Long live the Revolution.
Your brother,
Sher.
He put the letter in an envelope and sealed it. This is private, sub-inspector Sahib. I shall be grateful if the inspector does not read it before it is forwarded.’
‘What will you say when you are a great man? Wali Dad did me a little service,’ said the sub-inspector. He shook Sher Singh with both hands and put the letter in his pocket.
Sher Singh was flushed with excitement. At long last it had come. An imprisonment and a heroic stand against torture by the police. What more could anyone ask for? He would be the hero of the city for the next few days. If he kept up the citizens’ interest and faith in him, a political career was his for the asking. What about his father? The Government could not penalize him for something it had been unable to prove against his son! He would make it up to him by his success. And his father had almost certainly more than made it up with Taylor. All was well. Sher Singh knew his star was in the ascendant once more. He hardly thought of his mother’s illness. In fact, he did not believe there was any truth in it. It must be another canard let loose by his father to get round Taylor.
Madan did not fail his friend. He spent the whole of Christmas Eve going round to all the college hostels and telling the boys to turn up at the police station at the crack of dawn. He informed the Nationalist Party office and persuaded them to hire a brass band and get an open car to take Sher Singh in procession. He got hold of press photographers and newspaper correspondents, all of whom had been obliged to him for exclusive interviews and pictures of sporting events. In publicizing Sher Singh they were on a safe wicket. Father, a senior magistrate — son, a student leader on the road to fame and power.
From the early hours of the morning crowds of students carrying garlands of marigolds and roses began to collect outside the police station. By eight o’clock, the crowd had swelled to three or four thousand. An open car decorated with buntings and flowers drew up and took its place behind the brass band made up of retired Sikh soldiers. When the gate of the police station was opened there were thunderous cries of ‘Long live the Revolution’ and ‘Long live Sher Singh.’ There were no white sergeants on duty on Christmas Day, and the Indian police officers were not unduly perturbed at an unlawful assembly at their doorstep. All said and done, it was to honour the son of a magistrate.
Sher Singh was escorted out by a couple of subinspectors. Camera bulbs flashed. The band leader ordered his men to attention. The drum beat a loud tattoo and then opened with the slow bars of ‘God Save the King.’ There was an uproar. The band leader had his baton snatched out of his hand. The anthem whimpered to a standstill amid roars of laughter. The crestfallen band leader started again. This time with ‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary.’
Sher Singh shook hands with his police escort and was immediately submerged in embraces and garlands. Madan led him to the car through a crowd cheering and yelling wildly. He stood beside Sher Singh in the open car, waved his hand and shouted, ‘Sher Singh.’ The crowd roared back, ‘Long live.’ Sher Singh raised both hands asking for silence. Everyone shushed everyone else. The band stopped — still a long, long way from Tipperary.
‘Comrades,’ said Sher Singh in a voice charged with emotion, ‘I will cherish the honour you have done me today for the rest of my life. I am proud that I was called upon to do a small duty to my country and I did it.’ The crowd interrupted him with loud cheers. He raised his hands, demanding attention. ‘I have been a guest of the King Emperor.’ The crowd roared with laughter. ‘You all know how well the King Emperor — may peace be upon him — looks after his guests.’... The crowd roared again. Sher Singh worked himself into a fury. He thumped his garland-laden chest. ‘But they could not break the spirit of this son of India and God willing they never will.’ Madan hurled his voice across the sea of human heads, ‘Sher Singh’ — the sea thundered back ‘Long live.’ Sher Singh joined his hands and bowed his head in humble acknowledgement. He was deeply moved by the affection of the crowd and by his own words. There were tears in his eyes.
The band struck up a slow march and the procession began to move. Sher Singh sat in the rear acknowledging the cheers and bowing to people who kept loading him with garlands and hurling rose petals at him.
