I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (20 page)

‘Eternal God, who art our shield
The dagger, knife, the sword we wield
To us protector there is given
The timeless, deathless Lord of Heaven . . . ’

It went on in short staccato lines infusing warm blood into her chilled veins and making her forehead hot with anger. She was a Sikh; so was her son. Why did she ever have any doubts?

By the time the prayer ended, the grey light of dawn had dimmed the lesser stars — only the morning star shone a pure, silvery white. At last there was peace in her soul. She got up and went to the women’s enclosure to bathe. The water was bitter cold and she shuddered as she went down the steps. She bobbed up and down naming members of her family with each dip, with five extra ones for her Shera. She had brought no towel and dried herself in the breeze. She got back into her clothes, wrapped the warm shawl about her shoulders,
and went to the inner shrine where the morning prayer was about to begin.

The priest unwrapped the Granth and read the passage for the day.

‘Lord thou art my refuge

I have found Thee and my doubts are dispelled.

I spoke not, but Ye knew my sorrow

And made me to meditate on Thy holy name.

Now I have no sorrow; I am at one with Thee

You took me by my arm

And led me out of Maya’s winding maze

You set me free of the trap of attachment.

Spake the Guru: Thy fetters are fallen

Thou who wert estranged

Are united to Thy Lord.’

Sabhrai made her obeisance to the Granth and went out. At the entrance to the temple she scraped a palmful of dust that had come off the feet of pilgrims and tied it up in a knot in her headpiece. She took her slippers from the shoe-stand and went home.

The silence at the breakfast table was broken by the sound of a car drawing up in the porch. Mundoo came in to say that the Deputy Commissioner had sent his car to take Sabhrai to the police station. Buta Singh was very moved: ‘What fine people these Taylors are! They have taken the trouble to find out and sent their car. Almost as if Sher were their own son.’

‘The Guru will reward them for their kindness,’ said
Sabhrai. ‘Those who are with you in your sorrow are your real friends. God bless them.’

The entire household, including the servants and orderlies, came to see Sabhrai off on her mission. Dyer, who had missed a car ride ever since the jeep had been taken away, cocked his unbelieving ears when his mistress asked him to come along. He gave a bark of joy and hopped on to the seat beside her. They drove off to the police station.

The Deputy Commissioner’s car with its Union Jack and chauffeur in police uniform was well known to the staff of the police station. The sentries saluted as it went through the gates and the Anglo-Indian sergeants sprang to attention. Taylor’s personal bodyguard stepped out of the front seat and opened the door. Dyer hopped out, followed by Sardarini Buta Singh.

The sergeants recognized the dog. They also realized that the native woman was Buta Singh’s wife. The chauffeur enlightened them. They slunk away to the reporting room and let the Indian staff take over. The Muslim sub-inspector conducted Sabhrai to her son’s cell.

Dyer was the first to greet his young master. He rushed at him, barking deliriously. He went round in circles, whining, pawing, and licking, and would not let Sabhrai get near her son. Sher Singh patted the dog on the head and pushed him aside gently. Mother and son clasped each other in a tight embrace. Sher Singh’s pent up emotions burst their bounds and he began to cry loudly in his mother’s arms. Sabhrai hid his unmanly tears by holding him to her bosom. She kissed his forehead again and again. They rocked in close embrace
with the dog leaping about the cell, yapping and barking joyously.

‘Could you leave us alone, sub-inspector Sahib?’ asked Sabhrai addressing the officer.

‘Certainly Mataji,’ he replied, drying his eyes. ‘Stay here as long as you like. Can I bring you some tea or something to eat?’

‘No, son, just leave me here for a few minutes. I won’t be long.’

The sub-inspector went out and ordered the inquisitive group of constables back to their barracks.

Mother and son sat down on the charpoy. Dyer put his head in his master’s lap.

‘How pale you are! Do they give you enough to eat?’

‘They give me all I want; I don’t feel hungry. I could not even eat the food you sent me.’

‘I did not send you anything.’

‘Oh? The Deputy Commissioner’s orderly brought it every day. I thought it was from home; it was Indian.’

‘God bless him and his wife. Son, your father would not let me send you anything.’

‘Is he very angry with me?’

‘He had to be angry. You have poured water over all his ambitions.’

‘What does he want me to do? The police tell me he wants me to make a statement naming the boys who were with me.’

‘Yes. He thinks that is the only thing that will save you.’

‘Have you all thought the matter over?’

‘We have talked of nothing else. Everyone says that if the police already know about the others, there is no
harm in making a statement. And Taylor Sahib is showing you a special favour in letting you be the only one to get away.’

After a long pause Sher Singh asked: ‘Has Champak said anything?’

‘What can she say except to want you back! Her eyes are inflamed with too much weeping. She would accept any course which would bring you back home as soon as possible. What is your own opinion?’

