by Kalyan Ray
I burst out laughing. “And that’s all?”
“No, not quite, Master Aherne,” he said.
“Call me Robert,” I said.
“All right, Robert. By this time the sleeping menfolk emerged, and sensing that trouble could be on its way, tried to pick up the Englishwoman from the dirt. In hysterics, she cried out at their sight, snatched her battered bicycle and sped off as fast as she could, howling in panic, her face ek-dum scraped by maternal fury. Our furious Anju Kaur is a sight to behold, believe me, my dost. Her mild-mannered chooha husband, Chakra Singh, just goes into hiding.” I laughed again, but noticed that my father was listening seriously.
“She lurched into the English section of town and collapsed in hysterics. The police were informed that an English lady, a teacher, a person of impeccable virtue, had been set upon by a stealthily gathered Indian mob. By the grace of Christ she fought them off, escaping with her life. I got that all these details from Harpal Chand, a constable who lives next door to me. The English authorities wanted to know immediately if her virtue had been molested, but thank Heavens again, she had escaped that specific harm,” said Amrik, “although according to them, that surely was the intention of the native junglee mob.”
“Harpal told me the English officers concluded that she had probably been assaulted by demobilized soldiers who had been around white women during furloughs in France and thereabouts,” the lawyer added.
“That’s what they believe of the soldiers with whom the British fought side by side just last year?” My father’s voice sounded hoarse. “So they called out the troops we saw at the station?”
Amrik nodded. “Those posters you saw were issued by order of Mr. O’Dwyer, the lieutenant governor. But these are in English, and few villagers arriving here can read Gurmukhi—let alone salaa English.”
“But why are these villagers coming now?” I broke in.
“Dekho Robert bete, around this time, give or take a few days on the lunar calendar, we hold our festival of Baisakhi, bringing in the New Year,” explained Amrik-ji. “It’s the only festival in Punjab and most of North India for a while—for hard summer follows and then the monsoon rains descend. So Baisakhi is our last akhri festival for months when family members can visit their wedded daughters, grandchildren, and kin, and congregate at our Golden Temple here in Amritsar.”
My father looked troubled. “These villagers know nothing about the news here!”
“No, they don’t,” said Amrik with a grimace. “Many families, taking their old and even their youngest bacchhi, started their travel as much as a week ago and have already begun to arrive.”
• • •
THROUGH THE LANES, we had finally reached Uncle Rafe’s house in the heart of old Amritsar. It was old, with steep stairs and dusty rattan furniture, the rooms below dark and stacked with a medley of boxes and chests, odd bits of machinery, large numbers of empty bottles. In the upstairs living room stood a hookah and an old Victrola with its enormous silver horn, and stacks of records. I found among them the arias of Caruso, orchestra pieces by “Pryor’s Symphony,” and assorted records of popular songs. I immediately set out to play a scratchy rendering of the comic song “The Monkeys Have No Tails in Zamboanga.” As the jaunty music filled the room, I went to a small window that overlooked a narrow lane below, then leant out of the bay window on the adjacent wall, which opened onto an enclosed piece of ground. Houses backed into it on all sides, effectively making an unbroken wall all around. The space below was treeless, no more than a huge backyard.
“That’s the Bagh—the garden,” said Amrik-ji, stroking his beard.
“What garden?” I protested. “It’s just a piece of bare ground.”
“Ah, the clear eyes of youth,” he quipped. “Nonetheless it is what we in Amritsar call the Bagh, Robert.”
I went to the window and watched the rural families making themselves comfortable under the sky. Amrik-ji came and stood by me. “These villagers . . . they have been coming here for decades,” he reminisced.
“When can I see the car, Amrik-ji?” I asked, unable to contain my eagerness.
“Oh yes, the car. Nathwa, the driver, has put it away in its garage a few streets away. This galli is too narrow for it.”
“Please, can I go see it now?” I asked eagerly. My father was incurious, standing beside the lawyer, far more interested in looking at the gathering below. I knew that they still had to discuss the sale of the house. I would just have to wait.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING we finally went to see my car in its garage on a wider street some four lanes away, escorted by Amrik Singh’s office boy. The automobile had been taken out and parked outside, but the driver was nowhere in sight.
