Bhowani Junction (26 page)

Govindaswami said to the woman, ‘I’m sorry you should lend yourself to this.’ She only stared at him, her lips tight and scornful.

Govindaswami said, ‘Look under the bed. Then you’d better get the doctor to see her again, Surabhai. You may have done her real harm by moving her here.’

The sub-inspector got under the bed. Mr Surabhai stood tongue-tied in the middle of the very hot and overcrowded room, his eyes growing larger and larger until they were ready to pop out of his head, but no words came to relieve the pressure.

The handsome and distinguished-looking sub-inspector crawled out from under the charpoy with a lump of iron in his hand. He was very embarrassed from having a respectable lady just over him, and only on a string charpoy. To Lanson he said, ‘This, sahib, nothing else.’

Lanson turned the broken piece of fishplate over, then quickly fumbled in his pocket, got out a handkerchief, and wrapped one end of the fishplate in it. He held it under Mr Surabhai’s nose and said, ‘Did you put this there?’

Mr Surabhai stared at the black rusted blood, and the blond hairs sticking to it along one of the fishplate’s sharp edges. He whispered, That is—blood?’

Savage said, ‘Macaulay’s blood? Macaulay’s hair?’

Lanson shot him a quick, angry look. Mr Surabhai stammered, ‘M-murder! This is the same blunt instrument that committed murder?’

Of course it was. K. P. Roy hadn’t cleaned and buried the fishplate as he had said. He’d kept it, waiting to find the best opportunity to use it.

There was not enough air in there for me to breathe. I was beginning to suffocate. I wanted to scream that there was no need to get excited, because I had killed Macaulay and I had had good cause. It was necessary that I say something, because Mr Surabhai would have a stroke if I didn’t. Lanson was moving forward on him. But when I opened my mouth the hot, scented air rushed in and filled my whole head and my ears and nose, and blotted out the grimy light and the crowd, and the woman’s body swung slowly round with the bed, and up and up …

Ranjit was beside me again as I bowed before the holy book, as Ranjit’s had been the first face I saw when I recovered from fainting in that terribly smelly room below stairs in his mother’s house. His face had been above me, the fuzz of new beard growing like a halo round it, the cold metal of the new bangle on his wrist touching my neck. I had thought, He does love me, he’s left his mother upstaks and come running to me. I must have shrieked aloud.

In this bare square temple, the Sikh gurdwara, the book the Guru Granth Sahib, rested on a white cloth below a canopy. The guru stood behind it, gently waving a fly-flicker back and forth over it.

Ranjit straightened his back, his hands folded, his head bent. He murmured,
‘Wahiguruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki
Fatteh!’
I murmured the phrase in my turn. My mind ran over the things that as a Sikh I must do and have. Had I done them, bad I got them? A plain iron bangle hung round my right wrist. I had not cut my hair since seeing the guru. I wore no lipstick or powder. I was a woman, so I did not have to carry the dagger. There was a comb in my hair. I was wear
ing pants; they were not anywhere near knee length, but surely no one would look to make sure? I was unveiled.

I stood on the threshold of a new life. It felt more like the edge of a cliff.

There were about twenty men and women there. The five Loved Ones who would perform the baptism stood a little in front of the others. Kartar Singh, the labour leader, was one of the Loved Ones, and his wife another. There was an iron pot on a pedestal close in front of me. Ranjit stood at my right hand. The Sirdarni was not there. Earlier, the guru had refused to let her come because she cut her hair, wore no bangle, and refused to believe in the divine precepts of the Ten Gurus. Also, she had no intention of admitting her faults before a court of five. It hadn’t mattered in the end, because she was in jail.

The guru stood before the holy Guru Granth Sahib, bowed, and opened the book at random. He said a short prayer in a firm voice and then read a passage where he had opened the book. The people stood with folded hands. There were no seats or benches.

Had Pater stopped crying yet?

I was afraid, but there was nothing strange or barbaric about this. Substitute a word or two, make a mental reservation, and it could be a Christian service. But nobody really wanted me to be there except Ranjit, and the solemnity weighed me down. Ranjit was here because this was a stronghold for him. If these people would let him in, he’d be able to stop worrying and fretting.

