I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

by Singh, Khushwant

  Sabhrai did not stir all afternoon. Beena tiptoed in and out of the darkened, stuffy room several times to see her. By evening she grew somewhat nervous and came to her mother’s bedside. Sabhrai seemed to be in deep slumber. Beena watched her quilt for some time before she noticed the reassuring heave of her breath. She looked at her watch. Eight hours of continuous sleep was long enough. If Sabhrai stayed in bed longer, she would not be able to sleep at night; and she had not eaten all day. Beena called her softly. There was no sign of waking. She put her hand on her mother’s forehead. It burnt with fever. Beena ran out to her father and told him. Buta Singh hurried in. They whispered to her, then called out loudly. She did not answer. They felt her pulse beat rapidly. Buta Singh sent his orderly to fetch a doctor.

  The doctor took her temperature and examined her chest and back with his stethoscope. He asked a few questions and then told the family that Sabhrai had pneumonia. Her temperature was over 104° and she was in a state of delirium. But pneumonia was no longer something to be scared of, he assured them. The new American drug had got the better of it. He prescribed a medicine and gave detailed instructions about the nursing. He would call again in the morning.

  Buta Singh and Beena took turns at watching over Sabhrai, and Shunno pressed her mistress’ feet intermittently all through the night.

  Next morning Buta Singh scanned the paper more carefully than he had done for a long time. There were no arrests of terrorists reported. Perhaps it was too early for the police to act or the boys had absconded. He felt as if he had been given one more day of respectability with the citizens. Would he be able to explain away his son’s action? If his name appeared in the next Honours list (which would be published in another ten days), no one would ever accept his explanations. They would say that he had forced his son to betray his colleagues so that he could get his O.B.E. or C.I.E., or one of the other titles that the British had invented for the Indians. What would it matter in the end! He would retire to his village with his pension and property intact. His family would be safe. He would be able to get his son a good job; Taylor would surely continue to help him.

  In the crisis, the Englishman seemed to have become Buta Singh’s only hope. It would be Christmas in three days. Perhaps he should make the Taylors some gesture of gratitude for what they had done. He knew they were very particular about accepting gifts from subordinates. His case was different; he was a friend as well. Besides, the circumstances warranted a symbolic expression of thanks. Christmas was a good opportunity to do so. In any case he would send it from his wife to Mrs Taylor.

  After the doctor had come and gone, Buta Singh asked his orderly to go to the bazaar and buy three dozen of the best Malta oranges with blood-red centres. He busied himself in composing a letter to go with the gift.

  Respected Mrs Taylor,

  Pray accept this humble gift of oranges for Christmas Day. They are the first pick of the year from our garden. I hope you will like them. To you and your noble husband, our most respected Deputy Commissioner, my husband and children owe their all. Madam will do us an honour by receiving this very little gift on the auspicious occasion of the birthday of the World Saviour, Lord Jesus Christ.

  Your humble servant,

  Sabhrai

  (Sardarini Buta Singh)

  wife of

  Sardar Buta Singh, B.A. (Hons),

  Magistrate First Class.

  Buta Singh read the letter over several times. Did it sound too servile? No, he decided, nothing sounds too obsequious to the recipient. The only important thing was that the gift should not be returned because a snub in these circumstances would be hard to take. Also, other people should not get to know about it and make fun of him.

  The basket of oranges and the letter were sent off three days before Christmas. To Buta Singh’s great relief, it was not returned. Mrs Taylor accepted the gift and, in accordance with Indian custom, left two oranges and a five-rupee note as tip for the orderly. She told the orderly to inform his mistress that she would come over personally to thank the Sardarini.

  Mrs Taylor came to call next morning. Buta Singh had already told his daughter about the oranges. ‘I said they came from our garden because it sounds better,’ he explained blandly. ‘I sent them from your mother. Mrs Taylor has been specially good to her.’

  ‘How extremely kind of you to send us the first pick from your garden,’ said Mrs Taylor as she stepped out of the car and held out her hand.

