He now grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her hard. ‘Don’t play games with me, Mili; tell me.’
‘I can’t,’ Mili sobbed. ‘I have sworn not to tell anyone.’
Walking over to his desk, Gurpreet picked up the holy book of the Sikhs. He put his right hand on the book. ‘I swear on the holy Guru Granth Sahib that I will not breathe a word to a single soul. Now tell me.’
Bruzo padded up to Mili and began licking her hand. Mili looked down at him and stroked his back. ‘He raped her,’ she whispered.
Gurpreet’s eyes blazed as he stared at her. She shrank back, afraid he might strike her. He finally spoke. ‘I’ll destroy that man,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I’ll drink his blood.’
The door flung open and Jatin barged into the room. ‘Preeto,’ he said. ‘All the Congress leaders including Gandhi and Nehru have been arrested.’
‘Why? What happened?’ asked Mili.
‘It was because of their Quit India movement against the British. The Congress, why, all of Hindustan, is enraged. You can’t put people behind bars for carrying out a peaceful demonstration. Trouble has erupted all over the country now.’
Mili looked at Gurpreet. He was facing the window, his back towards them. He was trying to get a hold on himself. His hands were shaking slightly as he lit his cigarette.
‘How do you know all this?’ he asked, taking a puff and turning around to face them.
‘I was at Guruji’s house,’ replied Jatin. ‘He himself said so. And he wants to see all of us urgently tomorrow.’
Gurpreet’s Adam’s apple moved. ‘We’ll fight the bloody goras,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Draw blood for blood.’
Mili noticed his forehead had tautened, his hands were curled into fists and his eyes were incensed. And a numbing fear ran down her spine.
The next day dawned crisp and clear. The monsoon rains had packed and left, promising to be back the following year.
Gurpreet entered Guruji’s house nodding at comrade Jaidev, who had opened the door for him. He looked around the prayer hall. It was packed. There were about seventy-eighty people in there. Maybe even a hundred. It was difficult to say. More than half of them were students from MP College.
Once they were all seated, Guruji proceeded to address them. ‘As you all know, the British Raj has once again acted unjustly. They have put our leaders behind bars for carrying out a peaceful demonstration. Are we going to sit at home and watch them languish in prison?’
A shout went up. ‘No!’
‘Then we must act, and act fast. All of you present here, especially the students – you are the future of this country. It is you who will herald in a free Hindustan …’
A shout of ‘Vande Mataram!’ rent the air.
Guruji raised his right hand to quieten the crowd. Once everyone had stopped shouting, he continued speaking. ‘I’m going to select some of you to aid me in cutting off the British lines of communication. Our aim is not to hurt anyone, but merely to protest against the unfair imprisonment of our leaders.’ He took off his cap, raked his fingers through his hair, then put it back on again and recommenced speaking. ‘We want to make them realise the strength of our power. Simply because we follow the path of ahimsa does not mean we’ll take everything lying down. We have done till now. But not any more. And by blowing up the post office and the telegraph office, we will be demonstrating to them that we can also rise up in arms if required.’ Guruji raised his voice. ‘It is a warning to the British Raj that if they do not release our leaders, there is more to follow. And we are not afraid.’
The students began cheering and clapping, and shouting, ‘Do or Die!’ Guruji again waited for them to become quiet. ‘The rest of you will join me in carrying out a peaceful demonstration across town this evening,’ he said. ‘Are all the banners and placards for the march ready?’
Jaidev pointed to a heap at the front of the hall.
Walking over to the pile, Guruji read the banner right on top. FREE OUR COMRADES, it said. He picked up the next one and read it aloud – ‘DO OR DIE’. He put them back on the pile and said, ‘Good.’ Then he walked over to the corner of the room where lots of sticks and wooden torches had been piled up. Turning around to face his audience, he said, ‘These are to be used only for self-defence. You are not to beat or kill anyone. It is against the principles of the Congress … Gurpreet …’
‘Yes, Guruji?’ answered Gurpreet, upon hearing his name.
‘Come here, my son,’ said Guruji.
Gurpreet went up to him and touched his feet.
