Sher Singh felt cornered once more. It was humiliating for a well-to-do, educated, rising politician like him to be put on the spot by an illiterate, uncouth, peasant informer. ‘Sardar Sahib, I will say nothing about you. Once one makes friends, come what may, one must prove true to that friendship. Don’t you agree?’
Sher Singh agreed.
‘I could never say anything about you,’ the headman repeated. ‘But who are these Babus with you? Something should be done about them.’
Sher Singh wanted to yell like a madman. Instead he maintained a sullen silence. The headman continued: ‘I ask nothing of you, but these Babus must pay for my bullock. I will say nothing to the canal people; they can go and have their mothers raped, but these Babus. . . . ’
‘I will get you the money.’
The headman clasped him by both the knees. ‘No, brother, not you. If I take anything from you, may I be cursed as if I had eaten the flesh of the sacred cow. But these Babus, are they relations of ours? If you tell me who they are, I could get the money from them myself.’
‘No, I will get it for you. This evening at seven o’clock at the bridge.’
There wasn’t another place within cycling distance of the city which was as desolate as the spot near the little bridge over the canal. For several miles on all sides the land was flat as a pancake. It also looked like a pancake: a stretch of yellow with a layer of fine powdery saltpetre. Nothing grew on it except bushes of calotropis and thorny saguaro cactus. There was also the marsh. Most of it was a muddy swamp with reeds growing in some places. The only evidence of human life was a footpath along the canal bank which no one ever seemed to use, and the little bridge, which if used at all, was probably used by stray cattle. The flat waste of saltpetre, scrub, and swamp had an eerie loneliness about it.
The boys came in their sports kit carrying their hockey sticks as they had done a few days earlier. Near the bridge, they divided themselves in three groups. Two groups, of four each, took their positions fifty yards on either side of the bridge behind calotropis bushes. The remaining four, including Sher Singh and Madan, sat in the open on the bridge. The bridge had no holes in it as alleged by the village headman. Nor did Sher Singh have the Rs 300 to pay him for the bullock which had broken its leg.
Sher Singh looked at his watch. It was 7:15 p.m. The sun had set. In another ten minutes the twilight would darken into night.
‘Perhaps you should have come alone. He might have taken fright seeing four of us here,’ said one of his companions a little wearily.
‘Of course I could have come alone. I’ve told you several times he was most keen to meet you. He certainly isn’t the sort who would be frightened of people like us. You know what Sikh peasants think of city dwellers! And this chap, you might remember, is a few inches taller than Madan and fat and full of hair; he looks like a gorilla. I wouldn’t like to meet him alone in the dark.’ Sher Singh laughed a little nervously. ‘If he doesn’t turn up in another ten minutes, we will go back. He can have his mother raped.’
They all hoped the ten minutes would pass quickly and they could go to their homes.
Suddenly, the Lambardar appeared from behind them. The boys jumped when he greeted them with a loud ‘Wahe guru ji ka Khalsa, Wahe guru ji ki Fateh.’ A leather belt charged with cartridges ran down from his shoulder to the waist. At the lower end was a holster with the black butt of a revolver sticking out. The entire congregation is here,’ he said cheerfully and sat down beside them.
‘You said you wanted to meet them; that is why they are here. I said to myself, “If my brother asks a favour, I should do it for him.”’ Sher Singh introduced the boys — this time with their correct names.
The headman shook hands with the three boys. ‘What have I to do with names? All I want to know is that they are my brother’s friends and that is enough for me,’ he said with a broad smile.
The twilight was fading rapidly and, as usual, it was the peasant who was more at ease. ‘Tell me some news,’ he said quite unconcerned and slapped Sher Singh on the thigh.
‘What news? Life just goes on.’
Madan changed the tone of polite humbug.
‘Lambardara, you said your bullock had broken its leg in a hole in the bridge. There are no holes in the bridge.’
The headman was quick to react to the rude tone: ‘What do you know about bullocks, Babuji? You stick to your shopkeeping and account books.’