  ‘Oh nothing, Mrs Taylor. A very humble gift. It was most kind of you to accept.’

  ‘And this is your daughter? We met at the station. How are you? Where is the Sardarini Sahiba? I must thank her for the wonderful oranges. I’ll try my Hindustani.’

  ‘She is very ill,’ answered Beena. ‘She has been in a state of delirium for the last two days.’ Buta Singh realized that his daughter was contradicting his story of the oranges being sent by Sabhrai. He broke in quickly, ‘No, nothing, it is just a little cold and fever. The doctor said it would be controlled by the new American drug. It costs me Rs 35 each day. But I say, “Money does not matter.” Of course you can see her.’ He opened the door to usher her in.

  ‘I was a nurse before I married John,’ explained Mrs Taylor. ‘Perhaps I can be of some help.’

  Buta Singh went on, ‘You have done enough of helping. We will not forget it all our lives.’

  Sabhrai’s room was warm and dark. A fire smoldered in the chimney. The windows were shut and there was an oppressive odour of mint and eucalyptus. Under the table lamp beside her bed were an assortment of bottles of medicine, a thermometer, and a tumbler of water. There was also a picture of the first Guru in a silver frame, and a rosary. Beside the bed on the floor was a basin full of margosa leaves for her to be sick in. Shunno drew her veil across her face as her master came in and went on rubbing the soles of her mistress’ feet.

  Joyce Taylor was surprised that in an educated Indian home there should be so much disregard of the elementary rules of hygiene. Her nursing past got the better of her recently acquired status as the wife of the Deputy Commissioner. ‘Why have you got the room so hot and stuffy?’

  ‘You see, madam, she has caught a cold and draughts are not good for her,’ explained Buta Singh.

  ‘Rubbish! Open the doors and windows at once. She needs fresh air. Have you kept a temperature chart?’

  Joyce Taylor opened the windows herself and took the temperature chart which lay under the tumbler of water. She examined it carefully. Then she put her hand under the quilt and felt Sabhrai’s pulse.

  Mrs Taylor put her cold hand on Sabhrai’s hot forehead and gently pushed back her eyelids. Sabhrai kept her eyes open but there was no look of recognition in them.

  ‘How are you, Sardarini?’

  Sabhrai’s lips quivered; she was trying to say something.

  ‘Taylor’s Memsahib has come to call on you. Don’t you recognize her?’ asked Buta Singh loudly in Punjabi.

  There was another quiver of her lips. Then tears welled in her eyes and rolled off into her ears. Joyce Taylor wiped Sabhrai’s tears with her handkerchief and gently pressed her hand on her eyes. ‘Go to sleep like a good girl. You’ll soon be well.’ She asked Buta Singh about the doctor and scrutinized the prescription he had made out.

  ‘Very expensive medicine this new thing,’ said Buta Singh.

  ‘Next time you send for the doctor, let me know. I would like to have a word with him,’ she ordered. She gave a friendly pat on Sabhrai’s cheek and got up. ‘You mustn’t allow any visitors for some days. There must be no excitement at all. She is very ill.’

  Among happily married people there grows up a private language of accent, emphasis, and gesture which makes privacy between them almost impossible. If they have shared a common past, they get to know each other’s reactions to particular situations and have an instinctive knowledge of each other’s attitude to any set of new circumstances. Sometimes, long forgotten tunes come up in their minds and without any reason at all t
hey find themselves humming the same notes at the same time. Then there are ways of behaviour which indicate to no one but themselves what the other has in mind. Even at the dinner table the way the wife will pass the bread or, later, the way she will walk up to her room will tell the husband that she wants to be slept with that night. It is not so simple when she wants favours other than sexual. Nevertheless the husband will become aware of something brewing in her mind long before it is put in words.

  There was nothing subtle about Joyce Taylor’s fidgets the evening after she had returned from the Buta Singh home. It continued throughout dinner and she remained close to her husband afterwards. This was contrary to the normal practice of giving him an hour with his files before rejoining him for coffee.

