Champak came out of the wire-gauze door. Her hair was scattered untidily on her face. Her eyes were red and swollen. She wore a plain white cotton sari without any make-up or jewelry — like a widow in mourning. Sabhrai’s heart sank. Was her son dead? Hadn’t the Englishwoman said he was in good health!
‘What has . . . ?’
Champak clasped her mother-in-law round the waist and burst out crying. Sabhrai, who had never particularly cared for Champak, stroked her head. ‘The True, The True, The Great Guru,’ she chanted.
Beena could not stand it any more. ‘What has happened? Why don’t you tell?’ she shrieked.
Buta Singh came out in the verandah. He, too, was shabbily dressed in a white shirt and pyjamas. His beard had not been pressed and he wore no turban. ‘What is all this crying for?’ he asked at the top of his voice. ‘You behave as if he were dead. Perhaps that might have been better.’
‘The True, The True. The Great Guru. What words are these? Where is my son, my Moon, my little Ruby. Where is he?’ Tears streamed down Sabhrai’s face. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
Even her tears did not appease Buta Singh’s temper. ‘My nose has been cut; I can no longer show my face to anyone.’
‘What has he done? Why don’t you tell me where he is.’
‘He’s in jail. Where else can he be?’
‘The Great Guru. The Great Guru. Who has been born to put my child in jail! What did he do?’
‘Murder, what else! I can no longer show my face to anyone. All my life’s work has been thrown into a well.’
‘The True, The True
The Great Guru.’
They went into the sitting-room. After a few minutes, Sabhrai regained her composure and asked her husband to explain what had happened. Buta Singh did so in a bitter voice, mincing no words. He ended on a note of self-pity. ‘All my years of loyal service thrown into the well. . . . Just when I am due to retire and expect to be rewarded, my son cuts my nose. I wouldn’t be surprised if the little land we have in reward for services, were confiscated and I were given no pension. I do not understand this complete lack of regard for one’s parents. And Champak must have known about his goings on with these bad characters. I wouldn’t be surprised if that rascal Madan were one of them. To whom can I show my face now?’
Champak began to sob once more. Sabhrai spoke sharply: ‘You are only concerned with yourself. Don’t you want to save your child’s life?’
The snub had a salutary effect on Buta Singh’s temper. He relapsed into a sullen silence.
‘What are we to do?’ asked Beena at last.
‘I don’t know. I’ve gone mad,’ replied her father.
‘We shall have a non-stop reading of the Granth for two days and nights. The Guru will be our guide,’ said Sabhrai quietly.
‘Yes, yes,’ commented Beena impatiently, ‘we will do that, but we must do something about getting Sherji out of jail. Have you been to see him?’ she asked her father.
‘No. I don’t want to see him.’
Champak’s sobs became louder. Sabhrai put her arms round her. Buta Singh felt guilty. ‘If the Deputy Commissioner had not been so kind to me, the police would have beaten him straight. Even now, he has promised that if Sher tells them all about the crime, he will grant him the King’s pardon.’
‘Will he have to give the names of his accomplices?’ asked Sabhrai.
The police already know about them; they know everything. These other chaps were probably the ones to implicate Sher. It is only by the Deputy Commissioner’s kindness that Sher can avail himself of the King’s pardon. The others would give anything to have the offer made to them.’
‘Will he have to become an informer?’ asked Beena.
Buta Singh got angry again. ‘These are stupid words. I am telling you that the police don’t need an informer; they know everything. They are only willing to give Sher an excuse to save his life because the Deputy Commissioner is keen to help him.’
‘Why haven’t you told Sher of this offer?’ asked Sabhrai.
Buta Singh felt cornered. ‘I’ve been out of my senses. If it hadn’t been for the Taylors, I don’t know what would have happened to me! What more can a man do than offer your son’s life back to you?’
‘You must see Sherji,’ said Beena, ‘and tell him about Mr Taylor’s offer.’
