City of Ghosts (10 page)

Jeevan flicked away a fly before scratching his nose. ‘Who?'

Rana Lal smiled. ‘A girl!' he said, moving his head from side to side.

Ram Singh began to laugh.

‘A beautiful young thing with big eyes and even bigger—' continued Rana, only to stop suddenly when he saw a middle-aged woman passing by. She gave him an evil look: just another wastrel talking disrespectfully rather than doing something constructive. She shook her head and muttered under her breath.

Once the woman was out of earshot, Jeevan teased his friend. ‘Are you such a coward? What was that old bag to you, your aunt?'

‘Why didn't you finish your sentence?' added Ram. ‘Were you ashamed?'

Rana Lal went red and shook his head. ‘
Theery Maadhi
. . .' he swore.

Ram looked at Jeevan. ‘I think we've upset our brother,' he said.

‘I think you are right,' agreed Jeevan.

‘If we were brothers,' said Rana, his voice rising in pitch with each word, ‘then you wouldn't be laughing at me.'

Jeevan thought that Ram would continue to tease Rana but his eyes suddenly grew cold and he stood up so that he towered above them. His face was flushed with pink.

‘Any Indian who doesn't lie with the British dogs is my brother!' he said in a determined voice.

Jeevan looked away as Rana listened in silence.

‘Don't ever question my love for my fellow Indian,'
Ram continued. ‘My father gave his life for his brothers and I would happily do the same.'

Rana gulped down air. ‘I sorry,
bhai-ji
,' he replied weakly. ‘I did not mean to question you.'

Ram knelt down and put his hand on Rana's shoulder. ‘Don't be sorry,' he told him. ‘I am your brother and I always will be – just like the others.'

Jeevan wondered who the others were. He asked Ram what he meant.

‘The people we are meeting later,' Ram explained. ‘They are just like us – together we are one big family—'

‘But I don't understand,' said Jeevan.

‘Don't worry,' Ram told him. ‘You'll find out later.'

Suddenly Rana cried out and sprang to his feet. ‘It's there by the
nali
!' he shouted, pointing towards the sewer channel.

Jeevan looked over and saw a giant rat. It stared at them for a few seconds before sliding slowly and gracefully into the foul, stinking water and swimming away.

‘We should go and catch it,' Ram joked. ‘There's enough meat there to feed half the city.'

Rana shivered. ‘I hate rats,' he said quietly.

Jeevan took hold of Rana's arm. ‘Then I'll kill every rat I see,
just
for you.'

Rana broke into a broad smile.

‘Come!' bellowed Ram Singh. ‘Let's go before the rat comes back with its friends.'

That evening Ram led Jeevan and Rana down a dark alley in the notorious Kucha Kurrichan, the red-light district, and stopped outside a three-storey house with dark wood shutters and bars on every window. A group of raucous men, high on some intoxicant or other, stood at the entrance; across the alley, a busty woman in a tattered green
sari
was in heated conversation with a thin, weasel-faced man with a shaven head. Gold rings hung from his ears and a peacock tattoo rose from the base of his neck up onto his crown.

‘Is she a prostitute?' Jeevan whispered to Ram.

‘Yes,' replied Ram, ‘and that man owns this place.'

Jeevan looked up at the building and then down each side of the alley. Although it was narrow, it seemed very busy. At the far end, where it led into a wider street, raised voices told of yet another argument. And in the other direction the shadows also told a tale – of secret lanes and dark corners and locked doors that kept the outside world at bay. A maze of passageways devoid of the morality that Jeevan had been taught since the day he'd entered the orphanage.

‘Why are we here?' he asked.

Ram told him to be patient, then pushed the men in the doorway aside. None of them complained once they saw Ram's size, and Jeevan and Rana quickly followed. They found themselves in an internal courtyard with a stone staircase in the middle, leading to the upper floors. Around the edge of the courtyard were several rooms, all with stout locked doors. Ram led them to one of these
doors, tucked away in the far corner, and rapped out a code with his knuckles. Very slowly the hinges groaned and the heavy wooden door swung open.

‘Quickly,' someone hissed from inside the dimly lit room. ‘Get inside!'

