City of Ghosts (9 page)

‘People are like the seasons,' Bissen had told him. ‘It is natural that things change, and that is equally true of human beings. Perhaps Gurdial is moving into summer whereas you are not yet ready to let go of spring?'

‘Perhaps,
bhai-ji
,' Jeevan had replied.

A meaty hand took hold of his shoulder and broke into his thoughts. ‘Good afternoon,
bhai
!'

Jeevan turned to see the giant frame of Ram Singh standing over him. ‘
Bhai-ji
,' he replied.

‘Cheer up!' Ram bellowed.

‘I'm fine,' said Jeevan. ‘I was just lost in my thoughts.'

Ram smiled and helped Jeevan to his feet, holding out a shovel-like hand. Two years older than Jeevan, Ram Singh was pale-skinned, a shade over six feet tall and still growing, his chest the size of a barrel and his neck as thick as the trunk of a peepal tree. Next to him stood Rana Lal, a short, skinny boy with oily black hair and acne-pitted cheeks, who was six months younger than Jeevan.

‘S
at-sri-akaal, bhai-ji
,' said Rana.

‘
Sat-sri-akaal
,' replied Jeevan.

Ram looked across at the bridge and the army patrols. ‘
Saleh bhenchoord goreh!
' he said. ‘Look at them eyeing us, here in our own land . . .'

Jeevan turned and saw that the white men on the bridge were watching them.

‘Perhaps they think we are rebels?' said Rana. ‘Ghadar Party men.'

The Ghadar Party had been created by Indian workers in a far-off land called California, or so Jeevan had heard. They were revolutionaries, and one of them, not much older than Jeevan, had been hanged by the British four years earlier for conspiring to commit terrorist acts. The name of Kartar Singh Sarabha was
known to all the young men of the Punjab; a martyr who had been no more than a boy when he died.

‘Let's go,' said Jeevan, remembering the rebel he had seen killed by troops a few days earlier.

‘When we are ready,' replied Ram Singh defiantly. ‘I could crush them with the fingers of one hand.'

Jeevan shook his head. ‘But they have rifles,
bhai-ji
. Just the other day I saw them kill someone.'

The defiance in Ram seemed to wither. He looked at Jeevan and then nodded. ‘Come,' he said, ‘let's go to the bazaar.'

As they set off for the central thoroughfare of the old city, Rana asked Jeevan what he had seen.

‘It was someone with a gun,' he explained. ‘The soldiers asked him to stop and he ran. One of them shot him in the head.'

Rana nodded, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination.

‘Their time is coming,
bhai
,' said Ram Singh.

Jeevan wondered what his friend meant but said nothing.

THE ASSISTANT POSTMASTER
shook his head, just as he did each day, and Bissen turned away, hoping not to show the sadness he felt.

‘Perhaps tomorrow,
bhai
,' the postmaster said to him, hoping to make him feel a little better.

‘Perhaps,' Bissen replied without looking back.

He hurried out into the street. The air seemed as thick as treacle and Bissen fought to breathe. He found an upturned crate and sat down, wondering where the air in his lungs had gone. A merchant emerged from the post office, his copper beard neatly trimmed and freshly coloured, and stopped in front of Bissen.

‘Can I help you, my brother?' he asked.

Bissen shook his head. ‘I'm fine,
bhai
,' he replied. ‘Just a little tired.'

The merchant shrugged. ‘We are
all
tired,
bhai
,' he said. ‘May Allah bless you.'

‘And you too,' said Bissen as the merchant walked away.

A shout went up on the other side of the busy road. Bissen looked over and saw a man being led into the police station. A crowd had gathered before he could blink and insults were being thrown.

‘
LET HIM GO!
' demanded the crowd.

‘
Death before dishonour!
' shouted one of them.

It was obvious that the police had picked up a rebel and the crowd were unhappy about it.

‘
Traitors!
' a young man shouted.

This man stood taller than the rest of the crowd, his shoulders square and his face proud. A black turban made of the finest silk sat on his head and he wore a silver
kurta pyjama
. He was very obviously the son of a wealthy family and Bissen wondered what he was doing there.

