I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (19 page)

‘Well, Sardar, are you still plotting to get the British
out?’ He turned to his companion. ‘Great leader this chap, mun. You wouldn’t know looking at him, would you?’

The other nodded his head slowly, scrutinizing Sher Singh from head to foot. ‘One never knows with these niggers.’

‘One doesn’t, does one!’

‘Not unless one sticks a greased pole up their bums.’ They had their eyes fixed on him; they scratched their chins as if contemplating the course of violence. Sher Singh could do nothing except look down at his hands or at their feet.

‘Is this chap also involved in the killing of that fat Sikh lambardar?’

‘No mun! He’s after bigger game. He wants to shoot the Guv or the Viceroy. Don’t you? Speak, you big leader of the revolution! Don’t you?’

Sher Singh felt the blood drain out of his system. Were they going to beat him? Why didn’t they ask him a specific question and give him a chance to answer?

‘Oi,’ shouted one of them to the constable outside, ‘ask the sub-inspector to
juldi karo
. We can’t waste the whole afternoon with this fellow.’

The constable ran across the courtyard. The subinspector came with a sheaf of yellow files tucked under his arm. They got into a huddle. Sher Singh watched them carefully as they whispered into each other’s ear. The older of the two sergeants pushed aside the file with disdain: ‘Wot you wasting your time for on this chap if the other fellows have already given us all the names?’

‘I don’t know, Sahib,’ answered the sub-inspector
feigning surprise. ‘Mr Taylor, Deputy Commissioner, say he Sardar Buta Singh’s son, give him chance to be informer and save his life.’

‘So that’s it! You hear, mister? The DeeCee wants to give you a chance to save your bloody neck from hanging because of your old Bap. We have all the information we want from your pals. It’s a watertight case. You confirm what they have said and we might consider granting you pardon. Otherwise you hang with the rest of the buggers.’

Sher Singh found his voice with great difficulty: ‘What did they say?’

‘The bugger wants to know what the others have said? Clever fellow isn’t he? Don’t try tricks with us, old chap. We’ve known too many like you.’

The Indian sub-inspector was more polite — obviously wanting to curry favour with Buta Singh. ‘Sardar Sahib,’ he said in Punjabi, ‘as the Sahibs have told you, we have all the information we need from your associates. This is a very serious case; you can be sentenced to death for conspiracy to wage war against the King Emperor. Mr Taylor wants to reward the loyal services of your respected father and has ordered us to give you the chance to be a Crown witness. If your statement confirms what the other conspirators have said and is truthful about the crimes you have committed, the Government may decide to grant you pardon. Do you understand?

‘Yes.’

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

‘Could I consult a lawyer?’

‘Rape your sister!’ exploded one of the sergeants.

‘We want to give you a chance to save your neck and you want to bring lawyers here! Give him the rod properly greased.’

The Indian sub-inspector again took charge of the situation with a mixture of servility and firmness. ‘Sardar Sher Singh, you have not appreciated our point. We know everything already and really have no need of your statement. It is only for your own good. If Taylor Sahib insists on sparing your life because of Sardar Buta Singh, we can make you talk; you know that, don’t you?’

Sher Singh made no answer to the threat.

Three pairs of eyes continued to transfix him. He did not know what to say. But he knew that if they used any violence he would tell all he knew without considering the rights or wrongs of making the confession. He made one last attempt to postpone the decision. ‘Could I at least see my father?’

‘Now he wants to see his Bap. What’s wrong with this fellow?’

‘Perhaps he will want to see his Ma too,’ added the other.

‘You don’t believe what we say?’ asked the Indian sub-inspector angrily. ‘It is because your father has been rubbing his nose at Mr Taylor’s threshold every day that you are being given this opportunity!’

‘It is very kind of you but I would like to speak to my father before making any statement.’ For the first time Sher Singh spoke firmly, and that because an Indian subordinate had dared to talk disparagingly of his father.

The three officers went back into a huddle and then
rose up together. The one with his feet on the chair kicked it towards Sher Singh. ‘O.K. You see your bloody Bap. We’ll talk to you later.’

‘And if you want our advice on how to kick the British out of India, don’t hesitate to ask.’

They roared with laughter and left.

The non-stop reading of the Granth did not bring any peace in Buta Singh’s home. What was worse, the Guru did not indicate the line of action as Sabhrai had promised. And soon after the ceremonial reading was over, Buta Singh resumed his sulking and self-pity. He refused to see Sher Singh in the lock-up, and would not let anyone else see him. He began to insinuate that Champak must have known of her husband’s activities and had done nothing to stop him. When Champak’s parents heard of it, they came over and took her back home. At last Sabhrai’s patience came to an end. One morning she boldly announced her intention to see her son. Buta Singh was adamant. The crisis was averted by the arrival of the officer in charge of the police station. He told them that Sher Singh had expressed the desire to see his father before making a statement and that Mr Taylor had specially requested Buta Singh to comply with his son’s wishes.