The only light in the room came from an oil burner and there was a heavy odour of perspiration and mould. In the middle stood eight wooden chairs and a table. Ram told Jeevan to take a chair. The other two men in the room studied him closely. The first was older than the rest of them. He wore a black
kurta pyjama
; he had a closely shaven head, a thin moustache sitting under a beak-shaped nose, and a gold ring in his left ear. His tall, athletic frame strained against his clothing. The thick, sinewy muscles in his neck seemed ready to pop and his hands looked as hard as rocks. His eyes were dark and imposing and his jaw looked as though it had been carved from granite.

‘This is Jeevan,' said Ram.

The older man nodded but remained silent. The second man smiled at Jeevan. ‘Welcome, brother,' he said.

‘
Sat-sri-akaal
,' replied Jeevan politely.

Ram and Rana took their seats as the second man continued talking to Jeevan.

‘Ram tells me that you are a fine young man,' he said.

Jeevan, unsure of what to say, shrugged.

‘My name is Pritam,' the second man added. ‘And this family needs fine young men.'

The oil burner flickered, throwing a little extra light across Pritam's face. His skin was as pale as Ram Singh's and his features proud. He wore a black turban of the finest material and a grey
kurta
that looked silvery in the dim light. The muscles of his upper arms seemed ready to tear through the fabric that covered them.

‘So what has Ram told you about us?' Pritam asked.

Jeevan cleared his throat, hoping to sound manlier. ‘Nothing really,' he replied. ‘He told me about his father and the Ghadar Party.'

Pritam nodded. ‘Ram Singh's father was a hero, Jeevan. A man of the people who died for his mother.'

Jeevan was confused. ‘His mother?'

‘Mother India,' explained Pritam. He was about to continue when the older man stood up and looked directly at Jeevan.

‘You are an orphan, aren't you?' he said.

Jeevan nodded.

‘Don't worry,' said the older man with a grin. ‘Ram Singh told me all about you.'

Jeevan looked across at Ram, who nodded too and then winked.

‘My name is Hans Raj,' the older man said, ‘and we are part of a brotherhood here—'

‘A brotherhood?' asked Jeevan.

‘Yes. Now tell me what you think is wrong with our beautiful Mother India.'

Jeevan felt his palms grow clammy and he gulped down air. ‘I . . . er . . .' he began to stutter.

‘Think about what you saw the other day,' Ram reminded him. ‘The man who was shot down.'

Jeevan nodded. ‘There was a rebel who was killed by the British,' he said.

‘And why do you think there are rebels in Amritsar?' asked Hans Raj.

Jeevan shrugged. ‘Because—'he began.

Hans Raj held up his hand, palm open, and Jeevan stopped. ‘Why are Indians being killed in their own country by people who don't belong here?'

‘I don't know,' admitted Jeevan, realizing that it was something that he'd never given any thought to.

Hans Raj came around the table and put his hand on Jeevan's shoulder. ‘Don't worry,' he said in a soft voice. ‘We are not here to make you feel stupid, Jeevan. There are many of our brothers and sisters who don't realize how serious things are.'

Jeevan looked up at Hans Raj, unable to hide his confusion.

‘The British have enslaved our people,' continued the older man. ‘They have taken what is ours and made it their own. We cower in front of their guns, and the traitors among us make fat profits in return for selling their souls. Our mother, our beautiful, rich, plentiful mother, is being raped in front of our own eyes and we do nothing!'

Jeevan's thoughts raced back to the night of his mother's death. His stomach churned and his eyes welled with tears. He looked away as the memories tore into his heart.

‘I can see that you understand,' Hans Raj said in a soothing voice.

Jeevan nodded slowly.

‘They call people like you orphans. They tell you that you have no family. But India is your family,
beteh
. As long as you understand that, you need never feel alone in this world.'

Pritam smashed his hand against the table top, making Rana Lal jump. ‘Join us!' he demanded of Jeevan. ‘Let us become your family. Help us to free our mother!'

Hans Raj threw Pritam a look that seemed to extinguish the young man's anger instantly. He looked away, his eyes burning with intensity. Jeevan looked across to Ram Singh, his eyes questioning.

