‘What will happen? As far as I am concerned, my service, pension and the land granted by the government all go. But that is a small matter; in addition, the boy will be hanged.’
Sabhrai shut her eyes: ‘The True, the True. The Great Guru, the Great Guru.’
She turned to her daughter: ‘Have you any advice for your brother?’
‘I only want him back,’ she replied full of emotion. ‘I don’t care what he says or does, but he must come home now.’
Buta Singh felt that he should not let the matter be postponed indefinitely. ‘Will you go tomorrow morning? I have to tell the sub-inspector.’
‘What is the hurry. We have waited so many days. We should think about it a little more,’ answered Sabhrai.
Buta Singh launched into another tirade. When he finished telling her how little she appreciated the gravity of the situation, how stubborn and stupid she had become of late, Sabhrai got up. ‘I will talk to the inspector myself,’ she said.
The sub-inspector stood up and saluted Sabhrai.
‘Have you come from the police station where my son is kept?’
‘Yes, Mataji, your son is in our care.’
‘Tell your senior officer I will come to the police station four days from now. I will come, not my husband. I would also like to bring my son’s dog with me. He has missed his master very much.’
‘Very good, Mataji. I will tell the inspector Sahib. Is there anything you want to send to your son or any message you want me to give him?’
Sabhrai thought for a while. ‘If you wait for a moment, I will give you something for him.’ She went into the house and came back with a small prayer book wrapped in velvet. ‘Give this to my little ruby and tell him to say his prayers regularly. Tell him that the Guru is with him in body and in spirit. Sat Sri Akal’
The sub-inspector was a Muslim. Nevertheless he put the Sikh prayer book reverently to his forehead and then kissed it. ‘Mataji, I will give it to him myself. Allah will protect your son from harm.’ For the next three days Sabhrai shut herself away from the world. Her sanctuary was not the gurdwara but her own bedroom. She sat in her armchair with her legs tucked beneath her and murmured her prayers. Her only companion was Dyer. She had never taken much notice of the dog but since her son’s arrest she had tried to give him the affection Sher Singh had given. Dyer sat in front of his mistress with his chin stretched on the floor and his eyes dolefully fixed on her. After each prayer she would speak to him: ‘Dyer, son, will you come with me to see Sher?’ Dyer would prick up his ears at his master’s name and cock his head inquiringly from side to side. ‘Nobody takes you out for walks these days?’ Like all dogs. Dyer knew the word ‘walk’. He would get up with a whine and come to his mistress wagging his big tail. ‘That’s all right, son. Mama will take you out when you are well. And when my moon comes home, we will all go for walks together, won’t we?’ And Dyer would again be full of questions cocking his head from left to right, right to left. Sometimes he would get too excited, put his paws in his mistress’ lap, and lick her face. She would push him away gently, for this she did not like. She would wipe her face with her headpiece, wash her hands in the bathroom, and start praying again. An hour later the whole thing would be repeated: ‘Dyer, son, will you come with me to see my Shera?’
The evening before the interview, she had her dinner with her husband and daughter and told them she was going to spend the night at the temple in the city. They did not ask her any questions. She wrapped herself in her Kashmiri shawl, for it had become bitterly cold, and went away on a tonga.
When Sabhrai took off her slippers outside the main gate, the man in charge of shoes was already packing up. ‘Brother, keep my shoes for the night; I will take them in the morning.’ He gave her a ticket, put out his hurricane lantern, and locked the shoe-shed.
Not many people stay in the temple after the evening service is over. Visitors from other towns retire to the quarters provided for them: beggars are driven away by armed guards who patrol the sacred premises. Only those stricken with sorrow spend the midnight hours in different corners crying and praying for peace. These no one disturbs.
