Land of Five Rivers (14 page)

The Nihangs would join the palms of their hands and make deep obeisance. Then the other would take over the narrative... ‘Only the other day... isn’t she the wife of that fellow Sajjan Singh?...the big buxom wench! Well, she was washing her clothes. Our dear friend Soorma Singh proceeded that way on the pretext of fetching water from the tap. And then let his foot slip so that he fell squarely on the lady. He was too hurt to be able to get up in a hurry. That one is a bit of a shrew. She wrenched off the turban of Sardar Bahadur Soorma Singh, caught him by his large top-knot, dragged him out of the bathroom and clipped him on his skull with her slipper, four or five real sharp ones. Meanwhile her husband arrived on the scene. He was in a rage. He would surely have sent Soorma Singh to the next world but for the people who intervened and restored peace. Poor, poor Soorma Singh! Take off your turban and let’s see how many hairs remain on your scalp after the shoe-beating.’

The roar of laughter would frighten the mules tethered outside the
gurdwara.
Someone would break in gently. ‘The poor fellow can’t see a thing. Even if a woman were to stand in front of him without a stitch of clothing on her, what difference would it make to him?’

This was never said to help Soorma Singh but to encourage the Nihangs. One would say with great conviction. ‘He doesn’t have to see anything; he gets all his fun by the sound. He can tell a women’s age, her looks, her secret desires — everything, by the way she speaks...’

There was a small balcony on the second floor. It was not plastered; lines of cement ran zig-zag across the bare brick floor. Along the wall were four bathrooms without doors; the bathers could be seen from the outside. Each bathroom had a tap. Water ran in them only for a couple of hours of the day; for the rest, if one turned on the tap, all one would get was a few spluttering sounds. In the middle of the balcony was a platform built round a wooden mast on which hung a very limp, a very beard-like, triangular saffron flag. If the breeze was strong, the flag would unfurl and display the emblems of the Khalsa — the circular
quou
with sabres crossed beneath it. At one end of the balcony was a curved steel railing; from this railing one got a view of the valley with the kites wheeling below. One could also see the road winding up the hillside through the damp vegetation, and long lines of mules with the muleteers holding on to the tails of their beasts to haul themselves up.

I caught sight of Soorma Singh in a shaft of sunlight, coming towards me. He was wearing a clean white turban and a freshly washed shirt. Instead of his native slipper he had a pair of shining pumps on his feet. He still wore his dark glasses — he probably slept in them.

I happened to be in the shop of Bhutia. His wares consisted of an assortment of things of Bhutanese make — kitchen utensils, cheap jewellery, idols, metal trays and other bric-a-brac. The Bhutia had taken me for a rich man and raised his prices so high that I had lost interest in his goods and was looking at the hillside. There were no houses on the other side of the road: only a twenty-feet-high wall made of rough blocks of stone that ran along the embankment. The wall was covered with moss and a large number of lady-birds crawled on the moss; it looked a green carpet with tiny red flowers.

That was when I saw Soorma Singh. I was surprised at the pace at which he walked; even people who could see, seldom walked as fast. Either he did not know how people walked or he wanted to give the impression that he could walk as well as those who could see. As he passed by me, I noticed that he had a cage dangling in one hand. Inside the cage was a green parrot peering out of the bars.

‘That parrot,’ the older Nihang told me later, scratching the hair on his chest, ‘means the world to Soorma Singh; its all he has — it is his father, mother, sister, son, wife, elder-uncle, mother’s brother, brothers...everything.’

The Nihang spoke with great contempt. He did not realise that Soorma Singh’s lonely life had impressed me. He didn’t even bother to look my way. He was watching the lentil cauldron which was boiling over, like lava pouring out of a volcano. Streaks of lentils flowed down the side of the cauldron and sizzled to a dry stop as they were scorched by the fire below.

There was no point my telling the Nihang what I thought of Soorma Singh. To be quite truthful. I had not really given much thought to Soorma Singh. Only when I ran into him, did I dwell on him for a few moments. I could tell from the expression on the Nihang’s face that he was eager to talk to me. To encourage him I asked: ‘Can the parrot talk?’

‘Yes Sir! Soorma Singh has taught him a lot of things.’

‘Soorma Singh recites couplets of Guru Tegh Bahadur. He must have crammed his parrot with verses of Bulhey Shah and Baba Farid,’ I suggested.

