I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (18 page)

‘Sahib seems to have something special on his mind this morning. What service can I render?’

Taylor lit his pipe. ‘I wanted to have a general talk with you about things; one seldom gets the time to do that. I also have to ask you about a particular subject which we will come to later on. I hope you don’t mind my being personal. How long. . . . ’

‘Nothing personal, sir,’ interrupted Buta Singh. ‘I have no secrets to keep from you. Ask me anything you like.’

‘I was going to ask how long had your family been connected with the British Government?’

‘Sir,’ warmed Buta Singh, ‘sir, we can almost go
back to the days of Sikh rule. On the annexation of the Punjab and the disbanding of the Sikh forces my great grandfather, who was a subedar and had fought against the British in the Anglo-Sikh wars, joined the British Army. He served under John Lawrence. He also fought under Nicholson in the Mutiny of 1857 and was awarded a medal for the capture of Delhi; we still have it in the family. My grandfather was also in the British Army. He rose from the ranks and retired as a Jemadar — in those days to be a Jemadar was a big thing for an Indian. My father did not join the army, but he recruited many soldiers in the 1914-48 war and our family was given lands in the Canal Colonies. I have kept up the tradition of loyalty to the British Crown and will do so till the day I die.’ He became breathless with the excitement he had generated in himself. It did not seem to affect Taylor who coolly lit his pipe once more.

‘What about your son?’

‘What about my son? He may hobnob with the Nationalists but he will have to be loyal to the British as long as Buta Singh lives,’ he replied, smacking his chest. ‘Otherwise I will disown him. After I am dead, he can do what he likes.’

Taylor still seemed unimpressed. ‘I appreciate your sentiments of loyalty, Buta Singh, but I do not agree with you about the future of India; and I am British. I feel we should pull out of this country as soon after the war as we can and let you Indians manage your own affairs. I, for one, have no intention of continuing in the Indian Civil Service a day after the cease-fire. In fact I am not on the side of Mr Churchill but on that
of Mr Gandhi and Mr Nehru — except, and this is important, I do think the war has to be won first. Otherwise the Nazis and the Fascists will put the clock back for you and for us. I may be wrong, but that is my belief.’

Englishmen like Taylor confused Buta Singh. It wasn’t entirely his fault. He had only known Englishmen who believed in the British Empire as they did in the Church of England; who stood to attention even if a bar of their national anthem came over the air while somebody was fiddling with the knob of a radio set; who believed that ‘natives’ were only of two kinds — the Gunga Dins, whom they loved like their pet dogs because of their dogged devotion to the Sahibs, and the Bolshies, whom they hated.

‘Mr Taylor, you may be right. I am an old man and I cannot change. I am for the British Raj. If it goes, there will be chaos in this country as there was chaos before the British came.’ Buta Singh felt mean. There were limits beyond which flattery should not go; his frequently did. Only if the Englishman accepted it, he would feel better.

‘What does your son have to say on the subject?’

That gave Buta Singh the opportunity to redeem himself. ‘Of course he disagrees with me and is more of your point of view. He is young and you know what youth is!’

‘Yes,’ answered Taylor absent-mindedly. ‘But what do you do when there is a conflict of loyalties? What would you do if you discovered that he had been mixed up not only with the Nationalists but also with terrorists?’

Insinuations about duplicity made Buta Singh angry. ‘I would disown him. I would throw him out of the house,’ he replied emphatically.

‘You are a harsh judge, Buta Singh. Children are meant to be understood, not thrown out when there is a difference of opinion.’

‘We teach our children to respect and obey their parents,’ said Buta Singh. ‘I am sure European parents do the same, sir.’

‘It may be a hard thing to say, but, despite the close living in joint families and the formal respect paid to the elders, there is less contact, understanding, or friendship between parents and their children in India than in Europe.’

