  •

  Sita and Beena did not wait at the Carpenters’ Bazaar and went on home to get out of their wet clothes. They changed into their nightdresses and made themselves some tea. Madan and Champak came in an hour later.

  ‘We stopped under the cliff hoping the rain would stop. It was jammed with people. So we came on,’ said Champak holding up the hem of her shirt to show how wet it was.

  They went to their rooms to change. Madan came back wearing his full-sleeve sports sweater and white flannel trousers. Champak joined them a few minutes later. She wore a bright red kimono. She had put on a fresh paint of lipstick and loosened her long black hair about her shoulders. ‘Absolutely wet,’ she explained, running her fingers through it and tossed it back. She settled down on the sofa and crossed her legs lotus fashion like a female Buddha.

&n
bsp; They had their tea and discussed the monsoon. Beena didn’t say a word. Madan lit a cigarette. He did not know how to put her off. Should he take her aside and apologize to her for having made the unbrotherly proposal in a rash moment? Before he could make up his mind Champak yawned and got up. ‘I don’t know about you people, but I am very sleepy. It is this fresh air and the rain. Sat Sri Akal.’ Sita and Beena who shared a room also left. Madan got up with a sigh. Beena, he decided, was not the sort who came into men’s bedrooms. He switched off the lights in the house and retired to his room.

  Beena turned on the table lamp and saw a letter from her mother lying beside it; the servant had left it there. She got into bed and tore open the envelope. As usual, most of it invoked the Guru’s blessings for someone or other. In the end she mentioned how the monsoon had burst the night before the first of Sawan and how cool it had become. Then followed the passage from the Granth:

  O, Black Buck, why lovest thou

  The pasture of fenced-in fields?

  Forbidden fruit is sweet but for a few days

  It entices and ensnares

  Then leaves one sorrowing . . .

  There was a postscript asking her to read it to Champak and also to write back soon and give a detailed account of how they were getting on in Simla and whether or not Madan’s wife had joined them.

  Beena put the letter under her pillow and switched off the table lamp. The confusion that already existed in her mind became worse confounded. The desire to go into Madan’s room brought a feverish longing in her body. It was followed by visions of Madan’s wife and child; and the hot perspiration turned cold and froze on her. Then came the figure of Madan in his cream-coloured, hand-knitted sports sweater and flannel trousers — tall, handsome, and overpowering — stripping her and taking her as a man should take a woman; and the fever wracked her system. Once more the implications of what would follow — her mother’s cold censorious eyes, the words in the letter burning through the thickness of the pillow . . . ‘Forbidden fruit is sweet but for a few days. It entices and ensnares, then leaves one sorrowing.’ The images followed each other in quick succession, alternately rousing hot passion and immersing her in cold water. After an hour of sleepless tossing in bed, her mind became possessed by one figure, a mammoth one, of Madan smoking, smiling, and beckoning her. Others receded to a dim background and the fever took complete possession of her.

  She heard Sita’s steady breathing. She whispered her name several times to make sure. She got out of her bed, picked up the letter from under the pillow, and tiptoed out of the room. She decided to see if Champak was also asleep. She could say she had just seen her mother’s letter and brought it to give to her.

  The rain fell on the corrugated tin roof with a deafening roar and drowned all sounds of creaking wood and opening and shutting of doors. Beena called softly to Champak and then tiptoed to her bed. It was empty; even the bedcover had not been removed. She went to the adjoining bathroom and slowly pushed open the door; it too, was empty. She tiptoed through the sitting-room to Madan’s room. The door was shut. She put her palms gently on it and pressed. It was bolted from the inside. She put her ear against it and heard sounds of human voices. She stood rooted to the ground like a statue. All longing turned to cold, sickening hate. She went back to Champak’s bedroom and left her mother’s letter on the pillow. She opened her bedroom door and went out on to the balcony. She stood in the pouring rain staring steadily at Madan’s window. An hour later a light came on in his room and was extinguished a few minutes later. Another light came on in Champak’s room which also went off after a couple of minutes. And all was dark and silent save the thunder of rain on the roof.

  The meeting with Taylor did not help to settle the issue for Sher Singh; it only introduced an element of fear to the confusion that already existed. At the two extremes were the Deputy Commissioner and the terrorists: one stood for the status quo with the power to maintain it; the others, for change and the insecurity that is the price of change. In the case of terrorism, the price could be one’s life. Presiding over the two extremes was his father with his conveniently dual morality: ‘Keep up with both sides.’ For him loyalties were not as important as the ability to get away with the impression of having them. To be found out was stupid, even criminal. There was also his temper, of which Sher Singh was as scared as he was of the police. He had his tacit approval of his association with the Nationalists, but he knew that if Buta Singh learnt that he had got mixed up with the terrorists, his father would disown him and throw him out of the house. In addition to these factors, there was his own temperament. Despite his love for his country, he knew he was not the sort who ever burnt his bridges himself.

