Читать книгу: «The Track of the Wind»

By means of waking and sleeping, the Imperishable One brings to life this whole universe, moving and unmoving, and tirelessly destroys it. Manu’s Law

Prologue

In this age of darkness

Men have become as dogs. Rag Sarang

A man came to Deri. The few people who glimpsed him on the way said he was a monster. He had been beaten till his bones were shattered and he had been so badly burned that his face was nothing but a smudge – with eyes that could not close, a nose reduced to two holes and a mouth which was merely a slit. He looked like a badly made rag doll. So he draped himself with a shawl – even when the sun was at its hottest – and wound the loose end of his turban round his face.

He came by foot – travelling alone. Invisibly.

He learned to be as unnoticed as a brown lizard against the brown earth. By day he merged perfectly into the background, by night he slept rough in fields and ditches, or in the disused bungalows of departed Britishers. He walked for months and months, begging for food or getting the hospitality of gurudwaras on the way. At last, he came to his own land.

Day after day, he hung about in the fringes of the undergrowth watching the life of the village. He peered through his painful unshielded eyes at those who worked the soil beyond the sugar-cane fields. He took up residence within the ruins of the old palace by the lake, considered too haunted for people to frequent, and bided his time.

1 The letter

A cyclist was silhouetted against the brightening sky. His white dhoti billowed gently under a post office regulation khaki jacket. He hovered on the rim of the dyke, then plunged down into the shadow of the road. Out of sight for a while, he emerged back into the light, pedalling easily along the straight path towards the village. Jhoti was already running to meet him. ‘Have you a letter for us?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Is it from England?’

‘Huh, huh!’ He waved the letter in the air, teasing her. ‘It’s not for you, mamaji – nor Govind, and it’s not from England.’

‘From where then, where?’ cried Jhoti, bursting with curiosity.

The postman came to a stop and rested his feet on the ground. He brought the envelope close to his nose and examined it in a short-sighted sort of way. ‘Singapore . . . Hmm . . . Burma. Now why should a certain person be getting a letter from the Royal Navy?’ He questioned her with a cheeky smile and a tapping of his nose.

‘What certain person?’ exclaimed Jhoti, beginning to get annoyed and impatient. ‘Give it here, Roshan, and stop fooling about.’ She snatched it from him.

‘It’s for your daughter, Miss Marvinder Singh!’ Roshan pre-empted her, knowing full well that Jhoti couldn’t read. ‘That’s the third one I’ve brought for your daughter since she came back from England.’

‘And so?’ declared Jhoti. ‘Oh, be off with you – you busybody.’ Jhoti sped away to deliver the letter to Marvinder, who was crouched on her haunches in the kitchen, kneading chapatti dough and preparing food for the day.

‘Is it from Kathleen? Or from Edith?’ Jhoti asked, as Marvinder stared at the envelope. Without answering, Marvinder ran out to the pump to wash the sticky flour from her hands. Then, drying them hurriedly on the end of her veil, she excitedly took the letter from her mother.

Her mother peered over her daughter’s shoulder at the squiggles on the paper, wishing that she could decipher them. ‘Is it from the Chadwicks? But no, this one can’t be. Roshan says it’s from Singapore. Kathleen wouldn’t be in Burma, would she? ‘Jhoti waited patiently as Marvinder skilfully prised open the envelope without ripping it. With arched fingers, she extricated a sheet of paper and began to read.

Jhoti sighed. How marvellous it was that Marvinder could read and write and was so educated. Perhaps all the agonies of the past two years – the separation and terrible uncertainty brought about by war – had been worth it. For two years she had searched for her children, going all the way to Bombay, walking the streets, asking at the train station, the docks, the gatemen at the churches, if anyone had seen them or could tell her where they might be, and if they were alive or dead. But all in vain. Somehow, ill and heart-broken, she had made her way back to her ravaged village and crept into the jungle, not caring whether she lived or died.

But all the time Jaspal and Marvinder had been in England with their father. They had been at English schools learning to read and write. They could have stayed on for ever. But they didn’t. They came home to look for her.