  ‘Something on your mind, dear?’ Taylor asked at last.

  ‘Yes and no. I mean there is something but I don’t know exactly what it is.’

  ‘That doesn’t get us very far. What have you been doing with yourself all day?’

  ‘The same as any other day — apart from calling on old Buta Singh and his family. Curious lot, aren’t they?’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Not too bad. I don’t understand the Old Walrus with his obsequious “respected Memsahib” and “our noble Deputy Commissioner.” ’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on the old stick; he’s been brought up like that. The English are his Mai-Bap, Father-Mother when they are about; when they are not, he is more himself. But he is all right. Does his job honestly and has certainly done more for the war effort than any other officer in the district.’

  ‘What I cannot understand is if he really feels that way about the British Raj, that he should have a son mixed up with terrorists.’

  ‘Well! In a way you have the history of Indo-British relationships represented by Buta Singh’s family tree. His grandfather fought against us in the Sikh wars; his father served us loyally. He has continued to do so with certain reservations. His son is impatient to get rid of us. Poor Buta Singh is split between the past and the future; that is why he appears so muddled in the present. He is not as much of a humbug as he appears to be.’

  ‘One knows where one stands with the younger generation of Indians. They certainly do not want to have anything to do with us.’

  ‘I am not so certain of that either,’ answered Taylor. ‘The boy in the police lock-up is in as much of a muddle as his father.’

  ‘What do you mean? He wants India for the Indians; he is willing to kill the English if he can’t get rid of them in any other way.’

  ‘It isn’t as clear as that. You heard about the Alsatian dog he has — the one which attacked one of the police officers who arrested him and which Sardarini took to the police station! Well, he named him Dyer, quite obviously because it was the most hated name he could think of: General Dyer fired on a crowd in this very city and killed several hundred men and women. In giving a dog that name, he expressed his loathing for the General. Now apparently he loves the dog more than his own relations.’

  ‘I don’t know if that indicates much,’ laughed Joyce.

  ‘No, except that it is all a bit muddled.’

  Taylor began to show signs of impatience. ‘Let’s have coffee. I can do my work later on; there isn’t very much to do.’

  She ordered the coffee and the two came into the study. He lit his pipe. ‘How is the family taking the boy’s arrest?’

  ‘I couldn’t find out. The Walrus did all the talking; I couldn’t get a clue from him. John, how does the case against the boy stand?’

  ‘So far there is no evidence at all. The police haven’t made up their minds what to do with him. They have means of making people talk when they want to. They never fail.’

  ‘You mean torture.’

  ‘You can call it that. It may be nothing more than a threat or an inconvenience. With educated city dwellers like Sher Singh they should have no difficulty.’

  The bearer brought in the coffee. They drank it in silence. Joyce still showed no signs of leaving. When she noticed her husband impatiently emptying his pipe, she asked him in a nervous, high-pitched voice: ‘John, you can’t keep that boy in prison indefinitely till he confesses to a crime he may never have committed. That’s the sort of thing we are fighting against in this war.’

  Taylor filled his pipe and lit it before answering. ‘A man is missing; it can be presumed that he is dead. If someone had told me about his disappearance a little earlier, I would have put the police on the right track. He had been seeing me regularly.’

  ‘What makes you think Buta Singh’s son killed him?’

  ‘It is only a guess. He had seen some boys including Sher Singh at target practice; he brought me the fired bullets. They also tried to blow up a little bridge on the canal. He told me about that too.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she cried impatiently, ‘but how did they know he was telling you these things?’

  ‘Buta Singh’s son was certainly aware of it; I had it conveyed to him that I knew. I hoped it would stop his goings on.’

  ‘It is possible one of the others killed him without Sher Singh having anything to do with it.’

  ‘It is possible but highly improbable.’

  Joyce Taylor had no more arguments but was still reluctant to give up. ‘How long do you deprive a man of his liberty because of probability of guilt?’

