Kitabı oku: «The Track of the Wind»

By means of waking and sleeping, the Imperishable One brings to life this whole universe, moving and unmoving, and tirelessly destroys it. Manu’s Law

Prologue

In this age of darkness

Men have become as dogs. Rag Sarang

A man came to Deri. The few people who glimpsed him on the way said he was a monster. He had been beaten till his bones were shattered and he had been so badly burned that his face was nothing but a smudge – with eyes that could not close, a nose reduced to two holes and a mouth which was merely a slit. He looked like a badly made rag doll. So he draped himself with a shawl – even when the sun was at its hottest – and wound the loose end of his turban round his face.

He came by foot – travelling alone. Invisibly.

He learned to be as unnoticed as a brown lizard against the brown earth. By day he merged perfectly into the background, by night he slept rough in fields and ditches, or in the disused bungalows of departed Britishers. He walked for months and months, begging for food or getting the hospitality of gurudwaras on the way. At last, he came to his own land.

Day after day, he hung about in the fringes of the undergrowth watching the life of the village. He peered through his painful unshielded eyes at those who worked the soil beyond the sugar-cane fields. He took up residence within the ruins of the old palace by the lake, considered too haunted for people to frequent, and bided his time.

1 The letter

A cyclist was silhouetted against the brightening sky. His white dhoti billowed gently under a post office regulation khaki jacket. He hovered on the rim of the dyke, then plunged down into the shadow of the road. Out of sight for a while, he emerged back into the light, pedalling easily along the straight path towards the village. Jhoti was already running to meet him. ‘Have you a letter for us?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Is it from England?’

‘Huh, huh!’ He waved the letter in the air, teasing her. ‘It’s not for you, mamaji – nor Govind, and it’s not from England.’

‘From where then, where?’ cried Jhoti, bursting with curiosity.

The postman came to a stop and rested his feet on the ground. He brought the envelope close to his nose and examined it in a short-sighted sort of way. ‘Singapore . . . Hmm . . . Burma. Now why should a certain person be getting a letter from the Royal Navy?’ He questioned her with a cheeky smile and a tapping of his nose.

‘What certain person?’ exclaimed Jhoti, beginning to get annoyed and impatient. ‘Give it here, Roshan, and stop fooling about.’ She snatched it from him.

‘It’s for your daughter, Miss Marvinder Singh!’ Roshan pre-empted her, knowing full well that Jhoti couldn’t read. ‘That’s the third one I’ve brought for your daughter since she came back from England.’

‘And so?’ declared Jhoti. ‘Oh, be off with you – you busybody.’ Jhoti sped away to deliver the letter to Marvinder, who was crouched on her haunches in the kitchen, kneading chapatti dough and preparing food for the day.

‘Is it from Kathleen? Or from Edith?’ Jhoti asked, as Marvinder stared at the envelope. Without answering, Marvinder ran out to the pump to wash the sticky flour from her hands. Then, drying them hurriedly on the end of her veil, she excitedly took the letter from her mother.

Her mother peered over her daughter’s shoulder at the squiggles on the paper, wishing that she could decipher them. ‘Is it from the Chadwicks? But no, this one can’t be. Roshan says it’s from Singapore. Kathleen wouldn’t be in Burma, would she? ‘Jhoti waited patiently as Marvinder skilfully prised open the envelope without ripping it. With arched fingers, she extricated a sheet of paper and began to read.

Jhoti sighed. How marvellous it was that Marvinder could read and write and was so educated. Perhaps all the agonies of the past two years – the separation and terrible uncertainty brought about by war – had been worth it. For two years she had searched for her children, going all the way to Bombay, walking the streets, asking at the train station, the docks, the gatemen at the churches, if anyone had seen them or could tell her where they might be, and if they were alive or dead. But all in vain. Somehow, ill and heart-broken, she had made her way back to her ravaged village and crept into the jungle, not caring whether she lived or died.

But all the time Jaspal and Marvinder had been in England with their father. They had been at English schools learning to read and write. They could have stayed on for ever. But they didn’t. They came home to look for her.

Jhoti watched her daughter’s face. ‘Well?’ she demanded, desperate to be included in the news. ‘What’s it all about? What is this place, Singapore? Where is it? Who do you know there?’

‘It’s from Kathleen’s brother, Patrick,’ said Marvinder. She looked up at her mother.

‘Oh?’ Jhoti was shocked. The shining in Marvinder’s eyes was unmistakable. ‘A boy is writing to you?’ She looked around as if afraid that even such words would be compromising.

‘Oh, Ma!’ Marvinder laughed, trying to play down the implication. ‘It’s only Patrick – he’s just a – ’ She was going to say, just Kathleen’s brother. But he wasn’t just a brother, he was a man; he was eighteen; that’s why he had been called up as a conscript in the British Royal Navy Here in her village, most young men of his age were long married and were fathers already. ‘He’s written to me because he knew I wanted to collect stamps, and he was going to go all round the world with the navy and send me some from every place, that’s all.’ Breathless with the ease at which she had concocted a logical reason for the letter, Marvinder tried to divert her mother by showing her the stamps on the envelope. ‘Look, Ma! Aren’t they beautiful? I’m building up quite a collection. Kathleen and Edith both said they would write to me and send me stamps – and Dr Silbermann too. Now I have these! Aren’t I lucky!’

Jhoti was dying to ask, what does it say? What is he like – this boy who is in the navy? Is he handsome? Do you feel for him? Did he ever touch you? But suddenly she didn’t dare. The least said about this letter the better – especially in front of Govind.

‘Put it away, daughter. Put it away. Your father would not like to know a boy has been writing to you. Here – shall I burn it? ‘Jhoti almost snatched it from her.

‘No, Ma!’ Marvinder recoiled in horror. She thrust the letter back into its envelope and pushed it into the waist of her salwaar pyjamas. ‘It’s mine. I’ll keep it safe. Don’t worry.’

Jhoti turned away feeling disturbed and anxious. She wanted to say, don’t let your father know, but to advise such a thing would be disloyal. She knew she should take the letter and give it to Govind, but these days Govind had become so strict and austere, she was afraid of his reaction.