“It’s an Armstrong-Whitworth!” I burst out, breathless with joy.
The elegant black machine, with wide running boards, a spare tyre in a metal circle at the rear, gleamed in the sunlight. My heart sang. I wanted to have the driver summoned and have a ride right away, but my father had to go to the lawyer’s office nearby to sign papers and affidavits to finalise the immediate sale of the house.
“Oh yes, Robert,” he added, “Amrik Singh sent word that Uncle Rafe’s chauffeur has offered to work for us. He will drive the car down to Calcutta.” My father had forgotten to give me this momentous bit of news.
“Nathwa Singh Isser,” he added.
“What?” I said completely at a loss.
“That’s his name, Robert. Retired army man, decorated and all that. And he understands engines—or at least this one. He’ll teach you to drive in Calcutta.”
“But couldn’t I just learn here—then I could share the driving. Is his salary high?” I wanted to anticipate any future problems.
“Apparently Nathwa made some kind of promise to Rafe when he was hired. I’ll get all the details from Amrik. And his salary can come from the sale of the house,” my father said, adding, “so don’t fret, Robert.”
I nodded my head in relief. “May I stay back and just look?”
He smiled indulgently. “Oh, Robert, of course. It’s your car after all.”
I crossed the street to admire it, then got in and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, shutting my eyes in bliss. My car. Then I heard the cough. Startled, I sprang up and saw the top of a head. The man sat stooped on the running board on the other side. As he stood up and turned, I took in his enormous height, his luxuriant beard, and across his chest a leather band in which was sheathed a ceremonial Sikh dagger. He wore a khaki turban.
“Nathwa Singh Isser reporting for duty,” his voice rumbled.
“I . . . I’m Robert Aherne,” I managed.
“You call me Nathwa,” he said gravely, and I nodded. One eye was a scarred hole, and a folded seam of skin ran from his right temple to the thatch on his cheek. “My uncle hired a one-eyed chauffeur!” I thought.
Nathwa looked steadily at me, his left eye unblinking, and simply said, “Ver Doon,” which sounded like the nearby Doon foothills of the Himalayas.
He saw my confusion and repeated, “Ver Doon. The battle in Sahib-land.”
Verdun. I nodded.
“I drove Rafe Sahib’s car before I became a fauji in the army.” His Hindustani had a strong Punjab accent, but I understood him well enough. “When I was wounded, the army let me go. No other job. Rafe Sahib gave me back my job of driver. I have no family, just the car. I promised Rafe sahib, I look after the car, no matter what. My word, my jabaan. That I gave him. So I go now to Kalkaatta.” That’s how he pronounced Calcutta.
“Could I—” I began, but he anticipated me, holding up his enormous palm.
“Of course, Robert Sahib, but not here. We need open ground, for this is like a great horse. You need to get used to each other first. If you press something without knowing, this horse might trample everything in its way. Very powerful,” he added, caressing the side-mirror as if it were an ear.
“I think we leave tomorrow,” I said.
“I am ready for your command. It is your car, no?”
“Yes”—I was grinning from ear to ear—“yes, it is my car.”
• • •
I RETURNED HOME, and waiting for my father to finish, listened to a number of Caruso songs until I tired of them, and stood at the window, watching the lane below. A few older women squatted around their doors, chatting, and I could hear the tinkling of their bracelets punctuating their words as they gestured. I went over to the other window that overlooked the park.
The villagers had spread out their pots and pans. I could see the glint of some of their utensils. On little fires, the women prepared their meals of chapati and lentils whose aroma sharpened my appetite. I watched their poise, the rhythm of their accustomed actions. Leaning over their fires, they held the chapatis with tongs, turning them into round flour balloons over the flame, removing them one by one, perfectly done. Infants sat about, being fed slices of mango and guava. Some older children were throwing a red rubber ball with cries of triumph, while their mothers called out, reminding them to be careful of the fires and the well, for there was a deep one at the centre of the Bagh. A few toddlers moved about sucking their fingers and ogling each other. All the mothers had remembered to put smudges of kohl on their babies, on the side of their foreheads—to ward off the evil eye.