Jhoti watched her daughter’s face. ‘Well?’ she demanded, desperate to be included in the news. ‘What’s it all about? What is this place, Singapore? Where is it? Who do you know there?’

‘It’s from Kathleen’s brother, Patrick,’ said Marvinder. She looked up at her mother.

‘Oh?’ Jhoti was shocked. The shining in Marvinder’s eyes was unmistakable. ‘A boy is writing to you?’ She looked around as if afraid that even such words would be compromising.

‘Oh, Ma!’ Marvinder laughed, trying to play down the implication. ‘It’s only Patrick – he’s just a – ’ She was going to say, just Kathleen’s brother. But he wasn’t just a brother, he was a man; he was eighteen; that’s why he had been called up as a conscript in the British Royal Navy Here in her village, most young men of his age were long married and were fathers already. ‘He’s written to me because he knew I wanted to collect stamps, and he was going to go all round the world with the navy and send me some from every place, that’s all.’ Breathless with the ease at which she had concocted a logical reason for the letter, Marvinder tried to divert her mother by showing her the stamps on the envelope. ‘Look, Ma! Aren’t they beautiful? I’m building up quite a collection. Kathleen and Edith both said they would write to me and send me stamps – and Dr Silbermann too. Now I have these! Aren’t I lucky!’

Jhoti was dying to ask, what does it say? What is he like – this boy who is in the navy? Is he handsome? Do you feel for him? Did he ever touch you? But suddenly she didn’t dare. The least said about this letter the better – especially in front of Govind.

‘Put it away, daughter. Put it away. Your father would not like to know a boy has been writing to you. Here – shall I burn it? ‘Jhoti almost snatched it from her.

‘No, Ma!’ Marvinder recoiled in horror. She thrust the letter back into its envelope and pushed it into the waist of her salwaar pyjamas. ‘It’s mine. I’ll keep it safe. Don’t worry.’

Jhoti turned away feeling disturbed and anxious. She wanted to say, don’t let your father know, but to advise such a thing would be disloyal. She knew she should take the letter and give it to Govind, but these days Govind had become so strict and austere, she was afraid of his reaction.

He was trying desperately to find a husband for Marvinder. But no family had yet made them any offers. He was afraid that her stay in England had made her too independent and different from the other village girls of her class. He wanted to tame her; make her submit. These days, he often lectured her and sometimes beat her. He disapproved of her writing and receiving letters. He disliked the way she spent so much time reading – in fact – devouring books as if she would be a scholar. Govind hated all this. It was as if he wanted to eradicate the past two years from her life, and make her the simple, innocent, dutiful daughter she would have been, had the world not turned upside down. If he knew about the letter . . . Jhoti’s thoughts hung in the air. If he knew about the letter . . . She stood for a moment frowning as she imagined what he would do if he knew a boy was writing to his daughter, even though he was desperate for someone to present himself as a prospective husband.

Mother and daughter returned to their tasks in silence, grinding the spices, sifting the lentils and kneading the dough for chapattis. But all the time their minds were on the letter.

It was nearly midday before Marvinder was able to slip away on her own. She had only skimmed down Patricks letter in the presence of her mother and was desperate to read it again.

This was the first time Patrick had written to her. The envelope had burned against her skin all morning as she had worked side by side with her mother. Every now and then she saw Jhoti glancing at her – her curiosity mingled with anxiety, and Marvinder would give her mother a reassuring smile.

Marvinder knew how her mother suffered more than she did when Govind raged at her and sometimes slapped her about for being distracted or lazy, or for not being exactly where he thought she should be at any given moment, or for not doing what he thought she should be doing then and there. Marvinder knew that her mother was torn between loyalty to her husband and a desire to protect her daughter. So, for her sake, Marvinder quelled the rebellious feelings which would well up inside her.

But she was always looking for ways to be by herself, where she could write to Kathleen or read some of the books she had found abandoned in the old missionary bungalows. Most of all, she needed somewhere to play her violin. It wasn’t easy, for there were barely any hours in the day which weren’t taken up with fetching and carrying and preparing food, and cooking and washing. Then there was the work in the fields – especially at harvest time, when every man, woman and child had to pull their weight, scything, cutting and gathering up.

