by Amrit Chima
“It will be too late if we wait,” he said, attempting to reason with her. “I said I would do anything. I promised.” He stepped close, touched her stomach, then took the wrist of her outstretched arm and put it around his neck. “It is because of you that I did not go sooner.”
She looked at him with resignation, as if suddenly understanding that she had married a man who had always intended to leave, like it should not surprise her to be twenty-one and alone with two children. She leaned in and rested her forehead on his shoulder, tightening her arm around him, and he felt the hot breath of her sigh through the cloth of his kurta.
~ ~ ~
The British official made no pretense as his gaze moved slowly and critically from Baba Singh’s sandaled feet up to his veined forearms and broad shoulders. “You are short,” he finally said in Punjabi.
“Is being taller a requirement?”
The official tapped his cheek with his forefinger. “And pert,” he said with a cold grin, then picked up a pen and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “Come on this day to this address. You will need to pass training.”
“Training?”
“War times were desperate,” the official replied blandly. “The tide has calmed. This is not simple soldiering. You need skills.”
As Baba Singh exited the government building, he folded the paper and tucked it into his pajama pants wishing Khushwant were with him, the both of them planning to go off into the greater world to save their loved ones together. There was a steady watchfulness, an acute loyalty about his brother’s manner that Baba Singh had always found reassuring, especially after Ranjit’s death.
Their relationship, however, had begun to change the moment Khushwant met Simran. His brother was getting married, and Baba Singh shamefully discovered as he headed home that he possessed a tiny sliver of jealously for the young woman who was to be his brother’s wife.
The young couple had developed a casual friendship over the last year, often running into each other at the open market, engaging in many drawn-out exchanges regarding the quality of the corn or potato crop. Always accompanied by her father, owner of the largest sundry shop on Suraj Road, the mood between the two had been painfully restrained.
The marriage was not arranged by the usual course. No formal introductions were made, although Yashbir inquired once on Khushwant’s behalf. Despite the blacksmith’s good standing and his well-known informal adoption of the Toor children, Simran’s father was not initially interested in pairing his daughter with Khushwant, hoping to attract suitors more socially appropriate.
“Tell that boy to stop flirting with her,” Simran’s father had told Yashbir with outrage. “She is refusing all others. She has locked herself in her room and threatened to run away.”
“Certainly, ji,” Yashbir replied mildly. “I will do my best, but it is difficult to control the young when they are in love.”
“Love?” Simran’s father sputtered. “That is ridiculous.”
“Of course, ji.”
It took some time, but Yashbir’s words apparently softened the man, who was, beneath his intimidating and callous countenance a rather impassioned romantic. Unlike so many Indian family patriarchs, Simran’s father had an abiding respect for the female sex and wished more for his daughter’s happiness than a suitable dowry. So, together the two men had made arrangements for the wedding, which, as Baba Singh noticed when he again looked at the scrap of paper the British official had given him, was to take place just before police recruitment training.
Preparations for the nuptials took several weeks, during which time Baba Singh tried his best to be enthusiastic, despite feeling like he had lost something important. The event brought together people he had not been in direct contact with since before the Great War. So many had become faded images of their former selves. Like Ishwar. Standing with Khushwant at the entrance to the gurdwara just before the beginning of the ceremony, Baba Singh saw his cousin approaching with what appeared to be his usual rolling gait, drunken-like, full of amusement and mischief. But as he came nearer, Baba Singh realized he was wrong. Ishwar was limping.
He was only twenty-four, just two years older than Baba Singh, but he had the wrinkles of a middle-aged man, of one who had spent too much time tensing the muscles of his face. His loose posture suggested wariness, his body not relaxed but alert, prepared to pivot, to whirl around, to dodge bullets. His turban was wrapped tightly and compactly, more military than village.
Khushwant took Ishwar’s shrapnel-scarred hand and smiled at his cousin. “It is good to see you again.”
“Look at you, Khushwant. Not so little anymore,” Ishwar replied, the lightness in his tone forced. “It has been a lifetime. Baba, I am sorry I have not come by to meet your wife and son. I hear another one is on the way.”
Baba Singh shook his head. “I am just sorry Tejinder is not here.”
“Yes,” Ishwar murmured. He smiled wryly. “It is terrible to admit it, but I was glad he was there with me, even though I know it is an awful thing to be grateful for.”
“It is not awful,” Khushwant said. “I know he felt the same way about you.”
Ishwar glanced inside the temple where the guests were waiting for the start of the ceremony, then smiled again, this time more brightly. “Big day.”
Khushwant grinned, and Ishwar grinned back.
“Shall we go in?” their cousin asked, and without waiting for a reply, he stepped inside the temple.
It was late when the festivities concluded. Many of the guests slept in the hotel, planning to return to Harpind the following day. Khushwant retired with Simran to the guest quarter he had once shared with Baba Singh. Manmohan stayed with Desa on her charpoy, and Baba Singh and Sada Kaur slept across from her, in the charpoy that used to belong to Kiran and Avani. Baba Singh could smell the faint scent of opium in the air.
Unable to sleep, he replayed the events of the day. He had not been able to stop watching Ishwar, the way his cousin had snuck off to the periphery of the celebration, with his darting eyes, his nervous shudders.
