Читать книгу: «The Track of the Wind», страница 2

The train slowed down to give the tens of dozens of non-ticket holders a chance to drop from the train before it entered the station precincts. Jaspal lowered himself till his feet were running along the ground, then he loosened his grip and continued running to gain his balance.

Nazakhat caught up with him and the two left the track and headed across rough ground towards the city. Nazakhat always felt a little nervous about coming into the city. Although he had allowed his wispy boy’s moustache to grow, and his hair was thick and black and long to his shoulders, he was conspicuously not a Sikh like Jaspal. The vicious troubles of partition were still too fresh in people’s memories to enable him to feel comfortable. He would never have ventured there without Jaspal at his side.

The new Pakistan had wanted Amritsar too. ‘But what about our Golden Temple? ‘protested the enraged Sikhs. ‘Only over our dead bodies will our Golden Temple go into Pakistan with the Muslims.’ And there were many dead bodies before it was certain that Amritsar would stay part of India.

Nazakhat knew that any trips into the city meant he had to brave the taunts from gangs jeering, ‘What is that blood-drained, meat-eating, son of a pig-dog, hair-cutting Muslim doing, contaminating our holy city?’ But Jaspal had always been Nazakhat’s stout and loyal defender, and had got into many a brawl protecting him from mobs of youths out for trouble.

There were a few hours to kill before joining the queue which would start forming outside the Rialto. The boys headed into the bazaar. They liked to go to the metal area where they sold not only pots and pans, farming tools and kitchen utensils, but knives and daggers and swords of all descriptions. They fingered the sharp blades and counted their money. They knew they didn’t have enough, so after a lot of comparing and exchanging knowledge and expertise about the lethal nature of this weapon or that, and what kind of wound it could inflict, the shopkeeper realised they weren’t going to buy, and shooed them away. So they went to a tea stall and bought tea and samosas, and sat at a bare wooden table and grinned at each other and gripped each other’s hands – elbows on the table – to see who could force the other’s hand down first and prove the stronger.

‘Hey! Speak of the devil! Quick!’ Nazakhat grabbed Jaspal and thrust his head down under the table. ‘It’s Bahadur Singh, I tell you. I just saw him! Boy, would I be in trouble if he caught me here.’

‘Take it easy. What are you so scared of ?’ drawled Jaspal. ‘He never lays a finger on you.’

‘Yeah – but you should feel the hand of his aunt round your ear. She’s worse than any man. She hits so hard, all her bones rattle.’

‘Well, my father hits so hard you can’t hear anything for the blood pounding inside your head and the screams in your lungs you’re trying to stifle. But what do I care? I can take it,’ boasted Jaspal.

The two boys peered out of the tea stall.

‘There! Look! There. He’s heading into the cloth quarter. Hey! What do you think?’ Nazakhat clutched his friend’s arm. ‘Maybe he’s got a secret assignment with his lady friend.’

‘Come on, lets follow him. ‘Jaspal’s curiosity was up. ‘I’ve got to see this.’

‘For god’s sake be careful. It’s all right for you. You don’t care about anything. But me – if he sees me – he could throw me out.’ Nazakhat hung back warily.

‘So what! Look how you survived before. You don’t need him. Don’t be such a chicken. Anyway – you can see he’s got things on his mind. He won’t notice us. Come on, before we lose him.’ Jaspal dragged his friend out into the road.

A cluster of young women, chaperoned by a much older one, jostled their way down the narrow bazaar street in front of the schoolmaster. They stopped every two or three steps to peer into the sandal shop, or the cosmetic shop, or the woollens shop. Bahadur Singh could have pushed through them any time, but seemed instead to want to follow just on the edges, as if he were looking at what they looked at and listening to all their comments.

The boys followed more boldly. They watched the schoolmaster watching. They watched too – suddenly seeing the women’s world with men’s eyes – smelling their scent and hearing the tinkle of bangles as arms lifted to hold up glittering materials, which hung from hooks outside the shop; or bales of cloth arranged in towers from ceiling to floor, ready at a mere whim to be extricated and tossed full length across the carpeted shop floor. High voices and laughter rose above the hubbub of the bazaar.