‘You want us to pay you Rs 300 for a damaged bullock. We have brought the money but we must have proof before we pay. Show us the hole in the bridge and your lame bull.’
For a moment the headman believed the money was in his grasp. Then his shrewd rustic sense told him they were bluffing. ‘I don’t give any proofs. This is not a court of law.’
The tone cleared the atmosphere. They all stood up.
‘In one breath you call Sher Singh “brother,” ’ said Madan sharply, ‘in the other you want to make money off him. What sort of bastardy is this?’
‘Keep your tongue in check. You know who you are speaking to?’
‘Yes. A police informer. The son of a pig. ... A raper of his mother.’
The Lambardar’s hand went to his holster. Before he could draw his weapon two of the boys fell on him. He shook them off like a wounded wild boar shakes off pie dogs at the end of a chase. Madan and Sher Singh covered him with their pistols.
‘Put your hands up or I’ll shoot you like the filthy dog you are.’
The headman extended his arms towards Sher Singh as if to embrace him. ‘Brother, you also have become angry!’ he said appealingly.
Sher Singh stepped back and fired. The headman bent over with a loud ‘Hai.’ His hand moved to his gun. The boys behind him saw and gave warning. Madan fired a second shot. The headman let out another loud ‘Hai,’ sagged down on his knees and slowly stretched himself on the path. Blood poured out of his wounds. His last words were not addressed to God or the Great Guru but to his killers. ‘I’ll sleep with your mothers. . . . I’ll sleep with your sisters. . . . I’ll. . . . ’ It made it easier for them to finish him off. Each one of the boys fired a shot in the headman’s body so that the crime was shared. They unstrapped the holster and the cartridge belt and dragged the corpse down the slope towards the swamp. It was warm and twitching. An occasional gurgle came out of the dead man’s throat. They dumped it into a ditch and covered it with earth and stones. They dug up and relevelled the path where he had fallen and bled. They washed their hands in the canal and made for the city as fast as they could.
There was a brief farewell at parting. The boys were to leave the city immediately for different destinations. Madan was to return to Simla.
Sher Singh was left alone to face his amorous wife, his ill-tempered father — and himself.
Chapter IX
In a country of 400 million people living in congested rusticity, events like births and deaths are reduced to their proper insignificance. That does not mean that the birth of a son does not occasion joy or the death of a kinsman no grief. They do. Only the rejoicing at the arrival of another infant in a family which has to live on the produce of ten acres of impoverished land becomes progressively more a matter of form than of reality. After the first child or two, births are simply looked upon as something which follows nocturnal pastimes as day follows night. Since there are no other diversions in the village and it is not easy to restrict sexual intercourse to a few messy days in the month, one child comes after another as the new year comes after the old. Its arrival is accepted with resignation as a blessing of the Almighty, Omniscient God who knows what is best. But little importance is attached to it. In the case of death, the reactions are somewhat confused. There is sorrow at the loss of a loved one; there is also relief that there is one mouth less to feed. In any case God seems to manifest His power more at death than at birth. (Human beings have a not too unimportant role in creating new life: it is only rarely that they become instruments of destruction. Killing is largely Go
d’s monopoly. When the Lord giveth, He lets mankind have some share in the giving. But when the Lord taketh away, He does it at His own sweet will.) So deaths are accepted with even more resignation than births — and with as little fuss.
Jhimma Singh was one of many brothers. Being the eldest, he inherited the official function of headman of the village from his father. Thereafter he acquired possession of most of his father’s property. He loved his brothers and arranged marriages and employment for them as farm labourers in newly colonized lands a few hundred miles away to the north-west. Malicious tongues spread poison and turned the brothers against him. They took him to court to get possession of their share of the land. But providence, assisted by clever lawyers, triumphed over their evil designs. Then they tried violence. That too went against them. They were imprisoned on charges of attempted murder and Jhimma Singh was given a revolver to defend himself. He gained the confidence of the local police officials by his hospitality; they let him look after the affairs of the village and Jhimma Singh became virtually its ruler. Anyone who has had to live the hard way, literally fighting for survival at every step, doesn’t set much store by values like truth, honesty, loyalty, or patriotism. Neither did Jhimma Singh. Each little success meant more envy and more danger from the envious. He had to seek the help of the police to protect him. In turn they expected him to keep an eye on miscreants. He became a paid informer.