He was trying desperately to find a husband for Marvinder. But no family had yet made them any offers. He was afraid that her stay in England had made her too independent and different from the other village girls of her class. He wanted to tame her; make her submit. These days, he often lectured her and sometimes beat her. He disapproved of her writing and receiving letters. He disliked the way she spent so much time reading – in fact – devouring books as if she would be a scholar. Govind hated all this. It was as if he wanted to eradicate the past two years from her life, and make her the simple, innocent, dutiful daughter she would have been, had the world not turned upside down. If he knew about the letter . . . Jhoti’s thoughts hung in the air. If he knew about the letter . . . She stood for a moment frowning as she imagined what he would do if he knew a boy was writing to his daughter, even though he was desperate for someone to present himself as a prospective husband.

Mother and daughter returned to their tasks in silence, grinding the spices, sifting the lentils and kneading the dough for chapattis. But all the time their minds were on the letter.

It was nearly midday before Marvinder was able to slip away on her own. She had only skimmed down Patricks letter in the presence of her mother and was desperate to read it again.

This was the first time Patrick had written to her. The envelope had burned against her skin all morning as she had worked side by side with her mother. Every now and then she saw Jhoti glancing at her – her curiosity mingled with anxiety, and Marvinder would give her mother a reassuring smile.

Marvinder knew how her mother suffered more than she did when Govind raged at her and sometimes slapped her about for being distracted or lazy, or for not being exactly where he thought she should be at any given moment, or for not doing what he thought she should be doing then and there. Marvinder knew that her mother was torn between loyalty to her husband and a desire to protect her daughter. So, for her sake, Marvinder quelled the rebellious feelings which would well up inside her.

But she was always looking for ways to be by herself, where she could write to Kathleen or read some of the books she had found abandoned in the old missionary bungalows. Most of all, she needed somewhere to play her violin. It wasn’t easy, for there were barely any hours in the day which weren’t taken up with fetching and carrying and preparing food, and cooking and washing. Then there was the work in the fields – especially at harvest time, when every man, woman and child had to pull their weight, scything, cutting and gathering up.

But when the sun was at its zenith and the heat of the day too much, that was when Marvinder could escape unnoticed and go to the palace.

The palace had been built by a Mogul prince hundreds of years ago. It had once had a hundred rooms and stables for a hundred horses and tethering for two dozen elephants. Warriors had patrolled the ramparts and princes practised archery in the mango groves. In the cool of late afternoons, as the blood-red sun plunged downwards, princesses had been rowed up and down the lake, trailing their fingers in the water and watching the movement of fishes beneath the green silky surface. Not it was abandoned; forgotten; its rajahs defeated in battle, its riches pillaged. It looked like nothing but a mouldering wedding cake being slowly consumed by wind and rain and vermin. Grass and weeds, wild flowers and thin saplings sprouted from between the cracks, as if they too would swallow up the great grey stones, and no one would remember that, once, those rajahs and princes of unimaginable wealth and power had ruled this land.

Marvinder entered through the crumbling portico and crossed the tiled floor of the inner courtyard. Her sandalled feet echoed up the old stone steps as she ascended to the top of the fourth terrace. From here she could see near and far and from horizon to horizon in every direction; from the women on their way to the well on the outskirts of the village, or north to the soft white glow of the Himalayas hanging like clouds.

She tucked herself into a segment of shade which slanted sharply from the balustrade and leaned her back against the cool stone. She extricated the envelope from her waist.

R.N.B.

HMS Terror

Singapore

3 September 1950

My dear Marvi,

(The words resonated on the page. Patricks teasing Irish voice came into her head.)

Look where I am. Singapore. Just down the road from you really – give or take a few thousand miles. The navy’s great. The places I’ve seen and the things I’ve done would fill a book. Of course they work you hard. We’re up at five every morning, and then it’s drill and kit and spit and polish and practice and training. But the lads are the best, and time off in Singapore is a darn sight better than time off in the Orkneys – I can tell you.

I had a letter from Mammy last week. They’re moving out of Whitworth Road at last. They’ve been given a council house – a brand new one with a separate kitchen and bathroom and three whole bedrooms – can you imagine? It will seem like Buckingham Palace after living in that slum for so long. I hope Kathleen’s writing to you. She misses you – God knows why. (Joke.) Michael’s doing all right. Still working as a brickie. He’s got himself a girl. It’s serious. Did Kathy tell you? Her name’s Joan Palmer. They’re going to get engaged. Kathy says she’s like Jane Wyman. Blimey I suppose it’ll be wedding bells soon. What about you, Marvi? I hope they haven’t married you off already. Keep in touch. I’m at the above address for at least two months, so, if you write straight away, it will get to me.

Well, must stop. Chin chin and TTFN (if you remember what that means – ta-ta for now).

Love,

Patrick

PS. Are you still playing the fiddle?

Can you be a ghost while you are still alive? She had heard of fakirs and holy men with special powers being in two places at once. Had she not often done the same? Surely they would see her there in London – in Whitworth Road – climbing the dark dingy staircase to the first floor. ‘Hello, Mr O’Grady!’ She waved at him through the open door where he sat in his usual chair, with his one remaining leg propped up on the mantelpiece, swearing and cursing at the world. And there was Mrs O’Grady doing half a dozen things at once, moving from the laundry to the cooking to rocking little Beryl or making a cup of tea or lighting up a cigarette; and Michael stripped to the waist, washing at the kitchen sink; and Kathleen leaning out of the window to yell to her friends, who were swinging round the lamppost; and Patrick – surely Patrick sensed her ghostly presence following him around as she had never done in real life, lingering at his shoulder, leaning into his conversations, blushing at his teasing? Did he never feel that she was there?

She pressed his letter to her nose and mouth, and breathed in its smell, then folded it away and stared into nothing. Her elation vanished.

‘Have they married you off yet?’ he had asked.

‘No, not yet,’ she said out loud.

‘Are you still playing the violin?’ he had asked.

‘Of course I am. What a silly question.’

