by Bali Rai
‘So you admit it at last!’ cried Harbhajan Sandhu. ‘The boy has stolen my daughter’s izzat and yet still you support him!’
‘That is not what was said,’ interrupted the sarpanch, aware that the situation was poised at a crossroads and about to take a bloody turn if left unchecked.
‘Enough of your lies!’ shouted Harbhajan Sandhu.
He called for his sons to fetch weapons and, barging both the sarpanch and the priest to the ground, he set off for the Bainses’ house with his sons, an ever-growing mob of village men behind them carrying lanterns, oil lamps and burning torches of flame.
The priest called out to the mob, begging them to stay calm, but any reason that they might have had was gone, replaced by the pack mentality that often left the priest wondering whether men really were any different to beasts. Taking the helping hand offered by the sarpanch, Gianni-ji got slowly to his feet and dusted himself off, before the two of them set off after the mob, still hoping that they could make Harbhajan Sandhu see sense.
A chorus of shouts echoed through the blue-black night, followed by another and then another.
‘Nimmo – what is that shouting?’ asked Kulwant, trying to make it out.
‘I do not know, child. Let me go out into the street and find out. Wait here.’
Nimmo opened the door slowly, peering out to make sure that no one was watching. Edging through slowly she shut it behind her and turned the rusting key in the lock. Two doors down a neighbour came out carrying a flame torch. Nimmo walked over to him. ‘Bhai-ji, what is happening?’ she asked, as the acrid smoke from the torch made her eyes water.
‘They are looking for someone,’ said the neighbour.
Nimmo’s heart turned to water. ‘Bhai-ji, who is it that they seek . . . ?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Kulwant Sandhu, daughter of Harbhajan Singh Sandhu, from the far gully. She has not come home. They say that she has been taken away by a man – her izzat at her feet, her father’s turban at his,’ replied the neighbour, shaking his head as though he were full of woe.
‘Do they know who it is – this thief?’ asked Nimmo, feeling queasy.
‘The boy with the billeh eyes. Billah Bains. Harbhajan Sandhu is going there now to find him.’
With that the neighbour walked briskly towards the commotion along with others. Nimmo felt a dark cloud cover her soul. She had broken into a sweat, her heart racing. Turning back she hurriedly opened the door to Kulwant’s hiding place, an old hut which had belonged to Nimmo’s own father and had been deserted for years.
Kulwant looked at her as she entered, sensing the change in her mood, the look of fear in her eyes. ‘What is it, Nimmo?’ she asked.
‘It is grave news, child. Your father is on his way to Billah’s father’s house, ready to kill your love.’
‘Hai Rabbah!’ cried Kulwant, raising her hands to the Heavens. ‘What fate is this, Lord?’
‘Hush, child, you will be heard,’ whispered Nimmo, but Kulwant ignored her, wailing and crying and cursing her kismet.
‘We do not even know whether he is still there,’ Nimmo told her. ‘He may be on his way here at this very moment—’
‘But what if he has been caught by my father?’ cried Kulwant. ‘How will I know . . . ?’
Nimmo sighed. She would have to do one more thing for the poor children. ‘Wait here – quietly! I will be back when I have some news,’ she said.
Kulwant nodded, unable to speak because her stomach was turning somersaults and her mouth was suddenly parched. Nimmo left the hut and locked the door behind her, peering into the darkness, as she made her way to the Bainses’ house. The sinking feeling in her bones told her that fate was not on the side of the lovers that night . . .
GULBIR BAINS HEARD the mob first. He stood quickly and picked up his cudgel, a stout, hardened staff of wood that was almost black, before walking to the main gate, past the nonchalant water buffalo, their eyes shining luminously in the dark. His sons, Tarlochan, Juggy and Resham, stood and followed him but Billah, a feeling of dread encompassing his mind, stayed where he was. His mother came running, asking him what was wrong, outside in the darkness. Billah shrugged his shoulders and told her he didn’t know. Instead he looked around for an escape route, realizing that he would have to go up onto the first floor and jump onto the neighbour’s roof, which was almost adjoining. He stood and edged towards the stone stairwell, his heart beating, mind racing.