Guruji gave him his blessings and, turning his attention back to the audience, began calling out twenty-five other names.
The rest of the party members started talking, coughing, shuffling.
Having finished calling out the names, Guruji clapped his hands to have everyone’s attention. ‘The rest of you, take these sticks, torches, banners and flags and leave quietly two by two. We will collect in the town square at four this evening. And if you have nowhere to hide them, collect them on your way to the town square. Vande Mataram.’
Everyone echoed ‘Vande Mataram’ and began leaving the house gradually.
Gurpreet and the other twenty-five boys now followed Guruji to the anteroom, which smelled strongly of incense and camphor. They watched as Guruji opened a couple of the many boxes that filled the room. Under the incense sticks in one box were revolvers, and in the other, which had a top layer of cotton wool battis, there were bombs.
‘You lot will not take part in the procession,’ said Guruji as he divided the boys into two groups. ‘You will keep low until 9 p.m.’ Touching Gurpreet’s shoulder lightly, he said, ‘You’re going to lead your group and blow up the telegraph office. But mind you, no one should be hurt, unless it’s a must. And the rest of you are to follow Chirag and destroy the post office. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Guruji,’ chorused all of them.
Gurpreet did not say anything but his eyes shone. Yes, this was his chance.
It was pitch dark as it was a moonless night and the street lamp wasn’t working either, which was just as well, thought Gurpreet as he lit another cigarette. He had already smoked twenty since morning and his clothes reeked of tobacco. But with each puff he took, his anger grew. All he could see in front of him was the collector’s face, his big, pale, grotesque face. That man did not deserve to live.
He walked purposefully to the park in the neighbourhood. Standing before the bushes at the end of the green, he lit a match and held it high above his head. That was the agreed signal. About a dozen boys came out from behind the bushes, just as Jatin and Shivam sprinted towards them, across the park.
‘Jatin, Shivam and Devashish, come with me,’ whispered Gurpreet. ‘The rest of you, proceed to the telegraph office and do exactly as you’ve been instructed.’
‘But what about you fo—’ asked Mukul.
‘Don’t ask questions,’ Gurpreet cut in. ‘Just do as you’ve been told. We don’t have time to waste. Move on, now.’
He then led the others down the hill, towards the Mall. Kishangarh seemed unusually quiet that night. Just a faint shout of ‘Quit India, Jai Hind’ could be heard in the distance, which soon died down.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the look of bewilderment on Jatin’s face. Gurpreet stared at him, his chin set in a firm line. He was not going to let even his dearest friend stop him today. Jatin withered under his incensed glare, mumbled something and began following him up the dirt track.
‘I heard the procession this evening turned violent when some firangis started hurling abuse at them,’ said Jatin. ‘A lot of arrests have been made.’
Gurpreet did not reply but carried on walking.
A few paces away from the collector’s cottage, Jatin looked at him again and asked, ‘Preeto, why are we heading towards the collector’s house?’
‘Because he has committed a heinous crime and must pay for it,’ ground Gurpreet through clenched teeth.
‘But Guruji said—’
‘To hell with Guruji, Jatin. Are you with me or not?’ asked Gurpreet.
Jatin looked at him aghast. Then he spoke quietly. ‘I’ve always been with you, Preeto. How can I desert you now? But I’ll not kill anyone.’
Gurpreet’s face softened and he slapped his friend across his back. This time Jatin did not protest. They quietly walked up to the collector’s gate.
‘Where to, young men?’ asked the gatekeeper.
‘We need to meet the collector,’ said Gurpreet.
‘He gone to bed. Come some other day,’ replied the gatekeeper, waving his hand to shoo them off.
‘What? Gone to bed already?’ Gurpreet narrowed his eyes at the gatekeeper, not quite believing what he had said.
‘Yes, gone to bed,’ repeated the gatekeeper. ‘He having headache. So sleep early.’
Gurpreet scowled. Bloody paleface. Had robbed him of his sleep and was now sleeping peacefully himself! He had no right to.
‘Go and wake your sahib, we need to see him now,’ ordered Gurpreet.
The gatekeeper stood his ground. ‘I can’t do that,’ he said.
