But his lecture the following evening was poorly attended; there were only five people in an echoing hall that could accommodate three hundred. Used for weddings and religious ceremonies, the hall featured a low dais at one end, with red drapery hanging on the wall behind it.
Pa-ji and Bibi-ji were there, out of a sense of duty towards their visitor and because Pa-ji considered Dr. Randhawa a fellow historian—and a history lesson was not to be missed. Bibi-ji went out of politeness, although she thought the man a pompous fellow who talked too much. But then, she had a deep-rooted suspicion of anyone who wanted to divide up countries, a theme that seemed to run through everything Raghubir Randhawa said.
Lalloo was present as well, because Pa-ji had forced him to attend. He had brought his six-year-old-son, who spent the hour buzzing about the hall pretending to be a fighter plane. Jasbeer was there for the same reason as Lalloo— Pa-ji had insisted. An old Sikh man, spread out over the last five chairs in the hall, was taking a nap, his snores occasionally rising above Dr. Randhawa’s impassioned speech.
The erudite visitor seemed undisturbed by the lack of an audience. Throughout his speech he kept his eyes raised upwards, as if he were appealing directly to the Creator.
“The Sikhs have been betrayed!” he declared in florid Punjabi to the ceiling. “We have been betrayed for two hundred years—first by the British, who stole Punjab that our great Maharaja Ranjit Singh won for us from the Mughals with valour and cunning; then by the Congress Brahmans, who gave the Mussulmans their Pakistan and the Hindus their India but left the Sikhs to die like flies in between; then by Nehru, with the rose in his jacket and his cunning words, who tore our hearts in half by making our Punjab a bilingual state. And now we have been cheated again by the rose-wearing Brahman’s daughter, Indira Gandhi, who takes the wheat that we grow on our lands and distributes it to all of Hindustan, who diverts the water from our rivers to neighbouring states and leaves us with empty buckets, who has ordered us to share our capital city, Chandigarh, with the Hindu state of Haryana. We fight their wars for them, give up our young men for the safety of their Hindu lives. Think how many soldiers in the Indian army are Sikhs! Think how many of us are dying fighting the Pakistanis while the Hindus shiver behind their doors! And then think what we Sikhs have got in return for all this endless generosity! A kick, that’s all. We have been betrayed, I say, and we are fools to sit quietly and take it. We might be in the minority in India, but we have the strength and valour of a majority-sized army! Are we going to continue like this? Are we going to let the Brahman’s daughter bleed us to death? Are we lions that roar or mice that hide in holes?” The doctor brought his eyes down from the ceiling to glower at his small audience. “Are we?” he insisted.
“Hear hear!” said Pa-ji, clapping hard.
“Nothing doing!” said Lalloo, who had missed most of the speech because his son had been whispering an elaborate story of planes and ghosts into his left ear.
Jasbeer, on the other hand, listened intently. Dr. Randhawa’s diatribe of conquest and betrayal and revenge appealed to him. The older man seemed the epitome of a heroic figure lashing out against greater, darker powers.
“No, indeed, we are not,” continued the speaker, satisfied with the feeble response. He lifted his gaze once more to the ceiling. “What we Sikhs must do is press for separation. We demand, at the point of our swords, that the government of India return our Punjab to us, whole and undivided. We demand Khalistan, a land for the Sikhs, the pure and the brave. A country of our own. We demand a return of all that has been taken from us in the past hundred years.” His eyes fell on his audience. “And now, if I may, I have some maps of our future country that I wish to display.”
At the mention of maps Pa-ji, whose attention had wandered, snapped upright. He loved maps: they were integral to the history of the Sikhs. It was maps that caused countries to exist or expire; maps caused bitter wars, maps erased people and landscapes just as efficiently as they created them. Maps, Pa-ji knew, were a bane and a. boon. He shook Jasbeer. “Listen, putthar, this is important.”
But Jasbeer’s eyes were already fixed on the thin figure on the stage, dramatically contrasted with the red drapes behind him.
