I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

by Singh, Khushwant

  The sun set and the short twilight quickly darkened into night. There was no moon. It was silent except for the croaking of frogs. Sher Singh took out his flashlight and produced one of the grenades. ‘I suppose the first honour goes to me,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Sure, leader. But tell us how it is done,’ they said closing round him.

  They went down the canal embankment to take cover. Sher Singh stood up. He pulled out the pin of the grenade with his teeth, counted five, hurled it on the bridge, and sat down. The grenade bounced off the parapet and fell into the water with a loud splash and exploded. It sent a jet of water flying into the air. The next one, thrown by one of the other boys, exploded on the bridge and sent up the debris all round. So did the remaining four. The boys ran up through the dust and the smoke to see the damage they had caused. Sher Singh flashed his torch. There were big dents in the centre of the bridge and the parapet had been knocked off at several places; but it was still serviceable. They mounted their bicycles and sped back as fast as they could.

  Sher Singh went to the bazaar near the railway station where there was a row of eating places. He sat down on a steel chair on the pavement and ordered himself a plate of meat and raw onions; he ate onions to his heart’s content when his wife was away. The cook slapped a few chapatis and baked them in the oven. Sher Singh had his dinner on the pavement along with a motley crowd of peasants and labourers, and listened to the music coming over the radio. He heard the nine o’clock news. He heard about the Allied victories in the face of Fascist advances and the calm in the country despite thousands of arrests. It did not irritate him any more. He knew they were lying.

  Sher Singh got home after 10 p.m., his mouth still on fire from the chillies and raw onions he had eaten. Finding his wife at home was not a pleasant surprise. She made it unpleasanter. ‘Hullo, hullo, when did you turn up? You did not send any word!’

  Champak was too angry to talk. She just looked out of the window. Sher Singh came to her and put his arms round her shoulders. ‘Don’t be cross. How could I have known you were coming?’

  ‘This is what you do when I am away.’

  Champak covered her nose with her handkerchief; the reek of raw onions was overpowering. Sher Singh kissed her on the back of her neck and then on the cheeks. She shook herself free. ‘Now I suppose it is my turn. I am just the wife you can have whenever you want . . . after you’ve had your own good time,’ she said bitterly. The suspicion of infidelity amused Sher Singh. He became more amorous. ‘I am not like one of those chaps . . . like your Madan,’ he said laughing. ‘That type go about sleeping with anyone they can. For me it is only you. I was at a meeting, that is why I am late. If I had known you were coming I would have left it and come straight home.’

  The reference to Madan changed Champak’s attitude. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all day. I nearly died of worry,’ she complained. ‘You must not be out late these days. These are dangerous times.’

  Sher Singh promised not to be late again. They forgave each other in their usual way. Only Champak kept thinking how different this was from the evening before. That man’s breath was perfumed with cardamoms and scented betel nuts; and this man’s! She could not avoid smelling the onions even when she breathed through her mouth.

  The orderly took Buta Singh’s cycle from him and stood it against the wall. Buta Singh unfastened the metal bands he wore round his shins to save his trousers being soiled and put them in his pocket. ‘Have the others come?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes sir, but not all; the Sahib is waiting for them. He has ordered me to inform him as soon as everyone is here. Please sit down.’ He held up the heavy khas fiber chick. Buta Singh ducked under it and joined his fellow magistrates. They stood up to shake hands with him.

  ‘Buta Singh give us some news. You are in the know. What itches the Sahib today?’

  It was a Muslim colleague and with Muslims it was not wise to be honest about politics. They pretended to be against the idea of Pakistan when they were with non-Muslims but gave it their support in every way they could.

  ‘It must be the arrests of the Nationalist leaders. I suppose he expects trouble in the city,’ answered Buta Singh.

  ‘The police brought papers of some of these Gandhi disciples to my house yesterday,’ continued the Muslim a little maliciously. ‘I sentenced them to six months’ detention under the Defence of India Rules.’