Sada Kaur moved closer. She leaned in and placed her arm over Baba Singh’s chest. Soon she was asleep. Lifting her hand, he kissed the tips of her fingers, hating the doubts, wishing for hope.
~ ~ ~
Barapind’s pond was smaller than Harpind’s. Still, it was pleasant, set off into the trees where it was private. A room without walls. Baba Singh massaged his bullock’s hindquarter where he had often gently jabbed at it. He then ran his hand along the rough line of the animal’s protruding spine up to its head.
“Shall we?” he asked it. “I feel like I might like to swim today.”
The bullock’s eyes narrowed.
Baba Singh ruffled the smooth surface of the pond with his toe. Go on then, the animal seemed to say, looking away impassively.
Baba Singh stepped in with both feet, the water tickling his ankles. He removed his turban and then his kurta, placing them both on the grassy bank. He stared down at his lean bare-chested reflection for a moment, captivated by the sun sparkling on the water through the tree leaves. Bathing in sunlight.
Hearing a rustling in the reeds, he turned to see who was there.
“Baba?” Khushwant called through the small clump of trees.
“Yes,” Baba Singh replied.
Khushwant pushed through the foliage. “I just came to say goodbye before I head back to town.”
Baba Singh lifted his foot and patted the surface of the water with it. “So soon? Stay for dinner at least, for my last night.”
“It is only training, Baba. I will see you in the morning. Simran is waiting.
“I see.”
“Sada is wondering where you have gone.”
Baba Singh undid his topknot and let his hair down. “I just needed a moment.”
Khushwant nodded.
“It is hot today,” Baba Singh smiled faintly, still tapping the water with one foot.
Khushwant returned the smile
. “Even now that you are older and bigger, there is no way you can do it.”
Baba Singh laughed softly. He dipped his foot back into the water, unsettling the mud and clay beneath the surface. “I know it. I would not even try.”
“It is very strange without Ranjit.”
“I was thinking about what Ishwar said,” Baba Singh replied. “That he was glad Tejinder was with him. It was better having each other. I think Ranjit was also glad for you.”
Khushwant was quiet. He pulled a leaf from an overhead branch.
“You know that I have never been back to Harpind,” Baba Singh told him. “It would only take an afternoon on a tonga, but I have never gone back.” He was quiet for a moment, gazing again at his reflection. Then he asked, “Do you think Ranjit would understand what I am doing?”
“I am not sure that I understand it.”
“He could not save Kiran and Avani so he set out to save the world, or India, or maybe himself. I do not even know anymore. I could not save them either; none of us could have. But now I can protect my family.”
“There is nothing to make up for. None of it was your fault.”
“Some of it was.”
Khushwant frowned, tossing away the leaf. “I still don’t understand.”
“I have to go because of Dr. Bansal.”
“The doctor?” his brother scoffed.
“He did something for me once, something I did not deserve.”
Khushwant picked another leaf and tossed it in the water. “You make him sound so noble.”
“He is.”
“There is nothing noble about what he did.”
“He did not do it,” Baba Singh said, not moving. The water stilled, and his feet looked as though they had slipped into glass.
There was silence. Not even the trees whispered.
Khushwant’s eyes widened as he began to comprehend Baba Singh’s meaning. “That is not possible,” he said. “We went after you.”
Baba Singh took a step toward the edge of the pond where his brother stood, rippling the surface. “I did not even remember it until much later.”
Khushwant sunk to the ground into the bullock’s shadow. The animal lazily turned its head toward him, then looked away and snorted. “At the jail...I understand now.”
Baba Singh nodded.
Khushwant’s face flattened into an arrangement of indecipherable lines. “So now?”
“Now I make sure my children never get lost.”
“None of us knew what would happen. You do not know what the world will be like for your children. You cannot prevent the things that will or will not happen to them.”
“I have to do something.”
Khushwant stared at the water for several moments. Baba Singh waited, his loose hair hot on his back.
He thought his brother would be angry or terrified or filled with hatred, but when Khushwant finally spoke, his voice was firm. “There were so many mistakes, one after the other. None of what happened was right. But I was there, and I know it was all too horrible to take.” His expression softened, now resolutely gentle. He removed his own turban and kurta and set them beside Baba Singh’s.
He waded into the pond, bending his knees until his dhoti was soaked and he was immersed up to his chest. Then he raised his arms and smacked his flat palms against the surface.
The next morning Khushwant climbed the stairs to the train station platform with Simran, Yashbir, and Desa. He carried a half-filled burlap sack. Simran’s eyes were red as though she had been crying. Desa stood beside her, furious.
“I am coming with you,” Khushwant said to Baba Singh.
Baba Singh looked at his brother with surprise, then glanced at Simran. “I would not ask that,” he said.
“I am not sure what was worse,” Khushwant told him as the train pulled into the station. “Being with Ranjit and seeing him die, or being here not knowing. I wanted to be with him. And whatever happened to them, even Kiran and Avani had each other.”