Buta Singh didn’t understand the trend of the conversation. Taylor seemed to be beating about the bush. Then out of the blue he came out with a wholly irrelevant question. ‘Did you know Jhimma Singh, headman?’

‘Jhimma Singh? No, who is he?’

‘I hope he is; he certainly was. A big, burly, black chap. Apparently he knew your son and was on visiting terms with him.’

‘Oh yes, sir, I know,’ answered Buta Singh. ‘I think he came to my house some time ago when I was at prayer in the gurudwara. I remember him. I didn’t know his name was Jhimma Singh. What about him, sir?’

Taylor went through the process of emptying, refilling, and relighting his pipe. Sometimes these tactics worked.

‘What about Jhimma Singh, sir?’

‘I have reason to believe that the day he came to your house was the last day he was seen alive. Further, I have reason to believe that your son, Sher Singh, was perhaps the last man to see him alive.’

Buta Singh’s face fell. ‘What is this you say, Sahib?’

‘Jhimma Singh was a headman and a police informer. He had been informing me about your son’s activities with a group of boys who practiced rifle shooting near his village. You recall I gave you a licence for one! I hoped that it would bring the whole business out in the open and you would have put a stop to it. Well, it didn’t work out that way. These lads then tried to blow up a bridge on the canal. Jhimma Singh told me about that too. The only one of the gang he knew was your son. Then suddenly he disappeared. I am pretty certain he has been murdered. I may, of course, be wrong.’ Buta Singh sank back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. Large tears rolled down his cheeks and disappeared in his beard. ‘My nose has been cut. I can no longer show my face to the world,’ he sobbed.

Taylor took the Sikh magistrate’s hairy hand in his own. ‘Buta Singh, this is extremely unpleasant for me but I have to do my duty. Let me tell you all. Your house is being searched in your absence now. I have also ordered Sher Singh to be taken into custody. We have nothing to go on except what Jhimma Singh has told me and that, you as a magistrate know, is not enough. If Sher Singh had anything to do with the headman’s disappearance it is for him to tell. It is on him we have to rely for information about his accomplices as well. If he gives it, I may consider granting him a King’s pardon. Of course, if he had nothing to
do with the affair, or refuses to talk, the case will not be reopened.’

‘How shall I face the world?’ moaned Buta Singh and again covered his face with his hands. Taylor got up and asked the bearer to get a cold drink. Mrs Taylor came in carrying a tray with three glasses of orange juice. She put it on the table and sat down on a chair beside the magistrate. She put her hand gently on his knee. ‘Mister Buta Singh, pull yourself together and have a drink. I was told the Sikhs were brave people! This is not being very brave, is it?’

Buta Singh blew his nose and wiped his tears with his handkerchief. Mrs Taylor held the glass of orange juice for him. ‘Come along, drink it. And don’t fret. What’s happened has happened.’

The magistrate’s hand shook as he gulped down his glass of orange juice. He brought up a deep sigh. ‘How can I thank. . . . ’ He broke down again and started to sob in his handkerchief. The Taylors sat quietly and let him cry his heart out. Then Taylor spoke in a firm voice: ‘Buta Singh, I have given you fifteen days’ leave. Your house will continue to be guarded as before. If you want to be spared the embarrassment of visitors you can tell the policeman to keep them out. You can see your son as often as you want to. You can give him whatever advice you deem fit; it is for you to decide. I repeat, if he is willing to give us the names of his accomplices, he will be made a Crown witness and be granted the King’s pardon. If not, he must face the consequences of his act.’