Jhimma Singh’s only failure in life was the inability of any one of his three wives to produce a child. After the first had remained barren for five years, he married her niece. Following a few years of fruitless matrimony with the niece, he cast his protective mantle on a young widow whose provocative figure and dark eyes had given Jhimma Singh visions of many sons. She also let him down. Now the land he farmed, the land he leased out to tenants, his own brick-built house, his wives’ jewelry, and his account in the savings bank, which was said to have grown from some hundreds to fabulous thousands, was his to give away or squander. This prosperity hurt his fellow villagers, particularly his relations. Although everyone feared him and some even sided with him in his lawsuits, not one of them loved him.
It wasn’t very surprising then that for a week no one should have bothered about his disappearance. He was known to go away to the city for two or three days without telling his wives. As in the past, they assumed he had been called away on urgent business. After a week they became anxious and started going round to other homes asking the women to find out from their menfolk if they had seen Jhimma Singh. When no one came forth with any news of him for another week, the anxiety changed to alarm and a report was lodged at the police station by one of the tenants at the urging of Jhimma Singh’s first wife. It mentioned the enmity of his brothers and their previous attempts to murder him. Once again the brothers were arrested, interrogated, and beaten up. Nothing came of it. No corpse, no case. They were set at liberty. The Police Commissioner was notified that the most trusted informer in the district had disappeared — probably murdered by one of his many relations and no trace could be found of either the victim or the murderer. The Commissioner sent the file to the Deputy Commissioner to have the case closed as ‘untraced. ’ He was a little surprised to find that instead of the usual words ‘Seen. File,’ with the illegible initials, there was an order asking him to come over to discuss the case. What followed startled the Police Commissioner,
The Deputy Commissioner handed the Police Commissioner a warrant to search the house of Sardar Buta Singh, the seniormost Indian magistrate of the district. He gave him another one, to arrest Sher Singh. Taylor refused to disclose his source of information. All he said was: ‘Be gentle with the old man. I suggest you send him over to see me and then search the house. You may find something. In any case, take his son to the police station and give him the works. Get some of your tough Anglo-Indian sergeants to handle him. It will not be hard to make him talk.’
Buta Singh had firmly decided to speak to his son after the headman had left. That evening Sher Singh came home early but straightaway retired to bed complaining of a severe headache. Next morning, he did not turn up for breakfast and Buta Singh went to see him in his room. The boy looked pale and jaundiced and would not speak at all. A doctor was sent for but he could not diagnose anything. Nevertheless it was plain to anyone that he was very sick; one could scarcely bring up a delicate subject with him in that state of health. After many days in bed, his health improved and he started moving about the house. He still wore a sallow, furtive look and avoided meeting people. Buta Singh waited patiently. At last came the first of the month. The father came to the conclusion that matters had been allowed to drift for too long and the time had come to settle the business once and for all. He would talk to his son after the morning ceremony.
Autumn had set in and there was a nip in the morning air. Inside the gurudwara it was cozy because of the thick carpet and the incense. Sher Singh, Champak, and Shunno were inside. Mundoo, as usual, was lording it over the children and the dog outside. Buta Singh uncovered the Holy Book to start reading. He saw the figure of a policeman through the chick. He kept his temper under control and proceeded to look for the appropriate passage. He pressed his forehead reverently on the Book and looked up once more. There was yet another policeman outside talking excitedly to Mundoo. He took off his shoes and came into the gurudwara. This was too much for Buta Singh. He hollered angrily at the top of his voice: ‘What is your business?’ The constable saluted and said: ‘Huzoor, the Police Commissioner is waiting for you outside in his car. The Deputy Commissioner has sent him to fetch you. It is most urgent. I crave forgiveness for disturbing you in the gurudwara; I was ordered to do so.’
