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Authors: Khushwant Singh
I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale
I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Khushwant Singh is India’s best-known writer and columnist. He has been founder-editor of
Yojna
, and editor of the
Illustrated Weekly of India
, the
National Herald
and the
Hindustan Times.
He is also the author of several books, which include the novels
Train to Pakistan
,
Delhi
,
The Company of Women
and
Burial at Sea
; the classic two-volume
A History of the Sikhs;
and a number of translations and non-fiction books on Sikh religion and culture, Delhi, nature and current affairs. His autobiography,
Truth, Love and a Little Malice
, was published in 2002.
Paradise and Other Stories
is his most recent work.
Khushwant Singh was a Member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974, but returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the storming of the Golden Temple by the Indian Army.
For
Manjushree Khaitan
The narration in this novel is set in 1942–3 from April to April
‘T
here should be a baptism in blood. We have had enough of target practice.’
The trunk of a tree thirty yards away bore imprints of their marksmanship. Its bark was torn; in its centre was a deep, yellow gash oozing a mixture of gum and sap. From one branch dangled a row of metal heads of electric bulbs; their glass was strewn on the ground and shone like a bed of mica. Littered about the tree were tin cans and tattered pieces of cardboard sieved with holes.
‘What about it, leader?’ asked the smallest boy in the party slapping the butt of his rifle. ‘We should sprinkle blood on our guns and say a short prayer to baptize them. Then they will never miss their mark and we can kill as many Englishmen as we like.’
Sher Singh smiled. He tossed his revolver in the air and caught it by the handle. He took careful aim at an empty sardine can and fired another six shots. The bullets went through into the earth kicking up whiffs of dust. His Alsatian dog, Dyer, began to whine with excitement. He leapt up with a growl and ran down the canal embankment. He sniffed at the tin and pawed it gingerly to make sure that it was dead, then picked it up in his mouth and shook it from side to side. He ran back with it and laid it at his master’s feet.
‘Why waste good bullets on tin cans and trees? What
have they done to us?’ asked another member of the party.
That is why I say we should have a baptism in blood,’ repeated the little boy.
‘We will have our blood baptism when the time comes,’ replied Sher Singh pompously. ‘Let us be prepared for action. When duty calls, we will not be found wanting.’
‘Brother, it is an old Hindu custom to baptize weapons before using them. Our ancient warriors used to dip their swords in a tray of goat’s blood and lay them before Durga, Kali or Bhavani or whatever name the goddess of destruction was known by. We should keep up the tradition.’
Sher Singh could not make up his mind. He had never killed anything before. Even the sight of a headless chicken spouting blood as it fluttered about had made him turn cold with horror. He had been full of loathing for the cook who had wrenched off the fowl’s head, and had given up eating meat of any kind for some months. But this was different. They were training to become terrorists. They had to learn how to take life — to become tough. He, more than the others, because he was their leader.
‘My gun is thirsty,’ went on the little boy. ‘If it can’t get the blood of an Englishman or a toady it must drink that of some animal or bird.’
There was a general murmur of assent. Only Sher Singh was reluctant. ‘You don’t want to smear the blood of a jackal or a crow on your guns, do you? What else can you find this time of the year? The shooting season closed two months ago.’
‘We will find something or other round about the swamp,’ assured Madan. ‘There may be deer coming to drink. Perhaps a duck or two which could not migrate.’
That decided him finally. Madan was the strong man of the University. He had won his colours in many games and had played cricket for his province. His performance against a visiting English side — he had carried his bat after scoring a century — had made him a local hero. He had brought the other boys with him and would have been the leader of the band except that he knew little of politics. And it was Sher Singh, and not he, who had arranged the smuggling of rifles and hand-grenades from across the frontier. Although Sher Singh had assumed the leadership of the group, Madan was its backbone. He was both Sher Singh’s chief supporter and rival: one whose presence was an encouragement and a challenge at the same time.
‘O.K., brother, O.K.,’ said Sher Singh in English and stood up. ‘We must be quick. It will be dark in an hour.’ He collected the empty cases lying on the ground and put them in his pocket. The boys also stood up and brushed the dust off their clothes. They put their guns in the jeep. One of them volunteered to stay back.
Sher Singh loaded his rifle and led the party down the canal bank towards the marsh. Dyer ran ahead barking excitedly.