•

In the Himalayas it is not the advent but the end of the monsoon which is spectacular. There are not months of intense heat which turn the plainsman’s longing for rain into a prayer for deliverance from a hot purgatory. People of the hills look upon the monsoon as they do on other seasons. One brings snow, one the blossoms, one the fruit; also one brings the rain. For another, in the mountains the monsoon is heavier and for days the hills and valleys are blotted out by sheets of rain. It is misty, damp and cold, and people pray for the sunshine. Their prayers are answered some time in September or October. The monsoon is given a grand farewell with fireworks. Thunder explodes like firecrackers and lightning illumines the landscape as if flares were being dropped from the heavens. The sky is no longer a mass of shapeless grey; it is an expanse of aquamarine full of bulbous white clouds which change their shapes and colours as they tumble away. The mists lift as if waved away by a magic wand, unfolding rain-washed scenery of snow-capped mountains on one side and an infinity of brown plains intersecting a thousand golden streams on the other. The air is cleaner. It has the crispy cold of the regions of perpetual snows; it also has the insinuating warmth of the regions of perpetual sunshine.

Some days of autumn have more of ‘God’s in His Heaven’ than others. This was one of them. When they came out into the garden, the sun had just come up over the hills and touched the snow range across the valley with a glow of pink. The forests of deodar stood on the mountainside patiently waiting for a long day of mellow sunshine. There wasn’t a cloud in the deep
blue sky: only lammergeiers drifting lazily with the noiseless ease and grace of gliders. It was too good to be true; and like all times that are too good to be true, there was mixed with the sense of elation, an apprehension that it would not last long, and perhaps, not end as well as it had begun.

They had their breakfast in the garden where the dew lay like whitewash on the lawn. The borders were thick with chrysanthemums, sunflowers, and hollyhocks. After breakfast they went for a stroll on the Mall. The crowds had considerably thinned as most of the government offices had shifted back to the plains and some of the larger stores had closed down for the month. They walked up and down the road a couple of times and then went into Davicos for coffee. After the coffee, Madan took the girls with him to watch the finals of a football tournament played on the race-course in the valley at Annandale. Sabhrai went down to the temple in the lower bazaar to spend the rest of the day.

When Sabhrai returned home late in the afternoon, the servant handed her a telegram; it had been delivered some hours earlier. She tore it open and looked at the hieroglyphics. ‘What does it say?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I can’t read English,’ replied the boy, a little surprised that she should ask him.

‘Go and ask somebody to read it and come back quickly.’

The boy went to the neighbours’ homes and came back half-an-hour later to say that the masters were out and none of the servants could read. Sabhrai took
the telegram from him. She paced up and down the verandah; she walked up to the gate and came back; she went down the road a little distance, came back home, and paced up and down the verandah again. She looked at the telegram over and over again. The only letters she could piece together were those that spelled her husband’s name; the rest made no sense to her. At long last Madan and the girls came home. Sabhrai met them at the gate with the telegram. Madan read it out aloud first in English and then translated it for her in Punjabi. She was right, it was from her husband.

‘Return immediately. Buta Singh.’

S
abhrai’s sixth sense told her nothing about the drama that had taken place. She realized that nothing could be wrong with her husband because he had sent the telegram. Whatever had happened had happened to her son. If he were sick or had met with an accident, his wife was there to look after him. Why should Buta Singh send for her in this manner unless Sher Singh was dying or was already dead? The more she thought of it, the more certain she became that the telegram had something to do with her son; and that he was either in mortal danger or had succumbed to it. She sat up in her bed and prayed all through the night. Next day on her way down to the plains and again all night in the train, her thoughts and prayers were for her Shera.

It was still dark when she woke up Beena and asked her to wash, change, and roll up the beddings. She asked her to come and sit beside her. ‘Pray for your brother,’ she said to indicate that she had an inkling of what had happened. They sat cross-legged on the berth wrapped in their shawls and recited the morning prayer. The black nothingness outside the window-pane became a dimly-lit landscape beyond continuous waves of telegraph wires which rose and fell from pole to pole. The sun came up over the flat land and lit up the yellow squares of mustard, the solid greens of sugar-cane, and blocks of mud villages. They came to the suburbs of the
city. Mud huts gave way to brick buildings, and open fields to evil smelling ditches where men sat on their haunches, shamelessly baring their bottoms and relieving themselves.