‘No sir... he has not taught his parrot any such thing.’

‘Nihang Singhji, what has he taught his parrot to say?’

‘It says: “Come Sardar Manjeet Singhji.” That’s his real name...no one bothers with his real name. He is just Soorma Singh to everyone. Some people even call him
Soormua
Singh.’ The Nihang smiled and explained his joke.
‘Soormua
means one with a pig’s snout.’ He continued. ‘He’s taught the bird many other things. Sentimental sentences and words of love.’

The younger Nihang took up the narrative. ‘My friend has also taught the parrot many kinds of abuse — “Soorma is a woman chaser; Soorma Singh is a great rascal; Soorma Singh is a real bastard...” ’

I wanted to change the subject. There was no way of doing so except by breaking out in loud laughter.

The elder Nihang noticed my discomfiture. He made a wry face and said. ‘Sir, this Soorma Singh is a big nuisance. He does not like lentils. If I cook a vegetable, he turns up his nose; and he finds faults with our chappaties. It never crosses his mind that we are not cooks. He should take the name of the great Guru and eat whatever is placed before him.’

I agreed that Soorma Singh should eat whatever came from the Guru’s kitchen without making a fuss. ‘If Soorma Singh does not like the
gurdwara
food, why doesn’t he cook his own?’ I asked.

‘That’s exactly what we feel too. But
Gyaniji
indulges him too much. He sings a couple of hymns in the morning service and
Gyaniji
thinks he is the greatest singer in the world. He has given Soorma Singh a separate room to live in.’

The other Nihang butted in, ‘You can hardly call it a room! Next to the latrines is a tiny store-room to stack wood, coal, flour, lentils and other kitchen rations. In one corner of this room Sardar Soorma Singh has laid his charpoy and hung his parrot cage.’

One night at about 10 p.m. the parrot began to squawk. I had never heard the bird before, but that night it was screaming as if a tiger had entered the cage. Many people came out of their rooms to find out what had happened. Then Soorma Singh also began to yell at the parrot. We could not hear what they were saying to each other.

The uproar continued for some time. Then Soorma Singh’s voice could be heard crying — ‘Help! Murder! He’s killing me.’

I took my flashlight and ran down the stairs. I saw the older Nihang run out of Soorma Singh’s room and disappear in the darkness of the latrines.

Soorma Singh continued to scream for help. Other people came on the scene. We took Soorma Singh to the first floor. He was suffering from shock. It appeared that one of the Nihangs had stolen into his room in the dark and tried to strangle him with his scarf.

Gyaniji
was aroused by the din and came on the scene. The older Nihang who had quietly slipped back into his room was summoned. He explained that all he had done was to take food to Soorma Singh’s room and then returned to his own. He did not know what transpired after he had left.

It was obvious that the Nihang was lying. Even so someone came to his defence. ‘Soorma Singh is always bothering these poor chaps. They spend all their day serving in the Guru’s kitchen and then His Lordship expects to be served in his room.’

Soorma Singh leapt to his defence with all the power in his lungs. ‘All these fellows gang up in the kitchen to make fun of me; the Nihangs are particularly nasty to me. Sometimes they urinate in my lentil soup; at other times they’ll deliberately char my chappaties and slap them on my face. Just now when one of them brought me dinner he said “Here, you bastard, you parasite”...’

There was a commotion. Soorma Singh abused the Nihangs with all his might.
Gyaniji
pleaded with him, ‘If you go on yelling like this, you will lose your voice. How will you be able to sing tomorrow morning?’

The exchange of hot abuse was followed by soft words of peace. The Nihangs again threatened to leave for HemKund.
Gyaniji
dissuaded them from doing so. He wiped his nose with his scarf. My neighbours, the vendors of medicinal herbs, took Soorma Singh to their room while
Gyaniji
cooled the tempers of the Nihangs and sent them back to their quarters.

A few days later there was another party in the room next door. Amongst the distinguished company I espied the two Nihangs and Soorma Singh. Green jade cups were being passed round. I could also hear endearing abuse such as is used by friends for each other. This was Soorma Singh in a new incarnation, so different from the Soorma Singh of everyday life. His turban had fallen off his head and lay entangled between his legs; his beard was scattered untidily; his top-knot had loosened and his long hair lay about his shoulders; his dark glasses lay in his lap. He was flailing his arms like a windmill and bellowing like a mad bull. One would have thought that the houris of paradise were performing a nautch right in front of his sightless eyes. The party were pleading with him for couplets from Bulhey Shah or Baba Farid.

