I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

by Singh, Khushwant

  ‘You don’t know what the Germans and the Japanese are doing to them! And so far they have had the Indians to go to the front to receive the enemies’ bullets. That won’t last for long. When it starts here, they will forget about having a good time; then they will think of their maternal grandmothers.’

  Sabhrai looked up sharply. Before she could speak, the bearer came with the tray of teacups and started laying them out on the table. As soon as he left, Madan started again, ‘Auntie, you think we Indians can do nothing! Wait and see what happens; you just wait and see. We will give them a shoe-beating such as they have never had before.’

  Sabhrai did not want to be rude to Madan; nor let him get away with saying things she did not like. She remonstrated gently, ‘Son, your father and uncle would not like to hear you talk like this.’

  ‘Auntie, you have old-fashioned ideas.’

  ‘I am an old woman.’

  They had their tea without further conversation. Madan turned his chair away to look at the crowd and resumed waving and smiling to his friends.

  The setting sun broke through the clouds and came streaming through the large bay windows of the restaurant. It was a magnificent view. Immediately below them was the unshapely mass of grey and red of the tin roofs of Simla’s bazaar. Kites dive-bombed into the narrow streets and reappeared with food in their talons. They fought in the air and went whirling down in pairs. Beyond the bazaar yawned an enormous valley with its terraced fields and tiny farm houses; in the centre of the valley was a silver stream with its banks flecked with white where the washermen had spread their clothes to dry. Beyond all these were the vast plains of Hindustan with the river Sutlej winding its way through the golden haze like a gilded serpent. The sun went down behind a range of low hills. Twilight spread over the city and the mountains like the hand of benediction. Some English people came across with their whisky glasses to admire the scene; many Indians followed their example.

  Sabhrai got up. She did not like to be surrounded by people smoking and drinking. The evening star was up in the deep blue sky and it was time for prayer once more.

  The bill had to be paid so Madan suggested their going ahead. Champak volunteered to stay and come with him; it was her only chance to agree to explanations if any were called for. Sita went home with Sabhrai.

  Madan and Champak came out in the brightly lit and crowded street. They went across to the ridge which was less crowded. There were many benches on the sides but they were all occupied.

  ‘Can’t we find any place where we can be alone for a few minutes?’ asked Champak, taking Madan’s hand.

  ‘Let us go to the tennis club,’ he replied. ‘After dark there is no one there.’ He marvelled at the woman’s daring.

  They went down a steep road and came to the club. The courts were absolutely dark and deserted. They found a bench and sat down. Madan pulled Champak onto his lap. He pressed his lips on hers and his hands sought the cord of her trousers. Champak pushed him back rudely and stood up. ‘I did not come for this,’ she hissed angrily. ‘I am not a bazaar woman who sleeps with men in the open.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ replied Madan tamely. ‘I thought you wanted to say something to me alone.’

  ‘Say, not do,’ she replied. She sat down beside him and took his hand in hers. She put her head against his shoulder. ‘I am so worried and you don’t care at all.’

  ‘What are you worried about?’

  ‘Why do you think the old woman has turned up suddenly?’

  ‘I don’t know. But why should that worry you?’

  ‘You don’t know her. She gets to know things that no one else knows. Besides, I think Beena suspects and she may tell. I am going mad, I will kill myself.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Why did I do it? Why, why, why!’ she sobbed.

  ‘Why does Beena suspect?’

  She told him of the letter left on her pillow the night she had come to him.

  Madan put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her on the ear. ‘Beena will never tell. You take it from me, never.’

  ‘How are you so certain?’ she asked, looking up with her tear-stained eyes.

  Madan kissed her tears away. ‘Because she wanted to come to me herself. I did not agree. She can never say a word against you.’

  Champak’s concern changed to anger. ‘The slut! How can she raise her eyebrows at me? Or her old, pious mother point an accusing finger at me?’

  ‘I told you no one can say anything.’ Madan raised her on his lap and once more his hands went exploring. They did not meet any resistance — nor any response.

  ‘Nevertheless I have been bad. It was absolute madness.’ She kissed him on his lips and got up. ‘No more of this. Never again.’