“This,” said Dr. Randhawa, unrolling a map of the kingdom of Punjab under the reign of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, “this is the original land of the Sikhs. It is our body and it has been cut to pieces by everyone—the Mughals, the British, the Mussulmans, the Hindus. We lie bleeding, but we are not dead yet. Arise, warriors, and shout with me, Our Country or Death!”
Dr. Randhawa’s battle cry was met with uneasy silence, but he was unmoved. He was a politician. Regardless of the reality, he continued to believe every soaring piece of fiction, every half-truth, every fact reconfigured to fit the theories that he conjured up. He placed on top of the map of the kingdom of Punjab another of India and Punjab as they appeared now, and then a third map showing the imagined Independent Country superimposed on the map of India.
Pa-ji stared at this third map. If such a thing happened, there would be many millions more of displaced, misplaced Indians—both Muslims and Hindus would be forced out of the new country. He remembered the conversation at The Delhi Junction earlier that day and Harish Shah’s comment about a headless India. He wondered what the Gujarati doctor would think of Dr. Randhawa’s map of India without Punjab, the one that showed Khalistan.
“This will be our country again,” Dr. Randhawa was saying, tapping his ruler on the last map. “Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen, one day not so far away from now, this will be our country.”
From the back row, a gentle snore emerged from the open mouth of the old Sikh. Bibi-ji too gazed at the maps one on top of another, her thoughts wandering in a different direction from Pa-ji’s. Like me, she thought. A series of tracings, a palimpsest of images, the product of so many histories, some true, some imaginary, all valid, but surely not all necessary?
Later, at the Taj Mahal, Dr. Randhawa ranged around Pa-ji’s office and looked approvingly at the photographs. He pointed at the painting of Udham Singh and quizzed Jasbeer on that hero’s achievements.
“Who is that, son?” Dr. Singh asked.
“Shaheed Udham Singh, Uncle-ji,” Jasbeer said, proud that he had been singled out for attention by this fierce hawk of a man.
“And why is he famous?”
“Because he shot Lieutenant-Governor Sir Michael O’dwyer, Uncle-ji.”
“And why did he shoot that gentleman, son?”
“Because O’dwyer approved of the massacre at Jallianwallah Bagh, conducted by his general in 1919,” Jasbeer said in one long breath, hoping he had remembered the date correctly. His head was stuffed with hundreds of dates, and he often mixed them up.
Dr. Randhawa patted Jasbeer’s back and said, “Good boy. Study hard and be a credit to your community. Read the Guru Granth Sahib every day and do not fall into bad habits such as drinking and smoking. Even in this foreign land full of temptations, resolve to remain true to your ancient culture.”
He gave Jasbeer one more pat on his back, and turning to Pa-ji revealed that in addition to his maps, which he had distributed to every government in the world, he had also created his own currency. He gave Jasbeer a coin he had struck in his mint in the cellar of his home in Southall. He had also designed a flag, which would soon be in production.
“I will send you one for a reduced rate of one hundred dollars,” he told Pa-ji. “With a proper receipt, of course.”
“Of course,” Pa-ji said unenthusiastically. His business antennae had gone up at the mention of money. Was this a charlatan or a man of convictions, however bizarre his beliefs? Pa-ji wasn’t sure. He was enjoying the man’s company for his vast knowledge of Punjabi history, although it seemed one-sided to him. But show me one history that isn’t skewed, he thought.
Out of politeness, because Dr. Randhawa was, after all, his guest and guests were akin to God above, Pa-ji refrained from disagreeing with him on any poin
t. But his sympathies for the visitor waned rapidly. By the time Dr. Randhawa had been persuaded to go to bed, Pa-ji was very bored and anxious to bring out the Johnny Walker.
That night in bed, he turned to Bibi-ji and murmured sleepily, “So, my queen, what did you think of Dr. Randhawa?”
“Idiot,” Bibi-ji said succinctly, pressing into the warmth of his body.
“I don’t think much of his notion of a separate country, do you?”
“Mmm. I don’t care what he thinks,” said Bibi-ji. “Why should we concern ourselves with such matters? We are Canadians now. Also I don’t like the idea of more partitions and separations, more fiddling with borders.” She snuggled farther down into warmth and comfort.