The train drew in on a noisy crowded platform full of coolies in red uniforms. Sabhrai and Beena looked for a familiar face, but could not recognize anyone. The orderly came from the servants’ compartment and took charge of the luggage. They were counting their pieces when an Englishwoman approached them. She touched Beena on the arm and asked, ‘Are you Sardar Buta Singh’s daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am Mrs Taylor. Good morning. And this I presume is your mother. Sat Sri Akal, Sardarini Sahiba. We have met before.’

Sabhrai joined her hands and answered the Englishwoman’s greeting. It took the mother and daughter some time to realize that the Deputy Commissioner’s wife had come to receive them. Sabhrai lost her composure and whispered agitatedly into her daughter’s ear. Joyce Taylor saw the consternation on their faces. ‘Don’t be alarmed Sardarini Sahiba, all is well,’ she said putting her hand on Sabhrai’s shoulder. ‘Your husband and son are in the best of health; you will see them soon. I had nothing to do this morning so I thought I’d come along to fetch you and spare you a long tonga ride.’

Beena translated this to her mother and they smiled gratefully at Mrs Taylor. Things must have changed for an English Deputy Commissioner’s wife to take the trouble to receive the family of an Indian subordinate.
They were too bewildered to think that there might be other reasons. Beena gave the coolies more than twice their due to prevent them nagging and making a scene in front of the Englishwoman.

There was nothing at home to indicate a crisis. There were two policemen on duty, instead of one. They came to attention and saluted as the car went in. Nobody came out to receive them while they were unloading their luggage. That didn’t surprise them. Buta Singh was likely to be at the courts; Sher Singh would be out somewhere and Champak in her room. But where was Dyer? He was always the first to greet members of the family returning home and had to be restrained from putting his paws on their shoulders and licking their faces. As soon as Mrs Taylor had said goodbye and left, Beena shouted for the dog. He came round the house, hopping on three legs; the fourth was in plaster. There was a gash on his nose on which flies were clustered. He whined as he came to his mistress and let out a long piteous howl. ‘Hai, Dyer, what’s happened to you? Who’s hurt my little son?’ Sabhrai fanned the flies off with her headpiece and put her arms round the dog. ‘Didn’t Sher take you to the doctor?’

Champak came out of the wire-gauze door. Her hair was scattered untidily on her face. Her eyes were red and swollen. She wore a plain white cotton sari without any make-up or jewelry — like a widow in mourning. Sabhrai’s heart sank. Was her son dead? Hadn’t the Englishwoman said he was in good health!

‘What has . . . ?’

Champak clasped her mother-in-law round the waist
and burst out crying. Sabhrai, who had never particularly cared for Champak, stroked her head. ‘The True, The True, The Great Guru,’ she chanted.

Beena could not stand it any more. ‘What has happened? Why don’t you tell?’ she shrieked.

Buta Singh came out in the verandah. He, too, was shabbily dressed in a white shirt and pyjamas. His beard had not been pressed and he wore no turban. ‘What is all this crying for?’ he asked at the top of his voice. ‘You behave as if he were dead. Perhaps that might have been better.’

‘The True, The True. The Great Guru. What words are these? Where is my son, my Moon, my little Ruby. Where is he?’ Tears streamed down Sabhrai’s face. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Even her tears did not appease Buta Singh’s temper. ‘My nose has been cut; I can no longer show my face to anyone.’

‘What has he done? Why don’t you tell me where he is.’

‘He’s in jail. Where else can he be?’

‘The Great Guru. The Great Guru. Who has been born to put my child in jail! What did he do?’

‘Murder, what else! I can no longer show my face to anyone. All my life’s work has been thrown into a well.’

‘The True, The True
The Great Guru.’