Bahadur Singh turned abruptly. The boys ducked. When they next peered out, the schoolmaster had given up on the women and moved on to the jewellery quarter.

‘See? Didn’t I tell you? It’s what I saw him doing in our bazaar. This must be serious, I tell you. Why else would he come to Amritsar? He’s got money to spend.’

They spied on the schoolmaster moving from one jewellery shop to another, glancing at the displays, listening sometimes to the shopkeepers’ patter over an offered cup of tea, then moving on. The boys hardly bothered to hide now. The schoolmaster was too absorbed, poring over the trays of bangles and earrings and necklaces.

‘Watch out!’ Jaspal pulled Nazakhat down behind a wandering cow. The schoolmaster had stopped in front of a jeweller’s shop. He paused a long time to gaze at something, then suddenly looked round as if checking whether anyone was watching him.

‘That was a near thing!’ breathed Jaspal.

‘Did he see us?’

‘Nah! He wouldn’t have gone in if he had. You’re right, Nazakhat. He’s up to something, the old devil! Let’s get a little nearer.’

The two boys sidled up to the shop and flopped on the wooden steps in front, next to a dog and a resting holy man. A useful alleyway ran alongside, down which they could disappear when Bahadur Singh came out.

It was dark inside the shop. On a wooden counter gleamed a pair of brass scales. Bahadur Singh sat on the stool, his back to the door, facing the old jeweller, who scrutinised him from over his gold-rimmed spectacles.

‘Can I help you?’ the jeweller asked.

‘I am looking for a simple gift for my daughter,’ they heard the schoolmaster reply.

‘Didn’t you hear that? Daughter, my foot!’ exclaimed Jaspal.

‘Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you!’ chortled Nazakhat triumphantly.

‘Shut up, you idiot! You’ll give us away. Look. Now what’s he doing?’

‘Ah!’ The jeweller’s exclamation was dry but business-like, as if he already knew exactly what was suitable for the schoolmaster. He bent down, and from beneath the counter brought out three glass cases filled with rings, gold and silver chains, earrings, nose studs, necklaces and bracelets – of an infinite variety of precious stone. His eyes hovered over Bahadurs hands as they fingered the different items of jewellery in a tentative and inexperienced way. He noted that they were not the hands of a farmer or an artisan because they were too smooth, so he deduced that his client was a clerk or a teacher who wouldn’t want anything gaudy or too ostentatious.

The jeweller selected a simple gold bracelet. ‘Is this to your liking?’ he asked.

Bahadur held the bracelet in the palm of his hand. Jaspal stared at it too. Its cold metal burned in the dark, dusty air like the outer rim of the sun. Whose wrist did the schoolmaster see it encircling?

‘Yes, this is to my liking,’ said Bahadur Singh, getting out a wodge of rupee notes from an inside pocket.

‘What’s he buying?’ whispered Nazakhat.

‘A bracelet,’ murmured Jaspal. ‘A gold bracelet. I wonder who it’s for?’

3 The dividing sword

The queue was already long when Jaspal and Nazakhat reached the Rialto. It was always long and it always looked as though they would never get in. But experience had taught them that they would, even if it meant squeezing through a forest of legs to get to the front.

They burst through the curtain into the warm, pungent darkness, threw themselves into the springy seats, which squeaked if they wriggled, and with heads tipped back, stared at the big screen in front of them. Soon images and loud music overwhelmed them and sucked them out of reality into the wonderful fantasy worlds of heroes and princesses, dancing girls and warriors and treacherous enemies.

As soon as Nazakhat saw what this film was about, he wished he hadn’t come. ‘Arreh, brother. I thought we were seeing a Hindi film. What’s this?’

Jaspal shrugged, ‘Oh, a new one in Punjabi,’ he muttered. ‘I thought it might be worth seeing.’ The changing light of the screen flickered over his face and he looked like one in a trance.

The film was about the great eighteenth century hero of Sikhism, Baba Deep Singh, the leader who had defended the Golden Temple of Amritsar against invading Afghan Muslims with only a gathering of peasants bearing nothing but staves. Even after his head had been cut off, the stories related with relish how Baba Deep Singh, carrying his head in one hand and a sword in the other, had continued to fight to protect the Golden Temple from desecration by the Muslims.

