I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (21 page)

‘You mean torture.’

‘You can call it that. It may be nothing more than a threat or an inconvenience. With educated city dwellers like Sher Singh they should have no difficulty.’

The bearer brought in the coffee. They drank it in silence. Joyce still showed no signs of leaving. When she noticed her husband impatiently emptying his pipe, she asked him in a nervous, high-pitched voice: ‘John, you can’t keep that boy in prison indefinitely till he confesses to a crime he may never have committed. That’s the sort of thing we are fighting against in this war.’

Taylor filled his pipe and lit it before answering. ‘A man is missing; it can be presumed that he is dead. If someone had told me about his disappearance a little earlier, I would have put the police on the right track. He had been seeing me regularly.’

‘What makes you think Buta Singh’s son killed him?’

‘It is only a guess. He had seen some boys including Sher Singh at target practice; he brought me the fired bullets. They also tried to blow up a little bridge on the canal. He told me about that too.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she cried impatiently, ‘but how did they know he was telling you these things?’

‘Buta Singh’s son was certainly aware of it; I had it conveyed to him that I knew. I hoped it would stop his goings on.’

‘It is possible one of the others killed him without Sher Singh having anything to do with it.’

‘It is possible but highly improbable.’

Joyce Taylor had no more arguments but was still reluctant to give up. ‘How long do you deprive a man of his liberty because of probability of guilt?’

Taylor looked a little surprised at her vehemence. ‘Not for long; if there isn’t any further evidence. You seem very wrought up today. What is the matter?’ He
ran his fingers through her hair. She let her head drop on his shoulder.

‘John, will you promise me something?’

‘What is it, dear?’

‘You won’t be cross with me for interfering in your business?’

‘I promise not to be cross, but I am likely to say “No.” ’

After a long pause she continued: ‘The Walrus’ wife — the Sardarini — is ill, very ill.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Taylor, a little surprised. ‘This is the first I have heard about her illness. What is the matter with her?’

‘The doctor has diagnosed it as double pneumonia. Apparently before interviewing her son she spent the night praying at the Golden Temple. She must have got the chill there.’

Taylor was not a religious man, but this sort of devotion moved him. ‘I am very sorry to hear that. She has the dignity of an ancient people behind her. Without knowing her I have respect for her. If you like, I can ask the English Army doctor to see her.’

‘I do not think she has the will to live. Unless she gets back that will, no doctor will be able to help her.’

Taylor continued stroking her hair.

‘John, why can’t we give her a Christmas present which will mean something to her? Really mean something.’

Taylor got up, carrying his wife in his arms as if she were a child. He kissed her and put her on her feet. ‘They don’t believe in Christmas; they are not Christians. Come along now. Time for bed.’

•

The Muslim sub-inspector entered the cell with a conspiratorial smile on his face. ‘Congratulations, Sardar Sher Singh. A hundred, hundred congratulations.’

‘What about?’ asked Sher Singh feigning ignorance. He knew in prison there could only be one reason to congratulate anyone.

‘If you give us some sweets, I will tell you.’

‘Even so?’

The sub-inspector dramatically held out a piece of yellow paper. ‘An order for your release. Tomorrow morning you will be discharged. Mr Taylor’s orders are that your respected parents should not be told but that you should be taken home as a surprise for the Big Day. Tomorrow is Christmas, you know!’

‘Christmas for the Christians,’ said Sher Singh disdainfully. ‘Tell me, what happened about the case? Am I being released on bail?’

‘No, no, Sardar Sahib! Discharged! Finished! Holiday! There was no evidence against you.’

‘I thought you had all the evidence for some case or other from the boys who had confessed.

‘Oh, you are still yesterday’s child, Sardar Sher Singh! You will get to know the ways of the Punjab police when you grow up. No one has been arrested so there are no confessions. You have nothing to worry about. Go home and have a good time. Some day when you are a big man, a minister or something, think of poor sub-inspector Wali Dad who gave you the good news.’

‘That is very kind of you.’

Sher Singh pondered. Next day was Christmas. There would be no newspapers. ‘I don’t suppose it would be possible for you to delay my release by a day.’