The violin was her most precious possession. She had been given it in England by old Dr Silbermann, who had taught her to play. Her father disapproved. He saw it as yet one more thing that made her different, and stopped her from being marriageable. It was true that people in the village had stared and sniggered when she had tried playing at home. Girls round here didn’t do that sort of thing. Nobody did that sort of thing – not here. Musicians came along from time to time for weddings and festivals, but when the celebration was over, they moved on. So Marvinder brought her violin to the palace whenever she could, to play it undisturbed.

She went to her secret alcove in the wall where she had stored the violin case, all wrapped in newspaper and swaddled in a cloth bag, to keep away the ants and worms and other creatures which might enjoy feasting on its shining red wood. She unwrapped it and took it out carefully. Moving to the deepest shade she could find, she began to practise her daily exercises, just as Dr Silbermann had taught her. She drew the full length of the bow up and down the open strings over and over again, until her ear was satisfied and the sound lifted like a bird and soared away into the sky.

She became a ghost again. In London, she had often looked at a single patch of blue sky – whenever there was any blue sky – and imagined it was India. Now here – as a hot blue haze tinged the whole countryside around – she shut her eyes and imagined she was playing to old Dr Silbermann down in his dark, basement flat where the sun hardly got beyond the windowsill.

She read Patrick’s letter once more. This time, the words ‘stay in touch’ gave her hope. ‘At least he wants me to stay in touch. I will. I’ll write.’ She put away her violin with the letter tucked inside.

In one of the empty rooms below, where the dust drifted in the sunbeams – a vast cosmos of golden stars – the watcher sat on his haunches with his back against the wall, waiting like a weather-worn stone statue; featureless but solid. He didn’t move when Marvinder descended the stone steps, hurrying. He heard the rustle of her clothes – like angels’ wings.

They were king and queen in this ruined palace, moving like chess pieces; silently avoiding each other – for the moment.

2 Secret love

‘Aren’t you going to school today, Jaspal?’

Nazakhat glanced at his best friend who hacked at a piece of sugar-cane with his knife. The two boys lay side by side in the middle of a dense sugar-cane field – thick enough to hide a tiger. They often helped themselves when the farmer wasn’t looking.

‘Nah! School’s boring. I hate it. Besides, I can read and write already. What’s the point of more?’

‘Hey man! Your dad will beat you. Remember last time? I thought he’d kill you.’

‘I can take it,’ shrugged Jaspal.

‘Everyone said you were going to be big. Get an important job. Live in the city one of these days. Don’t you care? He wanted so much for you.’

‘He doesn’t know. He thinks I’m there now. Besides, why should I care what my father wants for me – all those diplomas and degrees and bits of paper from his time in England – fat lot of good his learning did for him.’

Nazakhat glanced sideways at him. Jaspal’s face had hardened and he became deeply silent. Jaspal was not an easy friend – not like the old days. His mood could change so fast. One minute he could be laughing and joking about like a clown and the next as darkly gloomy as a soldier back from the war.

A final hack severed the cane and Jaspal got to his feet to break it in half across his knee. He gave one half to Nazakhat then flopped down again into the warm earth and chewed on his bit. The fibres burst a flood of sweet sugar into his mouth and he sucked hard. After a while he said, ‘Besides, I can’t stand sitting with all those goondas – idiots – while this mumbling half-wit tries to teach us useless things which mean nothing. Why, I know more than he does.’

A silence fell between them once more, and Nazakhat could tell that Jaspal would not be the first to break it.

‘You know what,’ Nazakhat nudged Jaspal in the ribs. ‘I think that old devil, Bahadur Singh, has a secret woman somewhere.’ He elbowed him in the ribs and shaped a female form in the air with his hands.

‘What? Bahadur Singh? You must be crazy!’ Jaspal grunted with mild disbelief at the thought of that old fogey, the village schoolmaster, having a secret romance.

‘I live under his roof. Wouldn’t I know if something was going on?’

Jaspal didn’t respond for a while, but sucked on the sugarcane. At last he said, in a determinedly bored voice, ‘Does that mean his aunt knows?’

Nazakhat grinned to himself as he won at least a fraction of Jaspal’s attention. ‘Oh no! She’s deaf and blind to anything like that. She’s too busy praying and being holy. She probably doesn’t even know where babies come from! Aiee, aiee!’ Nazakhat burst out into infectious giggling and even Jaspal couldn’t prevent a smile.

‘But what makes you think Bahadur Singh has a woman?’ asked Jaspal, sceptical but curious.

‘I saw him in the bazaar.’ Nazakhat leaned forward confidentially. ‘He was looking at women’s things – you know, cloth pieces, sarees and jewellery.’

‘Is that all? ‘Jaspals face fell. ‘I thought perhaps you’d seen him with someone – you know – ’ He gave a wry smile.

Nazakhat, triumphant now at having thoroughly engaged Jaspal’s attention, slapped him on the back and rolled about laughing. ‘You know, you know!’ he mocked raucously.

‘Looking at sarees is hardly enough evidence,’ shrugged Jaspal.

‘Since when would the teacher, a confirmed bachelor, be looking at sarees?’ demanded Nazakhat. ‘Books – yes. Writing materials – yes. But sarees? I ask you! Wouldn’t you wonder who for, if not for a woman?’

‘For his aunt?’

‘His aunt!’ Nazakhats voice rose with hilarity. ‘She’s no woman!’ He was really enjoying himself now as Jaspal began to snigger too, despite himself. ‘She never wears sarees – only salwaar kameez – and only ever grey.’

‘Blue,’ corrected Jaspal.

‘Call that blue?’ cried Nazakhat. ‘It’s not the blue of the sky. It’s not the blue of peacock feathers or of kingfishers or even of your turban. Anyway, I should know. My father made that outfit for her before . . .’ before he was killed along with the rest of my family ‘. . . and he called it grey. He used to make all her outfits – and they were all grey or some colour so dull it might as well be grey. Anyway, Bahadur Singh was looking at really glittery sarees and cloth pieces: red and pink, and silks with embroidered borders and lots of gold and silver threads, so it wasn’t for his aunt – you can be sure of that.’