Jaspal had seen many pictures depicting this event and heard many stories at the gurudwara, but never before had it come alive for him. Never before had he felt so moved and inspired as he did watching this film. He became a part of the history and the struggle. It was happening now and, overcome with passion, his thoughts spun with anger. If only he could be such a warrior. What cause was there now worth fighting for? As if reading his thoughts, Baba Deep Singh’s face filled the screen. He turned, as if searching into the soul of every single person in the dark cinema.

Was it possible . . . ? For a moment, Jaspals credibility was suspended. He shrank away, terrified by the warriors penetrating gaze. He buried his face in his hands and fearfully peered through his fingers at the powerful head towering above them. Jaspal felt sucked into the dark pools of his eyes which stared at him and him alone; challenging him, questioning him. They seemed to say, what are you doing with your life – wasting it away as if you will live for ever? Free yourself from the bonds of desire and act, for action is greater than inaction. Then Baba Deep Singh whirled his sword against his enemies.

The whole cinema was on its feet, Jaspal too, cheering him on – howling at these Afghan enemies who dared to defile the sacred temple.

Nazakhat sank lower and lower in his seat. He dreaded the moment when the lights would come up and everyone would recognise him as the Muslim enemy. Before the film ended, he whispered to Jaspal, ‘I’m dying for a pee. I’ll meet you outside.’ He wriggled himself out of the row and escaped from the seething darkness of the cinema.

For the next twenty minutes, Nazakhat hung about outside waiting for the film to end. At last the doors were flung open and the thick velvet curtains tossed aside. Usually, when the boys came jostling out, they were still part of the film. They carried on the action, chasing and play-fighting and quoting back all their favourite bits. But today was different. The men, nearly all of them Sikhs, some of them Hindus, but no Muslims, poured from the cinema, their eyes shining with excited fervour. Nazakhat, sheltering behind one of the pillars in the foyer, strained to find Jaspal. Then he saw him. Jaspal looked dazed, walking slowly, while everyone around him swirled past.

‘There you are!’ exclaimed Nazakhat, leaping out and linking arms.

Jaspal turned and looked at him blankly, as if he were a stranger. He withdrew his arm and moved away – almost imperceptibly – but Nazakhat knew.

They came out into the street.

‘Hey!’ cried Nazakhat playfully. ‘What’s up with you?’ and he jumped on his friend’s back and tried to tussle him into a play fight.

‘Get off !’ growled Jaspal.

At first Nazakhat carried on, teasing and goading, trying to provoke him into action. Jaspal threw him off so roughly that he tumbled to the ground.

‘Yeah!’ laughed Nazakhat, thinking it was all in fun. Then he saw Jaspal’s face. It was frozen in anger. His eyes were narrowed and his lips tight. ‘Hey, Jaspal! You OK?’

‘Just leave off will you!’ Jaspal muttered vehemently and walked ahead through the bazaar.

Nazakhat got to his feet, amazed and disturbed. Jaspal could be moody, he knew that, but this was the first time he had felt his hostility; an enmity even.

Instead of heading for the railway station, Jaspal turned towards the old quarter of the city.

‘Eh, bhai! Brother!’ Nazakhat called uneasily. ‘Aren’t you going home? The train goes in ten minutes. We haven’t got too much time.’

‘You go,’ shouted Jaspal over his shoulder. ‘There’s something I want to do,’ and he strode away even faster, disappearing into the throng of the bazaar.

Nazakhat stood, unable to move for a minute or two. First and foremost he longed to catch up with his friend and beg his forgiveness for whatever it was he had done to make him angry. Surely he didn’t blame him for the actions of those Afghan Muslims in the film? But the thought of his cold, unfriendly face restrained him. With an uncomprehending shrug he carried on to the station.

Doubts overwhelmed Nazakhat. Were not he and Jaspal still the best of friends? He looked at the scar on the palm of his hand. They were blood brothers. Their history went back a long way. They both remembered – had nightmares of remembering – when their village was burned and all around them people – their own friends and neighbours and families – were massacred. Yet, how, despite the danger, first Jaspal’s family had sheltered Nazakhat’s family when a band of Sikhs came burning and driving out all Muslims; and then how Nazakhat’s family had protected Jaspal and his mother and sister when Muslims came on a murderous raid, intent on revenge, killing any Sikh they could find and burning down all their property.

