by Khan, Vaseem
‘I’m fine,’ he repeated firmly.
‘Very well.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to speak to Nayar.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘What if they come for us again?’
‘They won’t. This was meant as a warning. If they’d really wanted to harm us they would have come with real weapons.’
She realised that he was right. ‘Someone doesn’t want us to ask questions.’
He said nothing.
She sat back down. ‘I’m sorry for involving you in this.’
He finally looked at her. ‘No, you’re not. You don’t give a damn about anything except getting to your precious truth.’
She began a protest, but he waved it away. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’
‘The academy. I was the only woman there. Every grinning idiot made a joke of how easy it would be to take me on. And so I went as hard as I could at them.’
‘I’ll bet you did,’ he muttered.
A cough sounded from the door and their heads shot around. Persis tensed. But it was an old man, quavering in the smoky light.
Mangal. The man who had tried to talk to her earlier in the day.
‘Come in,’ she said.
He shuffled into the room, eyes widening as he took in Blackfinch’s bruised and battered face.
‘I must speak with you,’ he began, in English.
‘Are you a drunk?’ she asked.
Confusion entered his gaze, and then he nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Because someone has to.’
She stared at him, then nodded.
‘I worked for the nawab for years,’ he began. ‘I was a driver. I have always had a problem with drink, but the nawab never held that against me. He treated me well. He loved the British. He was one of those who truly regretted their departure. But Partition was a different matter. When the nawab began to openly advocate for Pakistan, people began to talk. And then the rioting began.’ He stopped. ‘On the night he died, I had returned from a visit to my sister’s home in a neighbouring village. I saw a trio of men outside the nawab’s home. They were armed and I knew there was going to be trouble. I hid in the mango orchard and watched from a distance. I saw the nawab come out with his sons; he had two. He seemed confused. The man who was heading the group was known to him. His name was Surat Bakshi – the elder son of Vikas Bakshi. Surat had been schooled in Amritsar. He was an educated man. I knew why he was there.
‘Just days earlier I had driven the nawab to visit his tenants, Bakshi among them. He had told them that they must either purchase their plots from him or vacate his land. He intended to sell up and move to Pakistan. Of course, for many this was impossible. They did not have the funds to buy the land. But the nawab was adamant. He employed ruffians to enforce his decree.
‘Vikas Bakshi was his largest tenant. But in the past three years, drought had decimated much of his crops. He had fallen behind in his dues. His arrears were such that the nawab did not believe he would be able to recover. They had fallen out over the matter. And then Partition came along and the issue became muddied with religious rhetoric. It stopped being about landowner and tenant and became Muslim versus Hindu. And when news of killings began to reach us, of Muslim mobs roaming the countryside murdering Sikhs and Hindus, raping their women, the touch-paper was lit.
‘I watched Surat argue with the nawab and his sons. He demanded that the nawab sign over his father’s land and leave for Pakistan immediately. He called him a traitor and told him that traitors had no right to Indian soil.
‘The nawab was furious. He ordered his sons to fetch his hunting rifle. But before they could move Surat fell upon the nawab, running him through with a sword. The others killed the nawab’s sons.
‘I saw them enter the home. When they returned, their kurtas were slick with blood. They were carrying wooden crates with them. One of them stumbled, and the case broke open. Jewellery fell from it; necklaces, rings, silver goblets, plates. They had stolen the nawab’s ancestral treasure. I believe that had been their intent all along.
‘I looked on as they set fire to the bungalow. They watched it burn for a while, and then ran into the night.
‘Two days later Muslim rioters caught Vikas Bakshi out in the fields and murdered him. Cut him down in cold blood. They killed Surat’s brother too. And his mother, who had been delivering food to them. A whole family wiped out. Muslim mobs were out in force after the nawab’s death. They suspected the truth, even if the police chose to report a lie.
‘Surat vanished that same night. The two men who had accompanied him in the killing of the nawab and his family later turned up dead. I believe Surat murdered them to protect his secret.’
‘Why didn’t you say all this to the police?’
‘I did,’ he said. ‘I told Shergill. He strung me up for three days in a cell, beat me until I thought I would die.’
‘You could have gone to Amritsar, told the authorities there.’
‘Who would have protected me? The Muslims of Jalanpur were gone. The village closed ranks. I was just a drunk, the nawab’s former driver. They called me traitor. Each night I expected a traitor’s death. In the end, I wrote an account of what I had witnessed and sent it to Delhi.’
‘Your account lacked many details.’
‘I was afraid,’ he said. ‘If I had been precise, they might have traced it back to me.’
She examined his face, the haunted flicker in his eyes. Mangal had the look of a man confessing a great sin. The sin was not his; nonetheless, his soul demanded absolution. And now he had it.
‘Did you tell all this to Sir James when he came here?’
‘Yes. He came to Jalanpur, asked questions, but got no answers. That night I went to his hotel in Pandiala.’
‘The Golden Temple Hotel?’
He nodded. ‘I told him my story.’
Persis imagined Herriot listening to the man, writing down the name Bakshi on a hotel notepad.