‘Perhaps she’s make believe.’ Jaspal began to forget his troubles. He sat up, fantasising. ‘You know – wishful thinking. He feels deprived. He wants to love. He has invented a beautiful woman all bumps and curves like that film star, Devaki Rani. He can’t have her for real – but he pretends – what do you think, eh, Nazakhat? He whispers her name into his pillow at night. “Oh, Devaki, Devaki! I can’t live without you . . .” ’

The boys rolled about shrieking with laughter as their jokes got more and more vivid. ‘Don’t you think I have a good theory?’ cried Jaspal. ‘Perhaps Bahadur Singh has a whole secret store of sarees and jewellery. He realises that he’s spent too much time with his books and that crabby old aunt. That the world and all its women are passing him by and he hasn’t yet lived!’

‘I’m serious, bhai!’ insisted Nazakhat, when their laughter died down. ‘He has been looking in jewellery shops – no kidding. I’ve seen him. I’m not making this up. There is someone, I know it.’

‘Well then, it is his aunt,’ said Jaspal with mock seriousness. ‘He loves her thin scraggy arms and her hatchet face and her beautiful body as shapely as an ancient camel. Or . . . or . . . !’ Jaspal got to his knees and looked deeply serious. ‘His aunt has been made an offer she can’t refuse and Bahadur Singh is providing her dowry!’ The boys’ hilarity rang out through the sugar-cane.

‘Shut up, shut up! The farmer will hear us!’ hissed Jaspal, and they clamped their syrupy mouths.

‘But I ask you, bhai, who would he give jewellery to?’ Nazakhat whispered through his fingers. ‘Have you ever seen his aunt wearing anything but the silver kara on her wrist and two gold studs in her ears?’

‘You have a point,’ Jaspal conceded. ‘But you live there. You see everything. Come on, think. If there is someone, you must know.’

‘Perhaps he got her from a newspaper ad,’ reflected Nazakhat. ‘I’ll find out one of these days.’

‘You re wrong. You must be. He wouldn’t marry.’ Jaspal finally hacked off another piece of cane and started to strip away the outside. ‘He’s not the marrying kind. Here.’ Jaspal handed Nazakhat the white fibrous stalk, dripping with sugar, and proceeded to hack one for himself.

A distant shriek of the train whistle made them sit up.

‘It’s the Amritsar train. ‘Jaspal leaped to his feet, his gloom fully vanished and his eyes now sparkling with enterprise. ‘Let’s catch it – eh, bhai?’

‘Are you going to school after all?’ Jaspal’s school was the intermediate college in Amritsar.

‘Nah! I feel like going to the pictures. Will you come?’

Nazakhat got to his feet. He was nervous about going into town. He loved films too, but, as a Muslim, he was afraid of going out of his neighbourhood. Memories of the past were still fresh. But Jaspal grabbed his arm warmly. ‘Come on, bhai. Say yes.’

‘Your school though, what about school? ‘Nazakhat asked weakly.

‘Oh, to hell with school! Come on!’

This was good old Jaspal. Nazakhat couldn’t resist. ‘Get a move on then,’ he yelled, pushing ahead.

They chucked away the sugar-cane and thrashed their way out of the field. They heard the whistle again. Nearer this time. They were running full pelt. They reached the edge of the long white road, dashed over and plunged down the dyke disappearing into the waves of barley. They re-emerged on the path dividing the saffron crop from the mustard seed.

‘Hey, wait for me Jaspal!’ yelled Nazakhat. He clutched his side as a stitch seared through his guts. Jaspal only slowed down sufficiently to glance over his shoulder and to give an encouraging yell. ‘Get on with it! We’ll miss it!’

A long streak of grey smoke in the sky straggled out like the hair of an old woman who shakes away the tangles of sleep. And again the siren; closer now, its pitch screaming out intervals as the train slowed down. Good old Hari Singh, the engine driver. He has relatives in this village. He does them a favour by slowing down here.

From out of nowhere, figures came leaping up the embankment along the track and others, like the boys, raced along the paths through the fields, as the great black, iron goddess approached with burning fiery belly and smoke belching out of her ears. She was many-headed and many-armed, flailing with limbs from the bodies which hung from her carriages and clung to the roof.

‘Make room, make room!’ shouted voices panting with exertion. They sprinted alongside with arms outstretched. It was each one for himself now. Jaspal noted a space the size of a hand on the vertical steel pole by one of the doors. He focused on it, running faster and faster. It was now or never as gradually the train began to pick up steam once more. He grabbed with one hand. It tugged his feet from beneath him, and only the friendly hands of others saved him from being dragged along, or dashed back on to the sharp chippings of the track.

He managed to find enough toe room on the wooden running board, and with both hands, he gripped the pole. His body arched from the train like a bow, the wind billowing his shirt. And so he stayed, hanging on for dear life, until Amritsar. But he laughed – an open-mouthed laugh, eating the air – and felt a pure, fierce joy.

He looked up and down the length of the train. Did Nazakhat make it?

He couldn’t see him beside the track, so he must have got on somewhere. They would meet up later.

‘Hey Jaspal! Are you going to the pictures?’ someone bellowed.

‘Yeah! It’s a Prithviraj Kapoor film today!’ Jaspal yelled back.

‘See you at the Rialto then.’

Jaspal loved going to the pictures. Often, he went alone, on afternoons when he should have been at school. He didn’t mind seeing the same film over and over again – even if each time it meant sneaking in without paying – especially the historical films about battles between rajahs and invading armies, and brave warriors of the past.

The outskirts of the city undulated into sight: walls and roofs and balconies hanging with washing; narrow alleys and streets teeming with people and animals. Black, long-haired pigs foraged in the rubbish tips, ambling alongside dogs and crows and other scavengers. Monkeys lined the walls, preening each other, slapping their little ones into line as they tumbled and played.

The train slowed down to give the tens of dozens of non-ticket holders a chance to drop from the train before it entered the station precincts. Jaspal lowered himself till his feet were running along the ground, then he loosened his grip and continued running to gain his balance.

Nazakhat caught up with him and the two left the track and headed across rough ground towards the city. Nazakhat always felt a little nervous about coming into the city. Although he had allowed his wispy boy’s moustache to grow, and his hair was thick and black and long to his shoulders, he was conspicuously not a Sikh like Jaspal. The vicious troubles of partition were still too fresh in people’s memories to enable him to feel comfortable. He would never have ventured there without Jaspal at his side.