  Chapter VI

  In the absence of Sabhrai, Shunno automatically became the mistress of the household. She played her role well. She pandered to Buta Singh’s whims and mothered Sher Singh. She also resumed bullying Mundoo. She nagged him all the time and occasionally smacked him. With no one left to complain to, Mundoo decided to repeat the trick which had earlier on put Shunno out of action for twenty-four hours. At the end of a day when he had enough of Shunno’s tongue — she had even pulled his ears till he had screamed — he took all the gum and red ink from Beena’s table and emptied it into Shunno’s jug of water.

  Shunno took her responsibilities seriously. Despite the recurrence of the mysterious disease, she attended to her master’s breakfast, prepared the dinner, and told Mundoo to warm it before serving it. She asked for permission to be absent for the day. Buta Singh was too well-bred to ask a woman questions about her illness. He offered to get a doctor from the municipal hospital. But Shunno did not believe in Western-trained doctors and their bitter medicines. She had faith in vaids and hakims brought up on ancient Indian and Arabic systems. She had more faith in the prescriptions of holy men who combined spiritual ministrations with medicine. Peer Sahib was such a man.

  •

  Peer Sahib was a young man under thirty years of age. He had inherited the guardianship of the tomb of an illustrious ancestor — respectfully referred to as Hazrat Sahib — who had made many converts to Islam in days gone by. Hazrat Sahib had lived in the open under a jujube tree. When he died he was buried under the shade of the same tree and his tomb became an object of worship. People came from distant towns and villages and it started drawing a handsome income in offerings. The mud and brick of the tomb was replaced by marble slabs and a red headstone with a niche for an oil lamp. Then a large brick courtyard was built to enclose it. And, finally, rooms were put up for the guardian of the shrine who was always chosen from amongst the descendants of the Hazrat Sahib’s brothers. The incumbent had to devote himself to the study of the Koran, the Traditions, Islamic law, and medicine. He also had to remain celibate, and succession went from uncle to nephew.

  Like his predecessors, Peer Sahib spent most of the day praying and giving spiritual guidance to the men and women who flocked to the tomb. He did not know much about medicine, but since most of the people who came to consult him were more sick in mind than in body, he was able to minister to their needs. His following, though largely Muslim, had also a sprinkling of Hindus and Sikhs.

  Shunno had chosen a good day to call on the Peer Sahib. The three-day celebrations of the anniversary of the illustrious ancestor’s death had ended and the crowds had departed. There were only a few people sitting under the shade of the jujube tree which was alive with the twittering of sparrows. The tomb was draped in a green cloth on which were strewn rose petals and copper coins. The courtyard was littered with paper and crumpled plates made of leaves sewn together. Seventy-two hours of non-stop singing, dervish dancing, prayer, and sermon, had left everyone and everything exhausted. Shunno joined the group by the grave.

  ‘Peer Sahib is asleep. He won’t be up for a long time,’ said one of the women. ‘The anniversary of the Hazrat Sahib’s ascent to heaven ended yesterday, and Peer Sahib is very tired.’

  ‘I will
wait. I have come a long distance from the city.’

  An hour later, Peer Sahib emerged from his room in the corner of the courtyard. He was a tall, wiry man with closely cropped hair. Unlike most Muslim divines, he did not grow a beard; only a scissor-trimmed stubble spread from one ear to the other. He had a thin moustache which fell below his chin on either side in the fashion of the Mongol, Genghis Khan. He wore large earrings and a necklace of amber beads of the size of pigeon eggs over his black silk shirt. He was handsome in an austere sort of way — high cheek-bones and sunken eyes. He had no loose flesh over his big, bony frame. Women found him compelling since he carried an air of spiritual disdain towards their sex.

  He filled his brass jug from a pitcher which stood on a stool beside his door and washed his face. He gargled noisily and spat the water on the wall; then splashed more water on his head, face, and hands and held up his hands in the air to dry (the Prophet had never used a towel). He came to his congregation praising Allah in his rich, bass voice.