Buta Singh refused to comply. He thought that, in the circumstances, the refusal to obey Taylor would more than ever prove his loyalty to the Government and disapproval of his disloyal son. The responsibility fell automatically on Sabhrai. She accepted it readily, not because she had any advice to give her son on the
statement he was to make, but because her heart ached to see her son and to clasp him to her bosom. She asked her husband to tell her what she was to say to Sher Singh about the confession.

Buta Singh explained the legal situation to her again. She asked: ‘If the police already know the names of his associates why do they want them all over again from Sher?’ He explained, as he said, for the twentieth time, because they wanted to give him a chance to get away. Why, she went on, were they so keen on letting him get away? For the hundredth time, answered her husband, because Mr Taylor was so kind and friendly to a family which had a long record of loyalty. Why, persisted Sabhrai, if the police really knew the names of Sher’s associates hadn’t they arrested any of them? Oh really, Buta Singh couldn’t be bothered to go over things again and again. Sabhrai had developed a stubborn indifference to rudeness and irritation and asked her husband point-blank: ‘What will happen if he refuses to make a confession?’

‘What will happen? As far as I am concerned, my service, pension, and the land granted by the Government all go. But that is a small matter; in addition, the boy will be hanged.’

Sabhrai shut her eyes: ‘The True, The True. The Great Guru, the Great Guru.’

She turned to her daughter: ‘Have you any advice for your brother?’

‘I only want him back,’ she replied full of emotion. ‘I don’t care what he says or does, but he must come home now.’

Buta Singh felt that he should not let the matter be
postponed indefinitely. ‘Will you go tomorrow morning? I have to tell the sub-inspector.’

‘What is the hurry? We have waited so many days. We should think about it a little more,’ answered Sabhrai.

Buta Singh launched into another tirade. When he finished telling her how little she appreciated the gravity of the situation, how stubborn and stupid she had become of late, Sabhrai got up. ‘I will talk to the inspector myself,’ she said.

The sub-inspector stood up and saluted Sabhrai.

‘Have you come from the police station where my son is kept?’

‘Yes, Mataji, your son is in our care.’

‘Tell your senior officer I will come to the police station four days from now. I will come, not my husband. I would also like to bring my son’s dog with me. He has missed his master very much.’

‘Very good, Mataji. I will tell the Inspector Sahib. Is there anything you want to send to your son or any message you want me to give him?’

Sabhrai thought for a while. ‘If you wait for a moment, I will give you something for him.’ She went into the house and came back with a small prayer book wrapped in velvet. ‘Give this to my little Ruby and tell him to say his prayers regularly. Tell him that the Guru is with him in body and in spirit. Sat Sri Akal.’

The sub-inspector was a Muslim. Nevertheless he put the Sikh prayer book reverently on his forehead and then kissed it. ‘Mataji, I will give it to him myself. Allah will protect your son from harm.’

•

For the next three days Sabhrai shut herself away from the world. Her sanctuary was not the gurudwara but her own bedroom. She sat in her armchair with her legs tucked beneath her and murmured her prayers. Her only companion was Dyer. She had never taken much notice of the dog but since her son’s arrest she had tried to give him the affection Sher Singh had given. Dyer sat in front of his mistress with his chin stretched on the floor and his eyes dolefully fixed on her. After each prayer she would speak to him: ‘Dyer, son, will you come with me to see Sher?’ Dyer would prick up his ears at his master’s name and cock his head inquiringly from side to side. ‘Nobody takes you out for walks these days?’ Like all dogs, Dyer knew the word ‘walk.’ He would get up with a whine and come to his mistress wagging his big tail. ‘That’s all right, son. Mama will take you out when you are well. And when my Moon comes home, we will all go for walks together, won’t we?’ And Dyer would again be full of questions cocking his head from left to right, right to left. Sometimes he would get too excited, put his paws in his mistress’ lap, and lick her face. She would push him away gently, for this she did not like. She would wipe her face with her headpiece, wash her hands in the bathroom, and start praying again. An hour later the whole thing would be repeated: ‘Dyer, son, will you come with me to see my Shera?’

The evening before the interview, she had her dinner with her husband and daughter and told them she was going to spend the night at the temple in the city. They did not ask her any questions. She wrapped herself in her Kashmir shawl, for it had become bitterly cold, and went away on a tonga.