“Look at the trouble it is causing here in our own backyard, this business of partition!” Pa-ji said.
But there was no response from Bibi-ji, only a small snore.
The following morning there was a small ripple of renewed interest when Dr. Randhawa purchased a copy of The New York Times and showed Pa-ji a half-page advertisement he had taken out calling for “Free Countries” everywhere to support “Independence” for the Sikhs.
“That,” said Dr. Randhawa, tapping the newspaper with a lean finger, “that is my calling card to the president of the United States of America. Soon my dream will be reality. Soon we will have freedom.”
Pa-ji was relieved when his guest left. All the talk of secession made him deeply uneasy. He hoped this was the last he would see of Dr. Randhawa and hear about a free country for the Sikhs. He wished it would all go away.
But he was wrong. Nine years later, Dr. Randhawa would return to Vancouver, and this time he would be greeted by an audience that not only filled the auditorium but flowed out of it as well.
Bibi-ji was not a part of that audience. Deep in mourning, she was locked up inside the large white house, unable to go anywhere, not even to The Delhi Junction. Only twenty-four-year-old Jasbeer attended, his dark eyes full of the same zeal that burned in Dr. Randhawa’s.
SEVENTEEN
A BRILLIANT DAY
Vancouver
June 27, 1975
Leela clumped down Main Street, her pink and white sari riding over the tops of her running shoes. Fourteen-year-old Preethi, a head taller than her mother, strolled beside her. They were on their way to Mrs. Wu’s. Leela had received word that a fresh consignment of lychees had arrived.
The street was full of shoppers, though it was only ten in the morning. Unlike Downtown, where Leela went to work at The Bay four days a week and where tall buildings pierced the sky and swarmed down to Burrard Inlet, where posh women in sleek clothes and high heels, and men in suits and with smart haircuts strolled the streets carrying exotic bags printed with fancy names, here on Main Street, which had its beginnings in the downscale east end of Downtown, the shops were small and smelled of distant countries. The shoppers’ bags were usually made of plain brown paper or tacky plastic. Fabric stores sold embroidered slippers and rainbow-coloured glass bracelets flecked with gold, as well as yards of shining silks and bolts of new cotton smelling of sunnier climes. Fashion Mahal had blonde-haired mannequins dressed in turquoise and pink and gold ghaghra-cholis or saris, their slim plastic arms loaded with bracelets, tiklis hanging down their fair foreheads. There was a new travel agency beside Lalloo’s Far Out Travels, the windows almost identically plastered with pictures of colourful Indian destinations featuring palm trees, beaches, bejewelled women in embroidered skirts swaying across desert landscapes and the inevitable Taj Mahal (the original one). Leela had gone into Far Out Travels once or twice to ask about the cost of a ticket to India and had come out disheartened but determined to save the money for a trip the following year—if not for herself, then at least for one of her children.
Tires screamed as a driver accelerated and roared past, reckless as a trucker on the Grand Trunk road in India. A motorist backed into some pedestrians, calling down a hail of curses on his head, and nonchalantly parked under a No Parking sign. Another stopped right in the middle of the road to converse with a friend on the sidewalk, each calling news of family and friends to the other while traffic backed up and irate drivers leaned on their horns.
“God, this could be India, honestly.” Preethi laughed. “Like Bangalore maybe.”
“Not Bangalore,” Leela said firmly. South India was different from North India, the distinctions still alive in her mind. “Delhi, more likely.” She swooped towards a pile of eggplant on a shelf strategically placed outside a shop they were passing. Leela checked closely to see if they were gleaming purple, their stems fresh and green, and weighed them in her hand.
“Light ones have fewer seeds,” she said, moving away. “These are rock-heavy—no good.”
She disappeared into another small, dark shop and emerged a moment later, annoyed. “Why can’t they keep our South Indian spices also? Only these Punjabi things, and then they call themselves India Market!”