  Buta Singh knew that if the papers had concerned a Muslim supporter of Pakistan, the same magistrate would have argued with the police. In that case the police would undoubtedly have arranged to bring the papers to somebody like Wazir Chand or himself and they would have taken pleasure in locking up the Muslim for six months. That was the accepted method of dispensing justice from the lowest tribunal to the highest.

  Four magistrates, including Wazir Chand, arrived together. The newcomers greeted the others very cordially and took their seats — the Muslims with the Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs with the Hindus and Sikhs. That sort of division took place automatically.

  Wazir Chand embraced Buta Singh and the two sat down next to each other. Their families had brought them closer than they believed possible.

  ‘Did daughter Champak reach home safe and sound?’ asked Wazir Chand.

  ‘Champak! Is she back? I left home very early.’

  ‘Yes, Madan escorted her from Simla; that is why I am late. She wanted to come back to Sher. Youth, you know! How long can a young wife keep away from her husband?’ Wazir Chand smiled mischievously.

  ‘It is good she is back. Sher has been very lonely and working too hard with his student organizations. Everything else O.K.?’

  Wazir Chand wagged his head contentedly and then asked in a whisper, ‘What is all this about?’

  ‘I suppose he wants us to do special duty. He’s expecting trouble after the arrests of the leaders.’

  The chaprasi came out and asked the magistrates to come into the sitting-room. He held the chick up for them and they filed in. Taylor got up and shook hands with them. He was smoking his pipe and looked completely unruffled: he was keeping up the tradition of the British Civil Service of appearing calm in times of crisis. He pretended that it was the sort of meeting he called on the eve of religious festivals. He did not ask them to sit down but dismissed them with a short speech: ‘Gentlemen, I am sorry to have sent for you at short notice. You have no doubt read the news of the arrest of some political leaders. We are not concerned with the rights or wrongs of the decision; we have to carry out the orders of the Government. Our hands are strengthened by the fact that the Government of the Punjab thoroughly disapproves of the position taken by the leaders of the Nationalist Party and fortunately the Nationalists have very little following here. We are not expecting any trouble from our own people but mischief-makers may come in from other provinces. We have to be vigilant. We have powers to detain people on suspicion. These powers are not to be abused; but we must not hesitate to make use of them whenever necessary. We have to co-operate with the police in maintaining law and order. If you have any information of importance or need my advice, come to me without hesitation. That is all for the moment. Thank you.’

  Taylor turned away without shaking hands again. He paused at the door. ‘Buta Singh, do you mind waiting. I want to have a word with you.’

  A minute later Taylor came back to the sitting-room and asked Buta Singh to sit down beside him on the sofa. He knocked his pipe against his heel and blew in it. He filled it with tobacco, lit it, pressed the tobacco with the matchbox, and took a few puffs with noisy ‘Urn ums.’ Buta Singh was quite used to the trick; it no longer played on his nerves. He waited patiently for the Englishman to begin.

  ‘Buta Singh, I am a little worried and want your advice.’

  ‘Whatever little service I can perform! I am at your disposal.’ Buta Singh rubbed his hands with obsequious eagerness.

  Taylor produced a copy of a cyclostyled leaflet, Buta Singh read the exhortation by the Hindustan Socialist Repu
blican Army to rise against the British. ‘The Police Commissioner has given me this thing,’ continued Taylor. ‘The envelope bears a city postmark. He says we can presume it was also printed here. That is the most he can say. It may be the doing of some one individual who may do nothing more. It is also possible that there is some sort of organization in the city which has violent aims and is planning to put them into effect. If that is so it must be tracked down and its plans nipped in the bud.’

  ‘Before it can do any mischief,’ added Buta Singh.

  ‘Precisely.’

  They both became silent. Buta Singh expected Taylor to tell him what he wanted him to do. Taylor believed the hint was good enough. Then, seeing that Buta Singh had not taken the cue, added, ‘Can you help in tracking down these people?’

  ‘If Sahib assigns me this duty, I will carry it out. I should have thought this sort of job is more for a policeman than for a magistrate.’

