by Khan, Vaseem
‘Tell me about Vikas Bakshi,’ Persis said, her finger still on the page.
Nayar blinked. ‘He was a longstanding tenant in the village. His family had been here for generations.’
‘Was?’
‘They died in the rioting,’ said Nayar. ‘Partition wiped them out.’
Persis absorbed this. Two families destroyed by Partition. One Muslim, one Hindu. And Sir James investigating the death of one of them, had made a precise note of the other. Why?
‘Who investigated the fire that killed the nawab and his family?’
‘The fire was thoroughly investigated,’ said the patwari.
‘That wasn’t the question I asked.’
He hesitated. Blackfinch loomed over him. ‘The investigating officer was a local. Sub-Inspector Shergill.’
‘Where can I find him?’
The police station was located two hundred yards from the land registry. Sub-Inspector Balwant Shergill had been summoned and was waiting for them, as was a crowd. Word had spread. Curiosity appeared to be the dominant emotion, but Persis thought she could detect an undercurrent of hostility.
Shergill was a big man, turbaned and bearded, in a scruffy khaki uniform. He made no secret of his displeasure at being summoned from his home.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked tersely, after Persis had introduced them.
‘I am following up—’
‘I know who you are,’ interrupted Shergill. ‘Lady police.’ His contempt was obvious. ‘You investigated the murder of the Englishman. If you ask me they should give Maan Singh a medal.’ He glared at Blackfinch with loathing. Here was someone uncowed by the sight of a white man. And yet, Persis did not doubt that Shergill had once worked for the imperial police, had taken orders from men such as Blackfinch. Perhaps his loathing was partly for himself, the same self-hatred that had haunted Maan Singh’s father.
Persis straightened. ‘If you have a problem with me then we can get the Deputy Home Minister on the line. I am here at his personal behest. Do I make myself understood, Sub-Inspector?’
Shergill glowered.
‘I wish to see the investigative report into the fire at the nawab’s home.’
The report was brought out, a slim folder with a handful of papers wedged inside. She took a wooden seat behind the nearest desk and riffled through it.
It began with a preamble detailing the time and location of the incident, and then a short summary of the purported events of that night, 16 July 1947. Just a month before Partition. News of the fire had been relayed to the thana at Jalanpur at around eight-thirty that evening. Sub-Inspector Shergill and two constables, together with a band of locals, had rushed to the scene, only to find the nawab’s mansion engulfed in flames. A human chain had been formed to ferry water from a local well, but it was useless. The fire raged out of control until the morning.
The next day they counted the charred remains of fifteen members of the nawab’s household. The investigation by Shergill indicated the possibility that a faulty gas canister had caused the fire. There was no evidence to back up this assertion.
‘What made you think it was a gas canister?’
Shergill scowled. ‘It was the most likely explanation.’
‘But you were not sure.’
‘I was sure.’
‘How?’
‘I was sure,’ he repeated.
‘You did not suspect that the fire might have been started deliberately?’
‘No.’
She noticed that faces were crowded in at the door and at the barred windows. Every word was being absorbed and passed back. The entire village would soon know of this conversation.
‘Was the nawab well liked?’ she asked.
Shergill’s face darkened. ‘The nawab was a hard man. He and his family became wealthy from the land of Punjab. But when the day came to defend their country, they chose to side with Jinnah and the Muslim League. So, yes, there were those who saw him as an enemy of the nation.’
‘Were you one of them?’ asked Blackfinch.
Something flared in the Sikh’s eyes, but he did not respond.
‘How was his relationship with Vikas Bakshi?’ asked Persis.
This hit Shergill with the force of a blow. He had not been expecting the question and his face slackened with surprise. ‘They – they were friends.’
‘Even after the nawab turned towards Pakistan?’
‘Bakshi was a true patriot.’
‘In which case the nawab’s actions would have caused resentment. But Bakshi was a mere tenant; there was little he could do. Legally, at any rate.’
The Sikh drilled his eyes forward. ‘You are searching for something that isn’t there.’
‘Or something that has been carefully hidden.’
His lips compressed into a line.
Back out in the quadrangle, the crowd formed a knot around the Buick. As they approached the vehicle, a small, elderly man moved forward and clutched her arm.
‘Hey!’ said Blackfinch, but she waved him away. Something about the intensity in the old man’s eyes held her.
‘It was a lie,’ he gasped out. ‘A lie and a sacrilege.’
‘What do you mean?’
But before he could reply, Shergill was there, dragging him away.
‘Stop that!’ she cried out.
‘He’s a drunk,’ said Shergill. ‘He has nothing to say to you.’
‘Let him go.’
Shergill looked furious, but did as he had been commanded.
She approached the man. He was short, balding, with grey fuzz around his pate. Hollow, stubbled cheeks and a hooked nose. His clothes were filthy and stank. A note of alcohol wafted from his breath.
‘What did you want to tell me?’ she asked.
He looked down at his bare feet, refusing to meet her eyes.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘What did you mean? What was a lie?’
Silence.
She turned to Shergill. ‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Mangal. As I told you, he’s just a drunk.’