The reference to the Police Commissioner and Mr Taylor changed Buta Singh’s tone. He did not proceed with the reading. He left at once and asked Champak to carry on. Shunno followed her master; she wasn’t going to be left out of things.
‘You do the reading instead of your father,’ said Champak with a smile.
Sher Singh did not smile back. ‘I can’t. I am not feeling too well.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked Champak.
‘I don’t know. I don’t feel well.’
Champak put her hand on his forehead. ‘You have no fever but you have cold-sweat. I’ll get Mundoo to make your bed. You come and lie down. Mundoo Oi Mundoo,’ she cried. ‘The policemen seem to have frightened away the servants.’
She went out and shouted for the boy again. Mundoo came wailing. ‘A policeman beat me. They have come inside the house. When I asked them what they were doing, one fellow slapped me.’
Sher Singh went deathly pale. Had they found out? Had one of the boys told on him? His wife looked at him for some explanation. ‘I will see what is happening,’ he said weakly. ‘You go to your room.’
There were policemen all over the place: in the courtyard and the sitting-room; in the garden and at the gate. Sher Singh came out in the verandah followed by Dyer. Two white sergeants were sitting in the armchairs with their legs on the table, smoking. A head constable stood by them with handcuffs dangling from his belt. A policewoman in a khaki sari was leaning on a Black Maria in the porch. ‘You want to see my father?’ asked Sher Singh timidly.
‘You Buta Singh’s son?’ asked one of them knocking the ash off his cigarette.
‘Yes . . . sir.’
‘Head constable, search this fellow. And send someone inside to search his woman.’
The two resumed their smoking. The policewoman went inside. The head constable took Sher Singh by the hand. Sher Singh felt he ought to protest. He mustered up all the courage he had and spoke: ‘What is this about? How dare you put your hands on me! What authority. . . . ’
One of the sergeants got up slowly from his chair and came up to him. ‘You want to know what authority we have to search you?’
‘Yes,’ answered Sher Singh through the spittle that clogged his throat.
‘Man, this bugger wants to know why we want to search him,’ said
the sergeant turning to his companion. ‘We better tell him.’
Without warning the sergeant struck his knee sharply into Sher Singh’s privates. As he doubled over with pain, the sergeant hit him on the face with the back of his hand. Sher Singh’s turban came off and fell on the ground; his long hair scattered about his face and shoulders.
‘Cheeky nigger. That’ll teach. . . . ’
The sergeant could not complete the sentence. Dyer leapt at him with savage fury and knocked him down. He tore the collar off the white man’s coat and went for his throat. The constable lashed out with his iron handcuffs; the other sergeant laid out with his swagger stick and kicked the dog with his hobnailed boots. Policemen came running with their iron shod bamboo poles to beat him. At last the Alsatian gave up. Blood flowed from his face and back, the bone of one of his legs had been fractured.
‘I’ll shoot the bloody pariah,’ raged the sergeant getting up and drawing his pistol. His coat was torn, his face scratched and bitten.
The other sergeant put his hand on the pistol. ‘No, mun. Old Deecee will kick up a hell of a row if you shoot the bloody cur. You know how mad these f . . . Englishmen are about dogs!’
The sergeant put back his pistol in the holster and wiped the blood off his face: ‘Suppose I’ll have to have anti-rabies shots. A Sikh’s dog is bound to be mad.’
It took two constables with their long bamboo poles to keep the battered Alsatian at bay.
Sher Singh slumped on the floor of the verandah with his arms covering his face and began to cry. He hated himself for crying but he could not stop. The two people he feared and loathed most, Anglo-Indians and Muslim policemen from northern Punjab, had insulted and beaten him in his own home and all he could do was to cry like a child. Even his dog had shown more fight.
‘Take this bloody patriot to the station and put some red hot chillies up his arse,’ ordered the sergeant to the head constable. ‘If he has any illusions of being a magistrate’s son, knock them out of him.’
I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Page 16
