I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (22 page)

Five days later, Sabhrai got another dose of the sort of tonic the doctor had spoken of. On New Year’s Eve, the correspondent of
The Tribune
turned up with garlands. This time they were for Buta Singh. He had been given the C.I.E. in the New Year’s Honours list. Buta Singh refused to believe it. ‘Not until I see it in print!’ he insisted. An hour later it was in print in the special supplement published for the Honours list. By then Buta Singh’s colleagues had also learnt of it. All the district’s officers, clerks right down to the orderlies, and peons, turned up with garlands of flowers and gold thread. Those who knew the family invaded the house right into Sabhrai’s bedroom to congratulate and garland her. It went on till late into New Year’s Eve. Next morning it was the turn of the citizens who read of the honour conferred in the paper. So for more than twenty-four hours, the house was full of laughter, gaiety,
and flowers. Even Sabhrai in her dazed state knew that God was back in His heaven because all was well with her family.

Sabhrai had not known many illnesses in her carefully regulated life and had considerable powers of resistance. Nevertheless more than a fortnight of high fever, which had touched 105°, came down and shot up again, had wasted her body and begun to tell on her heart. This was not noticed by the doctor. When the second period of fever came to an end, the family was more careful. In any case the period of excitement was over.

For two days Sabhrai had no fever; she was exhausted and looked deathly pale. She lay all day long staring at the ceiling above her and slowly telling the beads of her rosary. If she wanted anything she would slowly raise her hand for Shunno and whisper instructions in her ear. On the third day she seemed well on the way to recovery and was allowed to sit up in bed propped up with pillows.

The fourth day started well. She was in better form than ever. The family were having their breakfast in her bedroom. Her husband was airing his views on politics. ‘This man Hitler must be an amazing character. He has raised the German people from defeat to such greatness. If India could produce a man like him, all would be well.’

Sher Singh took that sort of remark personally. The crisis produces the man,’ he said pompously. ‘India can only be ruled by strong men. This democratic business of votes for everyone, elections, assemblies, committees, is nonsense. I don’t believe in it.’ After Sher Singh’s
short detention his pronouncements on politics had acquired sanctity.

Buta Singh swallowed a mouthful of curry. A stringy bit of vegetable stuck to his walrus moustache and began to dance up and down as he poured out platitudes with great earnestness. ‘Absolutely right! What does a vote mean to illiterate semi-savage people! It may be all right in England, but not in India. What is the point of creating a jungle of committees and rules so that no one can see the way out? In our own administration they do the same. It doesn’t take me in. I don’t take any notice of committees. No red tape for me,’ he said sitting back. The stringy piece of curry also sat back on his moustache. It looked funny but Buta Singh was talking so seriously that no one could draw his attention to it. ‘If I had allowed myself to be fooled by files and rules of procedure I wouldn’t have got where I have. It takes a shrewd man to see through them.’

A faint smile came on Sabhrai’s pale face. She raised her hand with her rosary dangling between her fingers. Shunno got up and put her ear close to her mistress’ mouth; then put her hands on her mouth and went into an irrepressible giggle. The family looked round. After two months of sighing, sorrowing, and sickness, Sabhrai had cracked a joke.

‘What is it?’ asked Beena.

Shunno could not speak; she was convulsed with laughter. The smile still played on Sabhrai’s pallid face. Beena came close to her and she whispered the same words into her daughter’s ear. Beena also burst out laughing.

‘Tell us the joke too,’ said Buta Singh, smiling
eagerly. Beena held her laughter. ‘Mama says there is a bulbul on the bough.’

Everyone including Buta Singh began to laugh. He brushed his moustache with his napkin and asked: ‘Has it flown?’

Sabhrai nodded her head slowly still smiling.

‘Thank God you are smiling today,’ said Beena. She put her arms round her mother and kissed her on her cheeks and forehead.

Serious political discussion was over and everyone was happy. The joke was repeated to the doctor and other visitors who came. They dispersed to go to their work — to the law courts and the college.

More people die between nine and eleven in the morning than at any other time of the day or night. Body temperature falls to its lowest degree in the early hours and after a short struggle the heart gives in.

But death was far from Sabhrai’s mind on the morning she died. She lay propped up on her pillow looking out of the window. The ixora creeper grew outside and was in full bloom with clusters of scarlet flowers peeping in beside the frame. A pair of magpie robins were apparently contemplating matrimony. She could not see the hen, but the cock flew up to the window-sill to serenade his sweetheart. Like a ballet dancer he ran across the sill in quick, short steps and came to a sudden halt. He jerked his wings behind him as a man tucks his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket. His tail went up, his chest swelled. He raised his head to the flowers and a full-throated song burst out of his tiny beak in sheer
ecstasy. He pirouetted, ran back, and repeated the performance as if to an encore from his audience. Sabhrai knew that God certainly was in His heaven and all was right with the world.