On Christmas morning, Buta Singh and his daughter were having breakfast in Sabhrai’s bedroom. Mrs Taylor’s warning that she was to be left strictly alone had been ignored. It was an old custom to be by the bedside of a sick person, and so they were — all the twenty-four hours — eating, sleeping, and gossiping. Sabhrai had remained in a state of delirium with the fever never falling below 104°. She opened her eyes sometimes and tried to speak, but only an inaudible whisper escaped her lips.
Buta Singh looked up from his plate and wiped the egg off his moustache with his napkin. ‘Sounds like a wedding procession. They have started early.’ Beena sat still. She heard the shouting of slogans. ‘Couldn’t be a wedding party; sounds more like a political procession.’ The music and the shouting came nearer and nearer till it was inside the house. They got up and hurried out of the room. The band was playing in their porch. The garden, the driveway, and road were jammed with boys chanting ‘Long live the Revolution.’ As Buta Singh appeared on the scene the chanting changed to ‘Long live Buta Singh. Long live Sher Singh. ’ A dozen young men rushed forward to congratulate the magistrate. It was then he noticed his son loaded with garlands. Father and son fell into each other’s arms. All differences of opinion, all rancour which had poisoned their relationship over the past months were submerged in the applause of triumph.
It was Sabhrai’s ninth day in bed. On the ninth day the fever usually subsides and the patient is on the mend — unless, of course, there is a relapse. In which case, the process starts all over again. Nobody could say that the family had not done their best in looking after her. They never left her bedside for a moment. Her husband and daughter took turns to watch over her all through the night. During the day, there were other relations or servants always present. Shunno showed great endurance in keeping the house going and also being with the mistress at all hours; pressing her tired limbs, talking to her when she mumbled in her delirium, comforting her with words in baby language and with prayer. The doctor’s instructions about the medicine and diet were also strictly carried out. As books of medicine prescribed, Sabhrai sweated profusely all night and in the morning her temperature was down by four degrees. She was obviously turning the corner.
She was awakened from her half delirious sleep by Beena embracing her and shouting in her ears that Sher Singh was back home. She heard the band and the slogans and the people talking excitedly. She saw many strange faces in her room till it was full of bright eyes and glistening teeth. She vaguely guessed what could have happened. Or was it another dream which would end in the nightmare of awakening?
Then her son appeared. His sister had reloaded him with garlands. He came and fell on her and smothered her with tears, kisses, and crushed flowers. His sister gently pushed him away; Mrs Taylor had said ‘No excitement.’ The physical touch of her son convinced Sabhrai that her son was free. She could not reason out why he was free. She had herself urged him on the way to death but merciful God had sent him back to her. Her lips quivered but no words came: only a long-drawn moan and then a flood of tears.
When the doctor came an hour later, Sabhrai was in a state of complete collapse. In the excitement that prevailed in the house no one realized that this was the crucial ninth day. The doctor examined the chart and discovered that she had had a relapse. But even he could not bring himself to being angry with as important a man as Buta Singh and on a day when there was so much rejoicing. Hadn’t his only son been delivered from the jaws of death? He told the family that the son’s coming had been too much for the patient and the fever would continue for another period. He assured them that Sher Singh’s release would act like a tonic and she would pull through.
Five days later, Sabhrai got anot
her dose of the sort of tonic the doctor had spoken of. On New Year’s Eve, the correspondent of The Tribune turned up with garlands. This time they were for Buta Singh. He had been given the C.I.E. in the New Year’s Honours list. Buta Singh refused to believe it. ‘Not until I see it in print!’ he insisted. An hour later it was in print in the special supplement published for the Honours list. By then Buta Singh’s colleagues had also learnt of it. All the district’s officers, clerks right down to the orderlies, and peons, turned up with garlands of flowers and gold thread. Those who knew the family invaded the house right into Sabhrai’s bedroom to congratulate and garland her. It went on till late into New Year’s Eve. Next morning it was the turn of the citizens who read of the honour conferred in the paper. So for more than twenty-four hours, the house was full of laughter, gaiety, and flowers. Even Sabhrai in her dazed state knew that God was back in His heaven because all was well with her family.