But when the sun was at its zenith and the heat of the day too much, that was when Marvinder could escape unnoticed and go to the palace.

The palace had been built by a Mogul prince hundreds of years ago. It had once had a hundred rooms and stables for a hundred horses and tethering for two dozen elephants. Warriors had patrolled the ramparts and princes practised archery in the mango groves. In the cool of late afternoons, as the blood-red sun plunged downwards, princesses had been rowed up and down the lake, trailing their fingers in the water and watching the movement of fishes beneath the green silky surface. Not it was abandoned; forgotten; its rajahs defeated in battle, its riches pillaged. It looked like nothing but a mouldering wedding cake being slowly consumed by wind and rain and vermin. Grass and weeds, wild flowers and thin saplings sprouted from between the cracks, as if they too would swallow up the great grey stones, and no one would remember that, once, those rajahs and princes of unimaginable wealth and power had ruled this land.

Marvinder entered through the crumbling portico and crossed the tiled floor of the inner courtyard. Her sandalled feet echoed up the old stone steps as she ascended to the top of the fourth terrace. From here she could see near and far and from horizon to horizon in every direction; from the women on their way to the well on the outskirts of the village, or north to the soft white glow of the Himalayas hanging like clouds.

She tucked herself into a segment of shade which slanted sharply from the balustrade and leaned her back against the cool stone. She extricated the envelope from her waist.

R.N.B.

HMS Terror

Singapore

3 September 1950

My dear Marvi,

(The words resonated on the page. Patricks teasing Irish voice came into her head.)

Look where I am. Singapore. Just down the road from you really – give or take a few thousand miles. The navy’s great. The places I’ve seen and the things I’ve done would fill a book. Of course they work you hard. We’re up at five every morning, and then it’s drill and kit and spit and polish and practice and training. But the lads are the best, and time off in Singapore is a darn sight better than time off in the Orkneys – I can tell you.

I had a letter from Mammy last week. They’re moving out of Whitworth Road at last. They’ve been given a council house – a brand new one with a separate kitchen and bathroom and three whole bedrooms – can you imagine? It will seem like Buckingham Palace after living in that slum for so long. I hope Kathleen’s writing to you. She misses you – God knows why. (Joke.) Michael’s doing all right. Still working as a brickie. He’s got himself a girl. It’s serious. Did Kathy tell you? Her name’s Joan Palmer. They’re going to get engaged. Kathy says she’s like Jane Wyman. Blimey I suppose it’ll be wedding bells soon. What about you, Marvi? I hope they haven’t married you off already. Keep in touch. I’m at the above address for at least two months, so, if you write straight away, it will get to me.

Well, must stop. Chin chin and TTFN (if you remember what that means – ta-ta for now).

Love,

Patrick

PS. Are you still playing the fiddle?

Can you be a ghost while you are still alive? She had heard of fakirs and holy men with special powers being in two places at once. Had she not often done the same? Surely they would see her there in London – in Whitworth Road – climbing the dark dingy staircase to the first floor. ‘Hello, Mr O’Grady!’ She waved at him through the open door where he sat in his usual chair, with his one remaining leg propped up on the mantelpiece, swearing and cursing at the world. And there was Mrs O’Grady doing half a dozen things at once, moving from the laundry to the cooking to rocking little Beryl or making a cup of tea or lighting up a cigarette; and Michael stripped to the waist, washing at the kitchen sink; and Kathleen leaning out of the window to yell to her friends, who were swinging round the lamppost; and Patrick – surely Patrick sensed her ghostly presence following him around as she had never done in real life, lingering at his shoulder, leaning into his conversations, blushing at his teasing? Did he never feel that she was there?

She pressed his letter to her nose and mouth, and breathed in its smell, then folded it away and stared into nothing. Her elation vanished.

‘Have they married you off yet?’ he had asked.

‘No, not yet,’ she said out loud.