Gulbir Bains was at the wooden gate, unlocking it, unaware that the mob were baying for his youngest son’s blood. He merely assumed that it was some village crisis that was causing the fuss, an attack by bandits perhaps or an unexplained death. Eager to find out, he snapped the padlock open, wound out the thick iron chain and pulled the gate back, torch flame lighting his face. The mob was forty strong outside, headed by Harbhajan Sandhu and his sons. Gulbir opened his mouth to speak but never got his words out, a cudgel swinging through the darkness and splitting his head open. He crumpled to the ground, hearing the shouting erupt all around him but unable to see what was going on.
Had he been able to watch he would have seen the horrified reaction of his own sons, the cries, the curses, and then the storming of his home by the mob, Harbhajan Sandhu leading the throng. He would have seen the men of the village, his own friends, grab hold of his three eldest sons and hold them back as Harbhajan’s sons, Jagdish, Kewal and Sohan, ran to catch Billah, who had by this point scampered up the stairwell in a bid to escape. But by that point Gulbir had passed out, blood streaming from the head wound inflicted by Harbhajan Sandhu.
Billah was dragged back down the stairwell by Kulwant’s brothers and held in front of the mob, as Harbhajan Sandhu screamed obscenities at him. In his peripheral vision he saw his poor mother, wailing and crying and trying to reach him, asking over and over, ‘Have mercy, bhai-ji! What has my boy done?’
But Kulwant’s father ignored her pleas and spoke to the assembled crowd instead. ‘Here he is – this thief. The one who has taken my daughter and my izzat. This dog who thought he could cut off my nose!’
Some of the onlookers shook their heads, some called him names and a few prayed out loud that there would be no more bloodshed that day.
The priest stepped forward and stood between Harbhajan and Billah, pleading. ‘Harbhajan – this is not the way of our Lord – listen to me . . .’ he cried, only to be ignored and then beaten down by Harbhajan’s cudgel.
A huge collective sigh of shock and horror went up, as some of the crowd stepped away. Harbhajan Sandhu had raised his hand to Gianni-ji. He might as well have raised it to one of the panj piarah or the gurus themselves. The priest fell to the ground, his head in his hands, and then the sarpanch stepped forward, his eyes blazing.
‘No matter what wrong has been done you, Sandhu-ji,’ he told Harbhajan, ‘you have done more wrong yourself. You will pay for your actions, mark my words.’
But rage and intemperance had hold of the wronged father and his sons, and the words of the land magistrate, normally imbued with the full force of the law, were cast aside. There was no place for laws where a father’s izzat was concerned. Such things were only dealt with in one way.
‘You dare to tell me how to deal with such shame?!’ shouted Harbhajan.
‘Mercy!’ came a cry from Billah’s mother.
‘You whore!’ spat Harbhajan. ‘Were it your daughter and another’s son you would be barking for blood as a bitch barks for food.’
Billah’s brothers struggled to break free on hearing their mother slighted, already enraged at the attack on their father. Murderous intent clouded their vision. Harbhajan Sandhu pushed the sarpanch aside too and took hold of Billah, whose hands had already been tied by Kulwant’s brothers, dragging him out of the house and into the village so that all could be witness to his wrongdoing. As he dragged him along, Harbhajan Sandhu called out for all to come and see.
‘Look now, all who are men! Look at this thief – this son of a rabid whore who has pollut
ed my name and dragged my izzat through the mud as if it were nothing. Look how he pays . . .’
Had Gulbir Bains been able to watch he would have seen his youngest child dragged to the square in the middle of the village, followed by his brothers and his distraught mother. He would have seen the look of fear in his youngest child’s eyes as people who were friends and colleagues, and even relations, spat at him and called him names. He would have heard Harbhajan Sandhu demand to know what Billah had done with Kulwant – where he had taken her. And he would have seen Billah shake his head, tell Kulwant’s father that he bore him no malice, and explain that he only had to answer to his Lord – not to mortal men with cudgels and blades. He would then have seen Harbhajan Sandhu, his old friend, drive a long, pointed blade through Billah’s chest and out of his back, heard the screams of his wife and daughter, the cries of horror from the mob, now shamed by their bloodlust; and then, as his youngest child lay dying in the dust, Gulbir would have heard him call out to his Lord, ask for forgiveness and, with his last breath, declare undying love for Kulwant Sandhu . . .