Soorma Singh made a few attempts to sing, but he was too drunk to get the notes right and the attempts ended in a camel like hurrumph. The failure angered Soorma Singh. He leapt to his feet, slapped his chest:
‘Hai,
I am smitten!’

A chorus of voices demanded : ‘True Emperor! who could dare to smite you?’

Soorma Singh was in a world of his own. All he could say in reply was to repeat
‘Hai,
I am smitten!’

The Nihangs sprinkled some cold water on Soorma Singh’s head — ‘You are hot in the head Soorma Singh! Repeat the name of the great God,
Wahe Guru.’

The drops of cold water acted like magic. He put his hand over his ear and in his tear-laden voice sang:

‘Farid wake from the slumber! thy beard hath turned grey.

The future lies ahead of thee, the past is passed away.’

The men began to sway in ecstasy; their beards also swayed with them. Their eyes closed and a drunken stupor overcame them. Once Soorma Singh had begun, there was no stopping him; wherever his voice carried, it cast its spell. He had a vast repertoire of
slokas
beginning with ‘Farid, wake from thy slumber!’ He sang into the late hours of the night.

It was the magic of Soorma Singh’s voice which compelled an agnostic like me to go to the prayer hall every morning.

The
gurdwara
prayer hall was very spacious. Its bare white walls dazzled the eye. The floor was covered with coir matting on which was spread a blue
durrie
with a red border. On one side of the hall on a raised platform was the holy
Granth.
Usually
Gyaniji
sat on the platform. Behind him would be a boy waving the fly whisk. Above the
Granth
was a coloured awning festooned with red and yellow tassels. A couple of dozen large pictures were hung on the walls; some of these were of the Sikh
Gurus;
other depicted scenes from Sikh history.

When Soorma Singh entered the crowded hall, the congregation would be tense with excitement. On these occasions Soorma Singh dressed with great care; a clean white shirt and
chooridars
of handspun
khaddar,
a round white turban on his head, a blue scarf round his neck — and the dark glasses with their lenses and frame glistening brightly. He also wore socks on these occasions. Instead of his staff, he would have his tambourin which he used as an accompaniment. People said that Soorma Singh’s renderings of the sacred hymns had pierced many a deaf ear and guided the listeners along the true and narrow path of religion.

This was not very incredible. If confirmed agnostics like me could be moved, those who were only wavering in their faith must surely have had their doubts cleared... I must admit that although his singing used to disturb me, it instilled peace in the minds of most people. I could seldom catch the words of the hymns. His voice had the force and flow of a hill torrent, the deep gloom of unseen, unknown caverns of the ocean ...I cannot really describe the quality of his voice except that to me Soorma Singh was nothing except his voice. It reflected his loneliness, his utter solitude in the wide, wide world, his agitated search, his unquenched thirst, his unappeased hunger; it was the cry of his soul, an agonising cry which rang through the melody of his songs...

The sun had set behind a haze of clouds; only a dim glow lit the mountains.

The foreman gave my belongings a quick appraising look and asked, ‘How many coolies will you require?’

‘One.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes, I am alone.’

He began calculating the load the coolie would have to carry. I was on my bed reading a book; my small attache case was hidden underneath. I shut the book and explained, ‘There is only one bedding roll and a small suitcase.’ I got up and lifted the edge of the bed sheet. The foreman bent down to gauge the size of the case. ‘That will be two rupees, Sahib
.’

‘How long will it take to get to the bus stand?’

‘Fifteen minutes less than an hour.’

‘Don’t forget I have to get on the 8.00 a.m. bus. The coolie should be here by a quarter to seven.’

‘
Accha
Sahib.’

The words
‘accha
Sahib
’
kept going round my head long after the foreman had gone. When I found the page of my book, I had to close the book. Once again there was an uproar. There was always an uproar of some kind or the other. It could be hymn-singing, quarrels between the women, the screaming of children. But this was from the ground floor, from Soorma Singh’s room. Were the Nihangs up to their tricks again?