I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

by Singh, Khushwant

  Sher Singh was more emotional than the others and began to cry loudly. His father and sister broke down again.

  ‘What is all this noise?’ asked Sabhrai audibly. ‘You want me to go with the noise of crying in my ears! Say the morning prayer — all together. And do not stop till it is over.’ They suppressed their crying and began to chant together:

  There is One God.

  He is the supreme Truth.

  He, the Creator,

  Is without fear and without hate

  He, the omnipresent,

  Pervades the universe.

  He is not born,

  Nor does He die to be reborn again.

  By His grace shalt thou worship Him. . . .

  Sabhrai joined her family in the recitation. She seemed to be at complete peace with the world. An unearthly radiance glowed in her pale face. A few verses before the epilogue her voice became faint and then her lips stopped moving.

  Chapter XII

  In India an old person’s death is a matter of rejoicing: a young person’s one of sorrow. In the case of the former, they decorate the bier with paper flags and buntings and often hire a band to lead the funeral procession. Married women put vermilion in the parting of their hair and wear their bridal jewelry. Mothers ask their children to walk beneath the stretcher on which the corpse is carried so that they may have as long a life as that of the deceased. During the seven or ten days prescribed for mourning, there is much ceremonial but little sorrow. On the death of a young man, woman, or child, grief refuses to be confined by custom and expresses itself with savage abandon. Relations and friends of the bereaved indulge in orgies of crying, wailing, and beating of breasts till sorrow is drained of all tears.

  Sabhrai was neither too old nor too young. By conventional methods of calculation, she had died before her time because she had left a daughter unmarried. So her going had to be condoled with the necessary concern expressed for Beena’s future. Except for that, it was like the death of any other person who had had a fair innings though not a full one.

  Four hours after her death she was carried to the cremation ground with practically half the city following in procession behind her flower-bedecked bier. The Taylors and many other officials had sent wreaths. There amongst a dozen other pyres in different stages of burning — some fiercely ablaze, others barely glowing under a mound of ashes — they put together a pile of logs and placed her body on them. They uncovered her face for a few minutes for all to see. She slept with a smile still hovering on her face. They put more logs on her, sprinkled them with clarified butter and rose water. A last prayer was said to consign her body to the Great Guru who had earlier in the day claimed her soul. Sher Singh took round a burning faggot and set the pyre aflame.

  Next day, he and his father went back to the cremation ground, sprinkled water on the ashes, and picked up whatever had escaped the all-consuming fire: knuckles, knee-caps, ankles, and other unrecognizable little bits of bone. They put them in a sack and took them home. The sack was placed under the cot on which the Granth lay. It had to stay there till Sher Singh could take time off to go to the Beas and scatter its contents in the river.

  For the first two days no fire was lit in Buta Singh’s house. The Wazir Chands brought food from their house and persuaded the family to eat. Everyone slept on the floor and most of the day was spent listening to the recitation of the Granth. Then relations turned up by the dozens and Champak and Sita had to organize their feeding and comfort; Beena was too distracted to be of any help. It was almost like a wedding — crowds of children shouting and playing about in the courtyard and a lot of coming and going of friends and relations. Men came wearing sad expressions on their faces: ‘Very sorry to hear the news. How did it happen?’ each one would ask. ‘It was God’s will. When the time is up, who can stop its coming?’ would be Buta Singh’s weary answer. They sat down on the carpet and were soon busy discussing business affairs till the next visitor arrived with the same sad face and the same question. ‘Very sorry to hear the news. How did it happen?’ ‘It was God’s will. When the time is up. . . . ’ Then as was customary, Buta Singh himself asked them to leave and go back to their work.

  The women were more expressive. They drew veils as they came in, sat down on the ground, clasped each other by the shoulder, and rocked to and fro in silent embrace for a minute or two. Then they broke into a whine which changed to loud lamentation or beating of breasts till someone stopped them. They blew their noses in the hems of their shirts, wiped their tears with the backs of their hands, sighed, and turned to subjects closer to their hearts: a minute account of Sabhrai’s last hour (followed by more crying). And then, ‘Did Auntie Sabhrai fix her daughter up anywhere? How old is the girl now?’ This lasted ten days. Then the relatives and the visitors departed and the family was left to itself.

  Came the first of Phagan.