The children tossing the ball happened to come under my window, and when they noticed me looking at them, they waved gaily and shouted, “Hullo, sahib,” adding their greeting, “Sat sri-akaal, Ingrez sahib!” Some of the families looked up curiously and waved at me. Ingrez sahib! They think I am English, these village folk, I thought in amusement, simply because I was fair and wore a shirt and trousers.
Some Sikh men had taken off their turbans and oiled their long hair, combing it out in the cooling air. A colourful group of women were drawing water and filling their pots by the well, chatting as each waited her turn. I could also hear the strains of a woman singing a devotional bhajan in an adjacent house.
Suddenly I heard rhythmic footfalls in the lane, almost like the beginning of a folk dance, where the group stamps before the elaborate moves begin. Not wanting to miss any part of the performance, I rushed across to the window overlooking the lane, and leaning out, saw a narrow column of marching soldiers. They were stocky men I recognized as Gurkhas—mountain troops from faraway Nepal—noticeably shorter than the local Punjabis. They were now marching quickly up the narrow lane, two abreast, clutching Enfield rifles, which I recognized, used recently in the Great War. They were led by a single English officer who held a slim baton, hardly larger than a conductor’s.
A couple of faces peeped out of the windows to see the abrupt entry of the troops into the Bagh. Below us, under a bristle of guns, about a hundred soldiers were marching purposefully, emerging into the last rays of sunshine inside the enclosed Jallianwala Bagh.
I dashed back to the bay window overlooking the Bagh. Once inside, the Gurkhas split and quick-marched along the two near walls adjoining the entrance and stood facing the open ground. I thought the families would now be ejected, and worried about their interrupted meal. But then I heard the officer call out an order. The soldiers knelt and pointed their weapons. The villagers in the Bagh turned slowly, curiously, while some of the children pointed excitedly, paused in their games. I felt my breath rush out of me as I heard the single word.
“Fire.”
The sharp volley startled a flurry of pigeons which scattered overhead in the evening air. A row of the villagers crumpled to the ground. An eerie cry broke out within the crowd. Mothers were throwing themselves down, covering their children. Some ran towards the far wall, which looked insuperably high. I saw a mother gather her baby and grab for her older child just beyond her reach, stumbling to the ground in the effort. Everything was moving slowly, as in a dread dance.
Next I saw the officer pointing directly where the crowd was thickest. I heard his command to fire again, shrill and clear. And time snapped out of its slow dance into a frenzy. The second fusillade echoed and bounced off the high walls. I saw the crop of falling bodies, heard the rising howls of women and men, the shrieking children, and suddenly realized that I too was screaming as loudly as I could, unable to stop myself. Blood was pounding in my skull as I watched some mothers began hurling themselves headlong into the well, their babies in their arms. The order to fire came again and again. The Gurkhas were having trouble holding their rifles, which had overheated from the dozen or so times they had been fired.
I felt at once drained of blood, and strangely sharp-eyed, as if I were both the dead and the perpetrator, implicated in the act and its consequence, by the fact of having witnessed it. The children’s earlier greeting kept hammering inside my head, the greeting and the misreading: “Sat sri-akaal, Ingrez sahib!” I almost expected to find the floor under my feet as soaked as the bare earth of the Bagh which was now covered with blood and bodies, still and writhing.
At a sharp final command, the troops turned and marched out, in perfect formation.
Dizzy and breathless, I clung to the window. It was hard to tell the men from the women, for many of the men had their hair undone, turbans forgotten. Cries rose around us, Paani, Paani, and people were running in with whatever pots and basins they could find, pouring out water to the wounded among the numerous dead.
And then I heard Amrik Singh and my father behind me. As he came to the casement for air, my father looked down at the killing ground and leant for support at the sill. He was bent double, wheezing in distress. I held him up to stop him from falling to the floor. Some men down below in the Bagh looked up and saw his pale face framed in the window as he fumbled to loosen his tie.
“Ingrez saala, oye ingrez bhaaynchot!” rose the angry cries from below.