‘We will first do the non-stop reading of the Granth,’ said Sabhrai firmly. ‘The Guru will guide us. We will do what He commands.’
Being the only son, Sher Singh had been pampered in his childhood and allowed to have his own way in his adolescence. Despite this, the two things he hankered after were affection and esteem. The one he sought through popularity amongst friends; the other through leadership. The applause that came from his family and his colleagues was offset by his early marriage. Champak, despite her expressions of admiration, gave him an uneasy feeling of being a failure. To impress her became an obsession. The form it took was to hold out visions of a successful political career by which he would take her to dizzy heights of eminence along with him. The more his physical inadequacy gnawed his insides, the more daring he became in his political activity. From fiery speeches, he went on to uniforms and discipline; from those to belief in force: the worship of tough men and love for symbols of strength, like swords crossed over a shield. These, with the possession of guns, pistols, cartridges, and the handsomely masculine Alsatian as a companion, completed his martial padding. Living with these symbols of strength and among people who vaguely expected him to succeed, Sher Singh came to believe in his own future and his power. He did not realize that strength was not a natural development of his own personality but nurtured behind the protection provided by his father’s position as a senior magistrate and a respected citizen. He was like a hothouse plant blossoming in a greenhouse. The abuse, beating, and arrest were like putting that plant out in a violent hailstorm. His bluster and self-confidence withered in the icy cold atmosphere of the police station.
Sher Singh had never been beaten before in his life. Being kicked in the groin and hit in the face had been a shattering experience. He touched the depths of humiliation and anger. He had always feared and hated Anglo-Indians. They did the Englishman’s dirty work, spoke his language in their own ugly Hobson-Jobson, full of vulgar abuse, but had none of his cricketing spirit. They were the Hydes of the English Dr Jekyll. He had also envied and hated Punjabi Mussulmans. They were physically stronger and more virile than his type of Sikh. And on that fatal morning an Anglo-Indian sergeant had hit him in the face with the back of his hand and a Mussulman constable had told him to face his ordeal like a man. He had wept from fear; he had wept in anger; he had wept in hate. At the end of two days of weeping, his system was drained of anger and hate; only fear remained: the fear of another thrashing and the greater one of death by hanging.
After a few days, life in the police station became such a routine that it seemed to Sher Singh as if he had been there all his life. Every hour a brass gong was struck, it told the time and regulated the life of the station. At the stroke of six, the reveille was sounded and everyone had to get up. There was much sucking of keekar twigs, spitting, and gargling around the taps where policemen and prisoners took turns to bathe. An hour later they were given highly brewed tea and stale bread. Thereafter the courtyard rang with exercise and drill orders. Anglo-Indian sergeants drove in on their noisy motor cycles and took charge. Policemen went out in batches for traffic duty or investigation or to make arrests. Black Marias were brought in; prisoners were handcuffed, fettered, and taken to the law courts. They were brought back in the evening, locked up and fed. Anglo-Indians drove out more noisily than when they came. After the evening roll-call, there was another call of the bugle and the lights were switched off everywhere except in the reporting room. Then it was silent save for an occasional shriek or cry for mercy from the cells behind the courtyard where prisoners were interrogated. Through all this the brass gong marked the hours.
What
Sher Singh dreaded most was a visit from his father. He had ruined the latter’s career and he would now have no chance of getting an extension of service or a title in the next Honours list. The Government might even deprive him of his pension. Buta Singh was sure to denounce him and refuse to let him come back home — if ever he got away alive. Without Buta Singh there was no chance of reconciliation with the rest of the family. Sabhrai was the type of Indian woman who believed that her husband was a God and would do little more than plead for her son after the initial outburst was over. Champak would probably be sent away to her parents and not be heard of till he came out of jail — if that ever happened. It was an amazing thought that he had hardly missed her. His sister, Beena, did not really matter. The only one he really missed was his dog. Dyer’s defense of his master had made a deep impression on his mind. He had often visualized his picture in uniform on large posters with his handsome Alsatian beside him. Now he visualized the same picture of himself as a sad disillusioned man with a distant philosophic look, loved by no one except his dog, who fixed his doting eyes on his master. He wished they would let Dyer share his cell.