  In accordance with Sabhrai’s wishes, Shunno swept the gurudwara, opened the Granth, and got the family together. None of them was looking forward to it because this was an occasion closely associated with Sabhrai and for the first time in the living memory of any one of them, she was missing — and yet mysteriously present. She seemed to pervade the gurudwara like the incense which rose spirally from the stick and then scattered lazily all over the room.

  Buta Singh took Sabhrai’s place in reading the Granth. He had resolved to keep his emotions under control. He read the verse on the month of Phagan without faltering.

  She whose heart is full of love

  Is ever in full bloom.

  She is in bliss because she hath no love of self.

  Only those that love Thee

  Conquer self-love.

  Come Thou and abide in me.

  Many a lovely garment did I wear

  But the Master willed not, and

  His palace doors were barred to me.

  When He beckoned, I went

  With garlands and strings of jewels and raiments of finery.

  Spake the Guru:

  A bride welcomed in the Master’s mansion

  Hath found her true Lord and love.

  Buta Singh decided to say a few words to his family. ‘Sabhrai has really found her true Lord and love, we. . . . ’ He put his head on the Granth and began to sob. The whole family broke down and wept quietly. He gave up the attempt. After a while he proceeded to read the passage for the day:

  My eyes are wet as if nectar had dropped with the dew and washed them.

  My soul is athrill and full of gratitude

  For the Guru rubbed the touchstone with my heart

  And found it was burnished gold.

  Buta Singh was now in control of his emotions and decided to make another attempt. ‘I only wanted to say this. I hope and pray that all of us will live up to the ideals of truth Sabhrai stood for. She was like the gold the Guru speaks of. She has left us and the light has gone out of our home. We must try to find our way in life in the same way as she did: through the Guru’s words.’

  Chapter XIII

  Buta Singh had learnt not to rely too much on his memory. He did not make notes on the subjects he had to discuss, but usually numbered them and had symbols which fixed them in his mind. If it was only one thing he had to bring up, it didn’t need much memorizing — and of course he thought of God, because there was only one God. Two didn’t offer much difficulty either; it was ‘just two things I had to ask you,’ as one said even if there were more things to ask. There was no symbol for two. For three, there was the Trinity of Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer. Four was always causing trouble, but the mere fact that it caused trouble was good enough to remind him that he must have had four points to discuss. For five there were the ‘Five Beloved Ones’ — the first batch of converts to the Sikh faith made by the last Guru. And beyond five it was too much to expect symbols to remind him of what they were; they had to be put down in his notebook.

  Buta Singh went over the ‘Five Beloved Ones’ one by one. F
irst in importance was to thank Taylor for the honour done him in the New Year’s Honours list; he had given up hope of it altogether after his son’s arrest. Two, was to thank Mrs Taylor — if he saw her — or tell Mr Taylor to convey to his wife his thanks for all the kindnesses shown to the family over the terrible months they had gone through. Third, was the business of his son, which he had not understood clearly. If his son had revealed the truth — as he must have for Buta Singh to get his title — why had there been no other arrests? And why had he been released in such a dramatic manner? He had not asked his son because that was not the sort of thing one talked about — particularly when the son was being made so much of for his heroic stand against police torture. Taylor might drop a hint as to what had really happened. Fourth in order of importance was Sher Singh’s future. Couldn’t Taylor help him to get a job in the Government of India and save the boy from the vagaries of a political life? He was bound to know people in Delhi and an Englishman’s recommendation was so much more effective than any Indian’s. Indian VIPs were always recommending people for jobs in the strongest terms and therefore no one took them seriously. A mildly worded letter from a junior English official could do miracles. That was four. Five! What was the fifth? Oh yes, the memorial to Sabhrai. He couldn’t afford very much, but he would donate Rs 4,000 to 5,000 and perhaps Mr Taylor could suggest a charity and later on open or inaugurate it. Sabhrai had been such a good wife. Illiterate, but with some sort of charm that attracted sophisticated Europeans like Mrs Taylor. The thought brought tears to Buta Singh’s eyes. He adjusted his black tie — he had bought one especially for his first call on the Deputy Commissioner after Sabhrai’s death — and left the house going rapidly over The Five Beloved Ones.’

  Taylor was friendlier than ever before. He came out into the verandah to receive Buta Singh and took him inside. There was his wife, too, with the appropriate expression on her face. ‘I was so sorry to hear about the Sardarini; I really was. I couldn’t have felt the loss of any relation of my own more keenly. She had that something about her which makes people think of their own mothers. She reminded me of mine.’