They went into the sitting-room. After a few minutes, Sabhrai regained her composure and asked her husband to explain what had happened. Buta Singh did so in a
bitter voice, mincing no words. He ended on a note of self-pity. ‘All my years of loyal service thrown into the well. . . . Just when I am due to retire and expect to be rewarded, my son cuts my nose. I wouldn’t be surprised if the little land we have in reward for services, were confiscated and I were given no pension. I do not understand this complete lack of regard for one’s parents. And Champak must have known about his goings on with these bad characters. I wouldn’t be surprised if that rascal Madan were one of them. To whom can I show my face now?’

Champak began to sob once more. Sabhrai spoke sharply: ‘You are only concerned with yourself. Don’t you want to save your child’s life?’

The snub had a salutary effect on Buta Singh’s temper. He relapsed into a sullen silence.

‘What are we to do?’ asked Beena at last.

‘I don’t know. I’ve gone mad,’ replied her father.

‘We shall have a non-stop reading of the Granth for two days and nights. The Guru will be our guide,’ said Sabhrai quietly.

‘Yes, yes,’ commented Beena impatiently, ‘we will do that, but we must do something about getting Sherji out of jail. Have you been to see him?’ she asked her father.

‘No. I don’t want to see him.’

Champak’s sobs became louder. Sabhrai put her arms round her. Buta Singh felt guilty. ‘If the Deputy Commissioner had not been so kind to me, the police would have beaten him straight. Even now, he has promised that if Sher tells them all about the crime, he will grant him the King’s pardon.’

‘Will he have to give the names of his accomplices?’ asked Sabhrai.

The police already know about them; they know everything. These other chaps were probably the ones to implicate Sher. It is only by the Deputy Commissioner’s kindness that Sher can avail himself of the King’s pardon. The others would give anything to have the offer made to them.’

‘Will he have to become an informer?’ asked Beena.

Buta Singh got angry again. ‘These are stupid words. I am telling you that the police don’t need an informer; they know everything. They are only willing to give Sher an excuse to save his life because the Deputy Commissioner is keen to help him.’

‘Why haven’t you told Sher of this offer?’ asked Sabhrai.

Buta Singh felt cornered. ‘I’ve been out of my senses. If it hadn’t been for the Taylors, I don’t know what would have happened to me! What more can a man do than offer your son’s life back to you?’

‘You must see Sherji,’ said Beena, ‘and tell him about Mr Taylor’s offer.’

‘We will first do the non-stop reading of the Granth,’ said Sabhrai firmly. ‘The Guru will guide us. We will do what He commands.’

Being the only son, Sher Singh had been pampered in his childhood and allowed to have his own way in his adolescence. Despite this, the two things he hankered after were affection and esteem. The one he sought through popularity amongst friends; the other through
leadership. The applause that came from his family and his colleagues was offset by his early marriage. Champak, despite her expressions of admiration, gave him an uneasy feeling of being a failure. To impress her became an obsession. The form it took was to hold out visions of a successful political career by which he would take her to dizzy heights of eminence along with him. The more his physical inadequacy gnawed his insides, the more daring he became in his political activity. From fiery speeches, he went on to uniforms and discipline; from those to belief in force: the worship of tough men and love for symbols of strength, like swords crossed over a shield. These, with the possession of guns, pistols, cartridges, and the handsomely masculine Alsatian as a companion, completed his martial padding. Living with these symbols of strength and among people who vaguely expected him to succeed, Sher Singh came to believe in his own future and his power. He did not realize that strength was not a natural development of his own personality but nurtured behind the protection provided by his father’s position as a senior magistrate and a respected citizen. He was like a hothouse plant blossoming in a greenhouse. The abuse, beating, and arrest were like putting that plant out in a violent hailstorm. His bluster and self-confidence withered in the icy cold atmosphere of the police station.