‘Where did you learn to speak English?’
‘The nawab liked to speak it when I drove him around. Whenever a British officer came here he would ask me to drive them around. He paid a tutor to teach me their language.’
‘What did Sir James say when you told him about what had happened?’
‘He wanted to know more about Surat Bakshi. I told him to ask the patwari in Jalanpur.’
That tallied with Herriot’s movements, and explained why he had taken such an interest in Bakshi’s affairs.
‘What did he do after he visited the land registry?’
‘He went to see Bakshi’s home. They told him it had been abandoned since the Bakshis were killed, but he insisted on going anyway. He went alone. I followed him.’
‘What did he do there?’
‘He walked around. Searched the place.’
‘Did he find anything?’
‘Just some old photographs. Of the family. He took those with him.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. He asked me which one was Surat. I told him.’
Her heart lurched. Why had Herriot taken those photographs? Why had he cared what Surat Bakshi looked like?
‘Did he say anything else?’
Mangal hesitated. ‘He asked me about the things Bakshi had stolen from the nawab’s home. He was particularly interested in a necklace. I had mentioned it in my account. I wanted to make sure that when they caught Surat they would know what to look for. Evidence of his crime.’
‘Describe it to me.’
‘It was a choker, made of gold, and set with emeralds. In the centre were two peacocks facing one another.’
She absorbed this silently, clutching at the clue as it wavered in her mind like a kite in a high wind. Something about the necklace’s description . . . but she couldn’t quite reel it in.
‘Do you know where Bakshi went?’
‘No, madam. All I know is that he never came back.’
Chapter 25
Kulraj Singh arrived to pick them up early in the morning. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Blackfinch’s swollen face but otherwise made no comment. They returned to the Golden Temple Hotel, checked out, then headed to the station for the train back to Bombay.
On the way to Amritsar, Persis had time to consider all that she had discovered.
Herriot, in the process of investigating the Partition crimes, had come north to Pandiala and then from there to the village of Jalanpur. This was just days prior to his death, at a time when he was battling bankruptcy. Why take such a keen interest in this case?
There was only one reason she could think of. The nawab’s jewellery. The possibility of being able to track down the nawab’s stolen treasure might have been just enough of an incentive for a man facing financial ruin.
But what had convinced him that there was something out here for him to find in the first place?
The answer was obvious. He had seen something in Bombay that connected with Mangal’s account of the nawab’s death, the account sent to him as part of the Partition Commission documents. The peacock necklace. He had seen the necklace in Bombay. It seemed a big leap, but it fitted the facts at hand, at least as well as any other theory.
If Herriot had indeed seen that necklace in Bombay, his suspicions would have brought him north, seeking confirmation. That was why he had taken Surat Bakshi’s photograph. Armed with that picture he had returned to Bombay to track down his quarry. And then what?
Had he found his man? Had he confronted him? But why would Herriot think Bakshi was in Bombay?
Again, the answer was obvious. Because he had seen him there. She felt a surge of excitement. Sir James Herriot had identified Surat Bakshi in Bombay. That had to be it.
What then? Had he threatened him? And had that led to his death? She couldn’t be sure, but the evidence was compelling.
The image of Vishal Mistry rose before her. Mistry had been a jeweller, an expert in heritage jewellery. Jewellery such as the peacock necklace. She understood now why Herriot had met him on the night of his death and why both he and Mistry had told no one of that meeting.
Secrets and lies. Murder and corruption.
She took a deep breath. To continue in Herriot’s footsteps, she too needed to know what Surat Bakshi looked like. But how? There had been no photographs of him in Jalanpur.
An idea occurred to her. She discussed it with Blackfinch and they agreed to use the hour-long stop in Amritsar to test out her theory.
Ten minutes after disembarking they reached the offices of the Amritsar Journal.
The newspaper’s editor-in-chief was only too glad to help. The paper had carried the story of Persis’s investigation into Sir James’s death and he was intrigued by her ongoing efforts.
‘I am looking specifically for reports of the death of Nawab Sikandar Ali Mumtaz and his family.’
‘Simple enough,’ said the editor. ‘I remember the incident. A terrible affair.’ He led them to a room in the basement. ‘We keep five years’ worth of back issues here. Prior to that, we have another three decades’ worth in our central storage depot.’
Together, she and Blackfinch went through the stack of newspapers.
They had been filed in a rather haphazard manner and so it took longer to find the dates they were seeking. The front pages around then carried similar headlines.
COMMUNAL RIOTS AT AMRITSAR:
40 DEAD, SHOPS LOOTED
WIDESPREAD DISTURBANCES IN
FIVE VILLAGES NEAR AMRITSAR:
130 MUSLIMS DEAD, 2 SIKHS
476 HINDUS AND SIKHS KILLED IN TRAIN
BURNING ATROCITY NEAR NEW BORDER
Dust swirled up from the pages sending Blackfinch into a fit of violent sneezing.
‘Go outside,’ said Persis irritably.
The Englishman stumbled out into the corridor, eyes streaming.