Sabhrai washed her hands and feet in the cistern at the entrance and went down the marble stairs gripping the silver railing on the side. The waters of the sacred pool and the milk-white of the marble walls glistened in the moonlight. The gilded dome of the shrine had a ghostly pallor. Sabhrai bowed towards the shrine, walked along the side-walk and up the narrow passage, which ran level with the water, to the central place of worship. The room was dimly-lit by a blue electric bulb; the diamonds and rubies in the ceiling twinkled like stars on a dark night. In the centre of the floor the sacred Granth lay wrapped on a low cot. In the corners of the room were huddled figures of men and women, some asleep, some in prayer. Sabhrai made her obeisance and went out. She found a spot from where she could see the dome of the temple and the reflection of the moon and the stars in the dark waters of the sacred pool. She sat down on the hard and cold marble floor. An icy wind blew over the water, through the trellised fence, into her bones. But it was absolutely still and peaceful. The city was asleep; only the gentle clop clop of ripples on marble and the boom of the tower clock striking the hours disturbed the heavy silence.
Sabhrai did not know what prayer one recited during the night; so she went through all she knew by heart. When she had finished, the clock struck two. But the tumult in her mind was not stilled. They were going to hang her son if he did not mention the names of the other conspirators. Hang her little Shera whom she had borne and fed by her own breasts. She began to sob. She stifled her sobs and tried to meditate. How could she meditate with Shera crying for help: ‘Mother, they will hang me and I am only twenty-one . . .’
Tears coursed down her cheeks, hot and unceasing. She wiped them with the hem of her shirt and blew her nose. She felt her son’s presence between her arms, and more tears flooded down. Why did she feel alone in this awful predicament? Her husband had no doubts; he wanted Shera to confess. So, obviously, did her daughter and daughter-in-law. Shera mattered as much to them as he did to her. Did they really believe that the police knew everything or were they doping their consciences with the thought? And what did Shera himself want to do? Surely it was really for him to decide rather than for her! And if she were the only one with doubts, couldn’t she be mistaken?
So the tumult continued and the tears continued to course down her cheeks. Her grey head was full of dew and her limbs stiff with cold and damp. Why did the Guru not guide her in her hour of need? Had she lost faith? She recalled the time when she had come to this very temple to take part in the cleaning of the sacred pool. The water had been pumped out and the enormous carp that ate out of people’s hands had been put away in another tank. Millions of Sikhs had volunteered to carry on their heads the slime which had accumulated for over a hundred years. People said that the hawk of the last Guru would come to see the cleaning. Non-believers had laughed their vulgar laughter, shrugged their shoulders, and said: ‘What can you do to people like that?’ But the hawk had come. With her own eyes she had seen it swoop down from the heavens, scattering the thousands of pigeons that nested in the temple precincts. It had perched on the pinnacle of the golden dome, preened its lustrous white plumage, and looked down on the throng waist-deep in slime and mire. The people had wept and prayed. Over and over again men had hurled the Guru’s challenging cry: ‘Ye who seek salvation, shout’ and the crowd had roared back: ‘God is Truth’.
People with faith had seen; those without faith neither saw nor believed that others had seen. Sabhrai also recalled the terrible days when the Sikhs wanted to take over their shrines from the clutches of corrupt priests and the police had decided to help the priests against the people. They had killed and tortured passive resisters. But for each one who was killed, beaten or imprisoned, another fifty had come. Word had gone round that whenever a band of passive resisters prayed with faith, the Guru himself would appear in their midst and
all the lathi blows the police showered on them would fall on him and not on them. That was exactly how it had happened. Frail men and women, who had not known the lash of a harsh tongue, had volunteered and taken merciless beatings without wincing. The police had tired and the priests had panicked. The faith of the Sikhs had triumphed. Was her faith shaking? She tried to dismiss all other thoughts and bring the picture of the last warrior Guru to her mind. He came as he was in the colour print on her mantelpiece: a handsome bearded cavalier in a turban, riding his roan stallion across a stream. On his right hand was perched his white falcon with its wings outspread. There was a man. He had lost all his four sons and refused to give in to injustice. She was to lose only one. How had the Guru faced the loss of his children? She began to recite his stirring lines:
Eternal God, who are shield
The dagger, knife, the sword we wield
To us protector there is given
The timeless, deathless Lord of Heaven . . . .