From the shadows, Nimmo watched Billah die, tears streaming down her face. She watched the priest kneel in front of the dead boy and hold his hands up to the Heavens. As she turned and ran she heard the Gianniji call out.
‘My Lord – how did such hatred come from love? Tell me, O Lord – what villainy is this?’
LEICESTER
RANI
THERE WERE TEARS falling down my cheeks as Parvy finished telling us the story. I had hold of Sukh’s hand and, looking down at it, I realized that I had squeezed it so hard, his fingers had gone almost white. I let go and wiped away the tears but they were soon replaced by more. Parvy looked at her brother then got up and came over, crouching in front of me. I didn’t know what to think or do. It was such a shock. How come I’d never heard the story from my own family? I didn’t even know that I had another aunt. And then I realized that my father would never have told me about it – it undermined all his lectures about filthy white girls . . . But surely someone in my family . . . my brothers . . . ?
‘It’s OK,’ Parvy told me, putting her hands on my knees.
‘Why didn’t I know about all of this already?’ I asked her, trying really hard not to cry. And failing.
‘I don’t know,’ Parvy told me. ‘I really don’t know.’
Sukh stood up and started pacing the room. No one spoke for a few minutes before he broke the silence.
‘This is so messed up, man. I didn’t know any of this – none of it,’ he told me.
‘Our families have had this thing going on for years,’ said Parvy. ‘Dad thought that it was all over – and he didn’t want you to know. He wanted you to grow up without having to deal with the same stuff he had to – all the shame and the sadness and stuff. I only found out because I walked in on an argument, back when you were about six. He sometimes talks about Rani’s dad, Mohinder – they were good friends once.’
‘I kinda thought Rani’s name rang a bell when we met but I put it out of my mind. I thought that I was just being stupid . . . And now I find out there’s a feud . . .’ said Sukh, talking to his sister but looking at me.
‘Yeah – although it’s been years since anything major happened between our families. Some of the younger idiots kick off now and then – but they just use it as an excuse for fighting and acting like animals.’
I looked at Sukh and then at Parvy. I was confused. How could I not have known? How could my family not have told me? ‘So your uncle, Billah, was killed?’ I asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘What happened to my aunt? Something must have happened because until just now I didn’t even know about her.’
Parvy looked away. ‘She killed herself – jumped in a well, I think. No one really knows because they never found her body. Just her shawl – lying next to the well.’
‘But she was . . .’ I began.
Parvy put her hand on mine and squeezed. ‘I know, I know . . .’ she said.
‘Oh, this is horrible!’ I shouted suddenly, and then wished that I hadn’t. But what was I supposed to do? I didn’t know what to think. My family hated Sukh’s family, and there we both were, seeing each other.
Parvy stood up and walked over to the window. She started to speak but stopped and thought for a while. Then she went on, ‘Our family had to leave the village after Billah died and Kulwant vanished. The elders thought it would be the best way to stop any more blood being spilt. But the feud continued. Both our fathers moved to Leicester in the nineteen sixties and there’ve been incidents between them, off and on, over the years . . .’
I shuddered. My mind was going in about a million directions at the same time and I felt numb. Sukh tried to take hold of my hand but I pushed him away. I didn’t want to – it just happened that way. I couldn’t control it.
Parvy turned and looked at me. ‘There’ve been fights between our uncles, our cousins – we even go to separate gurudwara. It’s been calm for a few years now though.’
‘But it just doesn’t make any sense,’ I told her. ‘How could me and Sukh not have known about it?’
‘I dunno how someone didn’t let it slip.’ Parvy shrugged. ‘But I’m sure Dad told everyone not to tell you about it, Sukh. When I found out he told me never to mention it again. He said that it was like cutting open an old wound . . .’