Opening the gate, Gurpreet tried to push past him. The gatekeeper attempted to stop him. In the scuffle that followed, Gurpreet took out his handkerchief soaked in chloroform and held it over the gatekeeper’s nose until he became unconscious. As soon as he passed out, Gurpreet shoved him aside and stormed towards the house, followed by the other three.
‘Not the front door, the side door,’ he hissed at Jatin, who had started walking in that direction. Mili had told him the side door only had a single bolt on the top. Gurpreet threw himself against the door. Again. And again, until the bolt loosened and the door flung open.
The four of them listened. They couldn’t hear anything. So the noise hadn’t woken the servants. So far so good. Mili was right. The house did look like a railway carriage, with several doors opening onto a single corridor. Gurpreet entered the first room. It was the living room and was empty. The next room was the dining room. The third one, the study. Still no sign of life. The fourth door was shut. Gurpreet gestured to the others to be quiet. He pushed the door slightly. It wasn’t bolted. He pushed it further ajar.
There on the four-poster bed was the collector, – spreadeagled and snoring like an engine. Gurpreet stared at him with venom and then kicked him hard. George woke up with a start. Before he could say or do anything, Gurpreet hit him with his stick. Shivam and Devashish too began raining lathis on him.
‘Tie him to the bed and gag him,’ Gurpreet ordered his boys. He smiled bitterly as the collector tried to struggle. Once he had been securely tied, Gurpreet asked the others to step back. He then tore off the collector’s clothes. He smiled cruelly as George looked at him in alarm. He looked like a scared skinned rhinoceros, without his clothes. ‘You remember what happened to your niece, don’t you?’ Gurpreet asked as he began sprinkling kerosene all around the bed. He watched George dart a frightened look at each of the boys and then at his shackles. And struggle once more to free himself.
Gurpreet lighted a match and lit his cigarette. He drew a long puff. Then without putting out the matchstick, he threw it on the ground. It immediately burst into flames. As the flames engulfed the bed, he shot one last look at the collector, then strode out of the room.
The four of them ran towards the gate. A couple of servants had woken up by now. They could hear them shouting ‘Fire!’ and running helter-skelter trying to put it out. Gurpreet paused at the gate and looked at the gatekeeper. He was still unconscious. He hastily drew his gun and shot him.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Jatin.
‘He’d seen us. We don’t want to leave behind any witnesses,’ replied Gurpreet. Then he looked heavenward. He had avenged his Vicky’s death. He did not care what happened to him now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was twenty-six hours since George had been killed. There had been pandemonium in Kishangarh that morning. The people had woken up to the horrifying news that the telegraph office had been burnt down, the post office destroyed and the collector set alight in his own home.
Gurpreet walked towards Jatin’s house. He and Vidushi lived by themselves in a small house, not very far from Guruji’s. He knocked on the door and waited.
Vidushi opened the door. ‘Oh, come in please,’ she said smiling nervously.
Gurpreet and Jatin looked at one another but said nothing.
Vidushi looked anxiously from one face to the other. ‘Is something the matter, Bhaisaheb?’ she asked. ‘He has not been himself since yesterday.’
‘We killed the collector,’ Gurpreet replied.
‘What? Have you gone insane?’ exclaimed Vidushi.
‘I had my reasons,’ said Gurpreet lowering his eyes.
‘Why did you tell her?’ Jatin asked, clearly upset.
‘It’s better she knows,’ said Gurpreet, lighting a cigarette.
There was a knock on the door. Gurpreet looked at Jatin and then at Vidushi, then again at Jatin. He slowly opened the window an inch and peered out, careful not to be seen. It was Shivam. He heaved a sigh of relief and opened the door.
Shivam hastily bolted the door as soon as he was inside. ‘The police have been questioning the collector’s servants. They said that by the time they woke up, the culprits had escaped and the collector’s house was on fire. They got busy putting it out and trying to save barre sahib and did not notice anyone.’
Gurpreet watched him as he sank down on a chair, and lowering his head, held it between his hands.
‘But one servant saw a Sikh in a maroon turban shooting the gatekeeper and then fleeing,’ said Shivam, shaking his head from side to side.