  ‘Salaam, Peer Sahib; may Allah bring plenty to you!’ exclaimed the Muslims and put offerings of a few pice each on the tomb. Shunno touched the holy man’s feet and placed something wrapped in a towel in front of him. Peer Sahib looked away. Shunno removed the towel and uncovered a silver plate with slices of coconut and five shining rupees. Five rupees was many times more than the measly copper pice the faithful had offered. Peer Sahib saw them from a corner of his eye; but he was not one to express interest in money — particularly when it came from an infidel woman. He looked up to the sky and said: ‘May Allah be merciful to you, my daughter, and fulfil your wishes. The offerings are not for us; we have nothing to do with money. If you want to give something in the name of the Almighty, place it on the tomb of our revered ancestor, now sitting in the lap of Allah.’

  Shunno did as she was told. It gave her a peculiar pleasure to have a man, young enough to be her son, call her daughter.

  ‘It is time for our evening prayer. Ask what you have to ask; then we must devote ourselves to the praise of our Maker.’

  The women asked what they wanted, got the Peer Sahib’s blessings, and departed with their children and menfolk. Shunno waited until the last one had left; her troubles could not be mentioned in public.

  ‘Daughter, what is it you desire?’

  ‘You are a Man of God who can remove all affliction.’

  ‘Allah is the remover of ills; we are only his slaves. What ails you, my child?’

  Shunno only shifted her weight from one leg to another.

  ‘We haven’t much time. The sun is setting and we must pray. If it is a child you want, we will give you an amulet to wear when you are being intimate with your man. If Allah is pleased, your womb will fill again and again.’

  Shunno blushed. She nearly fifty and children! How far this young man of God was from worldly things! Perhaps he did not know the first thing about sex. Such were the pure in heart!

  ‘Peer Sahib, my man was summoned by the Great Guru thirty years ago,’ she explained. ‘I do not want a child. My troubles are of a different sort.’ She drew her veil across her face and hurriedly whispered her ailment to the holy man. ‘You are the only one who can cure me. I have no faith in English-trained doctors, nor in hakims or vaids. If you make me well, I will give you all you want. I will give marble for the headstone of the tomb of your great one.’

  Peer Sahib pondered in silence.

  ‘Daughter, this will need careful examination. Would you not rather see a lady doctor?’

  ‘You are the knower of all secrets; what is it that I can hide from you? I have no fear.’

  ‘Then wait till we have finished our evening prayer.’

  The Peer Sahib bolted the door of the courtyard. He washed himself once more and faced west towards Mecca. He put his hands to his ears, turned his face to the heavens, and in his rich mellifluent voice beckoned the faithful to prayer. His voice floated across space with no one to hear it, for habitation was a long way off. Peer Sahib himself hearkened to his call and proceeded to whisper his prayer and go through the series of genuflections. He sat on his shins with his palms open as if he were reading them like an open book. He turned his face to the right and blessed those on his right side. He turned his face to the left and blessed the rest. He rubbed his face with his palms and stood up still praising Allah. The short twilight gave way to the night. The sparrows on the jujube tree were silent. Only dogs barked in the distance.

  Peer Sahib brought an earthenware lamp from his room, lit it, and placed it in the niche in the headstone of the tomb. He whispered yet another prayer for the peace of the departed soul, again holding his hands in front of him like an open book. He went back and brought another oil lamp. ‘Daughter, let us see your trouble,’ he said holding the lamp up to his shoulder.

  ‘Here? In the open?’

  ‘The door of the courtyard is shut. No one comes here after sunset.’

  ‘If you look away, I can take my clothes off.’

  The Peer Sahib turned his face to the wall. Shunno undid the cord of her trousers and underwear and slipped them below her knees. She laid herself on the floor beside the tomb and covered her face with her hands.

  ‘See.’

  The holy man turned and saw a fat middle-aged woman lying bare from the navel to her ankles. He held the oil lamp in his left hand and sat down beside her. The aroma of jasmine and sweat filled his holy nostrils; the infidel woman had perfumed her privates. ‘Aaoozo Billahé Minasb Shaitanur. . . . I seek the protection of Allah from Satan,’ said he getting down to his job, ‘there is no power except that of God . . . Allah Billah.’ With his large calloused peasant’s hands he stroked the soft flesh of the woman’s underbelly and the sides of her thighs. There was no visible evidence of any disease.