Then there was the interrogation. Sher Singh knew his turn would come soon. The sergeant who had hit him said so every morning when he went round the cells: ‘Well, Sardar, how are your plans for turning the British out of the country getting on? We must discuss them soon; perhaps I can help you, hm?’
How much did the police know?
Sher Singh tried to work that out hour after hour, day after day. It was obvious that he was the only one of the group they had arrested so far. Madan, who had got him in this mess, was back in Simla having a good time; the others were scattered in different places. Could one of them have been a spy? No, because then his arrest would have followed immediately after the murder. Unless one of the gang had also been arrested and had talked, the police could not possibly know anything about it.
How much should he tell to get away without a beating?
One afternoon a constable came to the cell, put two cane chairs against the wall, and said casually: ‘The Sahibs want to talk to you.’ The ‘Sahibs’ came slapping their putteed legs with their swagger sticks. They were the same two who had arrested him. Sher Singh got up from his chair — more out of fear than out of politeness. He did not greet them because he knew the greeting would not be answered. The sergeants sat down. One of them pulled Sher Singh’s chair nearer him with his toes and put his feet on it. Sher Singh’s only option was to squat on the floor or to keep standing. He kept standing. He was conscious of his arms hanging at his sides as if he were at attention.
‘Well, Sardar, are you still plotting to get the British out?’ He turned to his companion. ‘Great leader this chap, mun. You wouldn’t know looking at him, would you?’
The other nodded his head slowly, scrutinizing Sher Singh from head to foot. ‘One never knows with these niggers.’
‘One doesn’t, does one!’
‘Not unless one sticks a greased pole up their bums.’ They had their eyes fixed on him; they scratched their chins as if contemplating the course of violence. Sher Singh could do nothing except look down at his hands or at their feet.
‘Is this chap also involved in the killing of that fat Sikh lambardar?’
‘No mun! He’s after bigger game. He wants to shoot the Guv or the Viceroy. Don’t you? Speak, you big leader of the revolution! Don’t you?’
Sher Singh felt the blood drain out of his system. Were they going to beat him? Why didn’t they ask him a specific question and give him a chance to answer?
‘Oi,’ shouted one of them to the constable outside, ‘ask the sub-inspector to juldi karo. We can’t waste the whole afternoon with this fellow.’
The constable ran across the courtyard. The subinspector came with a sheaf of yellow files tucked under his arm. They got into a huddle. Sher Singh watched them carefully as they whispered into each other’s ear. The older of the two sergeants pushed aside the file with disdain: ‘Wot you wasting your time for on this chap if the other fellows have already given us all the names?’
‘I don’t know, Sahib,’ answered the sub-inspector feigning surprise. ‘Mr Taylor, Deputy Commissioner, say he Sardar Buta Singh’s son, give him chance to be informer and save his life.’
‘So that’s it! You hear, mister? The DeeCee wants to give you a chance to save your bloody neck from hanging because of your old Bap. We have all the information we want from your pals. It’s a watertight case. You confirm what they have said and we might consider granting you pardon. Otherwise you hang with the rest of the buggers.’
Sher Singh found his voice with great difficulty: ‘What did they say?’
‘The bugger wants to know what the others have said? Clever fellow isn’t he? Don’t try tricks with us, old chap. We’ve known too many like you.’
The Indian sub-inspector was more polite — obviously wanting to curry favour with Buta Singh. ‘Sardar Sahib,’ he said in Punjabi, ‘as the Sahibs have told you, we have all the information we need from your associates. This is a very serious case; you can be sentenced to death for conspiracy to wage war against the King Emperor. Mr Taylor wants to reward the loyal services of your respected father and has ordered us to give you the chance to be a Crown witness. If your statement confirms what the other conspirators have said and is truthful about the crimes you have committed, the Government may decide to grant you pardon. Do you understand?