A deathly silence fell on the room.
Gurpreet’s Adam’s apple moved. Lighting another cigarette, he walked over to Jatin’s desk and fiddled with his typewriter. Then he turned around to face the others. He spoke with deathly calm. ‘I want all three of you and Devashish to run away.’
‘And what about you?’ Jatin asked.
‘Nothing will happen to me,’ replied Gurpreet. ‘I’m a sardar.’
‘I’m not going anywhere without you,’ said Jatin. ‘And why do we need to run away? Shivam just said they did not see the rest of us. Isn’t it, Shivam?’
Shivam nodded.
‘No, I don’t want you to take any chances,’ said Gurpreet. ‘You want to make my bhabhi a widow again?’
‘Then come with us,’ said Jatin.
‘If I come with you, we’ll surely get caught,’ said Gurpreet.
‘Why don’t you cut your hair and get rid of your turban?’ said Vidushi. ‘No one will recognise you then.’
‘Bhabhi, I’ve killed an Englishman and that too a collector,’ replied Gurpreet. ‘Sooner or later, they will find me. And when they do, I want to go with dignity, proud to be a Sikh.’ He stopped speaking and looked at Jatin – at his ashen face, his downcast eyes brimming with unshed tears. He went and embraced him. ‘Don’t be sad, yaara. I’ve no regrets. That man deserves to rot in hell.’
Without looking up, Jatin wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Gurpreet spread out a map on the little cane table in front of him. Moving his fingers over it, he said, ‘Go through the forest here and keep moving towards Pithoragarh. From there you can easily escape to Nepal without attracting any attention.’ He looked at Jatin. ‘Take Shivam and Devashish with you. Once you’re safe, ask bhabhi to join you. And don’t tell a single soul where you’re headed, not even your parents. Even when you speak to bhabhi, speak in codes. Don’t mention the place or your names, ever.’
Pursing his lips, Gurpreet folded the map and gave it to Jatin. What a mess. He did not regret killing the collector, not even for a moment. But he was damned if he did not feel awful about bringing his friends to this. Why did he have to drag them into this? Why, oh why, didn’t he go it alone? He would never be able to forgive himself if something
should happen to them.
Mili sat on her bed, her pillow propped up behind her, reading the Bhagavad Gita. Death is certain for the one who is born, and birth is certain for the one who dies. Therefore, you should not lament over the inevitable. All beings, O Arjuna, are unmanifest before birth and after death. They are manifest only between birth and death. So what is there to grieve about? She put down the book and frowned. But grieving over the death of dear ones was inevitable as well. She wondered what the purpose of Vicky’s life had been. For that matter, her own life. What was the purpose of her life?
She should be happy. Gurpreet had avenged Vicky’s death. Finally justice had been done. But she wasn’t. An unknown fear gnawed at her heart and filled her with dread. She had read about the collector’s death in the newspaper. She knew who the Sikh in the maroon turban and his accomplices were. She feared for their safety. Even the slightest sound or knock on the door made her jump up in fright.
‘Your friend’s here to see you, Mili,’ called Mausi from the prayer room.
She looked up as the maidservant Ramdulari led Vidushi to her room. As soon as Ramdulari left, Vidushi darted a quick glance down the corridor, then shut and bolted the door. She hastened over to Mili’s bed and sat down at the edge.
‘Gurpreet bhaisaheb has been arrested,’ she whispered.
‘What? When?’
‘Yesterday. One of the collector’s servants identified him,’ said Vidushi, wiping her forehead with the edge of her sari.
‘Where are the others? Where’s Jatin?’ Mili asked.
Vidushi looked around to make sure all the doors and windows were closed. Then she whispered, ‘Don’t tell anyone. Jatin has escaped to Pithoragarh. The other two are in Garampani.’ Vidushi got up and walked over to the dressing table mirror. She pressed the red bindi on her forehead lightly, then stared at the sindoor in her hair. ‘I’m worried, Mili.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mili tried to sound reassuring, ‘I’m sure he’ll never be caught.’
After the Storm Page 20
