I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale

by Singh, Khushwant

  Buta Singh noticed the attempt to snub him. He ate a few pieces of chapati and curry before replying. The long pause was meant to convey disapproval of his son’s tone of talking. ‘You can say what you like,’ he said at last, ‘but I do believe that in this war our interests and that of the English are identical. If they lose, we lose. If we help them to win, they will certainly give us something more than we have now. We should know who are our friends and who are our enemies. The English have ruled us for over a hundred years, and I don’t care what you say, I believe they have treated us better than our own kings did in the past; or the Germans, Italians, or Japanese will do if they win and take over India. We should stand by the English in their hour of trouble.’

  ‘Why don’t they let us help them? Gandhi is willing. Nehru is willing,’ said Sher a little warmly.

  ‘Don’t talk like a child,’ replied Buta Singh also warming up. ‘What does their willingness amount to? Nothing. Are the British short of recruits? Despite your Gandhis and Nehrus more turn up than are wanted. And what are you to do with your Muslims? They don’t want a free India until the country is cut up and they get their Pakistan. One should bargain with knowledge of one’s weakness.’

  It was only in recent years that Buta Singh had begun to think in terms of bargaining with the British. Before that, loyalty to the Raj had been as much an article of faith with him as it had been with his father and grandfather who had served in the army. He, like them, had mentioned the English king or queen in his evening prayer. ‘O, Guru, bless our Sovereign and bless us their subjects so that we remain contented and happy.’ Then things had begun to change. Gandhi had made loyalty to the British appear like disloyalty to one’s own country and traditions. Larger and larger numbers of Indians had begun to see Gandhi’s point of view. People like Buta Singh who had been proud of being servants of His Britannic Majesty were made to feel apologetic and even ashamed of themselves. Loyalty became synonymous with servility, respect for English officers synonymous with sycophancy. What shook the faith of people like Buta Singh was the attitude of the new brand of Englishmen coming out to India. Buta Singh would have withstood the scorn of his countrymen; but he could not withstand the affection of people like Taylor. Other English officers had kept their distance from Indians and set up the pattern of the rulers and the ruled. Taylor, on the other hand, not only met Indians as equals, made friends with his subordinates, but also openly expressed his sympathies with Gandhi and Nehru. At first Buta Singh had looked upon Taylor’s professions with suspicion. When he was convinced of the Englishman’s sincerity, he began to look upon him as an oddity — an oddity he respected and liked.

  Buta Singh could not comprehend why any Englishman would like to see the end of British rule in India. But many besides Taylor had begun to say so. And most of the Indians were actively agitating for its end. In this state of flux Buta Singh had decided on a muddle-headed and somewhat dishonest compromise. When he was with Englishmen he protested his loyalty to the Raj. ‘At my age, I cannot change,’ he would say. When he was amongst his own countrymen, he would be a little critical of English ways. He let his son cast his lot with the Nationalists and did not object to his organizing the students and making political speeches. He explained his son to Taylor as ‘of your way of thinking.’ By many people, Buta Singh was described as double-faced; any compromise in a situation like the one in which Buta Singh found himself would appear to unsympathetic people as double-faced.

  They ate in silence. Buta Singh finished his meal with a loud belch. ‘Oi, water for my hands.’

  Mundoo brought a jug of water and basin and handed his master a cake of soap. Buta Singh washed his hands and rinsed his mouth without getting up from his chair. He belched again and dried his hands and mouth with the towel. A bit of curry stuck to his moustache.

  ‘A bulbul on the bough,’ said Sabhrai with a smile. Buta Singh wiped his moustache with the towel again.

  ‘Now!’

  ‘Still on the bough,’ said Sabhrai giggling. Buta Singh brushed his moustache a third time.

  ‘Now!’

  ‘It has flown,’ they all replied in a chorus and burst out laughing. The atmosphere changed to one of hilarity. Sabhrai noticed her husband glance at his watch. She made another attempt. ‘Will any of you have the time to go to the temple today?’ she asked.

  ‘I have to see the Deputy Commissioner first,’ answered her husband. ‘On days like these there is always danger of Hindu-Muslim riots; all magistrates have to be on duty. I will go if I have the time.’