The sub-inspector looked puzzled. ‘Don’t you want to go home? It is the Deputy Commissioner’s order. If it is disobeyed, I’ll have my plug taken out. It is not only because it is the Big Day tomorrow but also because your respected mother is in indifferent health.’

‘Oh! No one told me about that.’ Sher Singh really didn’t believe it. Probably Taylor was trying to be a boy scout and an Oriental monarch in one — releasing a prisoner on Christmas Day to save the life of a dying mother. ‘Would you do me a favour? Could you take a message to a friend of mine. He is Mr Wazir Chand’s son, Madan. He is my best friend.’

‘Mr Madan, the famous cricketer? With great pleasure. I will deliver it personally. I know his respected father, Mr Wazir Chand, Magistrate.’

Sher Singh took up a piece of buff coloured paper from a large pad and wrote:

Dear Madan,

You will be glad to hear that I am being released tomorrow. Please convey this information to all my friends in the University (but not to my parents for whom I want it to be a pleasant surprise).

The police did their worst to get information from me but they failed. I am proud to have been able to serve my God and my country. We should exploit this
little service I have done to our best advantage. Greetings to all the comrades in arms.

Long live the Revolution.

Your brother,
Sher.

He put the letter in an envelope and sealed it. This is private, sub-inspector Sahib. I shall be grateful if the inspector does not read it before it is forwarded.’

‘What will you say when you are a great man? Wali Dad did me a little service,’ said the sub-inspector. He shook Sher Singh with both hands and put the letter in his pocket.

Sher Singh was flushed with excitement. At long last it had come. An imprisonment and a heroic stand against torture by the police. What more could anyone ask for? He would be the hero of the city for the next few days. If he kept up the citizens’ interest and faith in him, a political career was his for the asking. What about his father? The Government could not penalize him for something it had been unable to prove against his son! He would make it up to him by his success. And his father had almost certainly more than made it up with Taylor. All was well. Sher Singh knew his star was in the ascendant once more. He hardly thought of his mother’s illness. In fact, he did not believe there was any truth in it. It must be another canard let loose by his father to get round Taylor.

Madan did not fail his friend. He spent the whole of Christmas Eve going round to all the college hostels and telling the boys to turn up at the police station at the crack of dawn. He informed the Nationalist Party
office and persuaded them to hire a brass band and get an open car to take Sher Singh in procession. He got hold of press photographers and newspaper correspondents, all of whom had been obliged to him for exclusive interviews and pictures of sporting events. In publicizing Sher Singh they were on a safe wicket. Father, a senior magistrate — son, a student leader on the road to fame and power.

From the early hours of the morning crowds of students carrying garlands of marigolds and roses began to collect outside the police station. By eight o’clock, the crowd had swelled to three or four thousand. An open car decorated with buntings and flowers drew up and took its place behind the brass band made up of retired Sikh soldiers. When the gate of the police station was opened there were thunderous cries of ‘Long live the Revolution’ and ‘Long live Sher Singh.’ There were no white sergeants on duty on Christmas Day, and the Indian police officers were not unduly perturbed at an unlawful assembly at their doorstep. All said and done, it was to honour the son of a magistrate.

Sher Singh was escorted out by a couple of subinspectors. Camera bulbs flashed. The band leader ordered his men to attention. The drum beat a loud tattoo and then opened with the slow bars of ‘God Save the King.’ There was an uproar. The band leader had his baton snatched out of his hand. The anthem whimpered to a standstill amid roars of laughter. The crestfallen band leader started again. This time with ‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary.’

Sher Singh shook hands with his police escort and was immediately submerged in embraces and garlands.
Madan led him to the car through a crowd cheering and yelling wildly. He stood beside Sher Singh in the open car, waved his hand and shouted, ‘Sher Singh.’ The crowd roared back, ‘Long live.’ Sher Singh raised both hands asking for silence. Everyone shushed everyone else. The band stopped — still a long, long way from Tipperary.

