City of Ghosts (11 page)

His dreams had been dark and disturbing of late, filled with the horrors of the war and the screams of the dying. Each night the ghosts of his fallen comrades invaded his dreams, urging him to join them in the twilight world of the spirits. Bissen understood that their souls were not at rest. They were lost, much like him; and like him, they searched for peace and could not find it anywhere. The dreams had encouraged Bissen to increase his dependence on opium, a situation which he found depressing. He longed to stop taking the drug but knew that if he did, the spiders that crawled inside his head would only multiply.

So instead he sat within sight of the temple, taking in the sense of peace and trying to clear his thoughts. He
closed his eyes to shut out the world and concentrated on the face of the woman he had left behind. He felt someone touch him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Gurdial standing beside him, a concerned expression on his face.

‘Are you well,
bhai-ji
?' asked the boy.

‘I was just meditating,' he replied. ‘Or trying to at least.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Gurdial. ‘I've disturbed you.'

Bissen stood up and smiled at him. ‘No matter. It's always a pleasure to see you.'

Gurdial was reassured. ‘I was hoping to see you,' he admitted. ‘There is something I wish to talk to you about.'

Bissen raised an eyebrow, wondering what it was.

‘It's Jeevan,' said Gurdial, pre-empting the question. ‘I'm worried about him.'

‘Jeevan? Is he in trouble?'

Gurdial shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘But he may be about to get into trouble.'

Bissen was confused. ‘Come,' he said, ‘let me buy you some tea.'

They walked through the Clock Tower Gate and into the busy streets of the city. After five minutes they reached a tea shop. Bissen ordered two cups of spiced tea and came to sit by Gurdial. The boy seemed fidgety, his eyes darting everywhere.

‘Does something concern you?' asked Bissen.

Gurdial nodded and leaned closer to whisper, ‘There are some men over there, behind us. When we came in they called you names.'

Bissen looked up and saw three young men with stern expressions staring at him. He glanced at Gurdial, then back again. The young men were still eyeing him. ‘What did they say?' he asked.

‘They called you names because you fought for the
goreh
,' said Gurdial. ‘I think they want to fight with us,
bhai-ji
.'

Bissen nodded. ‘Don't worry,' he said, aware that the boy was scared. ‘They are cowards. Let them say these things to my face.'

‘But—' began Gurdial.

‘Just relax,' replied Bissen. ‘I'll deal with it.'

He stood up and walked over to the young mens' table. As he approached, they looked away. Bissen cleared his throat. ‘Is there something I can do for you, my brothers?' he asked.

None of the men spoke up.

‘Or perhaps you'd like to say something to me?'

Again there was no reply.

‘I'm just over there,' said Bissen, pointing to his table. ‘Please come and see me if there is anything you need.'

He turned and walked slowly back to his seat. ‘You see?' he said to Gurdial. ‘It was nothing.'

‘But what if they try to do something?'

‘They won't,
bhai
,' replied Bissen. ‘Trust me.'

Ten minutes later the young men were gone and Bissen ordered another two cups of tea.

‘So tell me about Jeevan,' he said.

‘He is spending a lot of time with new friends,' explained Gurdial. ‘It's my fault because I keep leaving him alone.'

‘And what is wrong with these friends?' Bissen asked.

‘I think they are revolutionaries.'

‘What makes you think that?'

Gurdial shrugged. ‘Jeevan keeps on talking about the Ghadar Party.'

Bissen nodded. The Ghadar Party only existed to force a revolution and its members were responsible for many acts of violence. If Jeevan was getting involved with them, then he was heading for trouble.

‘One of his new friends is called Ram Singh,' continued Gurdial. ‘His father was a Ghadar member until the
Engrezi
killed him.'

‘I see,' replied Bissen. ‘Do you want me to talk to him?'

Gurdial nodded. ‘I would like that,' he said.

Bissen smiled. ‘So what else is new?' he asked. ‘What of your quest?'

Gurdial looked down. ‘I have been thinking about it,' he admitted, ‘but I have no idea what I can do. Where can a poor man like me get such a precious thing? I don't even know what it is.'

Bissen put his hand on the boy's shoulder. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?'

‘Unless you can find me the most precious thing in India, the answer is no.' Gurdial sounded forlorn.

‘Maybe we were too quick to approach Sohni's father,' said Bissen.

Gurdial shrugged. ‘What difference does it make? Whether yesterday or tomorrow, my fate is what it is . . .'

Bissen shook his head. ‘I know that such fatalism runs in Punjabi blood, but I didn't think you would give up so soon.'

‘I have no choice,' replied Gurdial. ‘What real chance have I got? I need a guardian angel—'

‘Or a different plan,' suggested Bissen. ‘Perhaps to take Sohni far away.'

Gurdial looked at him.

‘Whatever the solution, Gurdial,' said Bissen, ‘it will come to you. Don't give up so easily.'

‘What do you think I should do,
bhai-ji
?' asked Gurdial.

Bissen sighed and ordered some more tea.

On the other side of the old city Jeevan sat under a giant banyan tree talking to Hans Raj. It was a mild day and the sun was just breaking through the light grey clouds. The other boys had gone on an errand, leaving Hans Raj free to talk to Jeevan; a situation which he had engineered. He saw the seeds of a convert in Jeevan; in his eyes and in the questions he asked. There was deep anger inside the boy, and if Hans Raj could find its
source and tap it, the boy would become a very fine foot soldier.

‘Tell me about your parents,' he said.

Jeevan shrugged. ‘There is nothing to tell,' he replied, trying to fend off the question.

Hans Raj saw the change in Jeevan's eyes and realized that he had found his way in. A door had opened in the façade and Hans Raj stepped through.