  ‘I have to be there,’ replied Sher Singh. ‘We have organized a meeting outside the temple.’

  ‘You go to the temple before you go to your meeting,’ snapped his mother.

  ‘And,’ added Buta Singh with indulgent pride, ‘don’t say anything which may cause trouble. Remember my position. I do not mind your hobnobbing with these Nationalists — as a matter of fact, it is good to keep in with both sides — but one ought to be cautious.’

  ‘O no, no,’ answered Sher Singh. ‘I know what to say and what not to say.’

  It was not customary to consult the girls. Beena was expected to go with her mother unless there were good reasons for not doing so. She knew her only chance of getting away was to bring up the subject while her father was still there. ‘There are only a few weeks left for my exams. I had promised to go to Sita’s house to work with her. We help each other with the preparation.’

  ‘Why can’t she come here? Why do you always have to go to her?’ asked Sabhrai. She had been getting more and more difficult about Beena going to Sita’s house. Her sharp tone made Buta Singh react adversely. He came to his daughter’s rescue.

  ‘Let her go to Sita’s. There will be nobody in the house today to give her lunch or tea. I will drop you at Wazir Chand’s house.’

  That ended the argument. Buta Singh’s word was never questioned. The only one left was Champak. Sabhrai was not much concerned with her plans. If she came to the temple, she would not say anything. If she decided to shut herself in her room with her radio at full blast — as she often did — she would still say nothing. Nevertheless Champak felt that the situation demanded some explanation from her. ‘I haven’t washed my hair for a long time. If it dries in time, I will go in the afternoon — if I can find anyone to go with. Otherwise I’ll stay at home and put away the Granth after evening prayers.’

  Buta Singh looked at his wrist-watch. ‘I must be going,’ he announced with a tone of finality and stood up. ‘Get your books and things, Beena.’

  ‘Baisakhi Day! All the world is on holiday but we have to work. Others go to their temples, mosques, or gurudwaras; this is our temple and mosque.’

  Buta Singh made this comment to his colleagues sitting in a circle in the verandah of the Deputy Commissioner’s house. They had all been told the evening before to present themselves at 10 a.m. sharp. ‘I would like to know what the Sahib would say if this were Christmas Day,’ he added.

  His colleagues refused to be provoked.

  ‘They are our rulers,’ exclaimed one. ‘What they order we obey.’

  ‘I agree with Sardar Buta Singh,’ said another. ‘But who is to bell the cat?’

  ‘Sardar Sahib, you are the seniormost amongst us. Why don’t you tell the Deputy Commissioner not to summon us on religious holidays?’ asked Wazir Chand with a smile. He had a way of talking to people which made them feel small or stupid; Buta Singh found his tone particularly irritating. He did not mind the attempt to trip him — that was fair according to the rules of the game — but he objected to being taken to be so simple as to fall into so obvious a trap.

  ‘I am quite willing to tell the Sahib; I don’t care,’ answered Buta Singh. ‘Don’t you know that I told the last Deputy Commissioner? He kept sending for me on every religious festival saying, “Duty first, duty first.” I told him plainly: “Sahib, duty or no duty, I am going to the gurudwara. If you do not like it, here is my resignation.” That made him quiet.
Mr Wazir Chand, it is not leadership we lack but unity. I say one thing to the Sahib and another goes behind my back and says something else.’

  Wazir Chand knew the last remark was meant for him. ‘Sardar Sahib, you are a big man and we are but small radishes from an unknown garden,’ he said with mock humility. ‘You lead and we follow. Don’t you agree?’ he asked, turning to the others.

  There was a murmur of assent. Buta Singh was angry. Before he could retaliate, the Deputy Commissioner’s orderly interrupted them. ‘The Sahib sends his salaams,’ he said, addressing Buta Singh.

  Buta Singh’s anger vanished; the Sahib had sent for him first. He rose with deliberate ease to impress the others that he took this sort of thing in his stride. He stopped in front of the hat-rack to adjust his tie and turban. He gave his beard a gentle pat, and went in.

  Taylor received him in his dark, air-cooled office. They shook hands and Buta Singh took a chair on the other side of the working table. Taylor helped himself to a cigarette and pushed the box in front of his guest. Buta Singh shook his head.