There were a few things which bothered her mind. She had not understood why Sher Singh had been released. Had he ignored her advice and confessed? She did not feel strong enough to question him; she would do so when she was better. The first thing to do was to send him to fetch Champak from her parents. And now this calamity was over and Beena had taken her degree, it was time they got down to finding her a husband.

Sabhrai was immersed in these thoughts when the ormolu clock wound itself and after a preliminary
Krrr
struck the half hour. She looked round. There it was on the mantelpiece with its ivory face with faded gold spots. She had brought it with her in her dowry and it had kept the hours ever since. Only the clear metallic tinkle had gone. Sabhrai put her pillows flat and lay down. She felt very tired. Half an hour later, the ormolu clock again wound itself and after a long
Krrr
struck ten as if its nose were clogged with a heavy cold —
thig, thig, thig
. . . .

Sabhrai felt her feet go icy cold. She called out to Shunno as loud as she could. The maidservant hurried from the kitchen to her mistress’ bedside. ‘Send for my family,’ whispered Sabhrai. ‘My time has come.’

The True, The True. Don’t say such things, Beybey! Let the time come to our enemies.’

‘Don’t talk. Send for my family. My time is drawing near.’

Shunno rushed out of the house to the sentry and
asked him to get the Sardar and other members of the family together. Neither she nor the sentry thought of the doctor. What use are doctors when one’s time is up?

Shunno came back to the room. Even she could see that Sabhrai was not wrong. She began to press her mistress’ feet chanting in loud sing-song: ‘The True, The True. The Great Guru.’

Sabhrai shook her head. ‘Read me the passage for the month. I was ill and nobody read it out to me.’

Shunno fumbled with the pages of the prayer book, found the month of Magh, and began to read loudly:

The Lord hath entered my being;

I make pilgrimage within myself and am purified.

I met Him

He found me good

And let me lose myself in Him.

Beloved! If Thou findest me fair

My pilgrimage is made,

My ablution done.

More than the sacred waters of the Ganga

Of the Yamuna and Tribeni mingled at the Sangam;

More than the seven seas.

More than all these, charity, almsgiving, and prayer,

Is the knowledge of eternity that is the Lord.

Spake the Guru:

He that hath worshipped the great giver of life

Hath done more than bathe in the sixty and eight places of pilgrimage.

‘Shall I read anything else?’ asked Shunno coming closer to her mistress.

Sabhrai shook her head again. ‘When is the first of Phagan?’

‘I don’t know. Many days yet.’

‘Don’t forget to clean the gurudwara and make the prasad. Wake up everyone in time and ask my Sardarji to read the prayer.’

Shunno began to sob. ‘Beybey, why do you talk like this? You will read it yourself. We will sit and listen.’ Sabhrai ignored her sobs. She put her hand on her servant’s shoulder. ‘Now read the morning prayer to me.’

Shunno drew a chair beside her mistress’ pillow. She never sat on a chair in the house but that was the only way she could get close to her. She picked up the prayer book and began to recite. Sabhrai lay back on her pillow and shut her eyes. She folded her hands across her navel and began telling the beads of her rosary.

Buta Singh was the first to arrive. ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’ he asked Shunno in an agitated tone. Sabhrai opened her eyes and spoke to her husband. ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Let me go to my Guru with your blessings.’

Buta Singh began to sniff. A few minutes later Beena turned up. She saw the pallor on her mother’s face and heard her father sobbing in his handkerchief. Sabhrai opened her eyes again and put her hands on her daughter’s head.

‘May the Guru keep you from evil.’

‘Mummy, don’t talk like this. In the name of the Guru, don’t,’ she sobbed.

The tears gave way to a gloomy silence. Buta Singh and Beena sat on Sabhrai’s bed and pressed her arms and feet. Sabhrai fell asleep utterly exhausted. Sher Singh was the last to arrive. Sabhrai woke up as soon as he came in — just as if she had been waiting for him all the time. She smiled and beckoned him to come close to her. She whispered in his ear: ‘I shall not hear the nightingales, my son. May the Guru give you long life.’

Sher Singh was more emotional than the others and began to cry loudly. His father and sister broke down again.

‘What is all this noise?’ asked Sabhrai audibly. ‘You want me to go with the noise of crying in my ears! Say the morning prayer — all together. And do not stop till it is over.’ They suppressed their crying and began to chant together:

There is One God.

He is the supreme Truth.

He, the Creator,

Is without fear and without hate

He, the omnipresent,

Pervades the universe.

He is not born,

Nor does He die to be reborn again.

By His grace shalt thou worship Him. . . .

Sabhrai joined her family in the recitation. She seemed to be at complete peace with the world. An unearthly radiance glowed in her pale face. A few verses before the epilogue her voice became faint and then her lips stopped moving.

I
n India an old person’s death is a matter of rejoicing: a young person’s one of sorrow. In the case of the former, they decorate the bier with paper flags and buntings and often hire a band to lead the funeral procession. Married women put vermilion in the parting of their hair and wear their bridal jewelry. Mothers ask their children to walk beneath the stretcher on which the corpse is carried so that they may have as long a life as that of the deceased. During the seven or ten days prescribed for mourning, there is much ceremonial but little sorrow. On the death of a young man, woman, or child, grief refuses to be confined by custom and expresses itself with savage abandon. Relations and friends of the bereaved indulge in orgies of crying, wailing, and beating of breasts till sorrow is drained of all tears.

Sabhrai was neither too old nor too young. By conventional methods of calculation, she had died before her time because she had left a daughter unmarried. So her going had to be condoled with the necessary concern expressed for Beena’s future. Except for that, it was like the death of any other person who had had a fair innings though not a full one.

Four hours after her death she was carried to the cremation ground with practically half the city following in procession behind her flower-bedecked bier. The Taylors and many other officials had sent wreaths.
There amongst a dozen other pyres in different stages of burning — some fiercely ablaze, others barely glowing under a mound of ashes — they put together a pile of logs and placed her body on them. They uncovered her face for a few minutes for all to see. She slept with a smile still hovering on her face. They put more logs on her, sprinkled them with clarified butter and rose water. A last prayer was said to consign her body to the Great Guru who had earlier in the day claimed her soul. Sher Singh took round a burning faggot and set the pyre aflame.

Next day, he and his father went back to the cremation ground, sprinkled water on the ashes, and picked up whatever had escaped the all-consuming fire: knuckles, knee-caps, ankles, and other unrecognizable little bits of bone. They put them in a sack and took them home. The sack was placed under the cot on which the Granth lay. It had to stay there till Sher Singh could take time off to go to the Beas and scatter its contents in the river.

For the first two days no fire was lit in Buta Singh’s house. The Wazir Chands brought food from their house and persuaded the family to eat. Everyone slept on the floor and most of the day was spent listening to the recitation of the Granth. Then relations turned up by the dozens and Champak and Sita had to organize their feeding and comfort; Beena was too distracted to be of any help. It was almost like a wedding — crowds of children shouting and playing about in the courtyard and a lot of coming and going of friends and relations. Men came wearing sad expressions on their faces: ‘Very sorry to hear
the news. How did it happen?’ each one would ask. ‘It was God’s will. When the time is up, who can stop its coming?’ would be Buta Singh’s weary answer. They sat down on the carpet and were soon busy discussing business affairs till the next visitor arrived with the same sad face and the same question. ‘Very sorry to hear the news. How did it happen?’ ‘It was God’s will. When the time is up. . . . ’ Then as was customary, Buta Singh himself asked them to leave and go back to their work.

The women were more expressive. They drew veils as they came in, sat down on the ground, clasped each other by the shoulder, and rocked to and fro in silent embrace for a minute or two. Then they broke into a whine which changed to loud lamentation or beating of breasts till someone stopped them. They blew their noses in the hems of their shirts, wiped their tears with the backs of their hands, sighed, and turned to subjects closer to their hearts: a minute account of Sabhrai’s last hour (followed by more crying). And then, ‘Did Auntie Sabhrai fix her daughter up anywhere? How old is the girl now?’ This lasted ten days. Then the relatives and the visitors departed and the family was left to itself.

Came the first of Phagan.

In accordance with Sabhrai’s wishes, Shunno swept the gurudwara, opened the Granth, and got the family together. None of them was looking forward to it because this was an occasion closely associated with Sabhrai and for the first time in the living memory of any one of them, she was missing — and yet mysteriously present. She seemed to pervade the gurudwara
like the incense which rose spirally from the stick and then scattered lazily all over the room.

Buta Singh took Sabhrai’s place in reading the Granth. He had resolved to keep his emotions under control. He read the verse on the month of Phagan without faltering.

She whose heart is full of love

Is ever in full bloom.

She is in bliss because she hath no love of self.

Only those that love Thee

Conquer self-love.

Come Thou and abide in me.

Many a lovely garment did I wear

But the Master willed not, and

His palace doors were barred to me.

When He beckoned, I went

With garlands and strings of jewels and raiments of finery.

Spake the Guru:

A bride welcomed in the Master’s mansion

Hath found her true Lord and love.

Buta Singh decided to say a few words to his family. ‘Sabhrai has really found her true Lord and love, we. . . . ’ He put his head on the Granth and began to sob. The whole family broke down and wept quietly. He gave up the attempt. After a while he proceeded to read the passage for the day:

My eyes are wet as if nectar had dropped with the dew and washed them.

My soul is athrill and full of gratitude

For the Guru rubbed the touchstone with my heart

And found it was burnished gold.

Buta Singh was now in control of his emotions and decided to make another attempt. ‘I only wanted to say this. I hope and pray that all of us will live up to the ideals of truth Sabhrai stood for. She was like the gold the Guru speaks of. She has left us and the light has gone out of our home. We must try to find our way in life in the same way as she did: through the Guru’s words.’