They crossed the stretch of chalky saltpetre and got to the edge of the swamp. There were no birds on the water. On the other side was a peepul tree on which there was a flock of white egrets. Right on the top was a king vulture with its bald red head hunched
between its black shoulders. Beneath the tree were bitterns wading in the mud. The birds were over a hundred yards away; well beyond Sher Singh’s range of marksmanship.
The party surveyed the scene and considered the pros and cons of taking a shot from that distance. The vulture stuck out its head and the egrets began to show signs of nervousness. Suddenly there came the loud, raucous cry of a Sarus crane followed by another from its mate. They were in a cluster of bulrushes not fifty yards away. The boys sat down on their haunches and stopped talking. The cranes continued calling alternately for a few minutes and then resumed their search for frogs. The vulture and the egrets on the opposite bank went back to sleep.
‘Kill one of these. They are as big as any black buck,’ whispered the small boy.
‘Who kills cranes?’ asked Sher Singh. ‘They are no use to anyone. And I am told if one of a pair is killed, the other dies of grief.’
‘If you are going to funk shooting birds, you will not do much when it comes to shooting Englishmen,’ taunted Madan. ‘You will say, “Why kill this poor chap, his widow and children will weep,” or “His mother will be sad.” Sher Singhji, this is what is meant by baptism in blood; get used to the idea of shedding it. Steel your heart against sentiments of kindness and pity. They have been the undoing of our nation. We are too soft.’
That was enough to provoke Sher Singh — particularly as it came from Madan. ‘Oh no! nothing soft about me,’ he answered defiantly. ‘If it is a Sarus crane
you want, a Sarus crane you will have. Come along Dyer — and if you bark, I’ll shoot you too.’
Sher Singh got down on his knees and crawled up behind the cover of the pampas grass, his dog following warily behind. He stopped after a few yards and parted the stalks with the muzzle of his rifle. One of the birds was busy digging in the mud with his long beak; the other was on guard turning its head in all directions looking out for signs of danger. Sher Singh decided to be patient. He wanted to get a little closer and also get enough time to take aim. Missing a bird of that size would be bad for his reputation.
After a few minutes, he looked through the stalks again. Both the cranes were now busy rummaging in the reeds. He crept up another ten yards, Dyer behind him. He paused for breath and once again parted the pampas stalks with the muzzle of his rifle. One of the birds was again on the lookout. Sher Singh drew the bead on the other — at the easiest spot to hit: the heavy, feathered middle of its body. The sentry crane spotted Sher Singh. It let out a warning cry and rose heavily into the air. Its mate looked up. Before it could move, Sher Singh fired. The bullet hit its mark. A cloud of feathers flew up and the bird fell in the mud. Dyer ran across to seize it. The boys came up from behind, clapping and shouting.
Sher Singh clicked open the catch; the metal case of the bullet flew out and fell on the ground. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. He blew into the barrel and saw the smoke shoot out of the other end. He was a jumble of conflicting emotions of guilt and pride. He had mortally wounded a harmless, inedible bird. But
this was his first attempt to take life and it had succeeded. Then his friends came up, slapped him on the back and shook his hand by turn. The feeling of remorse was temporarily smothered.
The shot had not killed the crane. It flapped its wings and dragged itself out of the pool of blood a few feet farther towards the water. When Dyer came up, it turned towards him and pecked away fiercely with its long, powerful beak. The snarling and snapping Alsatian kept a discreet distance. Then the other crane flew back and began to circle overhead, crying loudly. It dived down low over the dog to frighten it away.
‘Leader, give the other one its salvation too. Let them be together in heaven or hell.’
‘Yes, let’s see you take a flying shot,’ added Madan.
The argument appealed to Sher Singh. The anguished cry of the flying crane was almost human. If he did not silence it, it would continue to haunt him for a long time. If both of the pair were dead, perhaps they would be together wherever cranes went after death. Sher Singh took out the magazine of his rifle and pressed six bullets in it. He followed the crane’s flight with his barrel and fired when the bird was almost above him. The bullet went through one of the wings. The bird wavered badly in its flight and some feathers came floating down. Sher Singh fired the second shot. Then the third and the fourth and emptied the magazine. The crane flew away across the swamp, ducking nervously as the bullets whistled by in quick succession.
Sher Singh blew the smoke out of the barrel once more.
In his excitement he forgot to pick up the empty cases.
‘Its time is not up yet,’ said Madan to console him. ‘Put this one out of its agony.’