  ‘Turn over.’

  Shunno turned over baring her enormous wrinkled behind. The Peer Sahib’s healing hands went gently over the sagging buttocks down to the back of her thighs and up again. He explored the depths with his fingers and saw what there was to be seen by the help of the oil lamp. He could not find a clue to Shunno’s mysterious ailment.

  ‘Turn over.’

  Shunno complied once more. Peer Sahib came over and examined more carefully. His scrutiny was no longer confined to clinical ends. With the vows of celibacy to which he was committed, sex got little chance of natural expression. He had had to be satisfied with his own devices or occasionally take liberties with little boys sent by their mothers to learn the Scripture. These were not the normally accepted expressions of sex and therefore did not violate the rules of celibacy as he interpreted them. Neither did intercourse with an infidel woman who might in this way be brought on the right path. And it was obvious she had come with something of the sort in mind. So the Peer Sahib put the other lamp also on his ancestor’s grave and obliged.

  Shunno made a nominal protest at the start: ‘Na, na, someone will see,’ and then accepted the inevitable. She had almost forgotten what sex was. Her instincts had been buried under a thick pack of conventional morality prescribed for a Hindu widow — religion, charity, gossip about sex, but no sex. Here was a man twenty years younger, strong and virile with an untamed lust savagely tearing off the padding of respectability with which she had covered herself. He stirred up the fires of a volcano which had all but become extinct. It was all wrong, but it was deliciously irresistible. It was like an itch which begs to be scratched till it draws blood.

  The two lay on the hard brick floor of the starlit courtyard till the early hours of the morning with only the slumbering sparrows and the winking oil lamps on the Hazrat Sahib’s tomb to witness the goings on. Not a word of affection or explanation passed between them.

  Shunno repeated the visit several times with several shining silver rupees. Her temper improved: she stopped nagging or beating Mundoo. Instead she brought him sweets from the bazaar. There was no reason for Mundoo to take recourse to bottles of gum and red ink.

  The cure was a complete
success.

  Neither her intuition nor her shrewd insight into human character gave Sabhrai a clue as to what had passed between Beena and Madan — or between Madan and Champak. For one, Beena’s cold led her off the scent; she believed that it was her daughter’s illness which had been mysteriously conveyed to her. And she was pleased to have yet another confirmation of the prowess of knowing whenever any member of her family needed her. For another, Madan completely won her heart with his attentions. At the breakfast table he read out the news and translated it for her in Punjabi. Her own family had hardly ever taken any notice of her in their political discussions which were carried on exclusively in English. When they went out, he preferred walking with her rather than with the girls. He introduced her, an old-fashioned Punjabi woman, to his college friends always adding: ‘You know the mother of our future Chief Minister, Sardar Sher Singh.’ It did not sound as if he were pulling her leg. Her suspicions were completely allayed. She settled down to enjoying the blue skies and the pine-scented air of Simla. She hoped that her husband and son would join her. But neither said anything about his plans. When the exam results were announced, there was an exchange of telegrams. Both her children had passed: Sita, as expected, in the first division and Beena in the third. From then on there was little communication between the family. But the days went by pleasantly.

  A month later, events took place which not only shook the country but almost destroyed Sabhrai’s family. Neither her sixth sense nor the Guru speaking through the Holy Book gave her any warning. She learnt of them from the headlines of the daily newspaper read out by Madan.

  The fresh cold air of Simla had been getting the better of Sabhrai and she had been getting up later and later every day. One morning she had only finished her bath when the servant came in to say that breakfast was on the table. She did not want to keep her hosts waiting and decided to postpone her prayers.

  Madan never smoked in front of Sabhrai. That morning he did not throw away the cigarette he was smoking nor get up from his chair. ‘Listen to the rumblings before the earthquake, auntie,’ said he, and proceeded to tell her of the breakdown in the negotiations between the British and Indian leaders. He told her that the Nationalists had called a meeting at Mahatma Gandhi’s hermitage to decide on the next step. Meanwhile the police had begun arresting demonstrators; in Dacca alone over seven hundred had been arrested in one day. There had been riots in many towns.