The Sirdarni was in jail because she wouldn’t say anything about the fishplate. Mr Surabhai and the merchant who rented the little room had also been taken to jail, but after questioning them Lanson had let them go.

I knew why. Govindaswami had said, ‘First, there’s no doubt that K. P. Roy put the fishplate there. Second, he put it there as a follow-up to the “Quit India” which he put on Macaulay’s body—to confirm the impression that Congress was responsible, and that Surabhai knows more than he is telling about the murder. But I absolutely refuse to believe Surab
hai knows anything about it. If Roy wants Surabhai behind bars for some reason—and I can think of several—let’s put someone else in instead. The Sirdarni-sahiba. Good heavens, with that fishplate in the house we’re justified in jailing Ranjit if we want to.’

Lanson had argued, but the Collector was firm. So the Sirdami-sahiba was in, and the others out. Surabhai had protested. Ranjit had protested. Even the Moslem League had protested, but the Collector wouldn’t budge.

In the gurdwara, Ranjit left my side, and I began to follow him, but Kartar Singh’s wife motioned me to stay where I was. Ranjit went and stood meekly before the senior Loved One. The old man had a long white beard, and the muscles of his neck couldn’t support his heavy head, he was so old. Ranjit said in a firm low voice, ‘I have broken the Raht. I beg forgiveness. I beg to be received back into the true faith.’

The old man nodded his head slowly. He said, ‘Your fault has been great. For many years you have stayed outside our communion, the only true communion. But there is forgiveness and love in the Guru Panth.’

‘
Sat Sri Akkal!
’ all the congregation shouted with one voice, and I started nervously.

He said, ‘But you were led astray by one who should know better, one from whom you had the right to expect wisdom and sound advice. Therefore your punishment shall be light.’ ‘
Sat
Sri Akkal!
’ Take this cloth and this water. Go on your knees and wash the feet of each true Sikh in this room. And remember, my son, that this punishment is but a touch from the guiding hand of those who love you, in God. Hold no bitterness in your heart.’

Ranjit stepped back, knelt, and began to wash the feet of an old Sikh coolie near him. Next to the coolie stood the Buick driver. I had seen his two-tone shoes in the courtyard, and now Ranjit was stooping over his bare feet, washing and drying.

The old man cried, ‘Let us all beg forgiveness for our sins, in our hearts, even as this our brother has begged forgiveness.’

‘
Sat Sri Akkal!
’

Ranjit did not wipe my feet. I was not yet a Sikh. He passed by behind me, moving slowly on his knees. I heard a low sound and knew he was sobbing gently as he did his penance. He came back to my side, and I turned to look at him. He was proud and exalted.

The old man stepped closer to us and looked us in the eyes, first Ranjit, then me. He began to speak in a quavering voice that strengthened as he went on:

I knew this part by heart. I began to think of K. P. Roy. That hurt—but nothing else could stop me from thinking of the cliff-edge gaping before my feet.

‘… do you hear? Will you obey?’

Ranjit raised his head and shouted, ‘
Wahiguruji ka Khalsa,
wahiguruji ki Fatteh!
’—Glory to the Khalsa, which is ever victorious! The congregation shouted it after him.

For a second I thought I would not be able to get out the words. They stumbled together in my throat, but the second time I managed to say them, softly and clearly, ‘
Wahiguruji
ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fatteh!
’

The other four Loved Ones approached and stood in a circle with the old man round the iron pot.

‘This is the water of immortality in God,’ murmured one, and poured water into the pot.

‘This is the sweetness of God’s love,’ murmured another, and shook a handful of sugar candies called patashas into the pot.

The five squatted down in the ‘heroic attitude’ round the pot, left knee up, right knee on the ground. Ranjit did the same, and slowly I followed.

Kartar Singh drew from his belt a twelve-inch double-bladed dagger and held it out in his hand. He began to stir the patashas into the water, reciting as he stirred:

His voice went on and did not become a drone. All the congregation knelt around. But their kneeling was not humble. This ‘heroic attitude’ was the position from which a warrior could best spring up to thrust his spear into the stomach of an enemy attacking him.

This was not like the padre’s Christianity, after all. There was nothing formal here, norhing taken for granted, nothing half-believed, nothing polite. Ranjit had changed so that I did not know him any more.