Sukh just sat where he was, looking from me to Parvy and feeling a little hurt at my rejection, I think. I just didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want to be around them. I needed to think . . . I needed to call Nat. I needed to cry again too.
Something in my head snapped and I shot up from my seat. ‘Gotta go,’ I mumbled, not looking at Sukh or Parvy. I headed for the door.
‘Rani . . . wait,’ said Sukh, coming after me, but I didn’t wait.
I ran to the door, threw it open and went out into the corridor. I rushed down the stairs and out into the street, the glass door to the foyer slamming shut behind me. I looked up, tears blurring my sight, made out a taxi and ran to it, got in and told the driver to go. As he pulled away I saw Sukh standing across the street from me, shouting. I think he was still telling me to wait. I don’t know. I didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to touch him. Just wanted to go home. Just wanted to . . .
SUKH
THREE DAYS AFTER Parvy had told him and Rani about the feud, Sukh sat on his bed with some R & B thing playing on his CD. He wasn’t listening to it. He was sitting thinking, watching the signal light on his mobile flash on. And off. And on. And off. Rani hadn’t answered her phone since she’d run out of Parvy’s flat. Sukh had only heard from her once. She’d sent a text telling him that she didn’t want to talk to him. Her phone had gone straight to answer every time he’d tried calling. Each of the thirty or forty times. And she wasn’t replying to his text messages either. He’d just sent the latest one and was sitting staring at his phone, willing the message tone to bleep at him and put him out of his misery; imagining her face in his mind, thinking about her touch and her smell and the way she tasted when he kissed her.
His family wasn’t really talking to him. He’d returned from Parvy’s flat angry and sullen and had told his dad to fuck off. His dad had reacted with measured calm, not slapping him or swearing back – just walking away, shaking his head. That had been three days ago and since then only his mum had tried speaking to him, in vain. Sukh wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. Not his parents, nor Parvy and definitely not his mates. Jaspal had sent him loads of messages and rung three times each day but Sukh had ignored him. He couldn’t think of anything but Rani. He wasn’t hungry, he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t care what time it was. He just wanted Rani to call or send him a text to say that he should meet up with her. Hold her hand. Make her laugh. Like it was before he’d taken her to meet Parvy and ruined it all. Like it was before . . .
The mobile bleeped three times in quick succession and Sukh’s heart jumped into his mouth. He grabbed the thing and p
ressed the READ NEW MESSAGE button. His heart went back to where it had come from. Jaspal. Sukh deleted the message without reading it and threw the phone back down on the bed. The CD finished and he leaned over to where the player sat and started it again, the thump of the bass not getting him going like it usually did. He got up off his bed and paced his room, usually so tidy but looking now like someone had played a bhangra gig in it. He paced for about five minutes, all the while looking at his mobile and turning it round in his hand as the signal light flashed on. And off. And on. And then he sat back down.
Ten minutes passed as Sukh sat and stared at the wall, then he picked up his phone again and scrolled through the menu to WRITE MESSAGE. He looked at the small screen for a moment and then began to type in another message.
PLS LET ME NO THAT U R OK. CALL ME PLS. LOV U.
For the next twenty minutes Sukh went through the same routine, sitting on his bed, pacing his room and thinking about Rani. The signal light flashed on and off but there were no bleeps from his phone. He tried again.
PLS CAL ME. ILOVU. JUST WANNA TALK. CANT SLEEP. PLS RANI.
When he realized that Rani wasn’t going to reply, no matter how many times he sent her messages, Sukh got angry and threw his phone on the floor, grabbed his jacket and stormed out of his bedroom, downstairs and into the street, not knowing where he was going . . .
RANI
‘JUST CALL HIM.’
Nearly a week after I’d run out of Parvy’s flat I was watching the rain fall outside my bedroom window, holding my mobile to my ear and trying to listen to Natalie.
I hadn’t spoken to or seen Sukh for all that time and it was killing me. But I didn’t know how to sort out the mess that I had created when I ran away. When I had sent him that text, telling him that I didn’t want to talk to him: I had been angry, upset. I hadn’t meant never again . . .