Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  36

  Bathed in a thin shaft of soft white light, floating high up on a cloud, drifting listlessly, Sophie was enveloped by an irresistible warmth, voices fading in and out. Is this death? she wondered, feeling herself fluid as water. She was lying in a flower meadow, soaring above the mountains, resting on a wide stretch of golden sand, waves lapping gently around her.

  “Sophie? Can you hear me?” A woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, pulling at her when she wanted to be left alone, to sail peacefully into the warmth of the light. “Oh, my dear. You poor, poor dear.” She felt herself unable to move, her body elsewhere, taken from her. A hand touched hers. She tried to open her mouth, stuck together, dry. “Here.” She felt moisture on her lips, on her tongue. “Just a little.” A trickle coming into her mouth, spilling down her chin, dabbed softly away. “There, there.”

  Her eyes flickered, lids so heavy she could barely lift them, her whole being cushioned in silk-soft eiderdown, dulling the pain, caressing her skin, tiny shivers passing over her. Another voice. A shape peering at her closely, swathed in white, a gentle hand coming to her face.

  “I’ll fetch the doctor.”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “Quickly.”

  Sophie felt herself blink, a tiny faint movement.

  “You poor, poor dear.” The woman leaned over her. “He should be locked up for what he’s done to you. And carrying on like that with all and sundry. And that despicable Hinchbrook woman, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Oh, my poor, poor dear. Oh, just look at you.” The woman was crying softly now. “You mustn’t worry.” She felt the hand come to hers again. “We are going to take excellent care of you.”

  “Mrs. Appleton?” A man spoke. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait outside for a moment.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Sophie felt a gentle pull on her eyelid. A harsh light came into her and she flinched a little, expelling a low hmm.

  “Sophie? Can you open your eyes for me? Sophie?” She tried to do as the voice asked. So tired. So very tired. “Just a little. Come on now. I know it’s hard.”

  She felt herself moving, being lifted, a dull metallic cranking sound. “Sophie? Come on now, there’s a good girl, open your eyes for me a little.”

  The hazy outline of a man began to appear before her, softly focused. A kind face, almost smiling but not quite, a stethoscope around his neck, but not her father.

  “Well done,” he said. “That’s good. Just look at me?” Something passing in front of her face. “Can you follow my finger?” She felt her eyes move. “Very good. Excellent.” Her arm being lifted, fingers painfully splayed. “Can you squeeze my hand for me? Squeeze it as hard as you can. Come on. Harder.” She felt herself drifting off again, the feeble effort exhausting. “Excellent. Very good. Well done.” The voices faded out, talking among themselves. “Sophie?” A hand on her arm. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had a small operation but you’re going to be fine. We’re going to keep you here for a while. All right?” She heard a distant hmm, hmm. “Now you rest, and there will be someone right here beside you at all times.” She tried to say thank you, thank you, hearing it in her head, unable to move her lips.

  The woman was there again, hand coming into hers. Sophie felt herself slipping from consciousness again, drifting into a lotus garden, the gentle sound of water trickling from pool to pool, soft white orchids clinging to the trunks of nimbu trees. How did you find me? Jag smiled at her. You knew I would find you. The night was warm, soft against her skin, and the frogs were singing, the night insects buzzing under the glow of the full moon. Sophie turned away. She did not want to speak to him. She was too upset. She had waited so long, sitting there all alone in the lip of the farthest pavilion. Why did you take so long? Where have you been? She turned back to him, but he was gone.

  1948

  The Road to Amritsar

  37

  Jag had arrived early at the hospital tent, the sky still red from the swollen morning sun, hanging low on the horizon, its first rays creeping over the distant ramparts. He had slept soundly, his body spent from the previous day’s work, and had woken feeling strong again, ready to fetch water and carry the sick just as he had done every day for three weeks. The doctor did not know who he was. He had never laid eyes upon him, although Jag had seen Dr. Schofield many times, watching silently from hidden panels in long-forgotten passages in a palace far away. The doctor liked him, though. He gave him biscuits and told him to sit down and rest and drink some water, and Jag knew that everything was going to be all right. The father of the girl he loved had been sent to him by the gods, placed right here in the middle of his camp. He would stick close by. He would follow him to the ends of the earth, knowing that it would lead him to her.

  Jag worked through the morning, washing sheets and boiling bandages, stirring and pounding the laundry in a wide vat set upon a fire, the sweat pouring from him until he was relieved by the next shift. He went back to the mess tent and slaked his thirst with seven cups of water straight down, then ate a sandwich before being called in again. There were patients to be moved, and more stretchers were needed outside. Jag did as he was asked, all the time looking out for the doctor, checking every white-coated figure that caught his eye. Hours passed, and he began to tire.

  “You look like you need a break.” One of the orderlies slapped him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go out back and rest a while?”

  Jag looked at him for a moment and nodded vaguely, suddenly aware of the fatigue nagging at his muscles. The orderly turned to go.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Jag said. “Do you know where Dr. Schofield is? I have not seen him today.”

