City of Ghosts, page 25
‘Yes, sir,’ the three of them replied.
‘We are going to crush this rebellion, this act of defiance. Stopping them in the alleyways and lanes would have been a problem, but out there in the open – well, out there we can get them.’
‘It looks peaceful, sir,’ said Rehill, worried now.
Dyer snorted at him. ‘Those who have peaceful intentions will leave when we arrive, Superintendent. The ones who stay choose their own fate. We will send the rest of India a message today. Now, is everybody absolutely certain they know what their orders are?’
All three men nodded, Rehill with deep reluctance.
‘Right then, men – no time like the present!’ said Dyer.
Rehill couldn’t work out exactly what it was that he heard in Dyer’s voice. It was either anxiety or resolve, or perhaps both. Whatever the case, he could sense what was coming and it worried him deeply.
RA–TAT! RA-TAT-TAT! Suddenly Bissen found that he was alone, running straight at the German defences. Bullets whizzed past, etched with the names of others, not a single one meant for him. Mud and guts squelched beneath his feet as he approached the sand bags. He threw himself across them, rolled over and came up firing. RAT! RA-TAT-TAT! The earth shook as a shell landed not fifteen feet from where he stood. Shrapnel – deadly red-hot slivers of metal – flew about in all directions like fireflies disturbed on a summer’s night. But yet again they failed to touch him. He turned to his right and saw Gobar Singh Negi at his side, rifle raised, the back of his head missing. And then, to his left, the boy Jiwan, still smoking his cigarette as blood poured from the bullet hole in his forehead; blackened scorch marks puckering the skin around it like the underbelly of a mushroom. Another shell landed behind them—
RA-TAT-TAT-TAT! He found himself opening a door; the door to the room he had been given by Uncle Bertie. Lillian stood naked before him, her small upturned breasts flushed with colour. But within the blink of an eye the room disappeared, replaced by a snow-covered field. Bissen felt her hands wander down his back, across his buttocks, the left one settling on his wounds. He pushed against her, losing control as a film of perspiration covered her face and the scent of strawberries clung to the porcelain skin of her neck. Bissen arched his back—
RA-TAT-RA-TAT! The doors to the van flew open and the Persian brothers ordered Bissen to step out. The stench, foul and rancid, of animals long dead had seeped through the pores of his skin. His clothes were ragged, covered in blood and excrement. He stepped out into a biting cold wind and was led to a gangplank. The ship in front of him stood tall and proud as it bobbed up and down at the quay.
‘You get on!’ he heard someone shout. ‘Come quick!’
He looked down at his feet, saw that they were bare and wondered who had taken his shoes. He felt a crack on the back of his head and the world turned to darkness all around him—
RA-TAT! RA-TAT! RA-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Bissen awoke with a start, sitting up instantly. The room was baking hot and sweat fell freely from his armpits. His turban felt wet around the back, where it met his neck, his wounds ached and his loins still burned with desire. He swung his legs round and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head vigorously. Images from his dream, still fading, swam before his eyes. He rubbed them and looked down at his bony feet, then stood slowly and stretched out his arms as yet another knock sounded downstairs. Straightening his clothes and turban, he wiped his mouth free of drool and made his way down to answer the door.
The bright sunshine nearly blinded him when it opened, and there, standing with a huge grin on his face, was the weaver, Gurnam Lal.
‘Did I wake you, bhai?’ he asked.
Bissen blinked a few times before replying. ‘Just taking a nap, bhai-ji . . . What can I do for you?’
Gurnam shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘Think about what I can do for you!’
Bissen shook the final remnants of his dream from his head. ‘I do not understand,’ he said.
‘I am here, under strict orders from my wife, to make sure that you come to the celebration today.’
‘I’m not sure I want to come,’ replied Bissen. ‘I have much to do—’
‘No, no, bhai,’ insisted Gurnam. ‘It is not a request, it is an order! Will you let me return to my wife, accurate as she is with her rolling pin, and admit defeat? Never!’
Bissen asked Gurnam why he had been knocking so loudly.
‘That wasn’t me,’ replied Gurnam. ‘The last knock was mine, I’ll admit, but the ones before that were those of a young man—’
‘What young man?’ Bissen asked.
‘One of those orphans you seem to collect. He was standing on your step when I came round the corner, talking to an old woman. I asked him if he was looking for you and he said that he was but that he needed to go—’
‘Did he give you his name?’