  ‘Beg your pardon, Buta Singh. I keep forgetting I mustn’t offer a cigarette to a Sikh.’

  ‘That is all right, Sahib. Just an old superstition,’ explained Buta Singh. His reaction to a similar indiscretion by a fellow Indian would have been a little more emphatic.

  Taylor lit his cigarette; a cigarette usually determined the length of the interview.

  ‘Sorry to have sent for you on a holiday; it’s something like Christmas for you, isn’t it? I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Mind?’ queried Buta Singh in a tone of righteous indignation. ‘Mind, Sahib! It is our duty. What impression would the people in Delhi get if they heard that while these Japanese are at our gates, we can’t even keep law and order in our towns just because it is Baisakhi Day and the magistrates want a holiday? Sahib must have seen what the American paper, The New York Times has said: “India talks —Japan acts!” There is some truth in that. Air raid warnings in Calcutta, bombs dropping on Colombo, and here, our so-called Nationalists and Muslims are quarrelling about little details with the English instead of getting on with the work.’

  ‘I wish other Indians talked like you, Buta Singh! I rely on you to guide them. I do not anticipate any trouble today but one never knows. A small incident may lead to a major riot. There are some politicians looking for trouble. I am told there are many meetings this afternoon.’ Taylor paused to drop the ash off his cigarette. As Buta Singh made no comment, he continued, ‘The Superintendent of Police informs me that your son has also organized a meeting of students. I told him not to bother about him. “If he is Buta Singh’s son,” I said, “we can trust him, even if he is a Nationalist or a Communist or anything else.” ’

  ‘You are most kind, Sahib. He is a young man and you know what youth is! Hot and full of ideas. But he is all right. He is, as you say, Buta Singh’s son. And through his hobnobbings with these Gandhi-capped Congress wallahs and Red flag wallahs, Buta Singh knows what is going on in the city and whom to watch.’ Buta Singh’s accent and vocabulary changed when he spoke to Englishmen. ‘Wallah’ figured prominently in his speech.

  Taylor stubbed his half-smoked cigarette. Buta Singh understood that the interview was over. ‘What are the orders for the day, Sahib?’ he asked, standing up.

  ‘No orders, Buta Singh,’ answered Taylor, coming up. ‘Just tell the magistrates to leave information of their movements so that we can get them quickly at short notice; you can organize that. I will be at the fair. Shall I see you there?’

  Buta Singh was not going to lose the opportunity of being seen in Taylor’s company by milling crowds. Almost the entire Sikh population of the district turned up to see the procession and the fair outside the walls. ‘Yes sir. I will be there in the afternoon and then with the procession.’

  ‘Well, see you later, Buta Singh. Your excellent work in the collection of war funds and in recruiting soldiers will not go unrewarded. I will speak to the Commissioner.’

  ‘Thank you, Sahib. Thank you. You are most kind.’ Buta Singh knew that this was a reference to the next Honours list. That sort of thing still mattered although other things mattered more. ‘Sir, I have a small request to make.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, sir, I do not like to ask for personal favours.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Buta Singh. Anything I can do for you, I will. What is it?’

  ‘Sir, my work in collecting funds and furthering the war effort has caused a lot of envy. I receive letters threatening my life. I am not afraid, but if I could get a police guard at my house for a few days, it would stop evil designs. If it is at all inconvenient . . . ’

  ‘No, no. I will speak to the Superintendent of Police; this is a very small matter. Well, goodbye, Buta Singh. And thank you once more.’

  ‘There is nothing to thank me about, sir. I thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir.’

  Buta Singh emerged from the meeting wreathed in smiles. ‘Chutti!’ he announced triumphantly clicking his thumb and middle finger in the air. ‘Holiday! Go home or wherever you like.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’ asked his brother magistrates getting up from their chairs.

  ‘Why do you want to know? I promised you a holiday and I have got you a holiday. Haven’t I been true to my word?’

  Buta Singh extended his hand. The magistrates smacked it in turn. ‘Can I be of any other service?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness when Wazir Chand touched him with his limp hand.