Everyone had gone mad with blood lust, but the two families, Nazakhat’s and Jaspal’s, had never betrayed each other, and their friendship stayed true till the end, when Jhoti and her children finally fled.

It was two years before Jaspal returned to his village. The two friends had greeted each other joyfully – hardly able to believe that the other was alive. Bit by bit, Jaspal learned the terrible fate which had befallen Nazakhat’s family.

‘They came again,’ whispered Nazakhat.

Both knew ‘they’ meant the jathas, the Sikh war bands who had ruthlessly tried to defend what they saw as their homeland. It was because of the splitting of the Punjab into two. One part in India would be ruled by Hindus and the other part in Pakistan would be ruled by Muslims. The Sikhs could not accept it, and fought like trapped tigers. Should they not have a homeland too?

‘We should have got out earlier,’ said Nazakhat despairingly. ‘Gone to the Pakistan part – but this has been our home for generations. We all lived like brothers – Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus. We thought we could see it through. But the jathas were like crazed demons,’ he wept. ‘I saw them all killed – my father and brothers – with swords and knives. They showed no mercy; not even for my mother, my sisters or my grandmother.’

‘How did you escape?’ Jaspal had whispered, hardly able to comprehend such a loss.

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I was there. I saw my little brother dying. I held him in my arms. I nursed him and rocked him and begged him not to die. A Sikh saw me. He raised his sword and brought it down to strike off my head. I felt its wind as it slashed past my ear, but it just crashed into the ground beside me and he didn’t touch me. After that, it was as though I was invisible. They went on slaughtering – any Muslim they could find – and burning and screaming. I just sat there with my dead brother in the middle of it all – the smoke, the flames and the blood – until they went. Then there was a silence – a terrible silence. More terrible than anything. No one moaned or stirred or called out even to God. No dog howled. No vulture screeched. No wind blew. It was a hell of non-existence. Why didn’t they kill me, Jaspal? Why?’

‘Because,’ Jaspal said as softly as a stalking tiger, ‘because they recognised you as a brother. My brother. Look.’ Jaspal took out his kirpan – his dagger. He held out his left hand and slashed its palm. Red drops of blood immediately spouted. ‘Will you be my blood brother?’ he asked, staring intently at Nazakhat. Without a word, Nazakhat held out his left hand and allowed Jaspal to slash it. As the blood flowed, the two boys clasped hands and rubbed their palms together and then licked the mingled blood.

‘Brothers for ever!’ cried Jaspal.

‘Brothers for ever!’ Nazakhat agreed joyfully.

Nazakhat stared now at the faint scar which crossed the fate line and life line of his palm. He felt a great chasm of despair opening up inside his stomach. ‘Brothers for ever?’

4 The sparrow meets the hawk

When Jaspal left Nazakhat after the film, he headed for the Golden Temple. That was where the action in the film had taken place. Jaspal had been to the temple many times. Now, all he wanted was to step on that dazzling white marble and imagine Baba Deep Singh whirling his sword in defence of the temple. He wanted to see where the blood had been spilled and hear the clash of swords and spears.

He wound his way through the bazaar, looking neither to the right nor the left; ignoring the teeming shops and hawkers yelling their wares, until at last he was outside the great white façade.

He removed his sandals, washed his hands and feet, and joined a flurry of families entering the complex. The fathers and sons strode ahead, their turbaned heads held high; while the mothers and sisters, lost among their billowing cotton trousers and veiled heads, herded the little ones along.

He reached the top of steep marble steps. Below him, the vast pool of holy water, the amrit, the nectar of ecstasy, glittered too bright to bear.

Suddenly, he was alone, even though hundreds milled around him. He descended the steps and on to the intricate inlaid patterns of the marble terrace. At first, he just walked, so unaware of his feet on the cool marble that he might as well have been floating. He walked between the colonnade of pillars, his eye fixed on the golden shrine which jutted out into the centre of the lake, as if the craftsmen of the temple had tried to recreate the sun.