~ ~ ~
It was August. Amritsar was shrouded in a heavy, almost solid mass of fog unusual for that time of year. It hung low, a gigantic mat of murkiness unfurled across the Punjab. Baba Singh felt like reaching up and scooping out handfuls as they entered the training facility. The weather made the inside of the building seem colder than it should have been, and darker, gray like hawk feathers.
“This is not what the flyer promised,” Baba Singh muttered to Khushwant when he saw the conditions in which they were to live for the next three months. The other recruits, mostly Sikhs from the region, were equally disappointed, grumbling that there were no mess or kitchen amenities, and worse, no washrooms or outhouses.
“I do not know why you are surprised,” his brother murmured as a uniformed British training officer led them to a barracks room.
“How will we wash and eat?”
His brother pointed bleakly outside over his shoulder at the street.
Baba Singh closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves. “I am sorry, Khushwant. About everything, about this and Simran. Are you sure she is all right?”
“I shared some things with her about Bebe and Kiran and Avani. She understands. It was her father who was angry. He is more emotional than a woman.”
The training officer assigned beds and asked them to leave their belongings before reporting for orientation. Baba Singh assessed the barrack. It was large and cave-like, outfitted with several rows of charpoys, sheets folded on each in tidy, creased squares. There were no pillows and no blankets. The only decorations were black and white photographs, one centered on each of the four walls. They were small, which made the walls on which they hung seem higher and wider. Baba Singh approached one of them. It was a picture of a Sikh contingent in Singapore. Uniformed, they looked much like how he remembered Ranjit: tall and princely.
“The guards at the prison wore something similar,” Khushwant said from behind him.
“We are not like them,” Baba Singh said, stepping away and placing his burlap sack on the charpoy next to his brother’s. “Ranjit said they were ignorant, that they were blind.”
“Perhaps they were once like us,” Khushwant replied as they were waved down to follow the other recruits to orientation.
“You Sikhs should be proud,” the training officer told them when they were all seated. He appeared bored with his speech. “You are from a martial race that spans back through history to Guru Gobind Singh. Your people have an inborn, instinctive warrior’s skill, and as such have been integral members of the Queen’s army and Colonial Police Force for nearly one hundred years.” He went on to explain the nature of their three-month training program and informed them that upon completion, they would each be required to take and pass a written examination. He did not speak as though he believed they were warriors.
On their first day, Baba Singh woke to the blare of a factory siren. It would wake him every morning, an unsettling sound that spoke of the city’s grudging, bleary-eyed rousing. He pushed himself up and gazed down at the line of shifting bodies as the recruits came alive. The men dressed and filed out of the facility in search of breakfast. Finding a food stall nearby, they crowded around it to eat, swallowing stale chapatis and watery dhal full of spongy lentils, doubt cast across their faces.
“Stop watching me,” Khushwant told Baba Singh that first morning as they forced down bites of food. “I am here because I want to be.”
Baba Singh chewed on a chapati, his mouth dry.
During the course of their training, they suffered through a physical fitness program that tested the limits of their stamina. Some men vomited next to their charpoys at night, the combination of bodily strain and foul food doing them in. Many could not complete the training and were sent home with small stipends. It had thus far been a grim test, and the atmosphere began to stink with lost faith.
British officers taught them equestrian exercises, how to properly march the parade grounds, and how to disassemble, reassemble, and fire a p
istol. They also enlisted a veteran Sikh officer to train them in the Sikh martial art of gatka. The British told them that it set their contingent apart, that they would possess an ability both prized and exclusive. Clearly the British understood the value of gatka, but Baba Singh felt they were too stiff to practice it themselves. There was a certain grace required, and most of the recruits who had learned to dance bhangra from childhood innately possessed it. Like the battle skills that made Sikhs such prized military material, the recruits knew how to spin and swirl, the deadly lathis in their hands more like streamers than weapons.
When not practicing gatka, the British instructed them on other uses of the lathi, which made Baba Singh uneasy. Applying it to a man’s throat, or swinging it against a man’s body—even in training—brought with it the all too familiar images of Mr. Grewal’s spectacles and hacking at a coconut in the relentless dream that still haunted Baba Singh after all these years.
In addition to the physical component of their training, they endured hours of lectures. They would be posted in China where the British needed them most, either in Shanghai, where a large deputation had already settled, but more likely Hong Kong. The British training officer educated them on local Chinese customs and about police-community relations, instructing them not to interfere in Chinese business unless specifically to maintain public order. This was somewhat of a relief for Baba Singh. It would not be a considerably significant posting, just street patrol. Likely he may never be required to even remove the lathi from his pant loop.
The lecturer paced the room during those long, tedious hours, firmly encouraging them to understand the nature of their importance abroad. The Chinese respected the Sikh police officers. Sikhs were fiercely impressive, both in appearance and demeanor, and were a necessary part of the Empire’s security and quality of life. They had been the root of British success in battle and were now a means to preserve order in other colonies.
“They think we are stupid,” Khushwant told Baba Singh heatedly, getting under his sheet for the night. “They think we want to hear all that. They think that if they say nice things we will forget that we do not have latrines, that we have to wash up on the street wherever we can find water and still report for training on time. We do not need false praise from these murdering, condescending monkeys.”