The new Pakistan had wanted Amritsar too. ‘But what about our Golden Temple? ‘protested the enraged Sikhs. ‘Only over our dead bodies will our Golden Temple go into Pakistan with the Muslims.’ And there were many dead bodies before it was certain that Amritsar would stay part of India.

Nazakhat knew that any trips into the city meant he had to brave the taunts from gangs jeering, ‘What is that blood-drained, meat-eating, son of a pig-dog, hair-cutting Muslim doing, contaminating our holy city?’ But Jaspal had always been Nazakhat’s stout and loyal defender, and had got into many a brawl protecting him from mobs of youths out for trouble.

There were a few hours to kill before joining the queue which would start forming outside the Rialto. The boys headed into the bazaar. They liked to go to the metal area where they sold not only pots and pans, farming tools and kitchen utensils, but knives and daggers and swords of all descriptions. They fingered the sharp blades and counted their money. They knew they didn’t have enough, so after a lot of comparing and exchanging knowledge and expertise about the lethal nature of this weapon or that, and what kind of wound it could inflict, the shopkeeper realised they weren’t going to buy, and shooed them away. So they went to a tea stall and bought tea and samosas, and sat at a bare wooden table and grinned at each other and gripped each other’s hands – elbows on the table – to see who could force the other’s hand down first and prove the stronger.

‘Hey! Speak of the devil! Quick!’ Nazakhat grabbed Jaspal and thrust his head down under the table. ‘It’s Bahadur Singh, I tell you. I just saw him! Boy, would I be in trouble if he caught me here.’

‘Take it easy. What are you so scared of ?’ drawled Jaspal. ‘He never lays a finger on you.’

‘Yeah – but you should feel the hand of his aunt round your ear. She’s worse than any man. She hits so hard, all her bones rattle.’

‘Well, my father hits so hard you can’t hear anything for the blood pounding inside your head and the screams in your lungs you’re trying to stifle. But what do I care? I can take it,’ boasted Jaspal.

The two boys peered out of the tea stall.

‘There! Look! There. He’s heading into the cloth quarter. Hey! What do you think?’ Nazakhat clutched his friend’s arm. ‘Maybe he’s got a secret assignment with his lady friend.’

‘Come on, lets follow him. ‘Jaspal’s curiosity was up. ‘I’ve got to see this.’

‘For god’s sake be careful. It’s all right for you. You don’t care about anything. But me – if he sees me – he could throw me out.’ Nazakhat hung back warily.

‘So what! Look how you survived before. You don’t need him. Don’t be such a chicken. Anyway – you can see he’s got things on his mind. He won’t notice us. Come on, before we lose him.’ Jaspal dragged his friend out into the road.

A cluster of young women, chaperoned by a much older one, jostled their way down the narrow bazaar street in front of the schoolmaster. They stopped every two or three steps to peer into the sandal shop, or the cosmetic shop, or the woollens shop. Bahadur Singh could have pushed through them any time, but seemed instead to want to follow just on the edges, as if he were looking at what they looked at and listening to all their comments.

The boys followed more boldly. They watched the schoolmaster watching. They watched too – suddenly seeing the women’s world with men’s eyes – smelling their scent and hearing the tinkle of bangles as arms lifted to hold up glittering materials, which hung from hooks outside the shop; or bales of cloth arranged in towers from ceiling to floor, ready at a mere whim to be extricated and tossed full length across the carpeted shop floor. High voices and laughter rose above the hubbub of the bazaar.

Bahadur Singh turned abruptly. The boys ducked. When they next peered out, the schoolmaster had given up on the women and moved on to the jewellery quarter.

‘See? Didn’t I tell you? It’s what I saw him doing in our bazaar. This must be serious, I tell you. Why else would he come to Amritsar? He’s got money to spend.’

They spied on the schoolmaster moving from one jewellery shop to another, glancing at the displays, listening sometimes to the shopkeepers’ patter over an offered cup of tea, then moving on. The boys hardly bothered to hide now. The schoolmaster was too absorbed, poring over the trays of bangles and earrings and necklaces.

‘Watch out!’ Jaspal pulled Nazakhat down behind a wandering cow. The schoolmaster had stopped in front of a jeweller’s shop. He paused a long time to gaze at something, then suddenly looked round as if checking whether anyone was watching him.

‘That was a near thing!’ breathed Jaspal.

‘Did he see us?’

‘Nah! He wouldn’t have gone in if he had. You’re right, Nazakhat. He’s up to something, the old devil! Let’s get a little nearer.’

The two boys sidled up to the shop and flopped on the wooden steps in front, next to a dog and a resting holy man. A useful alleyway ran alongside, down which they could disappear when Bahadur Singh came out.

It was dark inside the shop. On a wooden counter gleamed a pair of brass scales. Bahadur Singh sat on the stool, his back to the door, facing the old jeweller, who scrutinised him from over his gold-rimmed spectacles.

‘Can I help you?’ the jeweller asked.

‘I am looking for a simple gift for my daughter,’ they heard the schoolmaster reply.

‘Didn’t you hear that? Daughter, my foot!’ exclaimed Jaspal.

‘Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you!’ chortled Nazakhat triumphantly.

‘Shut up, you idiot! You’ll give us away. Look. Now what’s he doing?’

‘Ah!’ The jeweller’s exclamation was dry but business-like, as if he already knew exactly what was suitable for the schoolmaster. He bent down, and from beneath the counter brought out three glass cases filled with rings, gold and silver chains, earrings, nose studs, necklaces and bracelets – of an infinite variety of precious stone. His eyes hovered over Bahadurs hands as they fingered the different items of jewellery in a tentative and inexperienced way. He noted that they were not the hands of a farmer or an artisan because they were too smooth, so he deduced that his client was a clerk or a teacher who wouldn’t want anything gaudy or too ostentatious.

The jeweller selected a simple gold bracelet. ‘Is this to your liking?’ he asked.