  On the point of principle, Sher Singh felt that his mind was quite clear: he was a Nationalist and although he had worn a silk suit and tie when he called on the Deputy Commissioner, that was to save Taylor’s feelings. Or was it the fear of his father? He could have told Taylor that he did not believe in the hocus-pocus of traditional Sikh loyalty to the British. In proportion to their numbers, more Sikhs had gone to jail and to the gallows in the freedom movements than those of any other community in India — Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. In any case, talk of loyalty might have made some sense in the nineteenth century, it was beside the point in 1942. Britain had to get out of India herself, or be kicked out, and Sher Singh would say that to Taylor’s face. Could he? What about his father’s views, his career in the service, and his hope of finding his name in the next Honours list? And the unique honour he was getting in the way of an armed police guard outside his house — the sentry who sprang to attention and smacked the butt of his rifle even when Sher Singh passed by with his college friends? Couldn’t it somehow happen that these opposing factors could be combined into one harmonious whole? He visualized scenes where his Nationalist and terrorist colleagues honoured him as their beloved leader, where Taylor read an address of welcome, and his father proudly looked on. Such were the dreams with which Sher Singh tried to dope himself. They were based on the non-discovery of one party by the other.

  Sher Singh tried to dismiss the cartridges on the Deputy Commissioner’s table from his mind. Taylor was known to shoot; they could be from his own rifle. And many people liked playing with empty shells. He tried to reassure himself that a village headman wouldn’t dare to report against the son of as powerful an officer as Buta Singh. Deep inside him he also knew that there were flaws in his reasoning. There was evidence to prove that he was being watched. A new sentry had replaced the old one.

  The new sentry was politer than the last one and even saluted visitors who came to the house. He asked their names and business before letting them enter. He also became friendly with Shunno and Mundoo, and both the servants got into the habit of gossiping with him when they were free from work. Then one of the terrorists let him down. He used to come to see Sher Singh off and on and was known to Mundoo. One day he turned up with a false beard and moustache and wearing dark glasses. He announced himself to the sentry by a Muslim name. Even the thirteen-year-old Mundoo recognized him. Before Sher Singh could make up his mind whether or not to tell Mundoo not to talk about it to the sentry, the boy had done so. This was the last straw.

  Sher Singh decided to get rid of the arms till suspicion had been allayed. But his troubles had only begun. He tried to arrange a meeting. None of the boys would agree to have it in his own home. One had a sister getting married; another had just lost his aunt and there were mourners in the house. One’s father was already suspicious; another was sure his house was watched by the police. Sher Singh asked them to meet on the canal bank outside the town and come on their own cycles. They grumbled about the heat and the distance and only agreed when Sher Singh lost his temper and gave them a sermon on the greater battles to come. But neither the sermon nor the bad temper would persuade them to take over the illicit arms and keep them in their homes. ‘They are safer in your house than ours. No one will dream that Sardar Buta Singh’s son can
be a terrorist, no one will dare to search a magistrate’s home.’ Sher Singh repeated with exasperation that he was wanting to remove the arms precisely because he was already under suspicion. They offered him much advice but refused to budge from their position: ‘They have to be with either you or Madan; and Madan is away.’

  Sher Singh left them, raging and cursing wildly. He realized later that by his behaviour he had turned fellow conspirators into potential informers. If there were trouble, he would be the only one involved. The headman, and perhaps Taylor, knew only of him; the arms were also in his possession. He simply had to get rid of them.

  He decided to throw everything into the well in the garden, then changed his mind because it was too obvious a place and the first thing anyone looking for the arms would do would be to send a man down into the well. He planned to put them in the jeep and dump them into the canal. Before he could do anything about it, the jeep was taken away. The driver said that it was wanted for emergency service elsewhere. He could not risk taking the stuff in a taxi or a tonga and once more he reverted to the plan of throwing them into the well. One evening he went out to reconnoitre. He discovered that the sentry who stood by the gate all day, slept by the parapet of the well at night. So the rifles, pistols, and hand-grenades remained where they were. Sher Singh just tried to forget their existence.

  Then the village headman came to call on him.

  •

  Buta Singh had strong views about people coming to see him in his house — particularly if they were unimportant. His principle was that the only place for business was the office: the home was for rest and the family. ‘Otherwise,’ he used to say, ‘fellows not worth the price of a broken shell could destroy the peace of the home.’ He had issued instructions to his servants to tell callers to see him at the law courts. Naturally he was angry when Mundoo casually announced at breakfast, ‘Sardarji, there is a peasant waiting to see you. He has been waiting since the morning. He says he has come all the way from his village.’