Gurnam nodded. ‘Jeevan . . . And then he and the old woman left. I turned to knock at your door and when I looked back again, they had vanished.’
‘Vanished?’
Gurnam grinned again. ‘Perhaps they were ghosts,’ he joked.
‘I won’t be able to get rid of you, will I?’ said Bissen in a resigned tone.
‘Just half an hour, bhai,’ pleaded Gurnam. ‘That’s all I ask. And besides, my wife says there may be a pretty young woman for you to glance at.’
The letter! Bissen told Gurnam to give him five minutes. Without waiting for a reply he turned and ran back up the stairs. In his room, lying on the floor by the bed, was Lillian’s letter. He looked at it and read it once more, thanking God that it said what it did. Fate had dealt him many blows over the years, agonies from which it had been difficult to recover. If they had been advance payment for this one blessing, this one glorious, glorious blessing, then without any doubt they had been worthwhile.
He tucked the letter into his pocket, then poured some water into a bowl and splashed it onto his face, savouring its cooling effect. He dried himself before changing his shirt and straightening his turban once again.
When he returned to the door, Gurnam was sitting impatiently on the step.
‘You are worse than a woman, bhai!’ the weaver scolded. ‘Were you making yourself decent just in case there is a pretty woman to glance at?’
Bissen, who had experienced Gurnam’s efforts at matchmaking in the past, nodded. It made no difference: within weeks he would have all that he had ever longed for, back in that far-off country for which he had fought so hard. He smiled to himself as he set off for the Bagh, with Gurnam chattering incessantly. Soon Lillian’s smile would be real again and not some distant memory. The touch and feel of her skin would be with him every night and he would awaken to her scent each morning. And she would no longer have to hide her secret, as she had done for these past three years or so. He would make sure of that. His time in Amritsar was drawing to a close and he welcomed it with open arms. Each Punjabi sunset he witnessed from this day would bring him one step closer to her.
As he walked along, he had the feeling that he’d forgotten something but couldn’t recall what it was. It niggled away at the back of his mind but he ignored it, patting the pocket that contained Lillian’s letter.
‘Are you all right, bhai?’ asked Gurnam.
‘I’ve never been better,’ replied Bissen, smiling warmly. ‘It is going to be a beautiful day.’
By the time Gurdial entered the maze of narrow lanes around Jallianwalla Bagh, the sun had begun to burn blood red, so low that it might have been sitting on the rooftops of Amritsar. The sky around seemed to darken as wisps of cloud were drawn together to form one mass. A sudden breeze dried the sweat on Gurdial’s face, making him shiver. He turned into one of the narrow passages that led down to the Bagh, pushing through the crowds on their way to the gathering.
As he neared the entrance Gurdial lost his footing and fell to the ground. Before he had a chance to pick himself up, two strong, calloused hands lifted him out of the dirt. Gurdial looked up and saw the face of Mani Ram, a trader from the marketplace.
‘What’s the hurry, boy?’ Mani asked with a smile.
‘I’m trying to find my friend . . . Jeevan,’ replied Gurdial, stepping to one side to let people past.
‘Well, you won’t find him with your face buried in the dust, will you?’
Gurdial shrugged.
‘You look worried, beteh,’ added Mani.
‘My friend is in trouble. And I’m worried because of the riots—’
‘No, no!’ Mani replied, shaking his head. ‘We are here to listen to our people. There is no need for any trouble today, not on Vaisakhi.’
Remembering Heera’s warning, Gurdial nodded but knew not to believe Mani. Besides, as he passed through the city he’d sensed the tension in the air. The British would want revenge for the riots, which had left many dead and injured. They would not care that it had been an act of revenge and despair. And as a teacher had once told him, revenge was self-propagating; like a seed that, once planted, flowers each year, over and over. He said goodbye to Mani Ram and walked into the Bagh.
It was full of people; thousands of them. They were listening to someone reading out a poem. A wooden platform had been set up as a stage, with a microphone and speakers. The poet finished and the stage was taken by someone else. Gurdial waded into the crowd, eager to find Jeevan. His short, wiry frame allowed him to duck and weave through the dense forest of bodies. He turned his head to avoid a pair of broad shoulders but walked straight into a heavily perspiring breast and a clip around the ears.