Kartar Singh finished the
Japji
and handed the dagger to the old man. The old man began to recite as he stirred the pot. The other four held the rim of the pot with both hands.

I had read it all in a little book they’d given me a week before. Reading it by myself in Number 4 Collett Road had not been like this.

The words beat down like big steady hammers, merciless, emphatic. I used to ignore the padre’s drone. Even K. P. Roy wasn’t any good to me now. Another Loved One took the dagger, stirred, and began on the
Swayyas:

Suddenly it was over. Ranjit made a cup of his hands, the right above the left. I did the same. In turn each Loved One poured the amrit into our hands. Five times we drank. Five times the amrit was touched to our eyes and hair. Five times we cried, ‘
Wahigwruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fatteh!
’ Everything that was left in the pot we drank, sipping in turn.

The Loved Ones stood up, and all together shouted, ‘
By
the
Grace of the One Supreme Being, of the True Name, of the
Breath, devoid of fear and enmity, immortal, unborn, self-
existent
—
the Enlightener!’

Five times they shouted it. They were holy, and I was not holy. They were leaning over me, threatening. But I knew why Ranjit had to come back to this.

The old man boomed, ‘And these are the four chief sins—the cutting of your hair, the eating of halal meat, the committing of adultery, the use of tobacco. Do you swear to forgo these sins, now and for ever?’

Ranjit shouted, ‘
Wahiguruji ka Khalsa, wahiguruji ki Fat
teh!
’

But I didn’t love Ranjit. I liked him, I respected him, I wanted to look after him and rescue him, but I didn’t love him. I whispered, ‘
Wahiguruji ki Fatteh!
’

‘
Sat Sri Akkal!
’ hissed the congregation like a hundred snakes.

The old man stepped aside, the perspiration pouring down
his face. The guru behind the canopy opened the holy book and looked at the top left-hand corner. He cried, The first letter of the first word is K—a good omen! What name shall we of the Guru Panth give this our new sister?’

The Buick taxi-man said, ‘Kalwant.’

Kartar Singh’s wife said, ‘Kirat!’

But my name was Victoria. Victoria Jones. I was a cheechee engine driver’s daughter.

My name was Victoria.

I stumbled to my feet and ran out of the gurdwara. The congregation fell suddenly silent behind me. I grabbed my bag, left my sandals, ran across the little square by the pool, turned, and ran down the street. Pieces of the service thundered round like chariots in my head:

If Ranjit came after me I might even now stop and go back with him and submit my neck to the two-edged sword, my spirit to the iron faith. But it was terribly important that I should not stop for him or go back of my own accord. He must break away from them for my sake, and come running after me, whatever the congregation thought, whatever the Loved Ones said.

It was awful of me to run away and leave him. But he didn’t
need
me, however much he loved me—and I thought he did love me, in his fashion. He didn’t need me; he did need the Guru Panth.

I slowed a little and looked over my shoulder. The people in the street were staring at me, but Ranjit was not coming. None of the Sikhs had left the gurdwara.

I saw the station in front of me, and black smoke drifting away at the north end. It must be a goods train, but 98 Up was due in any minute now—the train Pater would take from Bhowani on to Gondwara. No, to-day he was going only as far as Timrai Junction—another driver ill, some changes in the rosters. I broke into a run.

I reached the station yard as 98 Up whistled for the Farriers crossing. That was not music for the soul; it was one of our people, his hand on the whistle cord, sending the shrill voice of the engine out over the roofs of the city, over the plains, reminding them of steel and people and wheels grinding on the rail.

I ran on to the platform and stood on the edge, breathing in great gasps, my sari billowing about me.

Ninety-Eight Up came snaking in under the north gantry, under the high tower of the North Box, past the mud wall behind the Parcel Shed. Farther back and there was a gold mohur tree in bloom, its branches leaning out over the carriage roofs. The line of dark red carriages, swaying and grinding slowly, followed behind the engine. Each jerked to the left, to the right, as the bogies caught the points. The driver sat there on his jump seat, leaning out over the red-hot iron wall of the cab, his eyes screwed up in the glare. The engine ground to a stop in front of the Up Starter.