When Sabhrai took off her slippers outside the main gate, the man in charge of shoes was already packing up. ‘Brother, keep my shoes for the night; I will take them in the morning.’ He gave her a ticket, put out his hurricane lantern, and locked the shoe-shed.

Not many people stay in the temple after the evening service is over. Visitors from other towns retire to the quarters provided for them; beggars are driven away by armed guards who patrol the sacred premises. Only those stricken with sorrow spend the midnight hours in different corners crying and praying for peace. These no one disturbs.

Sabhrai washed her hands and feet in the cistern at the entrance and went down the marble stairs gripping the silver railing on the side. The waters of the sacred pool and the milk-white of the marble walls glistened in the moonlight. The gilded dome of the shrine had a ghostly pallor. Sabhrai bowed towards the shrine. She walked along the side-walk and up the narrow passage, which ran level with the water, to the central place of worship. The room was dimly-lit by a blue electric bulb; the diamonds and rubies in the ceiling twinkled like stars on a dark night. In the centre of the floor the sacred Granth lay wrapped on a low cot. In the corners of the room were huddled figures of men and women, some asleep, some in prayer. Sabhrai made her obeisance and went out. She found a spot from where she could see the dome of the temple and the reflection of the moon and the stars in the dark waters of the sacred pool. She sat down on the hard and cold marble floor. An icy wind blew over the water, through the trellised fence, into her bones. But it was absolutely still and
peaceful. The city was asleep; only the gentle clop clop of ripples on marble and the boom of the tower clock striking the hours disturbed the heavy silence.

Sabhrai did not know what prayer one recited during the night; so she went through all she knew by heart. When she had finished, the clock struck two. But the tumult in her mind was not stilled. They were going to hang her son if he did not mention the names of the other conspirators. Hang her little Shera whom she had borne and fed by her own breasts. She began to sob. She stifled her sobs and tried to meditate. How could she meditate with Shera crying for help: ‘Mother, they will hang me and I am only twenty-one.’ Tears coursed down her cheeks, hot and unceasing. She wiped them with the hem of her shirt and blew her nose. She felt her son’s presence between her arms, and more tears flooded down. Why did she feel alone in this awful predicament? Her husband had no doubts; he wanted Shera to confess. So, obviously, did her daughter and daughter-in-law. Sher mattered as much to them as he did to her. Did they really believe that the police knew everything or were they doping their consciences with the thought? And what did Shera himself want to do? Surely it was really for him to decide rather than for her! And if she were the only one with doubts, couldn’t she be mistaken?

So the tumult continued and the tears continued to course down her cheeks. Her grey head was full of dew and her limbs stiff with cold and damp. Why did the Guru not guide her in her hour of need? Had she lost faith? She recalled the time when she had come to this very temple to take part in the cleaning of the sacred
pool. The water had been pumped out and the enormous carp that ate out of people’s hands had been put away in another tank. Millions of Sikhs had volunteered to carry on their heads the slime which had accumulated for over a hundred years. People said that the hawk of the last Guru would come to see the cleaning. Non-believers had laughed their vulgar laughter, shrugged their shoulders, and said: ‘What can you do to people like that?’ But the hawk had come. With her own eyes she had seen it swoop down from the heavens, scattering the thousands of pigeons that nested in the temple precincts. It had perched on the pinnacle of the golden dome, preened its lustrous white plumage, and looked down on the throng waist deep in slime and mire. The people had wept and prayed. Over and over again men had hurled the Guru’s challenging cry: ‘Ye who seek salvation, shout;’ and the crowd had roared back: ‘God is Truth.’ People with faith had seen; those without faith neither saw nor believed that others had seen. Sabhrai also recalled the terrible days when the Sikhs wanted to take over their shrines from the clutches of corrupt priests and the police had decided to help the priests against the people. They had killed and tortured passive resisters. But for each one who was killed, beaten, or imprisoned, another fifty had come. Word had gone round that whenever a band of passive resisters prayed with faith, the Guru himself would appear in their midst and all the lathi blows the police showered on them would fall on him and not on them. That was exactly how it had happened. Frail men and women, who had not known the lash of a harsh tongue, had volunteered and taken
merciless beatings without wincing. The police had tired and the priests had panicked. The faith of the Sikhs had triumphed. Was her faith shaking? She tried to dismiss all other thoughts and bring the picture of the last warrior Guru to her mind. He came as he was in the colour print on her mantelpiece: a handsome bearded cavalier in a turban, riding his roan stallion across a stream. On his right hand was perched his white falcon with its wings outspread.
There
was a man. He had lost all his four sons and refused to give in to injustice. She was to lose only one. How had the Guru faced the loss of his children? She began to recite his stirring lines: