I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (7 page)

‘These English are funny.’

It was not usual for Buta Singh to be in good temper at breakfast. ‘Bhai, yesterday was great fun,’ said he, making a second attempt to interest his family. When no one asked him why, he continued of his own accord. ‘These English, they don’t know anything about our customs. Yesterday the Deputy Commissioner offered me a cigarette. I said, “Sahib, today you have done this and I do not mind because we are old friends, but don’t do it again.” Then he started apologizing.’

The family took Buta Singh’s stories of his candour with English officials with a pinch of salt. ‘Did you tell him that Baisakhi is a big day for us and he should not ask people to be on duty?’ asked his wife fanning flies away with a hand towel.

‘He apologized himself. He said since I was the only one who really knew the people in the city, he had to rely on me. He also tried to bribe me with the promise of a title. I said, “Sahib, you keep your titles. I don’t care for such things.”’

‘Sardarji,’ said Shunno chiming in, ‘there is a policeman with a bayonet at our gate since the morning.’

‘Oh yes, I had almost forgotten that part of Mr Taylor’s orders,’ said Buta Singh in a lordly way. ‘The seniormost official in the district is to have a sort of decorative guard outside his house just like the one outside the Deputy Commissioner’s. I don’t think the other magistrates will like that.’

‘It will hurt their eyes,’ commented Sher Singh expanding with filial pride.

Buta Singh suddenly realized that his daughter had spent the whole of the day before at Wazir Chand’s.
‘How are you getting on with the preparations for your exams?’

‘I worked yesterday at Sita’s house,’ answered Beena. She made one attempt to clear her conscience. ‘We worked all morning and got so tired that nothing would stay in our heads. So we decided . . . ’

‘No, no, it is foolish to force the mind to things it cannot retain,’ interrupted her father, trying to make up. ‘When I was at college, I never worked more than two hours at a stretch. When I got tired, I used to take a walk in the fresh air; fresh air is best. Some of the boys used to go off to the cinema after working all day. When the eyes are tired, the stuffy atmosphere in a cinema can do them no good.’

Beena did not have the nerve to mention the pictures after that. Sher Singh realized that and decided to keep the knowledge of his sister’s escapade to himself and question her when the occasion arose. Buta Singh had not finished talking about himself. ‘The Guru was merciful; yesterday went off peacefully. Our Sahib was scared: “There will be a Hindu-Muslim riot. . . . The Communists will be up to mischief.” I said, “Sahib, don’t worry, all will be well.” He also wanted to know about your meeting.’

‘The place was packed to capacity.’

‘I hope you didn’t say anything indiscreet.’

‘O, no! There’s no such danger.’

‘You have to be careful. Many people would like to create mischief for the family. It is wise to be cautious.’ Buta Singh rose from the table. ‘I better inquire from Mr Taylor whether he slept well or had nightmares of riots.’The family obliged with a laugh.

Buta Singh left. Sabhrai turned to her brood with maternal aggressiveness. ‘Did you go in the gurudwara or just carry on your buk buk nonsense?’ she asked her son.

Sher laughed. ‘There are so many to say prayers for me. You must have said one, Champak another.’

It gave Champak an opportunity to enter into the family discourse. ‘I had a very quiet day all alone. I washed my hair and listened to the hymns relayed from the temple by the radio. Then I said my evening prayers and put the Granth to rest. It was very peaceful.’

T
he last thing Shunno did every night before retiring was to fill a brass jug with water, put a keekar twig in it, and leave it on a stool outside the kitchen. Every morning while it was still dark she came in, lit the fire, and put the tea kettle on the hearth. She put the keekar twig in her mouth, picked up the jug, and went out into the garden or the vacant plot across the road. She performed her morning functions behind a bush and washed her privates with the water she carried. She scooped up a little mud and used it as soap to rinse her hands. She chewed the twig till one end was reduced to a soggy, fibrous pulp and brushed her teeth with it. She tore off a strip of the bark and scraped her tongue with such vigour that it made her retch and spit. She returned to her quarters and bathed under the tap in the garden and went back to the house to get tea ready. All this she did before the earliest risers, the drongos, had started calling or even a suspicion of grey had appeared on the eastern horizon.

Shunno was a peasant woman and had not changed her way of living in the city. Her regular habits had helped to keep her in rude, rustic health. Although she was fat and nearly fifty, she could work fourteen hours a day without any sign of fatigue. She had never been known to be ill, she had not even known a cold or a headache. Her eyes were clear, with the white and black whiter and blacker than other
people’s. She had an even row of teeth not one of which had ever given her trouble. She could chew up six feet of sugar-cane at a time. She could crack almonds and walnuts as if her mouth had been fitted with a nut-cracker. Shunno was the despair of men servants employed as additional help. Since she could run the house single-handed, she soon reduced them from being fellow-servants to her own personal slaves. She bossed them till they couldn’t stand it any more. They were dismissed for the same reason: making improper advances to her. The compromise had been found in hiring the thirteen-year-old Mundoo whom she could not easily accuse of impropriety and who would submit to her bullying. On New Year’s night she had kicked him several times.

Shunno loved to talk, like most women of her age and frustrations. (She had become a widow before she was twenty.) Her sexual instincts had been sublimated in hard work, religion, and gossip. She spared no one, not even members of the family for which she had worked for nearly thirty years. The only reason why she had failed to create misunderstandings between them was because they knew her well.

Despite her tongue, Shunno was a God-fearing woman. She said her prayers, went to the gurudwara and, on religious festivals, helped menfolk in the community kitchen. She was not narrow in her faith. She also went to Hindu temples, bathed in the river every Tuesday morning, respected Brahmins and cows. Even Islam was not beyond her religious pale. She visited tombs of Muslim fakirs, left offerings with their guardians, and consulted them on her
imaginary ailments. She never let a beggar, be he a Hindu, Sikh, or a Muslim, return empty-handed from Buta Singh’s door.

Shunno’s one grievance with life was that no one took her seriously. Although her master and mistress disapproved of her forays into other faiths, they said nothing to her. But the younger members of the family made fun of her. They often insinuated that her visits to the river had motives other than spiritual. And since she was never known to have been ill, it did not take much to twist her accounts of visits to Muslim medicine men.

Shunno did not tell anyone about her new ailment for the first few days. Many times during the previous month she had returned from her early morning performances with a slimy feeling between the thighs; her left hand which she used to wash her bottom felt as if it had been dipped in glue. She had to wash again with fresh water before she felt clean.

On the morning of the first of Jeth (early May), Shunno got up earlier than usual; she had to get the morning tea and the prasad ready. She had also to sweep the gurudwara room and prepare it for the first-of-the-month ceremony. She went to the corner of the garden and after she had finished, washed her person with water she carried in her brass jug. She got the same clammy feeling which she had had before. She decided to get some of the kitchen work out of the way before going to the tap for a second wash. Half an hour later, in the light of the grey dawn, she noticed some red stains on her Punjabi trousers. She examined her left hand; it was also smudged with crimson. She
filled a pail with fresh water and hurried to her quarter. She took off her trousers and splashed water between her thighs. It trickled down her legs tinged with red. She felt weak and slumped down on her charpoy. After a few minutes she woke up Mundoo and told him to tell the mistress that she was unwell. That was the first time in the many years of service in Buta Singh’s home that Shunno had not turned up at the gurudwara for the first-of-the-month ceremony.

It was Mundoo who brought the steaming tray of prasad. He had changed his shirt and covered his head with a kitchen duster for the occasion. He also felt entitled to stay on in the room instead of being outside with the dog and the urchins of the locality.

As soon as the final prayer had been said and the prasad distributed, Buta Singh asked the question which was in everyone’s mind: ‘Where is Shunno?’

‘She says she is not feeling well,’ piped up Mundoo, beaming. ‘She looks all right.’

‘She came in the morning to light the fire; she put the prasad on the hearth and then went back. I will go and see what is wrong with her. She has never been ill before,’ said Sabhrai, very concerned.

‘It must be the heat,’ added Buta Singh. ‘Yesterday the temperature touched 115° in the shade! The courtroom was like an oven.’ He made a grimace and went on: ‘I was hearing a murder case; the place was packed with Sikh villagers. They obviously do not bathe every day. The smell of sweat and clarified butter was terrible.’

Sabhrai did not like derogatory references to Sikhs and changed the subject abruptly. ‘A lot of things are going to happen this month,’ she said. ‘Beena is going to take her examination; Sher, you’ve got something on too, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, the election of the University Union.’

‘We ought to have a complete reading of the Granth Sahib. All of you must help.’

‘You better get a professional reader. Most of us will be busy and will not be able to do much reading,’ pleaded Buta Singh.

‘I don’t like hiring outsiders to do our prayers; it hasn’t the same effect. If none of you can spare the time, I will do it all on my own,’ said Sabhrai with determination. They knew they would have to come to her rescue. This was one of the ways she imposed religion on them and although they said nothing, they did not like it. Before they could pursue the matter further, Mundoo came and announced that some people were waiting to see Buta Singh. They had an appointment.

‘What are the orders for me?’

This was Buta Singh’s way of getting down to business straightaway; it also had the note of humility which, coming from a man of his status, created a favourable impression.

The deputation of Hindu merchants had been sitting cross-legged on the chairs in the verandah talking to the policeman on duty. As Buta Singh came out the policeman sprang to attention, brought his rifle to his
shoulder, and slapped the butt in salute. The visitors got up quickly, slipped their feet into their shoes, and greeted him: ‘We touch your feet. Sat Sri Akal. . . . Orders? You order and we obey. You are the emperor, we are your subjects.’

It was a proud moment for Buta Singh. His politeness became more exaggerated. He joined his hands to greet them and escorted them to the sitting-room. They took off their shoes and sat down. After a while Buta Singh asked them whether they would like something to drink and, without waiting for a reply, asked again: ‘What are the orders for me?’

The visitors again protested that they were the ones to receive orders not give them. After some shuffling of feet, clearing of throats, and nodding to each other, the eldest in the group spoke: ‘Sardarji, our request is for a licence to take out a religious procession next week.’

‘You know the Deputy Commissioner has promulgated an order banning all meetings and processions,’ replied Buta Singh without looking up.

‘We know that, Sardar Sahib. We will be honest with you. The Sikhs have had their procession and the Muslims have had theirs; then there was no order to ban them. When it comes to our turn, our kismet is bad.’

‘If it is for a Hindu procession, why do you come to me? Go and ask a Hindu official to speak to Mr Taylor. Ask Mr Wazir Chand.’

‘Sardar Sahib, for us you are a Hindu. What is the difference between a Hindu and a Sikh? You tell us.’

‘Yes, Sardarji,’ joined the others in a chorus. ‘We are like brothers. No difference at all.’

‘I never said there was any difference; I think we are the same community. You started by saying something about Hindus and Muslims and Sikhs.’

‘Please forgive us,’ said the eldest with his hands joined. ‘It was only a manner of speaking. Most of our homes have Sikh forms of worship. We give our sisters and daughters in marriage to Sikhs. We are kinsmen. Why, brothers, isn’t that the truth?’

‘Truth,’ protested one. ‘Why, there is no greater truth.’ The others nodded approval. The eldest started again. ‘Why should we hide anything from you! We did approach Mr Wazir Chand first but he refused to help. He said, “If you want to get anything from Taylor Sahib, ask Sardar Buta Singh.” We would not have put you to this trouble if we hadn’t been told by everyone in the world that the only man who can do it is Sardar Buta Singh.’

‘This is only your kindness. I will do the best I can,’ said Buta Singh getting up.

The visitors also got up and slipped their feet back into their shoes. ‘When shall we present ourselves?’

‘Come and see me some time tomorrow — at the law courts.’

‘Sardar Sahib,’ spoke another. ‘We have pinned all our hopes on you. You do this for us and we will sing your praises the rest of our lives.’

‘We will remain ever grateful,’ exclaimed the others.

‘Acchaji Namaste. . . . Some water or something?’ asked Buta Singh mechanically and without waiting for a reply dismissed them: ‘Namaste.’

‘This is like our own home. We would ask for anything we want. Sat Sri Akal.’
John Taylor was an Englishman and a member of the Indian Civil Service. He was only twenty-eight but these two qualifications had led to his being made the Deputy Commissioner and the virtual ruler of an area larger than two English counties, with a population of nearly a million natives.

Taylor did not belong to the class which had produced the builders of the Empire. He was the son of a schoolmaster. His wife, Joyce, had been a nurse — a very pretty nurse. He had met her at the hospital where he had been sent for a medical check-up before joining the service. From the very start, they found themselves isolated from the English community. They found the snobbery of the senior English officials a little irksome. They did not share their views about the role of Englishmen in India. Although Taylor, as the English Deputy Commissioner, was elected President of the exclusively European Club, he never went to it. His wife avoided the company of other memsahibs and restricted the duties, which her status imposed on her, to purely Indian circles. But their attempts to make friends with Indians were not very successful. The Indians refused to be treated as equals; they refused to be frank and outspoken; and at some stage or other they tried to exploit their association. So the Taylors gave up trying to find friends in India. They spent their after-office hours together — going out riding, taking long walks, or just being at home. They disliked people invading the privacy of their home and Taylor had issued strict instructions that no one was to call at the house except on the day set apart for visitors. He had
a repertoire of little tricks by which he put subordinates, who tried to be familiar, in their places. He kept them waiting. He took a long time to answer simple questions; he lit a cigarette or casually knocked tobacco out of his pipe on the heels of his shoe while the other was on pins and needles waiting for a reply. At times he was just abrupt; sometimes even rude.

Buta Singh believed that Taylor had a personal regard for him and would always treat him with special consideration. As minutes accumulated to make half-an-hour and then three-quarters, doubts began to assail his mind. ‘Did you give Sahib my card?’ he asked the orderly.

‘Immediately, sir. Sahib looked at it but said nothing.’

Buta Singh had always tipped the Deputy Commissioner’s staff and had no fears about his card having been deliberately withheld. He could not understand why the Sahib had not come out to greet him or ask the chaprasi to show him in. ‘Didn’t he say whether or not I was to wait; or does he want me to see him in his office at the law courts?’ he asked.

‘He was having his tiffin with the memsahib. We have orders never to come in when he is at tiffin. But your case is different. I put the card on a plate and took it in. He looked at it but didn’t say a word.’

Buta Singh began to feel thoroughly uncomfortable. If it had not been for the fact that Wazir Chand had admitted his inability to get permission for the Hindu procession, Buta Singh would never have taken on the task. He had reasoned that if he failed, it would not do him much damage; if he succeeded, his prestige amongst the Hindus of the city would greatly increase
and that of Wazir Chand suffer. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his venture. He knew that Taylor did not like people coming to his house unless sent for and he was a stickler for appointments. He had fondly believed that those rules did not apply to him. Now he was not so sure of himself. It could, of course, have an innocent explanation and Taylor might apologize for keeping him waiting; in that case he would forgive him graciously.

‘What is it, Buta Singh?’

That is all Taylor said as he came out. He was still in his riding breeches and was smoking his after-break- fast cigarette. His shirt was drenched with perspiration and stuck to his chest.