‘Yes.’
Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him.
‘Could I consult a lawyer?’
‘Rape your sister!’ exploded one of the sergeants.
‘We want to give you a chance to save your neck and you want to bring lawyers here! Give him the rod properly greased.’
The Indian sub-inspector again took charge of the situation with a mixture of servility and firmness. ‘Sardar Sher Singh, you have not appreciated our point. We know everything already and really have no need of your statement. It is only for your own good. If Taylor Sahib insists on sparing your life because of Sardar Buta Singh, we can make you talk; you know that, don’t you?’
Sher Singh made no answer to the threat.
Three pairs of eyes continued to transfix him. He did not know what to say. But he knew that if they used any violence he would tell all he knew without considering the rights or wrongs of making the confession. He made one last attempt to postpone the decision. ‘Could I at least see my father?’
‘Now he wants to see his Bap. What’s wrong with this fellow?’
‘Perhaps he will want to see his Ma too,’ added the other.
‘You don’t believe what we say?’ asked the Indian sub-inspector angrily. ‘It is because your father has been rubbing his nose at Mr Taylor’s threshold every day that you are being given this opportunity!’
‘It is very kind of you but I would like to speak to my father before making any statement.’ For the first time Sher Singh spoke firmly, and that because an Indian subordinate had dared to talk disparagingly of his father.
The three officers went back into a huddle and then rose up together. The one with his feet on the chair kicked it towards Sher Singh. ‘O.K. You see your bloody Bap. We’ll talk to you later.’
‘And if you want our advice on how to kick the British out of India, don’t hesitate to ask.’
They roared with laughter and left.
The non-stop reading of the Granth did not bring any peace in Buta Singh’s home. What was worse, the Guru did not indicate the line of action as Sabhrai had promised. And soon after the ceremonial reading was over, Buta Singh resumed his sulking and self-pity. He refused to see Sher Singh in the lock-up, and would not let anyone else see him. He began to insinuate that Champak must have known of her husband’s activities and had done nothing to stop him. When Champak’s parents heard of it, they came over and took her back home. At last Sabhrai’s patience came to an end. One morning she boldly announced her intention to see her son. Buta Singh was adamant.
The crisis was averted by the arrival of the officer in charge of the police station. He told them that Sher Singh had expressed the desire to see his father before making a statement and that Mr Taylor had specially requested Buta Singh to comply with his son’s wishes.
Buta Singh refused to comply. He thought that, in the circumstances, the refusal to obey Taylor would more than ever prove his loyalty to the Government and disapproval of his disloyal son. The responsibility fell automatically on Sabhrai. She accepted it readily, not because she had any advice to give her son on the statement he was to make, but because her heart ached to see her son and to clasp him to her bosom. She asked her husband to tell her what she was to say to Sher Singh about the confession.
Buta Singh explained the legal situation to her again. She asked: ‘If the police already know the names of his associates why do they want them all over again from Sher?’ He explained, as he said, for the twentieth time, because they wanted to give him a chance to get away. Why, she went on, were they so keen on letting him get away? For the hundredth time, answered her husband, because Mr Taylor was so kind and friendly to a family which had a long record of loyalty. Why, persisted Sabhrai, if the police really knew the names of Sher’s associates hadn’t they arrested any of them? Oh really, Buta Singh couldn’t be bothered to go over things again and again. Sabhrai had developed a stubborn indifference to rudeness and irritation and asked her husband point-blank: ‘What will happen if he refuses to make a confession?’
‘What will happen? As far as I am concerned, my service, pension, and the land granted by the Government all go. But that is a small matter; in addition, the boy will be hanged.’
Sabhrai shut her eyes: ‘The True, The True. The Great Guru, the Great Guru.’
She turned to her daughter: ‘Have you any advice for your brother?’
‘I only want him back,’ she replied full of emotion. ‘I don’t care what he says or does, but he must come home now.’
I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Page 18