But there was more to it than that. She sensed it with a cold certainty. This was a man who lived in the shadow of fear. Her presence had momentarily broken the shackles that bound him, but now he had retreated into the safety of silence.
As Kulraj Singh manoeuvred the Buick out of the village, she turned in her seat and looked back for the man. But he was gone.
‘I’d like to see the nawab’s home.’
‘There is little left to see, madam,’ replied Kulraj. ‘And it will soon be dark.’
‘Perhaps we should be heading back?’ mused Blackfinch.
‘You can go,’ she said. ‘I’ll continue on foot.’
Blackfinch stared at her but said no more.
They drove a further ten minutes towards the border until they passed through an orchard of sweet-smelling mango trees. On the far side, the charred and blackened remains of the nawab’s bungalow hovered on a shallow rise in the land.
They left the car and walked up the short slope. Dusk was falling, the sun flaming the tops of the trees behind them. Crows lined the fallen walls and mounds of charred bricks. They walked around the sprawling complex, but there was nothing to see.
Nevertheless, something about the place, its numen, communicated itself to her. An atrocity had occurred here, of that she was now certain. Memories of violence, bled into the earth. Men, women and children murdered. All in the name of patriotism.
Or might it have been something else? Could simple human avarice have been at work? She recalled the anonymous account that had brought Herriot out here. How it had speculated that the motive for the nawab’s murder had been robbery.
From their vantage point, they could see the land sweep away to the Pakistani border, a hurricane fence topped with barbed wire. On the far side, the land was a mirror, highlighting the arbitrary nature of the division.
‘Was the nawab really such a hard man?’ she asked.
&nb
sp; ‘I’m not from Jalanpur, madam,’ said Kulraj. ‘But I have friends here. Until the fire, I had heard little said against the nawab. He was no better or worse than generations of landowners. However, it is certainly true that he sided with Pakistan. That turned many against him.’ He shook his head. ‘The nawab and his family prospered in this region. They accumulated great wealth over many generations. It is said that he had a treasure room in his home, filled with priceless jewels – he was known for his taste in jewellery. He would think nothing of commissioning pieces from artisans in Jaipur.’
She felt as if she had just passed through a vast web, folds of gossamer feathering her cheek. ‘Jewellery?’
‘Yes. The nawab had a passion for it.’
Her thoughts entwined themselves. She turned to Blackfinch. ‘I want to stay in Jalanpur tonight.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. They weren’t exactly welcoming.’
‘I need to speak to that man, Mangal. And I want to see the Bakshi plot. Herriot made a note of it for a reason.’
‘Perhaps this Mangal really is just a drunk.’
‘Even a drunk has a story to tell. And he may not be the only one. Something happened here, something that has been covered up.’
‘You suspect the fire was no accident.’
‘I do.’
‘And Sir James came here to discover the truth.’
‘He did.’
‘Do you believe that may have led to his death?’
She hesitated. It was a long leap from Jalanpur to Laburnum House. ‘I don’t know.’
Chapter 24
Back in the village they discovered an astonished Nayar at his home. Persis explained that they wished to stay the night and that she expected the patwari to make suitable arrangements.
‘But there is no hotel here,’ he protested.
‘That is not my concern.’
He eventually led them to a single-storey dwelling at the very edge of the village, abutting a wheat field. ‘This home has been abandoned since Partition. The occupants were murdered by Muslims. You may rest here for the night.’ He hesitated. ‘If you would like food, you may eat with me.’
They ate in the courtyard, under a blanket of stars. Dusk had fallen, and with the darkness came new sights and sounds. Kerosene lamps were lit, spreading a smoky, thick odour to mingle with the smell of food. Soon insects whirred and clicked around them. The food – simple vegetarian dishes and wheat rotis – was prepared by the patwari’s wife, a silent woman, clearly nervous to have them in her home. Word had spread and they were interrupted by a stream of visitors casually dropping by.
Good, thought Persis. Soon the entire village would know that they were back, including the man Mangal.
‘What do you hope to achieve?’ asked Nayar suddenly. The patwari had remained sullenly silent throughout the meal. Persis suspected the offer to eat with him had only been made so that he could keep an eye on them.
She considered her reply before speaking. ‘History is a harsh judge, Nayar. It’s no easy task building a nation on the ashes of the dead. The only way to do it is to sweep aside the lies and admit what happened.’
‘What exactly do you think happened?’
‘We all know what happened,’ she said. ‘The trouble is that a new fiction is being written. Day by day we are rewriting the past.’
‘And what do you think they are doing in Pakistan?’
‘I’m not a police officer in Pakistan,’ replied Persis.
‘Nehru talks of an India where Hindu, Muslim and Sikh are equals. He tells us to protect the Muslims. But why should we protect those who betrayed us?’
‘History betrayed you, Nayar. And to heal the wounds of history, we must rise above hatred. Isn’t that what Gandhi taught us?’
‘Gandhi was too soft on them,’ spat the patwari. ‘Because of his weakness, this abomination of Pakistan was permitted to be born.’