Five minutes later, she found what she had been searching for.
JALANPUR NAWAB DIES IN FIRE
TOGETHER WITH FAMILY
The front page carried a picture of the nawab, a round-faced man with a walrus moustache, sporting a grey fur cap of the type favoured by Jinnah.
She turned to the inner pages for the full story. The journalist had quoted verbatim the investigating officer, one Sub-Inspector Shergill, who had labelled the fire an accident, with no further investigation deemed necessary.
Her eyes lingered on the photographs of the nawab’s family, a medley of pictures, many taken from society functions. His daughters-in-law were particularly gaudy, decked out in silk shalwar kameezes and finely worked jewellery. The youngest, a woman named Sakina Baig, was particularly striking. Something about her photograph held Persis, that same tickle at the back of her mind that she had experienced when listening to Mangal’s account.
And then she had it.
It was the woman’s necklace, a bejewelled affair, inset with two golden peacocks, facing each other. It was the necklace Mangal had described in his original account of the nawab’s murder, the account that had been sent to the authorities and then to Sir James Herriot. This was the necklace she had conjectured that Herriot had seen in Bombay, and that had then taken him to Jalanpur.
But where could he possibly have seen the piece?
Revelation hovered in the air. She almost had it . . . But it was gone.
She nearly shouted in annoyance, then calmed her thoughts. It would come to her; she was certain of it. She cleared her mind and continued through the article.
Her eye was caught by a picture of a dagger, a slim curved blade with a beautifully wrought ivory handle, encrusted with precious stones. The article referred to it as the ‘khanjar of aman’ – the dagger of peace. She recalled now that this was another of the pieces that Mangal had mentioned in his account. Stolen by Surat Bakshi.
Her eyes lingered on the picture. Again, there was something familiar about the knife. She felt certain she had seen it before. But, again, she couldn’t place it. Her frustration grew.
She returned her attention to the pile of newspapers. Now that she had a firm date to use as a starting point she began to examine the editions from the days following the fire.
She found what she was looking for tucked in the inner pages of the issue dated 18 July 1947. Two days after the incident.
LONGSTANDING JALANPUR TENANT
FAMILY MURDERED BY MUSLIMS
The article detailed the killing of Vikas Bakshi, his son and his wife. The piece was accompanied by a photograph of each of the victims. And another photograph of the son who had gone missing, presumed dead. Surat Bakshi.
As soon as she saw the photograph the world dissolved; she knew instantly that she had made a great discovery.
She understood that Herriot had also made this same discovery. The Englishman too had gazed at the face of Surat Bakshi with recognition dawning. What had happened next? What thread connected this finding to his subsequent death? Or were the two unrelated?
There was only one way to find out.
The answers lay back in Bombay.
Chapter 26
9 January 1950
At Malabar House, she discovered that Seth had taken the day off. This information was relayed to her by the only other officer present, Oberoi.
She sat down at her desk, closed her eyes.
It felt good to be back. There was something about the basement office that instantly filled her with a sense of belonging, of mission. In the short time that she had worked there, Malabar House had become a fixed point in her life, a locus of her ambition, her hopes, her fears. It was more than her place of work. It was as much a part of her existence as the bookshop.
They had arrived back in the metropolis late in the afternoon, parting company at the station. Blackfinch’s body had begun to stiffen, the bruises from his beating now in full voice, stiffening his gait, and eliciting a wince with every step. He put on a brave face, but Persis could sense the exhaustion behind
his eyes. The man needed medical attention. And rest.
She watched him hail a cab, and then turned and set off for Malabar House.
Now, she sat and thought through her next course of action.
She could strike out alone, follow her suspicions to ground and attempt to apprehend the person she believed might be behind Sir James Herriot’s murder. But without official sanction her efforts might prove futile.
The alternative was to share with Seth all that she had learned and hope that he would stand behind her. She doubted it. Seth would be furious that she was still pursuing the investigation. He might well believe her, but his hands were bound by his unwillingness to risk what remained of his career.
She scraped back her chair and got to her feet, placed her cap back on her head. She supposed she had known that, in the end, it would come to this. She had always been alone.
‘It won’t last, you know,’ said Oberoi behind her, as she turned to leave.
She turned back, waited for him to complete his thought, knowing that he had to get it out.
‘Today, they’re fêting you, because it suits a certain political agenda. But the first time you slip up, they’ll throw you to the wolves, and they’ll do it gladly. You’re an aberration. Women have no place in the service.’
She stepped forward until she stood directly before him. His nostrils flared but he said nothing.
‘This country is going to change. Whether it wants to or not. And it won’t be because of one woman. It will be because of us all. For millennia, we have been told what our role must be: wife, mother, daughter. We are all those things, but we are so much more. Men like you think you can stop us. Go ahead and try. Have you ever tried to stop the monsoon?’
She spun on her feet, and walked away.
As she passed George Fernandes’s desk, her eye fell on a note tucked under a manila folder. She had become used to his dense scribble and so instantly recognised the scrawl of numbers. Her brow furrowed, and then she continued towards the exit.