‘Let me walk you back to the orphanage,' suggested Hans Raj. ‘I have things I wish to tell you.'

‘What do you want to tell me about?' Jeevan asked in a voice that was no more than whisper.

Hans Raj smiled. ‘Patience, my son,' he replied.

The walk took twenty minutes, and along the way Hans Raj explained many things to Jeevan. He told him about the history of British rule in India and of the countless rebellions and martyrs. He spoke of men who had defied the military power of the British and fought with what little they had to try and save their own country.

‘There is a country called Russia,' he said, ‘where the
people have taken over. Each man in that country will be given his own plot of land and everyone will work for the benefit of the whole country. There will be no hunger and no poverty, not like we have here. The people will rule.'

Jeevan thought about Bissen Singh and the war he'd fought for the
goreh
. Was that what he had been fighting for too?

‘We only want what is right,' Hans Raj continued. ‘We don't hate the British because they are white. We hate them for what they do to us. India should be ruled by Indians. Not the traitors who work with the British but the people themselves, just as they do in Russia.'

‘Is everyone who works with the
goreh
a traitor?' Jeevan asked.

‘Yes,' replied Hans Raj. ‘Even if they don't know it themselves. If you help them in any way, you are hurting India.'

Jeevan wondered whether to mention Bissen Singh, worried that Hans Raj might think badly of him for having such a friend. But Hans Raj seemed so intelligent, so wise; far more so than the soldier, it seemed. Bissen was like an older brother but Hans Raj was old enough to be Jeevan's father and had far more experience of the world.

‘There is a soldier . . .'he said tentatively.

‘A soldier?'

Jeevan nodded. ‘I know him. He fought in the war
for the British but now he is just like you and me, living in Amritsar.'

Hans Raj shook his head. ‘No, my son,' he explained. ‘This soldier will never be like you or me. He may not be fighting for the
goreh
now, but he did.'

‘And that makes him a traitor?' asked Jeevan.

‘I'm afraid it does. There will be many who fail to help us. Some of them will be our own brothers and sisters, but we cannot falter; the path is set. India can only be free if we fight.'

They had reached the road that led down to the orphanage and Jeevan thanked Hans Raj for walking back with him.

‘Do not ever thank me again,' Hans Raj said sternly. ‘We are family,
beteh
, and this is what we do: help each other. Understand?'

‘Yes, I think so,' replied Jeevan.

Hans Raj ruffled his hair with a meaty hand. ‘Good boy,' he said. ‘Come and meet us tomorrow. We'll be in the bazaar during the afternoon.'

Jeevan nodded.

‘And perhaps tomorrow you can tell me about the pain that sits in your eyes,' added Hans Raj.

‘But—'

Hans Raj shushed him. ‘
Family
,' he said. ‘You can talk to me about anything, my son. Now, go before you get into trouble.'

BISSEN SAT, HIS
legs crossed, on the north side of the Golden Temple complex. Behind him was the Clock Tower Gate, a white marble building with domes at each of its four corners. In the centre sat the tower, the clock set into it. The tower itself was topped with a fifth dome, much larger than the others.

Bissen sat at the edge of the man-made lake that surrounded the Golden Temple, watching the world go by. He remembered sitting in the exact same place as a young child, with his father explaining the history of the city to him. The lake had already existed, sitting among trees. For many hundreds of years it had been a place of contemplation and worship, frequented by the Buddha and Guru Nanak too. It had been excavated by the fourth Guru, Ram Das, who increased its size. The
sarovar
was now full of
amrit
, holy water provided by an underground spring. It was this
spring that gave the city its name, he'd been told.

Bissen often came to sit by the lake to ease his mind. There was a sense of calm about the area; a tranquil energy that reinvigorated and soothed. He looked across the water to the single causeway that linked the temple to the rest of the city. The temple itself, Harmandirsahib, was a three-storey building. The ground floor had walls of shining white marble, while the first floor was gilded with gold leaf. A third floor, smaller in area, sat at the top, surrounded by a low parapet. On top of this was the large dome. Both the dome and the walls of this floor were also gilded. When the sun was shining, the gold leaf reflected the light, and the image that was cast across the water shimmered. It was a truly magical place and Bissen had need of its calming effect.