  “Dr. Schofield?” The orderly seemed perplexed. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason in particular,” Jag said. “I was just wondering where he was. He was very nice to me yesterday and I wanted to thank him.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” the orderly said with a smile. “We’re all in this together.”

  “But still,” Jag said. “I would like to see him to say thank you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve had your chips with that,” the orderly said. “He left this morning. But I’m sure he won’t mind. Now why don’t you grab yourself a quick chai and forty winks, eh?”

  Jag felt the blood drain from him, his stomach churning and tightening.

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. Back to England probably.”

  “England!” The orderly’s words struck him like a hammer blow.

  “Steady on, lad!” Taken aback by Jag’s distress, the orderly came close to him and hushed his voice a little. “There’s no need to get upset about it!”

  “But he can’t have gone to England. It’s…it’s…” Jag struggled to breathe. “I have to find him.”

  “Now come on.” The orderly tried to sound stern. He cleared his throat a little and looked around. “Hey!” He called to one of the nurses. “Does anybody know where George Schofield was headed?” The nurse shrugged vacantly before turning to her colleague and passing the inquiry on.

  “I’m not sure,” said one of the other nurses. “Maybe he’s moving on to another camp.”

  “No, he’s not,” said someone else. “Dr. Pretti said he was going south.”

  “Any idea where?”

  “Don’t know. Kerala, I think.”

  “No, it definitely wasn’t Kerala. My sister lives in Kerala, so I would have remembered that.”

  “Then I’m not sure.”

  “Wasn’t he going to one of the hill stations?”

  “Didn’t he say something about Orissa?” another nurse said.

  “I don’t remember.” The first nurse turned back to the orderly. “You’ll have to ask Dr. Pretti.”

  “She’s gone to the border post,” the other nurse said. “Won’t be back for
weeks.”

  “Thanks,” the orderly said. He turned to Jag. “I’m afraid you’ve had it.” He shrugged. “That’s the way it is with the doctors. They come in and do a stint then go off again. Don’t feel bad about it, lad. There’ll be some new doctors here soon who’ll be just as nice.”

  Jag felt as though his whole world had caved in. It was hopeless. He might as well search for a needle in a haystack the size of a mountain. With a heavy heart, he wandered to the mess tent, filled his pockets with biscuits, and walked disconsolately back to the small patch of ground his father had died upon. He lay down and closed his eyes, hands over his head, every ounce of his strength taken from him.

  The doctor had gone. There was nothing left for him here. He must leave this place right now, before he too gave out and died.

  • • •

  Jag crouched down quietly beside his neighbor’s shelter. Navinder Singh was resting, his wife sleeping nearby, their two children curled closely into her body. Jag set down the few things he had brought with him: a small bundle with some of the biscuits, the folded sacking that he had taken down from his own shelter, and a pair of bowls that he no longer needed. He must carry as little as possible. Nothing must slow him down.

  Navinder Singh opened his eyes. He saw Jag, then looked to his sleeping family before unfurling himself from the ground and crawling out.

  “What are you doing?” He glanced over the things that Jag had left there.

  “I am leaving,” Jag said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Amritsar. To find my mother’s family.”

  “You can’t,” Navinder Singh said. “The roads are full of danger.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Navinder stared at him for a while, as though thinking. He sat back on his haunches.

  “You are right,” he said grimly. “There is nothing here for any of us.” He turned and looked at his family. “But you will not go alone. We will come with you.”

  “No,” Jag said. “I am leaving now. You have a family to look after. I have no one.”

  “We have no one either,” Navinder said. “And I am just one man, with a wife and two children to protect. We will travel together, and I will have the comfort of knowing that there is another man walking beside me who will do whatever he has to to safeguard his family. You are part of our family now, Jagaan.” He placed a hand on Jag’s arm. “Help me to deliver them from this.” He looked at his wife and children again. “They deserve better, and I am at a loss.”

  • • •

  The officials at the guard post did all they could to dissuade the sparse groups of refugees who refused to be contained any longer. They urged them to be patient, to return to their shelters and wait to be processed. “We have already waited,” people said. “And what good has it done us?” More voices joined the protest.

  “I have been here for six months and still you tell me to be patient?”

  “Other people have been given papers and moved on before us because they bribed some officials!”

  “Yes! They took my wife’s gold bangle and said we would be given a house and then we never saw them again. You are all crooks!”

  As they argued with the soldiers, other groups filed past on their way into the camp, too tired and broken to notice the untidy ranks of arguing people, some reluctantly turning back toward the encampment, others breaking away from the officials and heading for the open road.

  Their few belongings had fitted easily into just two tied bundles, both of which Jag bore while Navinder Singh and his wife carried their children.

  • • •

  All along the Grand Trunk Road that ran between Amritsar and Lahore, which now lay over the border in Pakistan, stretched miles upon miles of refugees, thin lines simultaneously going eastward and westward carrying paltry possessions, forlorn and desolate.