They took a roundabout route to get to Mrs. Wu’s vegetable store so that they could avoid JB Foods. JB was possessive about his customers and would be furious to discover that Leela’s first loyalty was to a Chinese store rather than a fellow Indian’s.
“If you are wanting to buy there you need not come here!” he had snapped at Leela once when he saw the bags from Wu’s Store. Then he had made her wait fifteen minutes, pretending she wasn’t in the queue, until Leela finally smacked her palm on the counter, dumped her purchases on the floor and left in a huff. Never mind that she had run out of dal, sooji, jeera, kalaonji, cardamom. There was no way she was going to allow a stiff-nosed shopkeeper to act funny with her. And as for his claim to Indianness: “He is not a real Indian,” Leela had declared huffily.
Not only was this world divided, with the desis ranged on one side against the goras, the Asians, the Africans, the Native Americans, but there was a further distinction to be made. There were the real Indians, like the Bhats and the Patels and the Majumdars, those travellers who had come from Bombay or Calcutta or Aurangabad. And then there were others, like JB, who had arrived in Canada from East Africa, traumatized by Idi Amin’s decision to confiscate their property and belongings and eject them from Uganda with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. According to Leela their two-hundred-year stopover in East Africa disqualified them from being called Indian: they had forfeited the right to return.
“Well then,” Preethi had teased, “your grandchildren will never be real Indians either, will they? Or your greatgrandchildren or great-great …” She wobbled her head like her father and adopted an exaggerated Indian accent. “We are doomed! We will always swing upside down between worlds like King What’s-his-name!”
“Rubbish!” Leela countered, a little less robustly. “A Bhat will always be an Indian. And we aren’t staying here that long anyway. We will be going home soon.”
“And if I get married to a gora guy and have hybrid kids, then what, Amma?” Preethi had asked, grinning at her mother.
They reached Mrs. Wu’s store and Leela eagerly made for the mountain of lychees, ignoring the exorbitant price per pound. This was a once-in-a-year or, if she got lucky and beat her friend Sushma Patel to the store, twice-a-year treat, and Leela wasn’t overly concerned about the cost. Her hands landed on the heap just as another arm, loaded with gold and glass bracelets, reached out.
“Half-and-half?”
Leela whirled around, startled by the phrase that echoed from her childhood.
“We will share it out?” Sushma asked, smiling at her. “You take half and I will take the other half?” She picked a sheaf of lychees, dangling like wrinkled rubies from their long brown stalks, and filled her basket.
Leela laughed. “I can’t afford to buy up half the stock at this price, Sushma. I just want a pound or two.”
Sushma did not have any such problem. She loaded her basket with lychees as if she were going to feed an army at home. As she moved away she called after Leela, “Don’t forget, at our place, a potl
uck party for Independence Day. I will phone and tell you what to bring, okay? Write it in your calendar.”
Leela nodded and smiled. Nobody wanted to miss the Patels’ Independence Day party, an annual event to which almost everyone who had roots in India was invited. All her friends were curious to see what new (and often bizarre) decorations Sushma would create using saffron, white and green, the colours of the Indian flag. And of course they would come for the company, the gossip and the food. “Yes, I’ll make a note of it, Sushma.” Leela spotted a pile of bright green beans farther inside the shop and inched towards it, hoping her friend had not noticed them too.
Leela and Preethi entered The Delhi Junction, which was full to capacity, and found Balu and Arjun already there. Both looked like shorn chickens. Majid the barber had given each of them such a close cut that Leela was sure she could see their scalps gleaming through. The rest of the café’s regulars—Dr. Majumdar, dapper in a white shirt; fleshy-faced, balding Menon, and Harish Shah, rotund and belligerent, his small mouth pursed discontentedly—were discussing something loudly. And of course Pa-ji was at the till, leaning forward, alternately throwing a comment into the general stew of conversation, directing his new crew of waiters and tallying bills for departing customers. Not too far away from this noisy crowd sat Colonel Sam Hunt, reading a newspaper and eating mutton curry with rice, his bald head beaded with sweat from the chilli-hot food. Leela smiled around at everyone and waved to Pa-ji.
Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? Page 20