On and on he walked, seeing not the peaceful families and pilgrims who moved in a quiet throng but the shrieks and screams of fighting warriors, their blood spewing across the white marble, and the lake strewn with bodies and limbs. Jaspal thought of martyrs and saints and wondered what qualities were needed to be a martyr. Could he survive pain and torture and look death in the face? He had felt hatred many times, but now his hatred was mixed with a new sensation; that of ecstasy.

He stopped and undressed down to his shorts. He unwound his turban and bared his head with his hair bound into a topknot. Hiding his knife among his clothes, he descended the steps into the pool and lowered himself into the water. It was silk-cool. Down, down he went, till the water was up to his chest – and then – immersed himself completely.

In the refracting light he seemed to see, not the tumbling bodies of dying Muslim enemies and Sikh warriors, but other images, which try as he might, would not go away; images of those English children, their golden heads with streaming hair and wide blue, puzzled eyes, which couldn’t believe that only water poured in through their open mouths.

And why not me, Lord? Why not me? Jaspal cried in his head. Why had he not drowned too along with Ralph and Grace when the boat went down in the palace lake? They were his friends. He couldn’t deny it. He had loved them too – even though they were English. Jaspal tried to forget the events which happened six years ago, when together they had crossed over the threshold into the realms of death. Whatever other terrible sights he had witnessed, nothing else had brought him closer to death, and he couldn’t prevent the unbidden image; the unexpected voice or sound; the glint of sun on water. It would trigger the memory, and that long sad afternoon would unwind, forcing him to live those moments again and again. He remembered the pale bodies sinking down, their arms and legs waving like strange plants. Then, just as he and the twins were about to let loose their souls for ever, Marvinder brought him back to the living and the twins were left behind in the land of death. Today it struck him. Perhaps there was a reason why he and only he had lived. Perhaps he had been saved for a purpose.

His air gave out. He thrust himself to the surface gasping and choking.

‘Ha!’ A voice called from the side. ‘You were under a long time. I was just about to jump in and pull you out.’

Knuckling the water from his eyes, Jaspal looked to see who addressed him. Night had fallen. The golden dome of the temple glowed like an eclipsed sun behind the figure, and silhouetted a man as he knelt at the side of the tank. Bending into the darkness, it seemed to Jaspal that a giant waited at the side watching him – a giant of a warrior with a high pleated turban and a great curving sword glistening at his belt.

Jaspal waded up the steps and stood dripping and uncertain. He squeezed the water out of his hair and clothes.

‘Here, have this,’ said the man as if it were an order, and handed him a thin towel. He was on his feet now and towered above the boy.

Obediently, Jaspal began to dry himself. Bending to towel his arms and legs, he stole glances at the guardian warrior. The flickering oil lamps brought colour and focus. The man’s height wasn’t an illusion. He was very tall. Well over six foot, but gaunt and thin like a ravaged tree. His high dark blue turban made him seem even taller and more imposing. But it was not just his height which was impressive, it was his thick, black, long beard; his mouth, with strangely chewed lips which, when he smiled, revealed uneven teeth with gaps, but white as pearl. His nose, which had once been broken, jutted out like the beak of a hunting bird. His cheeks hollowed into the prominent bone structure of his skull. His brow was like the overhang of a cliff, under which his eyes seemed to hide, disappearing into narrow crevices, but suddenly reappearing, wide, black and mesmerising, as if they could see and control your very soul.

As Jaspal began to shake out his topknot to dry his hair, the warrior strolled away. Jaspal watched him patrol all the way round the pool, casual as a tiger. By the time he returned, Jaspal was combing out his hair with great care, catching the strands in the teeth of the comb and allowing the warm night air to dry them.

‘The priest is reading from the Guru Granth Sahib now,’ said the man. ‘You will go and listen.’

Jaspal wasn’t sure if it was a question or a command, but he nodded and quickly knotted up his hair and rewound his turban round his head. He followed the guardian warrior towards the Golden Temple. It was like walking into the very heart of the sun. He wasn’t sure if he was being accompanied or escorted by the giant, who was both behind him and before him, for the warrior’s long, black shadow enveloped him as he walked along the causeway. He entered the brightly lit hall and sat cross-legged on a carpet before a raised platform on which a priest sat before a huge book, the Guru Granth Sahib.