‘Who knows?'

Bissen turned to see the woman from the market once again. She smiled and told him not to worry about the motives of people he didn't know.

‘That young man will earn his own fate,' she added. ‘And his path does not intersect with yours.'

Bissen shook his head, wondering whether the opium was beginning to mess with his mind.

The woman shook her head. ‘You can blame it on the
pheme
if you like,
beteh
,' she told him. ‘But I am as real as the ache in your heart.'

‘I don't understand how you can know so much
about me,' said Bissen. ‘I don't even know your name.'

She laughed. ‘You do not need to know my name to understand that I am a friend.'

Bissen stood up. ‘A friend?'

‘Yes,' the woman said, nodding.

He felt confused. There were so many things about her that made no sense and yet he felt completely at ease in her company.

‘No joy for you today?' she asked, nodding towards the post office.

‘Is there anything you don't know?' Bissen wondered.

‘Very little,' she replied. ‘Everyone can see you walking to the post office each day. You walk with a sense of purpose and your stride is long, despite your injuries.'

Bissen thought about her words and found that he was nodding in agreement.

‘But when you leave the post office your face has fallen. Your shoulders sag and your sense of purpose disappears. It is obvious that you are waiting for something.'

‘I see,' replied Bissen as a gang of youths ran past, heading for the police station.

‘There is a storm coming,' the woman said, changing the subject. ‘I can smell the anger of the people in the air—'

‘Have they caught another rebel?' asked Bissen, gesturing towards the police station.

She smiled. ‘They have a
boy
in custody; a boy whose father they shot dead,' she told him. ‘The father threw a bomb at the patrols. He killed two Indians and a
Nepali. But two years ago the boy's mother was killed during a shoot-out between soldiers, policemen and rebels – the father was taking his revenge.'

‘So it has nothing to do with revolution then?' asked Bissen.

The woman shook her head. ‘It has everything to do with it. Everything and nothing . . .'

Bissen raised an eyebrow. ‘You speak in riddles.'

She nodded but said nothing.

‘What do you mean when you say that?' asked Bissen. ‘I'm not as clever as you.'

‘There is always some excuse for such deaths,' she explained. ‘The boy will want to avenge his father; a father who wished to avenge his wife. But the soldiers will want to protect themselves and their comrades. They also have a duty to their superiors and to the British Empire. Each killer will find some justification for his actions.'

A memory shot through Bissen. A young German soldier, no more than a boy, his eyes filled with tears, his voice pleading.

‘You killed men in that war,' the woman said to him. It was neither a question nor a statement. It was as if she was reading Bissen's own thoughts out loud.

He nodded. Behind them two larger patrols arrived and twenty or so soldiers began to disperse the crowd. The policemen stayed inside the police station – the
kotwali
. The new troops were led by the superintendent of police, a man called Rehill.

‘I killed
many
men,' admitted Bissen as he watched Rehill take charge of the situation.

‘And how did you learn to accept that?'

Bissen shrugged. ‘I thought you knew everything,' he replied, making the woman smile.

‘I could tell you, but then you would think me some kind of witch,' she joked.

‘So you are not a witch?'

She shook her head. ‘I am just a woman who sees the world around her for what it is,' she told him. ‘So how
did
you come to terms with killing so many fellow humans?'

Bissen looked down at his toes. ‘I didn't,' he replied. ‘At first it was my duty to king and emperor. But that soon wore thin and I realized that I was fighting to survive. I knew that I had to shoot to stay alive. If I hadn't, then the enemy would have gunned me down. Either that or my superiors would have executed me for desertion.'

The woman nodded and put her hand on Bissen's shoulder. He gazed at her fingers, so long and slender, as yet another memory crashed through him like the giant waves he'd seen on his passage back to India. Lillian's face, her eyes, her smile. He looked away, wishing he had never left England; had never left her.

‘You wait for a letter,' the woman told him. ‘A letter from Lillian.'

Bissen found himself nodding. He wanted to ask her how she knew Lillian's name but found that he couldn't. Something was stopping him.