It went on in short staccato lines infusing warm blood into her chilled veins and making her forehead hot with anger. She was a Sikh; so was her son. Why did she ever have any doubts?
By the time the prayer ended, the grey light of dawn had dimmed the lesser stars—only the morning star shone a pure, silvery white. At last there was peace in her soul. She got up and went to the women’s enclosure to bathe. The water was bitterly cold and she shuddered as she went down the steps. She bobbed up and down naming members of her family with each dip with five extra ones for her Shera. She had brought no towel and dried herself in the breeze. She got back into her clothes, wrapped the warm shawl about her shoulders, and went to the inner shrine where the morning prayer was about to begin.
The priest unwrapped the Granth and read the passage for the day.
Lord, thou art my refuge
I have found Thee and doubts are dispelled.
I spoke not, but Ye knew my sorrow
And made me to meditate on Thy holy name.
Now I have no sorrow; I am at one with Thee
You took me by arm
And led me out of Maya’s winding maze
You set me free of the trap of attachment.
Spake, the Guru: Thy fetters are fallen
Thou who wert estranged
Are united to Thy Lord.
Sabhrai made her obeisance to the Granth and went out. At the entrance to the temple she scraped a palmful of dust that had come off the feet of pilgrims and tied it up in a knot in her headpiece. She took her slippers from the shoe-stand and went home. The silence at the breakfast table was broken by the sound of a car drawing up in the porch. Mundoo came in to say that the deputy commissioner had sent his car to take Sabhrai to the police station. Buta Singh was very moved: ‘What fine people these Taylors are! They have taken the trouble to find out and sent their car. Almost as if Sher were their own son.’
‘The Guru will reward them for their kindness,’ said Sabhrai. ‘Those who are with you in your sorrow are your real friends. God bless them.’
The entire household, including the servants and orderlies, came to see Sabhrai off on her mission. Dyer, who had missed a car ride ever since the jeep had been taken away, cocked his unbelieving ears when his mistress asked him to come along. He gave a bark of joy and hopped onto the seat beside her. They drove off to the police station.
The deputy commissioner’s car with its Union Jack and chauffeur in police uniform was well known to the staff of the police station. The sentries saluted as it went through the gates and the Anglo-Indian sergeants sprang to attention. Taylor’s personal bodyguard stepped out of the front seat and opened the door. Dyer hopped out, followed by Sardarni Buta Singh.
The sergeants recognized the dog. They also realized that the native woman was Buta Singh’s wife. The chauffeur enlightened them. They slunk away to the reporting room and let the Indian staff take over. The Muslim sub-inspector conducted Sabhrai to her son’s cell.
Dyer was the first to greet his young master. He rushed at him, barking deliriously. He went round in circles, whining, pawing and licking, and would not let Sabhrai get near her son. Sher Singh patted the dog on the head and pushed him aside gently. Mother and son clasped each other in a tight embrace. Sher Singh’s pent up emotions burst their bounds and he began to cry loudly in his mother’s arms. Sabhrai hid his unmanly tears by holding him to her bosom. She kissed his forehead again and again. They rocked in close embrace with the dog leaping about the cell, yapping and barking joyously.
‘Could you leave us alone, sub-inspector Sahib?’ asked Sabhrai addressing the officer.
‘Certainly, Mataji,’ he replied, drying his eyes. ‘Stay here as long as you like. Can I bring you some tea or something to eat?’
‘No, son, just leave me here for a few minutes. I won’t be long.’
The sub-inspector went out and ordered the inquisitive group of constables back to their barracks.
Mother and son sat down on the charpoy. Dyer put his head in his master’s lap.
‘How pale you are! Do they give you enough to eat?’
‘They give me all I want; I don’t feel hungry. I could not even eat the food you sent me.’
‘I did not send you anything.’
‘Oh? The deputy commissioner’s orderly brought it every day. I thought it was from home; it was Indian.’
‘God bless him and his wife. Son, your father would not let me send you anything.’
‘Is he very angry with me?’