Sher Singh had never been beaten before in his life. Being kicked in the groin and hit in the face had been a shattering experience. He touched the depths of humiliation and anger. He had always feared and hated Anglo-Indians. They did the Englishman’s dirty work,
spoke his language in their own ugly Hobson-Jobson, full of vulgar abuse, but had none of his cricketing spirit. They were the Hydes of the English Dr Jekyll. He had also envied and hated Punjabi Mussulmans. They were physically stronger and more virile than his type of Sikh. And on that fatal morning an Anglo-Indian sergeant had hit him in the face with the back of his hand and a Mussulman constable had told him to face his ordeal like a man. He had wept from fear; he had wept in anger; he had wept in hate. At the end of two days of weeping, his system was drained of anger and hate; only fear remained: the fear of another thrashing and the greater one of death by hanging.

After a few days, life in the police station became such a routine that it seemed to Sher Singh as if he had been there all his life. Every hour a brass gong was struck, it told the time and regulated the life of the station. At the stroke of six, the reveille was sounded and everyone had to get up. There was much sucking of keekar twigs, spitting, and gargling around the taps where policemen and prisoners took turns to bathe. An hour later they were given highly brewed tea and stale bread. Thereafter the courtyard rang with exercise and drill orders. Anglo-Indian sergeants drove in on their noisy motor cycles and took charge. Policemen went out in batches for traffic duty or investigation or to make arrests. Black Marias were brought in; prisoners were handcuffed, fettered, and taken to the law courts. They were brought back in the evening, locked up and fed. Anglo-Indians drove out more noisily than when they came. After the evening roll-call, there was another call of the bugle and the lights were switched off
everywhere except in the reporting room. Then it was silent save for an occasional shriek or cry for mercy from the cells behind the courtyard where prisoners were interrogated. Through all this the brass gong marked the hours.

What Sher Singh dreaded most was a visit from his father. He had ruined the latter’s career and he would now have no chance of getting an extension of service or a title in the next Honours list. The Government might even deprive him of his pension. Buta Singh was sure to denounce him and refuse to let him come back home — if ever he got away alive. Without Buta Singh there was no chance of reconciliation with the rest of the family. Sabhrai was the type of Indian woman who believed that her husband was a God and would do little more than plead for her son after the initial outburst was over. Champak would probably be sent away to her parents and not be heard of till he came out of jail — if that ever happened. It was an amazing thought that he had hardly missed her. His sister, Beena, did not really matter. The only one he really missed was his dog. Dyer’s defense of his master had made a deep impression on his mind. He had often visualized his picture in uniform on large posters with his handsome Alsatian beside him. Now he visualized the same picture of himself as a sad disillusioned man with a distant philosophic look, loved by no one except his dog, who fixed his doting eyes on his master. He wished they would let Dyer share his cell.

Then there was the interrogation. Sher Singh knew his turn would come soon. The sergeant who had hit him said so every morning when he went round the
cells: ‘Well, Sardar, how are your plans for turning the British out of the country getting on? We must discuss them soon; perhaps I can help you, hm?’

How much did the police know?

Sher Singh tried to work that out hour after hour, day after day. It was obvious that he was the only one of the group they had arrested so far. Madan, who had got him in this mess, was back in Simla having a good time; the others were scattered in different places. Could one of them have been a spy? No, because then his arrest would have followed immediately after the murder. Unless one of the gang had also been arrested and had talked, the police could not possibly know anything about it.

How much should he tell to get away without a beating?

One afternoon a constable came to the cell, put two cane chairs against the wall, and said casually: ‘The Sahibs want to talk to you.’ The ‘Sahibs’ came slapping their putteed legs with their swagger sticks. They were the same two who had arrested him. Sher Singh got up from his chair — more out of fear than out of politeness. He did not greet them because he knew the greeting would not be answered. The sergeants sat down. One of them pulled Sher Singh’s chair nearer him with his toes and put his feet on it. Sher Singh’s only option was to squat on the floor or to keep standing. He kept standing. He was conscious of his arms hanging at his sides as if he were at attention.