  Jag walked on steadily, concentrating on the ground, Navinder Singh’s son now riding on his shoulders, Jag holding his small feet while the boy clung to his head with both hands. His stomach felt empty, his thoughts filled with images of warm chapattis and bowls of hot, thick yellow dhal. Navinder Singh glanced over at him and said, as if reading his mind, “We will stop soon and rest for a while and have something to eat.”

  “I am fine,” Jag said. “You do not have to stop for me.”

  “Not for you! My wife is tired. Look at her.”

  Jag twisted a little and saw Mrs. Singh behind them, the little one asleep against her shoulder, her face thin and fatigued. He looked back at Navinder and nodded.

  “This is not so bad,” Navinder said. “On our first journey, it was a wonder we didn’t all starve. As for the cattle, they had hardly any food either. We couldn’t get a quarter-bucket of milk out of them. When our rations ran out, we bought whatever we could from jangli people who would sell us flour sometimes. They were charging five rupees for flour. Five! And anyone who needed opium was in big trouble, as it was being traded only for gold, weight for weight. Everyone on the Pakistan side had been told by the Baluchi army not to sell us anything, not even a grain of rice, so anyone who chose to break this rule could name his own price. One of them was caught selling flour.” Navinder broke off for a moment. “They tied him behind an army truck and dragged him along the ground until he was dead.” He shook his head. “What I cannot understand is that the government knew that people were having to leave their homes, they knew about the trouble, yet they would not arrange a smooth transfer or safe passage for us. They knew people were suffering, but we were stuck there, with nobody to help us.”

  “How much longer do you think it will be before we reach Amritsar?”

  “What does that matter?” Navinder Singh smiled at him. “Every step we take brings us closer, and before we know it we shall be standing before the Golden Temple, and I will take you into the gurdwara and they will give us a good hot meal, and afterward we will go and visit the holy of holies and hear them chanting the sacred texts.”

  “You have been there before?”

  “No. All Sikh temples chant the holy scriptures. It is very beautiful. And everyone is fed before they go to pray.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Yes, everyone, no matter what their religion. Even if they don’t want to pray, still they can come in and eat and they will be welcomed.”

  “Even a Moslem?”

  “Yes.” Navinder Singh fixed his eyes upon him soberly. “Even a Moslem.”

  The boy was becoming heavy on Jag’s shoulders, his body slumping against Jag’s head, as though too tired to hold on properly any more. “Abba,” the boy said. “I want to pee.” Navinder stopped and put the bundles down before reaching out and taking his son from Jag’s shoulders. Jag picked up the bundles and waited while the boy hitched his pajamas down and relieved himself, Navinder ruffling his hair.

  “We’ll stop here,” Navinder said when the boy had finished, seeing another group of refugees who had halted for the day, the women sharing out sparse rations, a child being washed roughly with a handful of water. There was no trouble here, not from the looks of it. Everyone was too tired for trouble. The boy pulled up his pajamas and Navinder lifted him on to his shoulders. “Come,” he said to his wife. “We will go and join those people in the field. I think we have walked far enough today.”

  38

  Jag had never seen a city before. At first it seemed like a mirage in the distance, a shimmering spectacle coming no closer no matter how long they walked. And then the road began to thicken with people and animals, and all kinds of stalls started to appear, tables of blankets and clothing, cups of clean water and food being handed out. At last they entered the city, the family sticking closely together, Navinder at the front, Jag at the rear. A smattering of people, all wearing the same distinctive strip of red tied around their upper arms, milled through the crowds calling advice and directions
. This way for food, come this way, this way, there are hot meals this way. Does anyone want to report missing persons? This way for missing persons, please. This way for missing persons register. Is anybody coming here to meet relatives? This way for information about relatives, please, this way…

  Jag called out: “Navinder! Stop!” He pointed to the volunteer, who was now wandering the other way. “Navinder! We have to ask that man! He said we go that way for information about relatives.” Navinder peered into the crowd, saw the volunteer, and nodded back to Jag, making his way toward him.

  “Excuse me!” he shouted. “Wait! Excuse me!” He pushed his way along, through the people and confusion, catching up with the volunteer with the red armband. The man turned, a little distracted. “Which way for finding relatives?”

  “Over there,” said the man, pointing to a building surrounded tightly by hundreds of people, part of its outer wall missing.

  Jag broke away from Navinder and rushed forward, pressing his way through. Navinder kept sight of him as best he could, following behind with his family.

  Over six hours they waited, just to speak to somebody.

  “Are you on our lists?” asked the man sitting behind the table, piles of papers held down under broken lumps of rock. He was one of many, a whole line of them manning the long row of information points set up in the street outside the damaged building, trying to bring order to the chaos.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Name?”

  “Ramakrishnan.”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “One of the border camps.”

  “Did you register your details there?”

  “No,” Jag said. It seemed to him like the more sensible answer, rather than telling the man that yes, he had registered six months ago and it had been a complete waste of time.

  “You really should have registered there and waited to be processed.” He pulled out a form. “We can do it now.”