Persis was surprised. It was rare to find anyone openly criticising the mahatma, though she knew such sentiments existed in the country. It was the reason the great man had been assassinated by one of his co-religionists.
‘You are a Brahmin are you not?’ she asked.
‘I am,’ said Nayar proudly.
‘Then you believe that the killing of any life tarnishes the soul? From the smallest creature to the most complex? You call it ahimsa.’
‘A war against those who threaten our way of life is a just war. Dharma-yuddha. It is discussed extensively in the Mahabharata.’
‘How many actual soldiers were murdered in the riots, Nayar? Those who died were civilians, just like you. Men, women and children.’
‘We were not the aggressors,’ said Nayar, looking away.
It was past ten by the time they made their way back to their lodgings. Nayar had provided them with kerosene lamps.
As they entered, Blackfinch waved his lamp around, then jumped back in fright as a trio of lizards scuttled along the walls.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
There were two bedrooms, furnished with bare charpoys. It would not be the most comfortable of nights, but Persis didn’t care.
‘Right, well, I’ll take one and you take the other,’ said Blackfinch.
She went into her room, set the lamp up on a wooden shelf, then opened the window shutters. Moonlight speared in, illuminating a dusty emptiness. Nothing remained of the prior occupants. Who were they? she wondered.
More victims of the war that wasn’t a war.
Blackfinch knocked on the door. ‘We have a problem,’ he said. ‘There’s no toilet.’
She smiled grimly. ‘Yes, there is.’ She waved at the fields outside the window.
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘You wanted to see India. This is India.’
Nayar had left a bucket of water for them, with a brass lota. She filled the spouted water vessel and handed it to the Englishman.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
‘Work it out.’
Understanding dawned. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘This is barbaric.’ A nervous look came into his eyes. ‘I suppose there are snakes out there.’
‘Probably.’
‘Scorpions?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Right.’ He stared at the lota. ‘Best get to it then.’ He paused at the door. ‘Never imagined that a trip to the lavatory could be such an adventure.’
Persis lay down on the charpoy. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as she had imagined, though she wished there had been some covering sheets. This far north, at this time of year, the night temperature plummeted.
She heard the slither of geckos. An owl hooted. Her mind swarmed.
She couldn’t sleep.
Restlessness lifted her from the charpoy and she found herself moving through the house, back outside, and then towards the fields. Blackfinch had been gone a while. Worry nibbled at her. He was a fish out of water, a particularly clumsy one.
She walked into the field. The wheat, sown in November, was half grown, almost to the level of her waist, the kernels glimmering softly in the moonlight. She waded through the rows, debating whether or not to call out for him. She suspected he was crouched down somewhere, and had no wish to embarrass him.
Her thoughts became ensnared again. What had Sir James found out here? Did it have anything to do with his death or was she chasing her own tail?
The sound of rushing feet.
Persis whirled around to find two men, lathi sticks in hand, gliding through the wheat. The first reached her, raised his stick, swung it hard towards her. She ducked and it caught her a glancing blow on the shoulder that unbalanced her. As she fell, her training kicked into gear. She rolled with the fall, bounced back to her feet, stepped into the man.
His eyes widened in surprise; perhaps he had expected her to flee.
She gave him no time to react. She landed a brutal chop to his throat with the edge of her right hand; as he fell, choking, she swung her knee u
p and crushed his nose. Blood spurted on to her trousers.
‘You there! What the hell are you doing?’
Blackfinch.
The momentary distraction proved critical. The second attacker’s lathi struck her on the back of her skull and she fell forward into the wheat, head ringing. For a moment, she lay inert, spots pin-wheeling before her eyes. A field mouse scampered past her nose. Sounds came from a distance, as if through layers of damp cloth. She waited for more blows, but none came.
Eventually, the ringing subsided. She hauled a deep breath, then rose to her feet, swaying unsteadily.
Blackfinch was down, her assailant looming over him, striking him repeatedly with his lathi. The Englishman took the blows on his arms and legs, crying out in pain.
She looked around, grabbed the staff of the fallen man, then flung herself forward.
The man turned just as she whirled the stick around in a sweeping arc, catching him squarely on the jaw. From the way he went down, she knew he wouldn’t be getting back up.
She helped Blackfinch to his feet. He had taken a blow to the face, she saw. His right cheek was swelling, and blood trailed from his mouth.
‘Come on.’
‘My glasses,’ he mumbled groggily.
She looked around, saw moonlight glint off something at her feet. She reached down, scooped the spectacles into her pocket.
Draping his arm around her shoulder, she limped him back to the house, stretched him out on his charpoy, then fetched the water bucket and watched him wash the blood out of his mouth.
‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘Some knight in shining armour I turned out to be.’
‘You were very brave.’
‘Yes. I had him right where I wanted.’
‘I’m sure you would have turned the tables soon.’
He refused to meet her eyes, humiliation rising from him like smoke.
Persis had long ago discovered that a man’s ego was as fragile as the skull of a newly hatched bird. The slightest pressure and it buckled. She placed a hand on his arm. He winced. ‘You need medical attention.’
‘No.’
‘There’s no shame in admitting that you need help.’