‘I . . . ’ said Sher Singh hesitantly, ‘I have no opinion. I will do exactly what you people tell me to do. If it is true they know all about the affair, there seems no point in hiding anything any more.’

Sabhrai shut her eyes and rocked to and fro. After a while she asked, ‘Son! Have they been beating you?’ Sher Singh looked down at his feet. The memory of the first thrashing came back to him. ‘No, but they beat everyone who comes here. I can hear their cries every night.’

Sabhrai shut her eyes again and chanted as she rocked: ‘The Great Guru! The True . . . Are you afraid?’

‘Who is not afraid of a beating? Only those who get it know. It is easy to be brave at the expense of other people.’ He stroked Dyer’s head and tickled him between his front legs. ‘Then are you all agreed that I should make a statement? What do you advise me?’

‘I am an illiterate native woman, what advice can I give in these matters, son? I only ask the Guru to guide you. What He says is my advice.’

Sher Singh gave her time to tell him what the Guru had to say on the subject. Sabhrai simply closed her
eyes and resumed rocking herself and chanting, ‘The True, The True, The Great Guru.’ Tears began running down her cheeks. Sher Singh put his hand on her knees: ‘Mother, what do you want me to do?’

She dried her tears and blew her nose. ‘Son, I spent last night at the Golden Temple asking the Guru for guidance. I do not know whether I got it right. In any case His orders were for me; not for you.’

‘What did He say, Mother? Why don’t you tell me?’

‘He said that my son had done wrong. But if he named the people who were with him he would be doing a greater wrong. He was no longer to be regarded as a Sikh and I was not to see his face again.’

She undid the knot in her headpiece in which she had tied the dust collected at the temple and pasted it on her son’s forehead with her palm. ‘May the Guru be with you in body and in spirit.’

‘D
ear Taylor Memsahib. I am an uneducated Punjabi woman who cannot write nice words of thanks in English. Ask one of your clerks to read this to you. God bless you for what you have done. You wanted to share the grief of a mother whose child has been stricken. There is no greater act of kindness in the world. May the Guru’s blessings be on you, your Sahib, and on your children. May you have many sons. May God ever keep your household full of plenty and keep sorrow and suffering away from your door.’

Sabhrai folded the paper with her shaking hands. Her head shook and she had difficulty in licking and sealing the envelope. She asked Shunno to give it to the Deputy Commissioner’s chauffeur, who had driven her back from the police station, and then light a fire in her bedroom. By the time Shunno came back with old newspapers and firewood, Sabhrai was in bed with her quilt wrapped about her. Despite her will power, her teeth began to rattle and she began to shiver violently.

‘Bibiji, you have fever,’ said Shunno in alarm. ‘You must have caught a chill.’

Sabhrai wanted to tell her to get on with her work, but no words would come out of her mouth. She shivered and shook; her forehead was hot, her body cold. Shunno quickly lit a fire. She came to her mistress and began to press her. The fit of shivering was soon
over. Sabhrai relaxed in her warm bed and fell fast asleep in the heated room.

Neither her husband nor her daughter got a chance to ask her about her interview with Sher Singh. She had gone straight from the car to her room. An hour later, Shunno came to tell them that she was asleep. They knew that she had been away all night and needed rest. If she had had anything really important to tell them, she would have done so before retiring. Obviously, thought Buta Singh, everything had gone according to plan and his son’s release would now be a matter of time, an unpleasant time, with other arrests, and a public trial where Sher Singh, being the Crown witness, would be branded as a traitor. It would finish Sher’s political career — but only for a time, for public memory was notoriously short. In any case it would save the boy’s life. It would also save Buta Singh’s face vis-a-vis Taylor who had trusted and relied on him and had been so good to his family in the worst crisis in his life. Buta Singh felt that at long last the nightmare of the past month was coming to an end. He was full of gratitude to Taylor and to God; even to Sabhrai — his illiterate, superstitious, half-companion of the past thirty years.

Sabhrai did not stir all afternoon. Beena tiptoed in and out of the darkened, stuffy room several times to see her. By evening she grew somewhat nervous and came to her mother’s bedside. Sabhrai seemed to be in deep slumber. Beena watched her quilt for some time before she noticed the reassuring heave of her breath. She looked at her watch. Eight hours
of continuous sleep was long enough. If Sabhrai stayed in bed longer, she would not be able to sleep at night; and she had not eaten all day. Beena called her softly. There was no sign of waking. She put her hand on her mother’s forehead. It burnt with fever. Beena ran out to her father and told him. Buta Singh hurried in. They whispered to her, then called out loudly. She did not answer. They felt her pulse beat rapidly. Buta Singh sent his orderly to fetch a doctor.