‘Are you still playing the violin?’ he had asked.

‘Of course I am. What a silly question.’

The violin was her most precious possession. She had been given it in England by old Dr Silbermann, who had taught her to play. Her father disapproved. He saw it as yet one more thing that made her different, and stopped her from being marriageable. It was true that people in the village had stared and sniggered when she had tried playing at home. Girls round here didn’t do that sort of thing. Nobody did that sort of thing – not here. Musicians came along from time to time for weddings and festivals, but when the celebration was over, they moved on. So Marvinder brought her violin to the palace whenever she could, to play it undisturbed.

She went to her secret alcove in the wall where she had stored the violin case, all wrapped in newspaper and swaddled in a cloth bag, to keep away the ants and worms and other creatures which might enjoy feasting on its shining red wood. She unwrapped it and took it out carefully. Moving to the deepest shade she could find, she began to practise her daily exercises, just as Dr Silbermann had taught her. She drew the full length of the bow up and down the open strings over and over again, until her ear was satisfied and the sound lifted like a bird and soared away into the sky.

She became a ghost again. In London, she had often looked at a single patch of blue sky – whenever there was any blue sky – and imagined it was India. Now here – as a hot blue haze tinged the whole countryside around – she shut her eyes and imagined she was playing to old Dr Silbermann down in his dark, basement flat where the sun hardly got beyond the windowsill.

She read Patrick’s letter once more. This time, the words ‘stay in touch’ gave her hope. ‘At least he wants me to stay in touch. I will. I’ll write.’ She put away her violin with the letter tucked inside.

In one of the empty rooms below, where the dust drifted in the sunbeams – a vast cosmos of golden stars – the watcher sat on his haunches with his back against the wall, waiting like a weather-worn stone statue; featureless but solid. He didn’t move when Marvinder descended the stone steps, hurrying. He heard the rustle of her clothes – like angels’ wings.

They were king and queen in this ruined palace, moving like chess pieces; silently avoiding each other – for the moment.

2 Secret love

‘Aren’t you going to school today, Jaspal?’

Nazakhat glanced at his best friend who hacked at a piece of sugar-cane with his knife. The two boys lay side by side in the middle of a dense sugar-cane field – thick enough to hide a tiger. They often helped themselves when the farmer wasn’t looking.

‘Nah! School’s boring. I hate it. Besides, I can read and write already. What’s the point of more?’

‘Hey man! Your dad will beat you. Remember last time? I thought he’d kill you.’

‘I can take it,’ shrugged Jaspal.

‘Everyone said you were going to be big. Get an important job. Live in the city one of these days. Don’t you care? He wanted so much for you.’

‘He doesn’t know. He thinks I’m there now. Besides, why should I care what my father wants for me – all those diplomas and degrees and bits of paper from his time in England – fat lot of good his learning did for him.’

Nazakhat glanced sideways at him. Jaspal’s face had hardened and he became deeply silent. Jaspal was not an easy friend – not like the old days. His mood could change so fast. One minute he could be laughing and joking about like a clown and the next as darkly gloomy as a soldier back from the war.

A final hack severed the cane and Jaspal got to his feet to break it in half across his knee. He gave one half to Nazakhat then flopped down again into the warm earth and chewed on his bit. The fibres burst a flood of sweet sugar into his mouth and he sucked hard. After a while he said, ‘Besides, I can’t stand sitting with all those goondas – idiots – while this mumbling half-wit tries to teach us useless things which mean nothing. Why, I know more than he does.’

A silence fell between them once more, and Nazakhat could tell that Jaspal would not be the first to break it.

‘You know what,’ Nazakhat nudged Jaspal in the ribs. ‘I think that old devil, Bahadur Singh, has a secret woman somewhere.’ He elbowed him in the ribs and shaped a female form in the air with his hands.

‘What? Bahadur Singh? You must be crazy!’ Jaspal grunted with mild disbelief at the thought of that old fogey, the village schoolmaster, having a secret romance.

‘I live under his roof. Wouldn’t I know if something was going on?’