  Taylor relit his pipe; it did not need relighting. Could he make the suggestion directly or would Buta Singh take offence? ‘Buta Singh, I wasn’t thinking of official action. These chaps are obviously some young hotheads who have got a little worked up. If we knew who they were, we could keep an eye on them and save them from their own acts. Even talk to them in a friendly way.’

  Buta Singh realized what Taylor was driving at; he kept his eyes fixed on his feet.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Buta Singh,’ said Taylor quickly, ‘I am not suggesting anything dishonourable. Your son could do a good service to his friends and his country. You know we are anxious to get out of India and hand over the reins of power to you people as soon as the war is won. But we will not leave the country to the Japanese or the Germans. And these acts are calculated to do just that — hand over India on a silver platter to the Fascist powers.’

  Buta Singh did not look up.

  ‘I seem to have upset you, Buta Singh; I am sorry. Let’s forget about it. I’ll let the Police Commissioner handle it in his own way.’

  ‘I will speak to my son, sir,’ answered Buta Singh at last.

  ‘No, no, don’t. Just forget about the whole affair.’ Taylor got up abruptly and shook hands. Just as Buta Singh was going out of the room, he called him back. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Last time your son came to see me, he asked for a licence for a rifle. I have made one out for him. Give this to him with my compliments. Goodbye. And don’t bother about what I said.’

  Chapter VIII

  Taylor did not have to do any more than ignore Buta Singh and the strain became too much for the old man. He came unbidden a week later and assured the Deputy Commissioner that he would get the required information. Another week passed. Buta Singh’s resolve to speak to his son remained unfulfilled for the simple reason he never saw him. When he left for the law courts the boy was still in bed; when he came back, he was away. He had dinner with his daughter-in-law. Every time he asked her, ‘Where is Sher?’ she replied ‘I do not know’ — and nothing more. Night after night he whiled away the hours doing his files waiting for his son to return. Night after night, he nodded, dozed off to sleep, woke up again, switched off the light, and went to bed resolved to broach the subject the next day. There were many questions he wanted to ask. When had Sher Singh decided to buy a rifle? Why hadn’t he mentioned it to him? Why hadn’t he told him that he had asked Taylor for a licence? It did cross Buta Singh’s mind that the boy might be up to no good in wanting the weapon; it did not occur to him that he might already be owning one illegally. Buta Singh planned to utilize the situation to get round his son to try to get the required information. No, that was a horrid expression. To cooperate in keeping peace and order and save India from a Fascist invasion. Sher Singh might not see it that way unless it was put tactfully. It was worth waiting for. If Sher Singh did what he was asked, the New Year’s Honours list would certainly have something for his father.

  Then came the first of the month. Buta Singh resolved that was to be the day. Three days before the date he told the servants and Champak that everyone was to be present at the gurudwara in time. On the morning itself, he was up before anyone else and went to the servants’ quarters to get Shunno and Mundoo to sweep the room and put things ready. He knocked on his son’s bedroom door and told him not to be late. He had decided to bring up the subject casually at breakfast as a sort of follow up of the discussion on the morning’s news.

  Things seemed to go as planned. Everyone turned up at the gurudwara as told. Sher Singh looked fresh and cheerful. So did Champak. She wore a close fitting Punjabi dress which accentuated the largeness of her bosom and narrowness of her waist. It was odd, thought Buta Singh, how the girl he saw every day without taking much notice of her looked more fetching one morning than on another! There were several children outside, with Mundoo as usual bossing them and the dog. Shunno brought in the tray of prasad and placed it in front of the Granth. Buta Singh picked up the fly-whisk and began to wave it over his head with one hand; with the other, he looked for the right page to read. He was not used to conducting the prayer and it made him slightly nervous. He found the chapter and put the fly-whisk down. He removed his beard- band and brushed his moustache off his lips. He placed his forehead reverently against the Book and shut his eyes to say a private prayer for the fulfilment of his own wishes. His eyes were still shut when he became conscious of someone entering the gurudwara. The man had prostrated himself before the Granth. He stood up and announced his arrival by greeting everyone at the top of his voice, ‘Wahe guru ji ka Khalsa, Wahe guru ji ki Fateh’ (‘The Sikhs are the Chosen of God, Victory be to our God.’) It was the village headman.