The doctor took her temperature and examined her chest and back with his stethoscope. He asked a few questions and then told the family that Sabhrai had pneumonia. Her temperature was over 104° and she was in a state of delirium. But pneumonia was no longer something to be scared of, he assured them. The new American drug had got the better of it. He prescribed a medicine and gave detailed instructions about the nursing. He would call again in the morning.

Buta Singh and Beena took turns at watching over Sabhrai, and Shunno pressed her mistress’ feet intermittently all through the night.

Next morning Buta Singh scanned the paper more carefully than he had done for a long time. There were no arrests of terrorists reported. Perhaps it was too early for the police to act or the boys had absconded. He felt as if he had been given one more day of respectability with the citizens. Would he be able to explain away his son’s action? If his name appeared in
the next Honours list (which would be published in another ten days), no one would ever accept his explanations. They would say that he had forced his son to betray his colleagues so that he could get his O.B.E. or C.I.E., or one of the other titles that the British had invented for the Indians. What would it matter in the end! He would retire to his village with his pension and property intact. His family would be safe. He would be able to get his son a good job; Taylor would surely continue to help him.

In the crisis, the Englishman seemed to have become Buta Singh’s only hope. It would be Christmas in three days. Perhaps he should make the Taylors some gesture of gratitude for what they had done. He knew they were very particular about accepting gifts from subordinates. His case was different; he was a friend as well. Besides, the circumstances warranted a symbolic expression of thanks. Christmas was a good opportunity to do so. In any case he would send it from his wife to Mrs Taylor.

After the doctor had come and gone, Buta Singh asked his orderly to go to the bazaar and buy three dozen of the best Malta oranges with blood-red centres. He busied himself in composing a letter to go with the gift.

Respected Mrs Taylor,

Pray accept this humble gift of oranges for Christmas Day. They are the first pick of the year from our garden. I hope you will like them. To you and your noble husband, our most respected Deputy Commissioner, my husband and children owe their all. Madam
will do us an honour by receiving this very little gift on the auspicious occasion of the birthday of the World Saviour, Lord Jesus Christ.

Your humble servant,
Sabhrai
(Sardarini Buta Singh)
wife of
Sardar Buta Singh, B.A. (Hons),
Magistrate First Class.

Buta Singh read the letter over several times. Did it sound too servile? No, he decided, nothing sounds too obsequious to the recipient. The only important thing was that the gift should not be returned because a snub in these circumstances would be hard to take. Also, other people should not get to know about it and make fun of him.

The basket of oranges and the letter were sent off three days before Christmas. To Buta Singh’s great relief, it was not returned. Mrs Taylor accepted the gift and, in accordance with Indian custom, left two oranges and a five-rupee note as tip for the orderly. She told the orderly to inform his mistress that she would come over personally to thank the Sardarini.

Mrs Taylor came to call next morning. Buta Singh had already told his daughter about the oranges. ‘I said they came from our garden because it sounds better,’ he explained blandly. ‘I sent them from your mother. Mrs Taylor has been specially good to her.’

‘How extremely kind of you to send us the first pick from your garden,’ said Mrs Taylor as she stepped out of the car and held out her hand.

‘Oh nothing, Mrs Taylor. A very humble gift. It was most kind of you to accept.’

‘And this is your daughter? We met at the station. How are you? Where is the Sardarini Sahiba? I must thank her for the wonderful oranges. I’ll try my Hindustani.’

‘She is very ill,’ answered Beena. ‘She has been in a state of delirium for the last two days.’ Buta Singh realized that his daughter was contradicting his story of the oranges being sent by Sabhrai. He broke in quickly, ‘No, nothing, it is just a little cold and fever. The doctor said it would be controlled by the new American drug. It costs me Rs 35 each day. But I say, “Money does not matter.” Of course you can see her.’ He opened the door to usher her in.

‘I was a nurse before I married John,’ explained Mrs Taylor. ‘Perhaps I can be of some help.’

Buta Singh went on, ‘You have done enough of helping. We will not forget it all our lives.’

Sabhrai’s room was warm and dark. A fire smoldered in the chimney. The windows were shut and there was an oppressive odour of mint and eucalyptus. Under the table lamp beside her bed were an assortment of bottles of medicine, a thermometer, and a tumbler of water. There was also a picture of the first Guru in a silver frame, and a rosary. Beside the bed on the floor was a basin full of margosa leaves for her to be sick in. Shunno drew her veil across her face as her master came in and went on rubbing the soles of her mistress’ feet.

Joyce Taylor was surprised that in an educated Indian home there should be so much disregard of the elementary rules of hygiene. Her nursing past got the
better of her recently acquired status as the wife of the Deputy Commissioner. ‘Why have you got the room so hot and stuffy?’