Jaspal didn’t respond for a while, but sucked on the sugarcane. At last he said, in a determinedly bored voice, ‘Does that mean his aunt knows?’

Nazakhat grinned to himself as he won at least a fraction of Jaspal’s attention. ‘Oh no! She’s deaf and blind to anything like that. She’s too busy praying and being holy. She probably doesn’t even know where babies come from! Aiee, aiee!’ Nazakhat burst out into infectious giggling and even Jaspal couldn’t prevent a smile.

‘But what makes you think Bahadur Singh has a woman?’ asked Jaspal, sceptical but curious.

‘I saw him in the bazaar.’ Nazakhat leaned forward confidentially. ‘He was looking at women’s things – you know, cloth pieces, sarees and jewellery.’

‘Is that all? ‘Jaspals face fell. ‘I thought perhaps you’d seen him with someone – you know – ’ He gave a wry smile.

Nazakhat, triumphant now at having thoroughly engaged Jaspal’s attention, slapped him on the back and rolled about laughing. ‘You know, you know!’ he mocked raucously.

‘Looking at sarees is hardly enough evidence,’ shrugged Jaspal.

‘Since when would the teacher, a confirmed bachelor, be looking at sarees?’ demanded Nazakhat. ‘Books – yes. Writing materials – yes. But sarees? I ask you! Wouldn’t you wonder who for, if not for a woman?’

‘For his aunt?’

‘His aunt!’ Nazakhats voice rose with hilarity. ‘She’s no woman!’ He was really enjoying himself now as Jaspal began to snigger too, despite himself. ‘She never wears sarees – only salwaar kameez – and only ever grey.’

‘Blue,’ corrected Jaspal.

‘Call that blue?’ cried Nazakhat. ‘It’s not the blue of the sky. It’s not the blue of peacock feathers or of kingfishers or even of your turban. Anyway, I should know. My father made that outfit for her before . . .’ before he was killed along with the rest of my family ‘. . . and he called it grey. He used to make all her outfits – and they were all grey or some colour so dull it might as well be grey. Anyway, Bahadur Singh was looking at really glittery sarees and cloth pieces: red and pink, and silks with embroidered borders and lots of gold and silver threads, so it wasn’t for his aunt – you can be sure of that.’

‘Perhaps she’s make believe.’ Jaspal began to forget his troubles. He sat up, fantasising. ‘You know – wishful thinking. He feels deprived. He wants to love. He has invented a beautiful woman all bumps and curves like that film star, Devaki Rani. He can’t have her for real – but he pretends – what do you think, eh, Nazakhat? He whispers her name into his pillow at night. “Oh, Devaki, Devaki! I can’t live without you . . .” ’

The boys rolled about shrieking with laughter as their jokes got more and more vivid. ‘Don’t you think I have a good theory?’ cried Jaspal. ‘Perhaps Bahadur Singh has a whole secret store of sarees and jewellery. He realises that he’s spent too much time with his books and that crabby old aunt. That the world and all its women are passing him by and he hasn’t yet lived!’

‘I’m serious, bhai!’ insisted Nazakhat, when their laughter died down. ‘He has been looking in jewellery shops – no kidding. I’ve seen him. I’m not making this up. There is someone, I know it.’

‘Well then, it is his aunt,’ said Jaspal with mock seriousness. ‘He loves her thin scraggy arms and her hatchet face and her beautiful body as shapely as an ancient camel. Or . . . or . . . !’ Jaspal got to his knees and looked deeply serious. ‘His aunt has been made an offer she can’t refuse and Bahadur Singh is providing her dowry!’ The boys’ hilarity rang out through the sugar-cane.

‘Shut up, shut up! The farmer will hear us!’ hissed Jaspal, and they clamped their syrupy mouths.

‘But I ask you, bhai, who would he give jewellery to?’ Nazakhat whispered through his fingers. ‘Have you ever seen his aunt wearing anything but the silver kara on her wrist and two gold studs in her ears?’

‘You have a point,’ Jaspal conceded. ‘But you live there. You see everything. Come on, think. If there is someone, you must know.’