Bahadur held the bracelet in the palm of his hand. Jaspal stared at it too. Its cold metal burned in the dark, dusty air like the outer rim of the sun. Whose wrist did the schoolmaster see it encircling?

‘Yes, this is to my liking,’ said Bahadur Singh, getting out a wodge of rupee notes from an inside pocket.

‘What’s he buying?’ whispered Nazakhat.

‘A bracelet,’ murmured Jaspal. ‘A gold bracelet. I wonder who it’s for?’

3 The dividing sword

The queue was already long when Jaspal and Nazakhat reached the Rialto. It was always long and it always looked as though they would never get in. But experience had taught them that they would, even if it meant squeezing through a forest of legs to get to the front.

They burst through the curtain into the warm, pungent darkness, threw themselves into the springy seats, which squeaked if they wriggled, and with heads tipped back, stared at the big screen in front of them. Soon images and loud music overwhelmed them and sucked them out of reality into the wonderful fantasy worlds of heroes and princesses, dancing girls and warriors and treacherous enemies.

As soon as Nazakhat saw what this film was about, he wished he hadn’t come. ‘Arreh, brother. I thought we were seeing a Hindi film. What’s this?’

Jaspal shrugged, ‘Oh, a new one in Punjabi,’ he muttered. ‘I thought it might be worth seeing.’ The changing light of the screen flickered over his face and he looked like one in a trance.

The film was about the great eighteenth century hero of Sikhism, Baba Deep Singh, the leader who had defended the Golden Temple of Amritsar against invading Afghan Muslims with only a gathering of peasants bearing nothing but staves. Even after his head had been cut off, the stories related with relish how Baba Deep Singh, carrying his head in one hand and a sword in the other, had continued to fight to protect the Golden Temple from desecration by the Muslims.

Jaspal had seen many pictures depicting this event and heard many stories at the gurudwara, but never before had it come alive for him. Never before had he felt so moved and inspired as he did watching this film. He became a part of the history and the struggle. It was happening now and, overcome with passion, his thoughts spun with anger. If only he could be such a warrior. What cause was there now worth fighting for? As if reading his thoughts, Baba Deep Singh’s face filled the screen. He turned, as if searching into the soul of every single person in the dark cinema.

Was it possible . . . ? For a moment, Jaspals credibility was suspended. He shrank away, terrified by the warriors penetrating gaze. He buried his face in his hands and fearfully peered through his fingers at the powerful head towering above them. Jaspal felt sucked into the dark pools of his eyes which stared at him and him alone; challenging him, questioning him. They seemed to say, what are you doing with your life – wasting it away as if you will live for ever? Free yourself from the bonds of desire and act, for action is greater than inaction. Then Baba Deep Singh whirled his sword against his enemies.

The whole cinema was on its feet, Jaspal too, cheering him on – howling at these Afghan enemies who dared to defile the sacred temple.

Nazakhat sank lower and lower in his seat. He dreaded the moment when the lights would come up and everyone would recognise him as the Muslim enemy. Before the film ended, he whispered to Jaspal, ‘I’m dying for a pee. I’ll meet you outside.’ He wriggled himself out of the row and escaped from the seething darkness of the cinema.

For the next twenty minutes, Nazakhat hung about outside waiting for the film to end. At last the doors were flung open and the thick velvet curtains tossed aside. Usually, when the boys came jostling out, they were still part of the film. They carried on the action, chasing and play-fighting and quoting back all their favourite bits. But today was different. The men, nearly all of them Sikhs, some of them Hindus, but no Muslims, poured from the cinema, their eyes shining with excited fervour. Nazakhat, sheltering behind one of the pillars in the foyer, strained to find Jaspal. Then he saw him. Jaspal looked dazed, walking slowly, while everyone around him swirled past.

‘There you are!’ exclaimed Nazakhat, leaping out and linking arms.

Jaspal turned and looked at him blankly, as if he were a stranger. He withdrew his arm and moved away – almost imperceptibly – but Nazakhat knew.

They came out into the street.

‘Hey!’ cried Nazakhat playfully. ‘What’s up with you?’ and he jumped on his friend’s back and tried to tussle him into a play fight.

‘Get off !’ growled Jaspal.

At first Nazakhat carried on, teasing and goading, trying to provoke him into action. Jaspal threw him off so roughly that he tumbled to the ground.

‘Yeah!’ laughed Nazakhat, thinking it was all in fun. Then he saw Jaspal’s face. It was frozen in anger. His eyes were narrowed and his lips tight. ‘Hey, Jaspal! You OK?’

‘Just leave off will you!’ Jaspal muttered vehemently and walked ahead through the bazaar.

Nazakhat got to his feet, amazed and disturbed. Jaspal could be moody, he knew that, but this was the first time he had felt his hostility; an enmity even.

Instead of heading for the railway station, Jaspal turned towards the old quarter of the city.

‘Eh, bhai! Brother!’ Nazakhat called uneasily. ‘Aren’t you going home? The train goes in ten minutes. We haven’t got too much time.’

‘You go,’ shouted Jaspal over his shoulder. ‘There’s something I want to do,’ and he strode away even faster, disappearing into the throng of the bazaar.

Nazakhat stood, unable to move for a minute or two. First and foremost he longed to catch up with his friend and beg his forgiveness for whatever it was he had done to make him angry. Surely he didn’t blame him for the actions of those Afghan Muslims in the film? But the thought of his cold, unfriendly face restrained him. With an uncomprehending shrug he carried on to the station.

Doubts overwhelmed Nazakhat. Were not he and Jaspal still the best of friends? He looked at the scar on the palm of his hand. They were blood brothers. Their history went back a long way. They both remembered – had nightmares of remembering – when their village was burned and all around them people – their own friends and neighbours and families – were massacred. Yet, how, despite the danger, first Jaspal’s family had sheltered Nazakhat’s family when a band of Sikhs came burning and driving out all Muslims; and then how Nazakhat’s family had protected Jaspal and his mother and sister when Muslims came on a murderous raid, intent on revenge, killing any Sikh they could find and burning down all their property.

Everyone had gone mad with blood lust, but the two families, Nazakhat’s and Jaspal’s, had never betrayed each other, and their friendship stayed true till the end, when Jhoti and her children finally fled.