‘I can see that it hurts,' he said. ‘My parents died too.' The last part was a lie but Hans Raj played his role well. He looked away, gulping down air and letting the corners of his mouth turn down.

‘I didn't realize . . .'replied Jeevan, his eyes wide. Was Hans Raj just like him; a lost soul looking for a place to belong?

Hans Raj wiped away the few false tears that he had mustered. What he would have given for an onion . . . ‘They were killed when the British attacked our village,' he continued, adding each new layer to his story as it came into his head.

‘Why did they attack,
bhai-ji
?'

Hans Raj lowered his head and voice at once. ‘They are murderers,' he whispered. ‘They pretend they are peaceful but I know better. I watched them kill my entire family.'

Jeevan shook his head slowly. ‘Everyone?'

Hans Raj nodded. ‘I had to hide in a chest; I was only a boy. The leader of the troop, a tall, white-haired man in a red uniform, he took my mother to one side . . .'

Jeevan's breath came quicker.

‘He held her down,' continued Hans Raj, before taking his head in his hands and pretending to weep.

Jeevan leaned over and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. ‘Don't worry,
bhai
,' he said to him. ‘You are not alone.'

Hans Raj looked up and saw that the door in Jeevan's eyes was now wide open. He wanted to smile but stopped himself. The boy was nearly his.

‘My mother was raped in front of me too,' revealed Jeevan, his face set, voice determined.

‘No . . .' replied Hans Raj. ‘My poor boy . . .'

‘Bandits came to our village. They took turns with my mother and then they cut her throat . . .'

Tears flowed freely down Jeevan's face but he no longer cared. He had never told anyone apart from Gurdial about what happened that night; no one else had ever asked or cared about it. Now here was someone who wanted to help him, to look after him; someone he could trust.

‘Do you know your history, my son?' asked Hans Raj.

‘I don't understand what you are asking me . . .'

‘The British use a tactic called divide and rule to conquer us. One of the things they do is to pay bandits to attack villages—'

Jeevan wiped his eyes and glared at him. ‘The British?'

Hans Raj nodded, convincing Jeevan that his lie was
the truth. He decided to add more layers: ‘When the villages are left devastated, the villagers have no choice but to turn to the white men for defence. That is how they worm their way into the fabric of our country. They are no better than those animals that put themselves inside your mother!'

Jeevan's eyes began to blaze. The bandits had been sent by the
goreh
! No wonder there were men such as Hans Raj and Pritam all over the city. They knew the truth and they were willing to act on it.

‘You must have been very scared,' Hans Raj said, ‘when they did what they did to her.'

Jeevan nodded. ‘I
was
scared. But the feeling of helplessness was worse. I dream about it all the time. I couldn't stop them; I couldn't save my mother.'

Hans Raj stood up and held out a hand for Jeevan. He pulled him to his feet and gave him a bear hug, whispering in his ear, ‘You are with us now. There is nothing left to fear. Anything you want you shall have – and don't worry: the chance to save your mother will come again.'

Jeevan pulled away and glared at Hans Raj. ‘My mother is dead!' he spat. ‘How can I save her?'

Hans Raj bent over and picked up a handful of red-brown soil. ‘This is where your mother returned to when she died,' he told the boy. ‘This soil is rich with the blood and tears of our people. It is this soil we will defend. The mother you will get the chance to save is
our
mother.'

Jeevan wiped away more tears. ‘Mother India . . .'he whispered.

Hans Raj pressed the soil into Jeevan's hand. ‘Yes, Mother India,' he said, his eyes burning with hatred.

HMP Pentonville, London,

13 July 1940

Udham Singh (aka Ram Mohammed Singh Azad)

5 a.m.

There is not much more left to say now that I wait to kiss the hangman's noose. I go to my Maker with no fear. Rather it is with hope in my heart and longing in my soul that I face my end. Nothing that these dirty British dogs can do will strike fear inside me. They have done all they can. Let them shackle my motherland. Let them cut my people down with bullets. They can make us slaves to their imperialist intentions but they will never take away our hope.

I did it – that's what I told that policeman. I did it and I'm proud and I'd do it again. And again. And again. I only killed one – it should have been more
but it was only one. I am sorry. You see, it was never my intention to take another human life. It was never my intention to become what I am. Just like my friend,
Bhai
Bhagat Singh, I sought only to free my country. I hold no hatred for the people of England. As I told the judge, I have more English friends than Indian. It is against this vile government that I have a grudge. It was never my intention. Never . . .

They tell me that my executioner is number one on the government list. The best at what he does. Uncle Tom, they call him. I only hope he is as good as they say. I do not wish to wait any more. I do not wish to delay. Let me go to meet my
bhai
, Bhagat Singh-ji, who went ten years since and waits for me. As I have said, Death holds no fear for me. None at all. How can it when I die for a purpose?

When I am gone, I told Justice Atkinson, I hope that thousands more will come in my place and drive the imperialist dogs from my country. It brings a smile to my face to think of the judge, his face growing redder as he struggled to control my speech. But he did ask me if I had anything more to say. Let my words ring in his ears until the day he takes his last breath. Let them cause him to suffer from indigestion each
time he takes his breakfast, just as my people suffer at his government's hand. As they starve for food and for freedom while the British steal all their wealth. Let him be constipated each time he takes a shit as my accusations whirl about his head like the Lal Toofan.

There is nothing more left to say and yet there is so much left to say. When will my country be free? When will my people be given back their dignity? When will the imperialist dogs stop raising their so-called flag of democracy and Christianity with the aid of cannons and guns? It is not their people who commit these acts or order them to be committed. It is the dirty dog rulers who do that. Let them be smashed to pieces again and again until they learn to change their ways. Let them . . .