‘Perhaps he got her from a newspaper ad,’ reflected Nazakhat. ‘I’ll find out one of these days.’

‘You re wrong. You must be. He wouldn’t marry.’ Jaspal finally hacked off another piece of cane and started to strip away the outside. ‘He’s not the marrying kind. Here.’ Jaspal handed Nazakhat the white fibrous stalk, dripping with sugar, and proceeded to hack one for himself.

A distant shriek of the train whistle made them sit up.

‘It’s the Amritsar train. ‘Jaspal leaped to his feet, his gloom fully vanished and his eyes now sparkling with enterprise. ‘Let’s catch it – eh, bhai?’

‘Are you going to school after all?’ Jaspal’s school was the intermediate college in Amritsar.

‘Nah! I feel like going to the pictures. Will you come?’

Nazakhat got to his feet. He was nervous about going into town. He loved films too, but, as a Muslim, he was afraid of going out of his neighbourhood. Memories of the past were still fresh. But Jaspal grabbed his arm warmly. ‘Come on, bhai. Say yes.’

‘Your school though, what about school? ‘Nazakhat asked weakly.

‘Oh, to hell with school! Come on!’

This was good old Jaspal. Nazakhat couldn’t resist. ‘Get a move on then,’ he yelled, pushing ahead.

They chucked away the sugar-cane and thrashed their way out of the field. They heard the whistle again. Nearer this time. They were running full pelt. They reached the edge of the long white road, dashed over and plunged down the dyke disappearing into the waves of barley. They re-emerged on the path dividing the saffron crop from the mustard seed.

‘Hey, wait for me Jaspal!’ yelled Nazakhat. He clutched his side as a stitch seared through his guts. Jaspal only slowed down sufficiently to glance over his shoulder and to give an encouraging yell. ‘Get on with it! We’ll miss it!’

A long streak of grey smoke in the sky straggled out like the hair of an old woman who shakes away the tangles of sleep. And again the siren; closer now, its pitch screaming out intervals as the train slowed down. Good old Hari Singh, the engine driver. He has relatives in this village. He does them a favour by slowing down here.

From out of nowhere, figures came leaping up the embankment along the track and others, like the boys, raced along the paths through the fields, as the great black, iron goddess approached with burning fiery belly and smoke belching out of her ears. She was many-headed and many-armed, flailing with limbs from the bodies which hung from her carriages and clung to the roof.

‘Make room, make room!’ shouted voices panting with exertion. They sprinted alongside with arms outstretched. It was each one for himself now. Jaspal noted a space the size of a hand on the vertical steel pole by one of the doors. He focused on it, running faster and faster. It was now or never as gradually the train began to pick up steam once more. He grabbed with one hand. It tugged his feet from beneath him, and only the friendly hands of others saved him from being dragged along, or dashed back on to the sharp chippings of the track.

He managed to find enough toe room on the wooden running board, and with both hands, he gripped the pole. His body arched from the train like a bow, the wind billowing his shirt. And so he stayed, hanging on for dear life, until Amritsar. But he laughed – an open-mouthed laugh, eating the air – and felt a pure, fierce joy.

He looked up and down the length of the train. Did Nazakhat make it?

He couldn’t see him beside the track, so he must have got on somewhere. They would meet up later.

‘Hey Jaspal! Are you going to the pictures?’ someone bellowed.

‘Yeah! It’s a Prithviraj Kapoor film today!’ Jaspal yelled back.

‘See you at the Rialto then.’

Jaspal loved going to the pictures. Often, he went alone, on afternoons when he should have been at school. He didn’t mind seeing the same film over and over again – even if each time it meant sneaking in without paying – especially the historical films about battles between rajahs and invading armies, and brave warriors of the past.

The outskirts of the city undulated into sight: walls and roofs and balconies hanging with washing; narrow alleys and streets teeming with people and animals. Black, long-haired pigs foraged in the rubbish tips, ambling alongside dogs and crows and other scavengers. Monkeys lined the walls, preening each other, slapping their little ones into line as they tumbled and played.