  Buta Singh’s face flushed with anger but he kept it under control. This was a temple where anyone could come and worship and there was nothing he could do about it. He read the passage for the month quietly to himself, made his obeisance, and left. Champak followed him.

  At the breakfast table Buta Singh kept the newspaper in front of him to cover the scowl on his face. He did not want to be irritable with Champak, but he could not help saying with suppressed wrath: ‘I don’t understand the sort of people your husband mixes with! Low, third class types! He should use his intelligence a little more.’

  Champak did not look up from her plate.

  Buta Singh could not bring up the subject that morning. He swore to himself to do it in the evening even if it meant sitting up later than before.

  That night Buta Singh waited a long time for his son to return home. Once again the vigil was in vain.

  Sher Singh took the headman to the sitting-room and ordered breakfast for him.

  ‘Sardarji, why do you put yourself to all this trouble?’ asked the headman, munching a thickly buttered toast. He wiped the butter off his moustache with the hem of his shirt and gave it a twirl. ‘You should not have bothered. This is like my own home.’

  ‘You’ve come from such a long distance,’ answered Sher Singh in the same tone, ‘this is nothing.’

  ‘Why nothing, Sardarji? This is everything! All I want is your kindness.’ He picked up the tumbler of buttermilk, cleared his lips of his billowing moustache, and drank it up in one long gulp. He emitted a loud belch which tapered off into praise of the Great Guru, the True Emperor. He combed his beard with his fingers and placed a heavy hand on Sher Singh’s knee. ‘Tell me some news.’

  ‘What news? Life just goes on.’

  The headman belched again and stroked his beard patiently. ‘Oh, congratulations!’ he said as if he had just recalled something.

  ‘Congratulations for what?’

  ‘Congratulations for what! This is no way to talk to friends. You know very well; the gun licence. Taylor Sahib’s clerk told me he had issued one for you and given it to your revered father.’

  ‘Oh, when?’

  ‘Again you hide things from friends! When we first met you said you had a licence and now I discover you have been given one only fifteen days ago. You ask the big Sardar, your father.’

  Sher Singh wonde
red why Buta Singh had not questioned him about the rifle. Nor had he handed him the licence given by Taylor. Did he know that the rifle was already in the house? In any case Sher Singh was relieved that the headman would not be able to blackmail him any more.

  ‘Here, friend, what do you say! You were worried about these things.’ The headman thrust the three empty rifle bullets in his hand. Sher Singh wanted to fling them in the peasant’s face, call him a dirty pig, spit at him, and kick him out of the house. But he quietly took the shells and put them on the table. This was the last time he was going to see this fellow, why not let the meeting end peacefully?

  The headman gave no indication of wanting to leave. He combed his beard, twirled his moustache, and slapped Sher Singh’s knee. ‘Tell me some news.’ ‘What news? Life just goes on.’

  ‘Wah ji wah! Great men do great deeds.’ The peasant smiled mischievously and pinched Sher Singh’s thigh. What was he up to now? ‘Great deeds, great men,’ he said with a sigh. He continued after a significant pause: ‘Tell me, you know how to make bombs?’

  ‘Bombs?’

  ‘Bombs.’

  ‘How should I know anything about making bombs. Why, do you need some?’ asked Sher Singh, laughing nervously.

  ‘Is this friendship or a chaff of chick-peas? Our little canal bridge is full of holes. Had the poor thing done any harm to anyone? My best bullock broke its leg in one of the holes. It had cost me Rs 300. I said, it doesn’t matter if my 300 are drowned; this is my friend’s hobby! But these canal chaps have been trying to find out. They came to ask me. You see, the bridge is within the area of my village. I said nothing to them.’