The priest’s voice droned on and on. To his side, an attendant fanned him rhythmically. Jaspal felt like a vessel which had been emptied, but was now being filled again with something new – something that his body and soul needed for survival.

When the reading finished, the warrior beckoned Jaspal to follow. They left the main hall and went back along the causeway to the colonnade and into one of the prayer rooms off to one side. The warrior took out an old book and began flicking through the pages. ‘What brings you here so often?’ he asked, his eyes still on the pages which he turned. ‘I’ve noticed you. You come often, but always alone. Have you no family?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jaspal. ‘But they are out in the village. I come in on the train.’

‘Why do you come here to the temple? Has some voice spoken to you in the stillness of your heart about God and his prophets?’

Jaspal looked up – his face so coldly blank that even the warrior flinched under the chill gaze. ‘No voice, sir!’ Jaspal answered. ‘Just a feeling . . . ?’

‘A feeling?’ the warrior repeated.

‘A sort of feeling – that there is something that has to be done. Something I have to do. I don’t yet know . . .’ his voice trailed away, embarrassed.

‘Can you read?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Read this.’ The priest opened a holy book.

Jaspal ran his finger along the Punjabi script.

‘There is one God:

His name is Truth;

The All-Pervading Creator.’

He read slowly but fluently, being more familiar with English script than Punjabi.

‘Do you go to school?’

Jaspal shrugged. ‘I’m supposed to but . . .’

‘But?’ The voice was severe.

‘It’s boring. I know it all. I need more.

‘What does your father do?’

‘He was a scholar and a soldier, but – he’s a farmer now. He works his inheritance.’

‘Will you be a farmer too?’

‘I thought I would, when I was in England, but now . . .’ He paused.

‘Now?’ The priest’s voice was low and searching.

Jaspal shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

The priest shut the book and closed his eyes deep in thought. ‘We need hawks. You are nothing but a sparrow.’

The guardian warrior led him out of the sanctum. ‘Have you thought of being a priest?’

Jaspal stared. No. No. Inside him the word was no.

‘Think about it. But what our revered master meant was that we need our priests to be hawks. Think about the qualities of a hawk, and if you think you have them, come back to me. Come here and ask for Amarjit Singh.’

Nazakhat must have slept. Curled up in one of the railway arches alongside the track. It was dark when he awoke. He had deliberately missed the last train, unwilling to abandon Jaspal in the town. It was not the first time they had had to walk back in the darkness, following the gleaming serpentine rails. He shook himself with annoyance. He hadn’t intended to sleep. Now he must have missed Jaspal.

He got to his feet and stared down the track. In the far distance he could see the spotlight of an approaching train, powerful as Lord Shiva’s third eye, destroying any darkness which came within its gaze. It caught a figure standing at the side of the track. Nazakhat knew it was Jaspal before the cone of dazzling white light moved on, leaving him plunged in a black void.

The train passed hissing and spitting; grinding steel upon steel. Golden sparks splattered the night. The sound was thunderous and deafening. A brief and awesome orange hole slid by within which half-naked, black figures shovelled coal as if stoking up the fires of hell. Then oblivion.

Nazakhat waited a long time for the sound of the train to die away before shouting, ‘Brother!’ He began to walk along the rails unable to see if Jaspal had heard him and was bothering to wait.

There was no answer. He walked for an hour, alone in the darkness, with only a vague glint of new moon on the rails. It would be at least another hour of walking before he reached Deri. He began to sing a film song to cheer himself up, striding across the sleepers between the rails. Then he became aware that he was not alone. Pacing him on the path alongside was a figure. Nazakhat knew it was Jaspal.

He stopped singing. ‘So you’re there.’

No answer.

‘Why are you angry?’

No answer.

‘Did I do something to offend you, brother?’

No answer.

‘Where did you go?’

No answer.

Nazakhat felt a pang of unease. ‘Why do you not speak?’ he asked.

‘Speaking is useless,’ said Jaspal in a low, distinct voice.

‘How else can one communicate?’ asked Nazakhat.

‘There are other ways.’

‘Such as?’ Nazakhat waited for Jaspal to say more but he didn’t, so Nazakhat began singing again at the top of his voice, so as not to walk the rest of the way to the village in silence.