‘Comrades,’ said Sher Singh in a voice charged with emotion, ‘I will cherish the honour you have done me today for the rest of my life. I am proud that I was called upon to do a small duty to my country and I did it.’ The crowd interrupted him with loud cheers. He raised his hands, demanding attention. ‘I have been a guest of the King Emperor.’ The crowd roared with laughter. ‘You all know how well the King Emperor — may peace be upon him — looks after his guests.’... The crowd roared again. Sher Singh worked himself into a fury. He thumped his garland-laden chest. ‘But they could not break the spirit of this son of India and God willing they never will.’ Madan hurled his voice across the sea of human heads, ‘Sher Singh’ — the sea thundered back ‘Long live.’ Sher Singh joined his hands and bowed his head in humble acknowledgement. He was deeply moved by the affection of the crowd and by his own words. There were tears in his eyes.

The band struck up a slow march and the procession began to move. Sher Singh sat in the rear acknowledging the cheers and bowing to people who kept loading him with garlands and hurling rose petals at him.

On Christmas morning, Buta Singh and his daughter
were having breakfast in Sabhrai’s bedroom. Mrs Taylor’s warning that she was to be left strictly alone had been ignored. It was an old custom to be by the bedside of a sick person, and so they were — all the twenty-four hours — eating, sleeping, and gossiping. Sabhrai had remained in a state of delirium with the fever never falling below 104°. She opened her eyes sometimes and tried to speak, but only an inaudible whisper escaped her lips.

Buta Singh looked up from his plate and wiped the egg off his moustache with his napkin. ‘Sounds like a wedding procession. They have started early.’ Beena sat still. She heard the shouting of slogans. ‘Couldn’t be a wedding party; sounds more like a political procession.’ The music and the shouting came nearer and nearer till it was inside the house. They got up and hurried out of the room. The band was playing in their porch. The garden, the driveway, and road were jammed with boys chanting ‘Long live the Revolution.’ As Buta Singh appeared on the scene the chanting changed to ‘Long live Buta Singh. Long live Sher Singh. ’ A dozen young men rushed forward to congratulate the magistrate. It was then he noticed his son loaded with garlands. Father and son fell into each other’s arms. All differences of opinion, all rancour which had poisoned their relationship over the past months were submerged in the applause of triumph.

It was Sabhrai’s ninth day in bed. On the ninth day the fever usually subsides and the patient is on the mend — unless, of course, there is a relapse. In which
case, the process starts all over again. Nobody could say that the family had not done their best in looking after her. They never left her bedside for a moment. Her husband and daughter took turns to watch over her all through the night. During the day, there were other relations or servants always present. Shunno showed great endurance in keeping the house going and also being with the mistress at all hours; pressing her tired limbs, talking to her when she mumbled in her delirium, comforting her with words in baby language and with prayer. The doctor’s instructions about the medicine and diet were also strictly carried out. As books of medicine prescribed, Sabhrai sweated profusely all night and in the morning her temperature was down by four degrees. She was obviously turning the corner.

She was awakened from her half delirious sleep by Beena embracing her and shouting in her ears that Sher Singh was back home. She heard the band and the slogans and the people talking excitedly. She saw many strange faces in her room till it was full of bright eyes and glistening teeth. She vaguely guessed what could have happened. Or was it another dream which would end in the nightmare of awakening?

Then her son appeared. His sister had reloaded him with garlands. He came and fell on her and smothered her with tears, kisses, and crushed flowers. His sister gently pushed him away; Mrs Taylor had said ‘No excitement.’ The physical touch of her son convinced Sabhrai that her son was free. She could not reason out why he was free. She had herself urged him on the way to death but merciful God had sent him back to her.
Her lips quivered but no words came: only a long-drawn moan and then a flood of tears.

When the doctor came an hour later, Sabhrai was in a state of complete collapse. In the excitement that prevailed in the house no one realized that this was the crucial ninth day. The doctor examined the chart and discovered that she had had a relapse. But even he could not bring himself to being angry with as important a man as Buta Singh and on a day when there was so much rejoicing. Hadn’t his only son been delivered from the jaws of death? He told the family that the son’s coming had been too much for the patient and the fever would continue for another period. He assured them that Sher Singh’s release would act like a tonic and she would pull through.