  Taylor looked a little surprised at her vehemence. ‘Not for long; if there isn’t any further evidence. You seem very wrought up today. What is the matter?’ He ran his fingers through her hair. She let her head drop on his shoulder.

  ‘John, will you promise me something?’

  ‘What is it, dear?’

  ‘You won’t be cross with me for interfering in your business?’

  ‘I promise not to be cross, but I am likely to say “No.” ’

  After a long pause she continued: ‘The Walrus’ wife — the Sardarini — is ill, very ill.’

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Taylor, a little surprised. ‘This is the first I have heard about her illness. What is the matter with her?’

  ‘The doctor has diagnosed it as double pneumonia. Apparently before interviewing her son she spent the night praying at the Golden Temple. She must have got the chill there.’

  Taylor was not a religious man, but this sort of devotion moved him. ‘I am very sorry to hear that. She has the dignity of an ancient people behind her. Without knowing her I have respect for her. If you like, I can ask the English Army doctor to see her.’

  ‘I do not think she has the will to live. Unless she gets back that will, no doctor will be able to help her.’

  Taylor continued stroking her hair.

  ‘John, why can’t we give her a Christmas present which will mean something to her? Really mean something.’

  Taylor got up, carrying his wife in his arms as if she were a child. He kissed her and put her on her feet. ‘They don’t believe in Christmas; they are not Christians. Come along now. Time for bed.’

  •

  The Muslim sub-inspector entered the cell with a conspiratorial smile on his face. ‘Congratulations, Sardar Sher Singh. A hundred, hundred congratulations.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Sher Singh feigning ignorance. He knew in prison there could only be one reason to congratulate anyone.

  ‘If you give us some sweets, I will tell you.’

  ‘Even so?’

  The sub-inspector dramatically held out a piece of yellow paper. ‘An order for your release. Tomorrow morning you will be discharged. Mr Taylor’s orders are that your respected parents should not be told but that you should be taken home as a surprise for the Big Day. Tomorrow is Christmas, you know!’

  ‘Christmas for the Christians,’ said Sher Singh disdainfully. ‘Tell me, what happened about the case? Am I being released on bail?’

  ‘No, no, Sardar Sahib! Discharged! Finished! Holiday! There was no evidence against you.’

  ‘I thought you had all the evidence for some case or other from the b
oys who had confessed.

  ‘Oh, you are still yesterday’s child, Sardar Sher Singh! You will get to know the ways of the Punjab police when you grow up. No one has been arrested so there are no confessions. You have nothing to worry about. Go home and have a good time. Some day when you are a big man, a minister or something, think of poor sub-inspector Wali Dad who gave you the good news.’

  ‘That is very kind of you.’

  Sher Singh pondered. Next day was Christmas. There would be no newspapers. ‘I don’t suppose it would be possible for you to delay my release by a day.’

  The sub-inspector looked puzzled. ‘Don’t you want to go home? It is the Deputy Commissioner’s order. If it is disobeyed, I’ll have my plug taken out. It is not only because it is the Big Day tomorrow but also because your respected mother is in indifferent health.’

  ‘Oh! No one told me about that.’ Sher Singh really didn’t believe it. Probably Taylor was trying to be a boy scout and an Oriental monarch in one — releasing a prisoner on Christmas Day to save the life of a dying mother. ‘Would you do me a favour? Could you take a message to a friend of mine. He is Mr Wazir Chand’s son, Madan. He is my best friend.’

  ‘Mr Madan, the famous cricketer? With great pleasure. I will deliver it personally. I know his respected father, Mr Wazir Chand, Magistrate.’

  Sher Singh took up a piece of buff coloured paper from a large pad and wrote:

  Dear Madan,

  You will be glad to hear that I am being released tomorrow. Please convey this information to all my friends in the University (but not to my parents for whom I want it to be a pleasant surprise).

  The police did their worst to get information from me but they failed. I am proud to have been able to serve my God and my country. We should exploit this little service I have done to our best advantage. Greetings to all the comrades in arms.