Amrik was tugging at my sleeve. “They think you are English, come away this instant,” he hissed. He manhandled my father down the dark stairs, as I followed stumbling after them.
My father was struggling, for he was carrying a heavy canvas bag. I took it from him. “The house-sale money, Robert. Be careful with it,” he said urgently. I asked him if I should get the rest of our things together.
“Abbhi chaalo! No time for that,” said Amrik sharply, and we followed him.
At the bottom of the stairs, he headed us away from the main door, leading us instead under the dusty stairwell and along a small corridor and out into the back of the house. It was a lane so narrow that our shoulders scraped the wall as we scrambled through utter darkness. I was completely disoriented, but Amrik knew this maze well.
We burst into the street near the garage. Amrik darted into a side lane, gesturing us to hide within a doorway. In the minute or so he was gone, I could hear little above my father’s laboured breathing and my own thumping heart. As I regained my breath, I thought I heard running footsteps in the lanes all around, the sounds echoing through their narrow channels.
Amrik appeared with Nathwa, who had emerged wild-haired without his turban. He snapped me a salute, then simply said in Hindustani, “I will get your car, sahib.” He took a few loping steps, but then abruptly jogged back to the lane he had emerged from. Amrik, Baba, and I looked at each other in confusion. But Nathwa was back in a trice, carrying something. “Follow me after a minute,” he rumbled.
By the time we reached the garage, Nathwa had pushed the car out into the street. He started to crank the engine, which grumbled briefly and fell silent. I tossed the bag my father had entrusted to me under the car seat and turned to Nathwa.
“Let me help!” I begged, but Nathwa shook his head. “Naahin, sahib. I will get it started. You get in as soon as it does, turaant! Then I’ll put that petrol jerry can in the carrier.” He pointed to where it stood beside the car. “To refill the car after a hundred miles. It will be rural there. No chance of getting petrol.”
“But what if it doesn’t start, Nathwa?” I whispered. I could hear running footsteps.
“Arre, it starts first shot every time. Mayb
e it’s sleepy.” He grinned nonchalantly, flashing his gigantic teeth. “I try once more, bas. If it doesn’t start right now, we push it to a safe place. Father-sahib can sit inside and steer, no?”
As he cranked, the engine burst into life, a tremendous roar at first, subsiding into a powerful thrum. I was so intent, looking at Nathwa and the growling car, that I was astounded to find us surrounded by a crowd of silhouettes lit from behind. Someone came running through the lane with a lighted torch.
“Ha ha ha, chaalo Sahib,” roared Nathwa, oblivious of them, urging us to get in. He turned to retrieve the petrol, when he noticed that the jerry can had been picked up by a shadow from the night crowd.
Then I heard the cries, “Maaro saale Ingrez-ko, kill the English, haan tod de gaaddi, yes smash the car!” Nathwa leapt into the vehicle. “Yeh Rafe-Sahib da gaddi, saale,” he bellowed, releasing the brake and revving the engine, shouting and making a sweeping gesture. “Haat ja, haat ja tusi,” making it clear he would run over anyone standing in the way. “Move move, chaal chaal!” he yelled in his army camp manner.
We stared, momentarily forgotten by the crowd, while Nathwa stood in the open car as if it were his war chariot, a hero from an older age, defiant and peremptory.
Time slowed as that shadow from the muttering crowd flung the contents of the jerry can, a ragged opal shawl of petrol, turning into a fishnet over the motorcar. The figure with the torch threw his fiery missile after it, which turned end over end in an aerial race. Nathwa was swirling in a surge of light. His hair ignited, and then his clothes, and in an instant he was the bare warrior in flames. A terrible cry rose, from the crowd, from me, from Nathwa, whose great height buckled as the boat-like interior of the car swayed in a wave of fire. I heard the glass windshield crack sharply. Nathwa crashed down, lying over the gleaming bonnet of my car, its paint curdling and bubbling. Then came an eruption from within the engine, and shards of metal and glass flew about. The crowd ran helter-skelter, some lingering at the mouths of various lanes, peeping, before slipping away.