  ‘Long live Sardar Buta Singh!’ answered Wazir Chand.

  Wazir Chand’s home was very much like Buta Singh’s except that it was Hindu instead of Sikh and not so concerned with religion and ritual. As a matter of fact the only evidence of religion in the house was a large colour print of Krishna whirling a quoit on the mantelpiece of the sitting-room. Wazir Chand’s wife occasionally put a garland of flowers round it and touched the base of its frame as a mark of respect. She did the same to a portrait of Mahatma Gandhi which was kept discreetly away in the bedroom.

  The real ‘god’ in Wazir Chand’s home was the son, Madan Lal. He was a tall, handsome boy in his early twenties. Being the only son, he had been married as soon as he had finished school and had become a father in his second year at college. He had not made much progress in his studies, but had more than compensated for that shortcoming by his achievements in sports. His promotion from one class to another had to be arranged by the college authorities. He was doing his sixth year at the college and had not yet taken the degree which normally took four. But the mantelpiece of every room in the house displayed an assortment of silver trophies which he had won in athletics and other team games. He had been captain of the University cricket eleven for three years and had played for his province against a visiting English side. His performance at this match had made him a legend in the Punjab. There were few days in the year when the sporting columns of the papers did not have some reference to his activities. This was a matter of great pride for his parents. They gave into every one of his whims; they practically worshipped him.

  The only thing in common between the tall and broad Madan and his slim, small sister, Sita, was their good looks. He was bold and easy with strangers; she almost tongue-tied and shy. His obsession for games was matched by her aversion to any form of sport. He avoided books; she spent all her time with them. He had barely scraped through the exams he had passed; she had won the highest scholarship for girls in the University. The combination of the athletic prowess of one and the academic distinction of the other and the looks of both had made them the most sought after couple in the University circles. It was after several months’ abject admiration and hanging around that Beena had succeeded in getting to know Sita.

  Beena’s anxiety to please Sita made her gushing and enthusiastic about everyone and everything in Wazir Chand’s home. She addressed Sita’s parents in English as ‘uncle’ and ‘auntie.’ Madan and his wife she addressed as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ in Pu
njabi. She spent hours playing with their son and teaching him to call her ‘auntie.’ Sita was just Sita; but Beena repeated her name as often as she could in every sentence almost as if she feared losing her if she did not.

  Madan had just returned from an early morning practice at the nets when Beena came in. His shirt was drenched with sweat and clung to his body displaying a broad hairy chest. Although it was hot, he carried his white flannel blazer on his shoulder. Its outside pocket bore the insignia of the University with rows of letters in old Roman embossed in gold lace beneath. He was playing with his son who was trying to walk in his father’s cricket boots. The scene was too overpowering for Beena. She rushed to the child, picked him up and covered him with kisses.

  ‘Ummm, ummm. Little darling wants to wear Papa’s shoes. Namaste Bhraji.’

  ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ replied Madan without getting up or removing the cigarette from his lips.

  Beena hugged the child and wheeled him round and round; her pigtails flew in the air. The child began to whimper. She thrust him into his father’s lap. ‘He likes you more than he likes me. Bhraji, where is Sita and Lila sister and Auntie and Uncle?’

  ‘Father has gone to see the Deputy Commissioner. Mother is in the kitchen. Sita is studying. Lila is in her room; she is not feeling too well. And yours sincerely is at your service.’ Madan got up and bowed.

  Beena ignored his pleasantry. ‘Hai! What’s wrong with Lila sister?’ she asked with exaggerated concern; she frequently used ‘hai’ to express it. ‘Nothing serious, I hope. I must go and see her.’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing, really nothing. Just a little out of condition,’ answered Madan. ‘She is in her room.’

  Beena picked up the child once more and hurried to Lila’s room. Lila explained that she was not really ill; the feeling of nausea came on only in the mornings. When Beena persisted in her inquiries, Lila patted the back of her hand and said she would understand better when she was married. Beena understood and blushed with embarrassment. She sat with Lila till Sita came to take her away. ‘Madan says he can take us to a matinée show this afternoon. We can work for two or three hours and go with him. Lilaji, you will be all right by the afternoon, won’t you?’