Sabhrai had not known many illnesses in her carefully regulated life and had considerable powers of resistance. Nevertheless more than a fortnight of high fever, which had touched 105°, came down and shot up again, had wasted her body and begun to tell on her heart. This was not noticed by the doctor. When the second period of fever came to an end, the family was more careful. In any case the period of excitement was over.
For two days Sabhrai had no fever; she was exhausted and looked deathly pale. She lay all day long staring at the ceiling above her and slowly telling the beads of her rosary. If she wanted anything she would slowly raise her hand for Shunno and whisper instructions in her ear. On the third day she seemed well on the way to recovery and was allowed to sit up in bed propped up with pillows.
The fourth day started well. She was in better form than ever. The family were having their breakfast in her bedroom. Her husband was airing his views on politics. ‘This man Hitler must be an amazing character. He has raised the German people from defeat to such greatness. If India could produce a man like him, all would be well.’
Sher Singh took that sort of remark personally. The crisis produces the man,’ he said pompously. ‘India can only be ruled by strong men. This democratic business of votes for everyone, elections, assemblies, committees, is nonsense. I don’t believe in it.’ After Sher Singh’s short detention his pronouncements on politics had acquired sanctity.
Buta Singh swallowed a mouthful of curry. A stringy bit of vegetable stuck to his walrus moustache and began to dance up and down as he poured out platitudes with great earnestness. ‘Absolutely right! What does a vote mean to illiterate semi-savage people! It may be all right in England, but not in India. What is the point of creating a jungle of committees and rules so that no one can see the way out? In our own administration they do the same. It doesn’t take me in. I don’t take any notice of committees. No red tape for me,’ he said sitting back. The stringy piece of curry also sat back on his moustache. It looked funny but Buta Singh was talking so seriously that no one could draw his attention to it. ‘If I had allowed myself to be fooled by files and rules of procedure I wouldn’t have got where I have. It takes a shrewd man to see through them.’
A faint smile came on Sabhrai’s pale face. She raised her hand with her rosary dangling between her fingers. Shunno got up and put her ear close to her mistress’ mouth; then put her hands on her mouth and went into an irrepressible giggle. The family looked round. After two months of sighing, sorrowing, and sickness, Sabhrai had cracked a joke.
‘What is it?’ asked Beena.
Shunno could not speak; she was convulsed with laughter. The smile still played on Sabhrai’s pallid face. Beena came close to her and she whispered the same words into her daughter’s ear. Beena also burst out laughing.
‘Tell us the joke too,’ said Buta Singh, smiling eagerly. Beena held her laughter. ‘Mama says there is a bulbul on the bough.’
Everyone including Buta Singh began to laugh. He brushed his moustache with his napkin and asked: ‘Has it flown?’
Sabhrai nodded her head slowly still smiling.
‘Thank God you are smiling today,’ said Beena. She put her arms round her mother and kissed her on her cheeks and forehead.
Serious political discussion was over and everyone was happy. The joke was repeated to the doctor and other visitors who came. They dispersed to go to their work — to the law courts and the college.
More people die between nine and eleven in the morning than at any other time of the day or night. Body temperature falls to its lowest degree in the early hours and after a short struggle the heart gives in.
But death was far from Sabhrai’s mind on the morning she died. She lay propped up on her pillow looking out of the window. The ixora creeper grew outside and was in full bloom with clusters of scarlet flowers peeping in beside the frame. A pair of magpie robins were apparently contemplating matrimony. She could not see the hen, but the cock flew up to the window-sill to serenade his sweetheart. Like a ballet dancer he ran across the sill in quick, short steps and came to a sudden halt. He jerked his wings behind him as a man tucks his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket. His tail went up, his chest swelled. He raised his head to the flowers and a full-throated song burst out of his tiny beak in sheer ecstasy. He pirouetted, ran back, and repeated the performance as if to an encore from his audience. Sabhrai knew that God certainly was in His heaven and all was right with the world.
