I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale (3 page)

Sabhrai was reading the Granth quietly. She looked up and spoke to her son: ‘We have been waiting for you for the last hour. Your father is in a hurry. He has to go to see the Deputy Commissioner.’

‘How was I to know this was New Year’s Day?’ answered Sher Singh. ‘Nobody told me.’ Everyone knew that Sabhrai’s remarks were really meant for her daughter-in-law. Before Champak could make her excuses, Buta Singh intervened. ‘Let us get on with the service instead of arguing,’ he said.

Sabhrai picked up the fly-whisk lying beneath the cot on which the Granth was placed and began to wave it over her head. She started with the hymn to spring:

It is spring and all is seemly —

The bumble-bee and the butterfly

And the woodlands in flower.

But there is sorrow in my soul,

For the Lord my Master is away.

If the husband comes not home, how can a wife

Find peace of mind?

Sorrows of separation waste away her body.

The koel calls in the mango grove,

Its notes are full of joy.

But O Mother of mine, it’s like death to me

For there is sorrow in my soul.

How shall I banish sorrow and find blessed peace?

Spake the Guru: Welcome the Lord in your soul As a wife welcomes her master when she loves him.

Everyone bowed as the last words trailed off. Buta Singh invoked the Guru loudly. Sabhrai ran the palms of her hands along the broad pages of the holy book and placed them on her eyes.

Shunno came in carrying a steaming tray, placed it on a low stool in front of the Granth, and sat down in a corner. On the verandah outside, Mundoo bullied little children from neighbouring houses into keeping quiet and sitting in a row. Behind him, whining impatiently, was Dyer.

Sabhrai closed the massive Granth, holding the ends reverently in her hands and then let it open as if it had a will of its own. She scanned the opening lines of the first verse and, having assured herself that they prophesied no misfortunes to her family, read in a calm clear voice:

When I think of myself
Thou art not there;

Now it is Thee alone
And my ego is swept away.

As billows rise and fall
When a storm sweeps across the water;

As waves rise and relapse into the ocean
I will mingle with Thee.

How can I say what Thou art
When that which I believe is not worthy of belief?

It is as a king asleep on the royal couch
Dreams he is a beggar and grieves;

Or as a rope mistaken for a serpent causeth panic.

Such are delusion and fear.

Why should I grieve?

Why be panic-stricken?

If God is in every heart

And in every soul

He is in mine.

He has many manifestations

Yet is closer to us than our hands or feet.

These passages were always listened to carefully as prophetic announcements on problems which were uppermost in their minds. To Sher Singh the only lines that had significance were those asking him to discount delusions that caused fear and panic. The Guru himself had given him a personal assurance that he had mistaken a rope for a serpent and had really nothing to worry about. He was not religious or superstitious; nevertheless the words had a strange reassuring effect.

The ceremony ended with a short invocation recited
by Buta Singh during which everyone remained standing. It was followed by the distribution of the prasad — a hot syrupy batter made of flour, sugar, and clarified butter. There was an awkward silence which made people conscious of the noise they made eating.

Buta Singh took off the beard-band and wiped his greasy hands on his beard and moustache. He looked at his wrist-watch. ‘I must be going,’ he announced in a tone of finality and stood up. ‘A quick cup of tea and I must run.’

Everyone made a last obeisance in front of the Granth and went out into the verandah and put on their shoes. Sabhrai threw Dyer’s share of the prasad into the air. The Alsatian leapt up and caught it in his mouth. They all adjourned to the breakfast table.

Buta Singh opened the morning paper. The family sat in silence waiting for him to say something. Sher Singh was particularly nervous. Would his father ask him about taking the government jeep for a private outing?

‘The war seems to be going badly for the English,’ he said at last, putting down the paper.

‘Things are not too good for them,’ answered his son, somewhat relieved.

Shunno brought a tray full of fried chapatis and vegetables. Sabhrai poured out the tea. The meal continued to be described as ‘tea’ although it was the main meal of the day, combining both breakfast and lunch.

‘You take a lot of interest in politics,’ continued Buta Singh, sipping his cup of tea. ‘What do you think will happen to the British? The Japanese have driven them out of Burma. This chap Rommel has defeated them
in Africa. German submarines sink British ships in English ports. They seem to be losing on every front.’

Sher Singh was always somewhat non-committal on political topics when talking to his father. ‘I think we should be more concerned with what will happen to us,’ he replied. ‘We are far too concerned with other people. Our Communist friends are only worried about what will happen to Russia; others think only of what will happen to Britain. Very few of us are bothered with our own future.’

Buta Singh noticed the attempt to snub him. He ate a few pieces of chapati and curry before replying. The long pause was meant to convey disapproval of his son’s tone of talking. ‘You can say what you like,’ he said at last, ‘but I do believe that in this war our interests and that of the English are identical. If they lose, we lose. If we help them to win, they will certainly give us something more than we have now. We should know who are our friends and who are our enemies. The English have ruled us for over a hundred years, and I don’t care what you say, I believe they have treated us better than our own kings did in the past; or the Germans, Italians, or Japanese will do if they win and take over India. We should stand by the English in their hour of trouble.’

‘Why don’t they let us help them? Gandhi is willing. Nehru is willing,’ said Sher a little warmly.

‘Don’t talk like a child,’ replied Buta Singh also warming up. ‘What does their willingness amount to? Nothing. Are the British short of recruits? Despite your Gandhis and Nehrus more turn up than are wanted. And what are you to do with your Muslims? They don’t
want a free India until the country is cut up and they get their Pakistan. One should bargain with knowledge of one’s weakness.’

It was only in recent years that Buta Singh had begun to think in terms of bargaining with the British. Before that, loyalty to the Raj had been as much an article of faith with him as it had been with his father and grandfather who had served in the army. He, like them, had mentioned the English king or queen in his evening prayer. ‘O, Guru, bless our Sovereign and bless us their subjects so that we remain contented and happy.’ Then things had begun to change. Gandhi had made loyalty to the British appear like disloyalty to one’s own country and traditions. Larger and larger numbers of Indians had begun to see Gandhi’s point of view. People like Buta Singh who had been proud of being servants of His Britannic Majesty were made to feel apologetic and even ashamed of themselves. Loyalty became synonymous with servility, respect for English officers synonymous with sycophancy. What shook the faith of people like Buta Singh was the attitude of the new brand of Englishmen coming out to India. Buta Singh would have withstood the scorn of his countrymen; but he could not withstand the affection of people like Taylor. Other English officers had kept their distance from Indians and set up the pattern of the rulers and the ruled. Taylor, on the other hand, not only met Indians as equals, made friends with his subordinates, but also openly expressed his sympathies with Gandhi and Nehru. At first Buta Singh had looked upon Taylor’s professions with suspicion. When he was convinced of the
Englishman’s sincerity, he began to look upon him as an oddity — an oddity he respected and liked.

Buta Singh could not comprehend why any Englishman would like to see the end of British rule in India. But many besides Taylor had begun to say so. And most of the Indians were actively agitating for its end. In this state of flux Buta Singh had decided on a muddle-headed and somewhat dishonest compromise. When he was with Englishmen he protested his loyalty to the Raj. ‘At my age, I cannot change,’ he would say. When he was amongst his own countrymen, he would be a little critical of English ways. He let his son cast his lot with the Nationalists and did not object to his organizing the students and making political speeches. He explained his son to Taylor as ‘of your way of thinking.’ By many people, Buta Singh was described as double-faced; any compromise in a situation like the one in which Buta Singh found himself would appear to unsympathetic people as double-faced.

They ate in silence. Buta Singh finished his meal with a loud belch. ‘Oi, water for my hands.’

Mundoo brought a jug of water and basin and handed his master a cake of soap. Buta Singh washed his hands and rinsed his mouth without getting up from his chair. He belched again and dried his hands and mouth with the towel. A bit of curry stuck to his moustache.

‘A bulbul on the bough,’ said Sabhrai with a smile. Buta Singh wiped his moustache with the towel again.

‘Now!’

‘Still on the bough,’ said Sabhrai giggling. Buta Singh brushed his moustache a third time.

‘Now!’

‘It has flown,’ they all replied in a chorus and burst out laughing. The atmosphere changed to one of hilarity. Sabhrai noticed her husband glance at his watch. She made another attempt. ‘Will any of you have the time to go to the temple today?’ she asked.

‘I have to see the Deputy Commissioner first,’ answered her husband. ‘On days like these there is always danger of Hindu-Muslim riots; all magistrates have to be on duty. I will go if I have the time.’

‘I have to be there,’ replied Sher Singh. ‘We have organized a meeting outside the temple.’

‘You go to the temple before you go to your meeting,’ snapped his mother.

‘And,’ added Buta Singh with indulgent pride, ‘don’t say anything which may cause trouble. Remember my position. I do not mind your hobnobbing with these Nationalists — as a matter of fact, it is good to keep in with both sides — but one ought to be cautious.’

‘O no, no,’ answered Sher Singh. ‘I know what to say and what not to say.’

It was not customary to consult the girls. Beena was expected to go with her mother unless there were good reasons for not doing so. She knew her only chance of getting away was to bring up the subject while her father was still there. ‘There are only a few weeks left for my exams. I had promised to go to Sita’s house to work with her. We help each other with the preparation.’

‘Why can’t she come here? Why do you always have to go to her?’ asked Sabhrai. She had been getting more and more difficult about Beena going to Sita’s house.
Her sharp tone made Buta Singh react adversely. He came to his daughter’s rescue.

‘Let her go to Sita’s. There will be nobody in the house today to give her lunch or tea. I will drop you at Wazir Chand’s house.’

That ended the argument. Buta Singh’s word was never questioned. The only one left was Champak. Sabhrai was not much concerned with her plans. If she came to the temple, she would not say anything. If she decided to shut herself in her room with her radio at full blast — as she often did — she would still say nothing. Nevertheless Champak felt that the situation demanded some explanation from her. ‘I haven’t washed my hair for a long time. If it dries in time, I will go in the afternoon — if I can find anyone to go with. Otherwise I’ll stay at home and put away the Granth after evening prayers.’

Buta Singh looked at his wrist-watch. ‘I must be going,’ he announced with a tone of finality and stood up. ‘Get your books and things, Beena.’

‘Baisakhi Day! All the world is on holiday but we have to work. Others go to their temples, mosques, or gurudwaras; this is our temple and mosque.’

Buta Singh made this comment to his colleagues sitting in a circle in the verandah of the Deputy Commissioner’s house. They had all been told the evening before to present themselves at 10 a.m. sharp. ‘I would like to know what the Sahib would say if this were Christmas Day,’ he added.

His colleagues refused to be provoked.

‘They are our rulers,’ exclaimed one. ‘What they order we obey.’

‘I agree with Sardar Buta Singh,’ said another. ‘But who is to bell the cat?’

‘Sardar Sahib, you are the seniormost amongst us. Why don’t you tell the Deputy Commissioner not to summon us on religious holidays?’ asked Wazir Chand with a smile. He had a way of talking to people which made them feel small or stupid; Buta Singh found his tone particularly irritating. He did not mind the attempt to trip him — that was fair according to the rules of the game — but he objected to being taken to be so simple as to fall into so obvious a trap.

‘I am quite willing to tell the Sahib; I don’t care,’ answered Buta Singh. ‘Don’t you know that I told the last Deputy Commissioner? He kept sending for me on every religious festival saying, “Duty first, duty first.” I told him plainly: “Sahib, duty or no duty, I am going to the gurudwara. If you do not like it, here is my resignation.” That made him quiet. Mr Wazir Chand, it is not leadership we lack but unity. I say one thing to the Sahib and another goes behind my back and says something else.’

Wazir Chand knew the last remark was meant for him. ‘Sardar Sahib, you are a big man and we are but small radishes from an unknown garden,’ he said with mock humility. ‘You lead and we follow. Don’t you agree?’ he asked, turning to the others.

There was a murmur of assent. Buta Singh was angry. Before he could retaliate, the Deputy Commissioner’s orderly interrupted them. ‘The Sahib sends his salaams,’ he said, addressing Buta Singh.

Buta Singh’s anger vanished; the Sahib had sent for him first. He rose with deliberate ease to impress the others that he took this sort of thing in his stride. He stopped in front of the hat-rack to adjust his tie and turban. He gave his beard a gentle pat, and went in.