‘Your letter
will
arrive, Bissen,' she said, her voice as soothing as honey.

‘How can you know that?' he asked.

‘I just know.'

She held out her hand and Bissen felt himself drawn to her. He reached out and took her hand.

‘Her letter will come before the storm,' she added. ‘Leave as soon as you get it. Do not wait. Do not walk in anyone else's path; not even for a moment. Do you understand?'

Bissen shrugged.

‘When it comes, take the letter, gather your things and go,' repeated the woman. ‘I can only warn you once.'

‘I don't understand . . .'

‘Others will embroil you in their lives. When the time comes, leave them to their own fates and walk away.'

The woman smiled at him. ‘Come and see me at the market tomorrow. I will have some more fruit for you.'

Bissen smiled back. ‘I would like that.'

And then, realizing that she wanted to take her leave, he looked away, towards the scene of the disturbance. He knew that when he turned back she would be gone.

JEEVAN MADE A
face at his friend. Gurdial, feeling a little guilty, tried to cheer him up.

‘Why don't we go out when I get back?' he suggested. ‘We could go and spy on the drunks.'

Jeevan shook his head. ‘We'd have to sneak out, and if Mata-ji catches us, she'll beat us for sure.'

Gurdial shrugged. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but I promised Sohni I would see her.'

‘No, no,
bhai-ji
, you go,' replied Jeevan. ‘Besides, I have other friends I said I would meet.'

Gurdial nodded. Jeevan had mentioned Ram and Rana many times. The thought of Jeevan's new friends left him feeling torn. Part of him felt envious of the time Jeevan was now spending with them, but another part of him was pleased too. Gurdial had Sohni, and the thought of Jeevan kicking his heels when they weren't together made him feel guiltier still.

‘It is good that you have Ram and Rana,' he said. ‘Perhaps I can meet them too.'

‘Ram is very clever,' Jeevan told him. ‘He knows so much about the British and the rebels. His father was a Ghadar Party member.'

‘Really? Is he still active?'

Jeevan shook his head. ‘The
Engrezi
killed Ram's father in Lahore,' he said.

‘Be careful,
bhai
,' warned Gurdial. ‘Don't get involved with the revolutionaries – the British want them all dead.'

‘I won't,' he replied. ‘But I want to learn what I can. The British treat us as slaves in our own land. Someone has to make them go away.'

Gurdial sighed. He needed to go, yet part of him wanted to stay and make Jeevan listen. The revolutionaries were every bit as dangerous as the British. In the end it was ordinary people who would suffer, just as Bissen had told them. There were too many so-called rebels in Amritsar and Gurdial didn't want Jeevan caught up with them. It would only lead to trouble.

‘I have to go,' he told Jeevan. ‘Meet me later and we'll talk some more.'

Jeevan nodded. ‘Be careful you don't get caught,' he teased. ‘You would not suit the life of a eunuch.'

Gurdial swore at his friend and then grinned like a madman before going to meet Sohni.

An hour later Jeevan was sitting on the grass inside Jallianwalla Bagh with Ram Singh and Rana Lal. The Bagh, a disused piece of land to the east of the Golden Temple complex, was enclosed on each side by the two- and three-storey buildings that were common in the old city. Although the land had a private owner it was commonly used as a park. The ground was dry in summer and bog-like during the rainy season, with large bare patches amidst the sparse brown grass. Sewer
nalis
cut through the Bagh, and behind Jeevan and his friends was an old well; the air was often thick with the stench of sewage and rotting food, the barely covered channels a fecund breeding ground for disease.

‘It stinks here,' complained Rana. ‘And I'm sure there are rats in the
nali
.'

Jeevan looked over to the sewer channel and saw movement. It could well have been a rat.

‘It's not going to eat you,' replied Ram.

‘Why are we here?' asked Jeevan.

Ram shrugged. ‘What else is there to do?' he said.

‘We could take a walk into the city,' suggested Rana.

‘We'll do that later.'

‘Why, what are we doing later?' asked Jeevan.

‘There is someone I want you to meet,
bhai
,' replied Ram.