Once having embarked on the bloody business, Sher Singh could not stop half way. He walked up to the injured bird and put his right foot on its neck. The crane began to kick violently and gasp for breath. Its beak opened wide showing its thin, long tongue. Sher Singh took out his revolver and fired two shots into its body. The bird’s dying gurgle was stifled in its throat. Its legs clawed the air and then slowly came to a stop in an attitude of prayer. Blood started trickling from its beak and a film covered its small black eyes.
‘This one is finished. Let us take it to the jeep and baptize our weapons in its blood.’
Two of the boys caught the crane by the wings from either end and dragged it out of the swamp. Dyer sniffed at the dead bird’s head dangling between its trailing legs and began to run round in circles yapping deliriously. Sher Singh saw his handiwork and a lump came up in his throat. He did not respond to the backslapping and hilarity of his companions.
Before they got clear of the swamp the other crane flew back and started circling over them. They saw it high above in the deep blue sky catch the light of the setting sun; then heard its cries piercing the stillness of the dusk. Sher Singh ignored requests to have another go at the flying bird; in any case it was too high and the light was failing fast. When they got to the canal bank, it became dark. The crane flew lower and lower till they could see its grey form with its long legs almost
above their heads. They shoo’d it off. The bird disappeared in the dark only to come back again and again. Its crying told them it was there all the time, trying to reclaim its dead mate. Sher Singh wanted to get away from the place as fast as his jeep could take him. That was not to be.
When they got to the jeep, they saw a Sikh peasant talking to the boy they had left behind. He was obviously waiting for them. When the man saw what the boys had brought, he spat on the ground: ‘Sardarji, why did you have to take the life of this poor creature? Is anyone going to eat it?’ He spoke to Sher Singh as Sher Singh was the only one carrying a gun.
‘Oi Sardara, what do you know about these things? Be on your way,’ answered the boy holding one end of the crane’s wings.
The peasant spat again; the spittle fell near the foot of the boy who had spoken rudely. ‘The shooting season closed two months ago and you are still going about killing birds. Have you a licence?’ he asked.
‘Oi, who do you think you are?’
The peasant stood up. He was a big man standing well over six feet. He was also broad and hairy. Long strands of hair trickled out from all sides of his clumsily-tied turban. A thick, black beard covered most of his chest. He carried a bamboo staff shod with iron at either end.
‘Keep quiet,’ said Sher Singh angrily silencing his companion; then turned calmly to the peasant. ‘There is no open or closed season for birds like these; that is only for game.’
‘Nevertheless you have to have a gun licence,’
continued the other truculently. ‘I am the headman of the village beyond the swamp. I heard the firing. It sounded like machine-gun practice. You have to show me all your arms licences.’
‘There is only one gun,’ said Sher Singh with presence of mind. ‘I will show you mine.’
He fished out his father’s shotgun licence from his pocket and wrapped a five-rupee note in its folds. He put his arm around the peasant’s shoulder and took him aside: ‘Come along, Lambardar Sahib, you have got angry for no reason. You can see the licence and anything else you like.’
Madan felt that he was entitled to join them. Before Sher Singh could hand over the licence, Madan spoke to the headman: ‘Lambardarji, you know who you are talking to? This is Sher Singh, son of Sardar Buta Singh, Magistrate. You have heard the name of Sardar Buta Singh, I hope.’
The headman turned to Sher Singh. He looked at him for a brief moment and then took Sher Singh’s hands in his. The scowl on his face turned to a broad, friendly grin. ‘Who doesn’t know of Sardar Buta Singh?’ he asked. ‘But how should I have known! Do forgive me, Sardar Sahib.’
‘Not at all,’ answered Sher Singh. ‘It is you who must forgive us for speaking rudely! You are a lambardar and we should respect you!’
‘I am your slave,’ said the peasant, touching Sher Singh’s knee. ‘The slave of your slaves. You must come to my humble home for some water or something.’
‘That is very kind of you; we will another day. Do see my licence. And this is for your children.’
‘No, no, Sardar Sahib,’ protested the headman. ‘Do not shame me. I am not short of money. By the Guru’s blessing I have plenty to eat and drink. I only need your kindness. If you step into the hut of Jhimma Singh I will ask nothing more. Your slave is named Jhimma Singh.’
They rejoined the party. The headman’s mood had changed completely. ‘Babuji,’ he said, addressing them all, ‘if you are fond of shikar, you only have to say the word and I will arrange one for you. I could get the villagers to beat through the fields and you could shoot to your hearts’ content. Partridge, hare, deer, wild pig — anything.’
‘We will ask you when the shooting season opens,’ answered Madan.