‘He had to be angry. You have poured water over all his ambitions.’
‘What does he want me to do? The police tell me he wants me to make a statement naming the boys who were with me.’
‘Yes. He thinks that is the only thing that will save you.’
‘Have you all thought the matter over?’
‘We have talked of nothing else. Everyone says that if the police already know about the others, there is no harm in making a statement. And Taylor Sahib is showing you a special favour in letting you be the only one to get away.’
After a long pause Sher Singh asked: ‘Has Champak said anything?’
‘What can she say except to want you back! Her eyes are inflamed with too much weeping. She would accept any course which would bring you back home as soon as possible. What is your own opinion?’
‘ . . . I . . .’ said Sher Singh hesitantly, ‘I have no opinion. I will do exactly what you people tell me to do. If it is true they know all about the affair, there seems no point in hiding anything any more.’
Sabhrai shut her eyes and rocked to and fro. After a while she asked, ‘Son! Have they been beating you?’
Sher Singh looked down at his feet. The memory of the first thrashing came back to him. ‘No, but they beat everyone who comes here. I can hear their cries at night.’
Sabhrai shut her eyes again and chanted as she rocked: The Great Guru! The True . . . Are you afraid?’
‘Who is not afraid of a beating? Only those who get it know. It is easy to be brave at the expense of other people.’ He stroked Dyer’s head and tickled him between his front legs. ‘Then are you all agreed that I should make a statement? What do you advise me?’
‘I am an illiterate native woman. What advice can I give in these matters, son? I only ask the Guru to guide you. What He says is my advice.’
Sher Singh gave her time to tell him what the Guru had to say on the subject. Sabhrai simply closed her eyes and resumed rocking herself and chanting, ‘The True, the True, the Great Guru.’ Tears began running down her cheeks. Sher Singh put his hand on her knees: ‘Mother, what do you want me. to do?’
She dried her tears and blew her nose. ‘Son, I spent last night at the Golden Temple asking the Guru for guidance, I do not know whether I got it right. In any case His orders were for me; not for you.’
‘What did He say, Mother? Why don’t you tell me?’
‘He said that my son had done wrong. But if he named the people who were with him he would be doing a
greater wrong. He was no longer to be regarded as a Sikh and I was not to see his face again.’
She undid the knot in her headpiece in which she had tied the dust collected at the temple and pasted it on her son’s forehead with her palm. ‘May the Guru be with you in body and in spirit.’
Delhi
In Khushwant Singh’s vast, erotic, irreverent magnum opus on the city of Delhi, the principal narrator of the saga, which extends over 600 years, is a bawdy, ageing reprobate who loves Delhi as much he does the hijda whore Bhagmati—half man, half woman, with the sexual inventiveness and energy of both the sexes.
Travelling through time, space and history to discover his beloved city, the narrator meets a multitude of characters—in this extract, set in the eleventh century, the Kayastha scribe Musaddi Lal, the Sufi saint Hazrat Nizamuddin and the formidable Emperor Balban.
Today is the 15th of June. Delhi had its first pre-monsoon shower. It has cleansed the atmosphere of the dust that has been hanging in the air for the past three days. A fresh breeze drives snow-white clouds across the blue sky. The earth is fragrant. The air smells of more rain. How can anyone stay indoors on a day like this?
The choice is between Mehrauli and Okhla. Mehrauli has the Qutab Minar with its gardens, monuments and acres of mango orchards. Okhla has no monuments but it has lots of water. The Jamuna has a weir from which a canal branches off. At monsoon time the river is an awesome sight. She is then Triyama, the sister of the ruler of Hades. Delhiwallahs who have a death-wish come to Okhla during the monsoons to hurl themselves into the Jamuna’s muddy arms. Those who have a zest for living come with baskets full of sucking mangoes. They suck them and see how far into the river they can throw their stones. Whether it is Mehrauli or Okhla you have to have a mashooka to share the experience: a mashooka in whose ears you can whisper, ‘I want to take you in the rain till your bottom is full of mud and mine full of the monsoon.’
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 42