There were a few things which bothered her mind. She had not understood why Sher Singh had been released. Had he ignored her advice and confessed? She did not feel strong enough to question him; she would do so when she was better. The first thing to do was to send him to fetch Champak from her parents. And now this calamity was over and Beena had taken her degree, it was time they got down to finding her a husband.
Sabhrai was immersed in these thoughts when the ormolu clock wound itself and after a preliminary Krrr struck the half hour. She looked round. There it was on the mantelpiece with its ivory face with faded gold spots. She had brought it with her in her dowry and it had kept the hours ever since. Only the clear metallic tinkle had gone. Sabhrai put her pillows flat and lay down. She felt very tired. Half an hour later, the ormolu clock again wound itself and after a long Krrr struck ten as if its nose were clogged with a heavy cold — thig, thig, thig. . . .
Sabhrai felt her feet go icy cold. She called out to Shunno as loud as she could. The maidservant hurried from the kitchen to her mistress’ bedside. ‘Send for my family,’ whispered Sabhrai. ‘My time has come.’
The True, The True. Don’t say such things, Beybey! Let the time come to our enemies.’
‘Don’t talk. Send for my family. My time is drawing near.’
Shunno rushed out of the house to the sentry and asked him to get the Sardar and other members of the family together. Neither she nor the sentry thought of the doctor. What use are doctors when one’s time is up?
Shunno came back to the room. Even she could see that Sabhrai was not wrong. She began to press her mistress’ feet chanting in loud sing-song: ‘The True, The True. The Great Guru.’
Sabhrai shook her head. ‘Read me the passage for the month. I was ill and nobody read it out to me.’
Shunno fumbled with the pages of the prayer book, found the month of Magh, and began to read loudly:
The Lord hath entered my being;
I make pilgrimage within myself and am purified.
I met Him
He found me good
And let me lose myself in Him.
Beloved! If Thou findest me fair
My pilgrimage is made,
My ablution done.
More than the sacred waters of the Ganga
Of the Yamuna and Tribeni mingled at the Sangam;
More than the seven seas.
More than all these, charity, almsgiving, and prayer,
Is the knowledge of eternity that is the Lord.
Spake the Guru:
He that hath worshipped the great giver of life
Hath done more than bat
he in the sixty and eight places of pilgrimage.
‘Shall I read anything else?’ asked Shunno coming closer to her mistress.
Sabhrai shook her head again. ‘When is the first of Phagan?’
‘I don’t know. Many days yet.’
‘Don’t forget to clean the gurudwara and make the prasad. Wake up everyone in time and ask my Sardarji to read the prayer.’
Shunno began to sob. ‘Beybey, why do you talk like this? You will read it yourself. We will sit and listen.’ Sabhrai ignored her sobs. She put her hand on her servant’s shoulder. ‘Now read the morning prayer to me.’
Shunno drew a chair beside her mistress’ pillow. She never sat on a chair in the house but that was the only way she could get close to her. She picked up the prayer book and began to recite. Sabhrai lay back on her pillow and shut her eyes. She folded her hands across her navel and began telling the beads of her rosary.
Buta Singh was the first to arrive. ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’ he asked Shunno in an agitated tone. Sabhrai opened her eyes and spoke to her husband. ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Let me go to my Guru with your blessings.’
Buta Singh began to sniff. A few minutes later Beena turned up. She saw the pallor on her mother’s face and heard her father sobbing in his handkerchief. Sabhrai opened her eyes again and put her hands on her daughter’s head.
‘May the Guru keep you from evil.’
‘Mummy, don’t talk like this. In the name of the Guru, don’t,’ she sobbed.
The tears gave way to a gloomy silence. Buta Singh and Beena sat on Sabhrai’s bed and pressed her arms and feet. Sabhrai fell asleep utterly exhausted. Sher Singh was the last to arrive. Sabhrai woke up as soon as he came in — just as if she had been waiting for him all the time. She smiled and beckoned him to come close to her. She whispered in his ear: ‘I shall not hear the nightingales, my son. May the Guru give you long life.’
I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Page 21