‘You see, madam, she has caught a cold and draughts are not good for her,’ explained Buta Singh.

‘Rubbish! Open the doors and windows at once. She needs fresh air. Have you kept a temperature chart?’

Joyce Taylor opened the windows herself and took the temperature chart which lay under the tumbler of water. She examined it carefully. Then she put her hand under the quilt and felt Sabhrai’s pulse.

Mrs Taylor put her cold hand on Sabhrai’s hot forehead and gently pushed back her eyelids. Sabhrai kept her eyes open but there was no look of recognition in them.

‘How are you, Sardarini?’

Sabhrai’s lips quivered; she was trying to say something.

‘Taylor’s Memsahib has come to call on you. Don’t you recognize her?’ asked Buta Singh loudly in Punjabi.

There was another quiver of her lips. Then tears welled in her eyes and rolled off into her ears. Joyce Taylor wiped Sabhrai’s tears with her handkerchief and gently pressed her hand on her eyes. ‘Go to sleep like a good girl. You’ll soon be well.’ She asked Buta Singh about the doctor and scrutinized the prescription he had made out.

‘Very expensive medicine this new thing,’ said Buta Singh.

‘Next time you send for the doctor, let me know. I would like to have a word with him,’ she ordered. She gave a friendly pat on Sabhrai’s cheek and got up. ‘You
mustn’t allow any visitors for some days. There must be no excitement at all. She is very ill.’

Among happily married people there grows up a private language of accent, emphasis, and gesture which makes privacy between them almost impossible. If they have shared a common past, they get to know each other’s reactions to particular situations and have an instinctive knowledge of each other’s attitude to any set of new circumstances. Sometimes, long forgotten tunes come up in their minds and without any reason at all they find themselves humming the same notes at the same time. Then there are ways of behaviour which indicate to no one but themselves what the other has in mind. Even at the dinner table the way the wife will pass the bread or, later, the way she will walk up to her room will tell the husband that she wants to be slept with that night. It is not so simple when she wants favours other than sexual. Nevertheless the husband will become aware of something brewing in her mind long before it is put in words.

There was nothing subtle about Joyce Taylor’s fidgets the evening after she had returned from the Buta Singh home. It continued throughout dinner and she remained close to her husband afterwards. This was contrary to the normal practice of giving him an hour with his files before rejoining him for coffee.

‘Something on your mind, dear?’ Taylor asked at last.

‘Yes and no. I mean there is something but I don’t know exactly what it is.’

‘That doesn’t get us very far. What have you been doing with yourself all day?’

‘The same as any other day — apart from calling on old Buta Singh and his family. Curious lot, aren’t they?’

‘How did it go?’

‘Not too bad. I don’t understand the Old Walrus with his obsequious “respected Memsahib” and “our noble Deputy Commissioner.” ’

‘Don’t be too hard on the old stick; he’s been brought up like that. The English are his Mai-Bap, Father-Mother when they are about; when they are not, he is more himself. But he is all right. Does his job honestly and has certainly done more for the war effort than any other officer in the district.’

‘What I cannot understand is if he really feels that way about the British Raj, that he should have a son mixed up with terrorists.’

‘Well! In a way you have the history of Indo-British relationships represented by Buta Singh’s family tree. His grandfather fought against us in the Sikh wars; his father served us loyally. He has continued to do so with certain reservations. His son is impatient to get rid of us. Poor Buta Singh is split between the past and the future; that is why he appears so muddled in the present. He is not as much of a humbug as he appears to be.’

‘One knows where one stands with the younger generation of Indians. They certainly do not want to have anything to do with us.’

‘I am not so certain of that either,’ answered Taylor. ‘The boy in the police lock-up is in as much of a muddle as his father.’

‘What do you mean? He wants India for the Indians; he is willing to kill the English if he can’t get rid of them in any other way.’

‘It isn’t as clear as that. You heard about the Alsatian dog he has — the one which attacked one of the police officers who arrested him and which Sardarini took to the police station! Well, he named him Dyer, quite obviously because it was the most hated name he could think of: General Dyer fired on a crowd in this very city and killed several hundred men and women. In giving a dog that name, he expressed his loathing for the General. Now apparently he loves the dog more than his own relations.’

‘I don’t know if that indicates much,’ laughed Joyce.

‘No, except that it is all a bit muddled.’

Taylor began to show signs of impatience. ‘Let’s have coffee. I can do my work later on; there isn’t very much to do.’

She ordered the coffee and the two came into the study. He lit his pipe. ‘How is the family taking the boy’s arrest?’

‘I couldn’t find out. The Walrus did all the talking; I couldn’t get a clue from him. John, how does the case against the boy stand?’

‘So far there is no evidence at all. The police haven’t made up their minds what to do with him. They have means of making people talk when they want to. They never fail.’