It was two years before Jaspal returned to his village. The two friends had greeted each other joyfully – hardly able to believe that the other was alive. Bit by bit, Jaspal learned the terrible fate which had befallen Nazakhat’s family.

‘They came again,’ whispered Nazakhat.

Both knew ‘they’ meant the jathas, the Sikh war bands who had ruthlessly tried to defend what they saw as their homeland. It was because of the splitting of the Punjab into two. One part in India would be ruled by Hindus and the other part in Pakistan would be ruled by Muslims. The Sikhs could not accept it, and fought like trapped tigers. Should they not have a homeland too?

‘We should have got out earlier,’ said Nazakhat despairingly. ‘Gone to the Pakistan part – but this has been our home for generations. We all lived like brothers – Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus. We thought we could see it through. But the jathas were like crazed demons,’ he wept. ‘I saw them all killed – my father and brothers – with swords and knives. They showed no mercy; not even for my mother, my sisters or my grandmother.’

‘How did you escape?’ Jaspal had whispered, hardly able to comprehend such a loss.

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I was there. I saw my little brother dying. I held him in my arms. I nursed him and rocked him and begged him not to die. A Sikh saw me. He raised his sword and brought it down to strike off my head. I felt its wind as it slashed past my ear, but it just crashed into the ground beside me and he didn’t touch me. After that, it was as though I was invisible. They went on slaughtering – any Muslim they could find – and burning and screaming. I just sat there with my dead brother in the middle of it all – the smoke, the flames and the blood – until they went. Then there was a silence – a terrible silence. More terrible than anything. No one moaned or stirred or called out even to God. No dog howled. No vulture screeched. No wind blew. It was a hell of non-existence. Why didn’t they kill me, Jaspal? Why?’

‘Because,’ Jaspal said as softly as a stalking tiger, ‘because they recognised you as a brother. My brother. Look.’ Jaspal took out his kirpan – his dagger. He held out his left hand and slashed its palm. Red drops of blood immediately spouted. ‘Will you be my blood brother?’ he asked, staring intently at Nazakhat. Without a word, Nazakhat held out his left hand and allowed Jaspal to slash it. As the blood flowed, the two boys clasped hands and rubbed their palms together and then licked the mingled blood.

‘Brothers for ever!’ cried Jaspal.

‘Brothers for ever!’ Nazakhat agreed joyfully.

Nazakhat stared now at the faint scar which crossed the fate line and life line of his palm. He felt a great chasm of despair opening up inside his stomach. ‘Brothers for ever?’

4 The sparrow meets the hawk

When Jaspal left Nazakhat after the film, he headed for the Golden Temple. That was where the action in the film had taken place. Jaspal had been to the temple many times. Now, all he wanted was to step on that dazzling white marble and imagine Baba Deep Singh whirling his sword in defence of the temple. He wanted to see where the blood had been spilled and hear the clash of swords and spears.

He wound his way through the bazaar, looking neither to the right nor the left; ignoring the teeming shops and hawkers yelling their wares, until at last he was outside the great white façade.

He removed his sandals, washed his hands and feet, and joined a flurry of families entering the complex. The fathers and sons strode ahead, their turbaned heads held high; while the mothers and sisters, lost among their billowing cotton trousers and veiled heads, herded the little ones along.

He reached the top of steep marble steps. Below him, the vast pool of holy water, the amrit, the nectar of ecstasy, glittered too bright to bear.

Suddenly, he was alone, even though hundreds milled around him. He descended the steps and on to the intricate inlaid patterns of the marble terrace. At first, he just walked, so unaware of his feet on the cool marble that he might as well have been floating. He walked between the colonnade of pillars, his eye fixed on the golden shrine which jutted out into the centre of the lake, as if the craftsmen of the temple had tried to recreate the sun.

On and on he walked, seeing not the peaceful families and pilgrims who moved in a quiet throng but the shrieks and screams of fighting warriors, their blood spewing across the white marble, and the lake strewn with bodies and limbs. Jaspal thought of martyrs and saints and wondered what qualities were needed to be a martyr. Could he survive pain and torture and look death in the face? He had felt hatred many times, but now his hatred was mixed with a new sensation; that of ecstasy.

He stopped and undressed down to his shorts. He unwound his turban and bared his head with his hair bound into a topknot. Hiding his knife among his clothes, he descended the steps into the pool and lowered himself into the water. It was silk-cool. Down, down he went, till the water was up to his chest – and then – immersed himself completely.

In the refracting light he seemed to see, not the tumbling bodies of dying Muslim enemies and Sikh warriors, but other images, which try as he might, would not go away; images of those English children, their golden heads with streaming hair and wide blue, puzzled eyes, which couldn’t believe that only water poured in through their open mouths.

And why not me, Lord? Why not me? Jaspal cried in his head. Why had he not drowned too along with Ralph and Grace when the boat went down in the palace lake? They were his friends. He couldn’t deny it. He had loved them too – even though they were English. Jaspal tried to forget the events which happened six years ago, when together they had crossed over the threshold into the realms of death. Whatever other terrible sights he had witnessed, nothing else had brought him closer to death, and he couldn’t prevent the unbidden image; the unexpected voice or sound; the glint of sun on water. It would trigger the memory, and that long sad afternoon would unwind, forcing him to live those moments again and again. He remembered the pale bodies sinking down, their arms and legs waving like strange plants. Then, just as he and the twins were about to let loose their souls for ever, Marvinder brought him back to the living and the twins were left behind in the land of death. Today it struck him. Perhaps there was a reason why he and only he had lived. Perhaps he had been saved for a purpose.

His air gave out. He thrust himself to the surface gasping and choking.

‘Ha!’ A voice called from the side. ‘You were under a long time. I was just about to jump in and pull you out.’

Knuckling the water from his eyes, Jaspal looked to see who addressed him. Night had fallen. The golden dome of the temple glowed like an eclipsed sun behind the figure, and silhouetted a man as he knelt at the side of the tank. Bending into the darkness, it seemed to Jaspal that a giant waited at the side watching him – a giant of a warrior with a high pleated turban and a great curving sword glistening at his belt.