  ‘Thank you; very kind of you, madam. What God wills happens.’ This was the fifth subject on the list; she was upsetting the order. How could one switch from that to being honoured in the New Year’s list! ‘Madam and madam’s husband have been most kind to me and my family. I cannot find words to express my heartfelt gratitude.’

  Joyce Taylor made a one word comment: ‘Rubbish.’ Her husband softened it. ‘Not at all, Buta Singh. The last few months must have been somewhat trying for you all.’

  Trying! These British with their understatements! It was like going through hell. Buta Singh answered in the same tone, ‘Yes, sir, very trying.’ Joyce Taylor went out to order tea. Buta Singh got the chance to tick off the first of the ‘Five Beloved.’

  ‘Sir, I must thank you again for my title. It is a great honour.’

  ‘I am glad it came through, Buta Singh. You have done so much for the war effort. I was not sure if the people at the top would appreciate it. I was afraid somebody might distort this business of your son’s and hold it against you. People are apt to be like that.’

  ‘For that I have to thank my late wife, sir. She was the one to give good counsel to my son. I was too angry and disappointed at his disloyal behaviour. He had washed out the loyal services of four generations. I was relieved that in the end he redeemed it.’

  Taylor looked a little puzzled. The expression on the Indian’s face convinced Taylor that Buta Singh did not know what had passed between his wife and son in the lock-up. Taylor decided not to tell him. ‘Your wife must have been a great influence on the family,’ he remarked.

  ‘She was old-fashioned and would not learn English,’ answered Buta Singh. ‘You know, sir, I got her many teachers, but she absolutely failed to learn the language. She was a very religious woman — she prayed all the time.’ This was again number five. His son came before her. ‘She was very keen that Sher Singh should give up politics and take up a steady job. If he could be fixed up somewhere in the government of India, I would be very happy.’

  Taylor knew what the other was driving at. ‘Sure, Buta Singh, I shall be only too pleased to help. Not that I count for much in the government of India.’

  ‘How can you say that, sir? One word from you and everything will be done.’ Buta Singh was happy. He would bring up the subject again when he had found out what to apply for and to whom.

  Mrs Taylor came in carrying the tea-tray. She poured out the tea and handed Buta Singh his cup. Buta Singh took a noisy sip and put away the tea. Now for the fifth. He pulled a long face to preface the subject. ‘Mrs Taylor, I want to seek your very kind advice on an important matter. I wish to erect a memorial for my late wife — a small library or a ward in a hospital or some such thing. I would be most grateful if you could advise me.’

  ‘How thoughtful of you, Sardar Sahib! I will be delighted to help. Since she was so religious perhaps she would have liked to have given something to a religious institution — like a temple. I believe having wells dug is also a very popular form of charity in this part of the world. You must have known her mind?’

  ‘You are right; she was very religious.’ Buta Singh pondered. He couldn’t possibly get Mr or Mrs Taylor to do anything with the building of a new gurudwara or having a well dug in some village. The object of the charity would be lost. ‘You see she was illiterate,’ he repeated, ‘if I had asked her, she would have said, “Anything you like.” That is why I ask you.’

  ‘If you like I can find out what is needed in the city; we are short of practically everything. I will certainly let you know.’

  Buta Singh was very pleased. He had succeeded in drawing Mrs Taylor into his plans. Now he needed no appointments to come here nor would he have to sit with other magistrates in the verandah waiting his turn to see Taylor. The ‘Five Beloved Ones’ had been satisfactorily dealt with. He finished his tea and put aside his cup. ‘I must not waste your precious time,’ he said, getting up. ‘I will come and pay my respects again to you, Mrs Taylor. Goodbye, sir.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sardar Sahib. It is so nice to see you cheerful after such a long time.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. As a famous English poet has said, “All’s well that ends well.” ’

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  First published in the US by Grove Press Inc., USA 1959

  This edition published by Ravi Dayal Publisher 1997

  Published in Viking by Ravi Dayal Publisher and Penguin Books India 2004

  Published in Penguin Books 2005

  Copyright © Khushwant Singh 1959

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-01-4400-084-5

  This digital edition published in 2013.

  e-ISBN: 978-93-5118-171-2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to
any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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