Jaspal waded up the steps and stood dripping and uncertain. He squeezed the water out of his hair and clothes.

‘Here, have this,’ said the man as if it were an order, and handed him a thin towel. He was on his feet now and towered above the boy.

Obediently, Jaspal began to dry himself. Bending to towel his arms and legs, he stole glances at the guardian warrior. The flickering oil lamps brought colour and focus. The man’s height wasn’t an illusion. He was very tall. Well over six foot, but gaunt and thin like a ravaged tree. His high dark blue turban made him seem even taller and more imposing. But it was not just his height which was impressive, it was his thick, black, long beard; his mouth, with strangely chewed lips which, when he smiled, revealed uneven teeth with gaps, but white as pearl. His nose, which had once been broken, jutted out like the beak of a hunting bird. His cheeks hollowed into the prominent bone structure of his skull. His brow was like the overhang of a cliff, under which his eyes seemed to hide, disappearing into narrow crevices, but suddenly reappearing, wide, black and mesmerising, as if they could see and control your very soul.

As Jaspal began to shake out his topknot to dry his hair, the warrior strolled away. Jaspal watched him patrol all the way round the pool, casual as a tiger. By the time he returned, Jaspal was combing out his hair with great care, catching the strands in the teeth of the comb and allowing the warm night air to dry them.

‘The priest is reading from the Guru Granth Sahib now,’ said the man. ‘You will go and listen.’

Jaspal wasn’t sure if it was a question or a command, but he nodded and quickly knotted up his hair and rewound his turban round his head. He followed the guardian warrior towards the Golden Temple. It was like walking into the very heart of the sun. He wasn’t sure if he was being accompanied or escorted by the giant, who was both behind him and before him, for the warrior’s long, black shadow enveloped him as he walked along the causeway. He entered the brightly lit hall and sat cross-legged on a carpet before a raised platform on which a priest sat before a huge book, the Guru Granth Sahib.

The priest’s voice droned on and on. To his side, an attendant fanned him rhythmically. Jaspal felt like a vessel which had been emptied, but was now being filled again with something new – something that his body and soul needed for survival.

When the reading finished, the warrior beckoned Jaspal to follow. They left the main hall and went back along the causeway to the colonnade and into one of the prayer rooms off to one side. The warrior took out an old book and began flicking through the pages. ‘What brings you here so often?’ he asked, his eyes still on the pages which he turned. ‘I’ve noticed you. You come often, but always alone. Have you no family?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jaspal. ‘But they are out in the village. I come in on the train.’

‘Why do you come here to the temple? Has some voice spoken to you in the stillness of your heart about God and his prophets?’

Jaspal looked up – his face so coldly blank that even the warrior flinched under the chill gaze. ‘No voice, sir!’ Jaspal answered. ‘Just a feeling . . . ?’

‘A feeling?’ the warrior repeated.

‘A sort of feeling – that there is something that has to be done. Something I have to do. I don’t yet know . . .’ his voice trailed away, embarrassed.

‘Can you read?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Read this.’ The priest opened a holy book.

Jaspal ran his finger along the Punjabi script.

‘There is one God:

His name is Truth;

The All-Pervading Creator.’

He read slowly but fluently, being more familiar with English script than Punjabi.

‘Do you go to school?’

Jaspal shrugged. ‘I’m supposed to but . . .’

‘But?’ The voice was severe.

‘It’s boring. I know it all. I need more.

‘What does your father do?’

‘He was a scholar and a soldier, but – he’s a farmer now. He works his inheritance.’

‘Will you be a farmer too?’

‘I thought I would, when I was in England, but now . . .’ He paused.

‘Now?’ The priest’s voice was low and searching.

Jaspal shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

The priest shut the book and closed his eyes deep in thought. ‘We need hawks. You are nothing but a sparrow.’

The guardian warrior led him out of the sanctum. ‘Have you thought of being a priest?’

Jaspal stared. No. No. Inside him the word was no.

‘Think about it. But what our revered master meant was that we need our priests to be hawks. Think about the qualities of a hawk, and if you think you have them, come back to me. Come here and ask for Amarjit Singh.’

Nazakhat must have slept. Curled up in one of the railway arches alongside the track. It was dark when he awoke. He had deliberately missed the last train, unwilling to abandon Jaspal in the town. It was not the first time they had had to walk back in the darkness, following the gleaming serpentine rails. He shook himself with annoyance. He hadn’t intended to sleep. Now he must have missed Jaspal.

He got to his feet and stared down the track. In the far distance he could see the spotlight of an approaching train, powerful as Lord Shiva’s third eye, destroying any darkness which came within its gaze. It caught a figure standing at the side of the track. Nazakhat knew it was Jaspal before the cone of dazzling white light moved on, leaving him plunged in a black void.

The train passed hissing and spitting; grinding steel upon steel. Golden sparks splattered the night. The sound was thunderous and deafening. A brief and awesome orange hole slid by within which half-naked, black figures shovelled coal as if stoking up the fires of hell. Then oblivion.

Nazakhat waited a long time for the sound of the train to die away before shouting, ‘Brother!’ He began to walk along the rails unable to see if Jaspal had heard him and was bothering to wait.

There was no answer. He walked for an hour, alone in the darkness, with only a vague glint of new moon on the rails. It would be at least another hour of walking before he reached Deri. He began to sing a film song to cheer himself up, striding across the sleepers between the rails. Then he became aware that he was not alone. Pacing him on the path alongside was a figure. Nazakhat knew it was Jaspal.

He stopped singing. ‘So you’re there.’

No answer.

‘Why are you angry?’

No answer.

‘Did I do something to offend you, brother?’

No answer.

‘Where did you go?’

No answer.

Nazakhat felt a pang of unease. ‘Why do you not speak?’ he asked.

‘Speaking is useless,’ said Jaspal in a low, distinct voice.

‘How else can one communicate?’ asked Nazakhat.

‘There are other ways.’

‘Such as?’ Nazakhat waited for Jaspal to say more but he didn’t, so Nazakhat began singing again at the top of his voice, so as not to walk the rest of the way to the village in silence.