‘You dog!’ he heard the woman shout as her scent invaded his nostrils.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just passing through the crowd and I didn’t mean to—’
But the woman had already turned away. Gurdial looked up and saw the sun once more; it looked as though it might fall right on top of them. The clouds – dark purple and orange – fought for space in the sky. Gurdial shuddered. Something felt wrong but he couldn’t work out what it was.
He continued fighting his way through the crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend, but there were too many bodies, too many faces. Eager women and smiling children got in his way, and at each turn he saw determined-looking men watching and listening. At one point he spotted the man the crowd were listening to: the newspaper editor Pandit Durga Dass, who was gesticulating wildly as he spoke passionately about the evils of the Rowlatt Act. The Pandit was a man well known to Gurdial – a kind, decent man who had often visited the orphanage bearing sweets.
And then suddenly he was clear of the crowd. He was by the large well, behind and to the right of the stage. Udham Singh was there with some other men. They were talking and passing cups of water to those in need. Udham saw Gurdial and held up his hand. Gurdial returned the greeting. He looked over to the stage and saw that the Pandit was still talking. Next to him stood a little girl and her mother. Her hair fell in honey-brown ringlets and she held a battered old doll. Gurdial smiled and the girl giggled at him.
A shout went up from Gurdial’s left. He turned to see a disturbance taking place in the crowd. People seemed to be running but he couldn’t make out what they were running from. The speaker urged them to be calm.
‘They won’t shoot!’ he insisted.
Then Gurdial heard the sound of whistles. And after the whistles, as people began to scream, he heard the first of the gunshots.
Jeevan fought his way clear of the crowd and out into the open to the left of the stage. He was facing the western entrance to the Bagh and noticed that it seemed strangely deserted. The other four passageways were much narrower than the one he faced yet these were heaving with people trying to make their way in. He shivered, recalling what he had seen in the eyes of the ghost, before turning to the task at hand.
On his way to the Bagh he had played things back in his mind: the first time he’d spoken with Pritam; the warmth in Hans Raj’s smile. He had felt part of something real and important. And then he’d seen the faces of the bank managers, the fear and desperation in their eyes as they lay amongst the piles of wood, doused in kerosene. He’d replayed the match falling, the kerosene exploding into life. The screams of the burning men had filled his ears and he’d wept openly, ignoring the strange looks passers-by were giving him. It was too late for Jeevan to worry about his own fate; he knew that now. All that remained was to find Pritam and stop him from turning some other young man into a carbon copy of himself: a vicious, cold-blooded murderer.
Up ahead of him, halfway to the stage, he saw a familiar face, the dark skin pitted with acne scars: Rana Lal. Jeevan felt a surge of energy flow through his body as both determination and fear took hold in his heart. He sprinted towards Rana, hoping he wouldn’t lose him in the ever-increasing numbers of people.
‘Rana!’ he shouted out, straining to be heard above the public address system and the general noise.
For a moment it seemed that Rana hadn’t heard, but then he turned round, saw Jeevan and gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Bhai! We thought you had run away.’
As Jeevan heard him say ‘we’, he smiled. Pritam was close by. He reached Rana and clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I would never run,’ he insisted. ‘Not when there are battles to be won!’
Rana grinned at him again. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘the others are nearby.’
Jeevan nodded but didn’t have to go far because the others suddenly appeared. Sucha and Bahadhur greeted him excitedly, but Pritam, dressed in his usual black turban and grey kurta, his dark eyes manic, held back. When the four younger men had finished exchanging pleasantries, Pritam took Jeevan to one side.
‘I didn’t think you’d be here,’ he told him.
‘And why is that, bhai-ji?’
Pritam gave Jeevan a sardonic smile. ‘Let’s just say I saw something in your eyes after you killed those men.’
Jeevan gulped down air and his scalp began to prickle once more. The very mention of the dead men . . . ‘I needed time to adjust,’ he replied quickly. ‘To make sense of things.’
‘And now? Are you ready to fight on?’
Jeevan nodded firmly. ‘I’m more than ready. I am willing to lay down my life, bhai-ji.’
For a moment Pritam’s eyes betrayed his shock but he quickly recovered and held Jeevan’s gaze with his cold, dead stare. Jeevan realized that he was searching for something – a sign of weakness that would give the game away. At that moment he heard Heera’s voice telling him to remain calm. In his head he answered, but on the outside his eyes gave nothing away.
It was Pritam who looked away first. ‘They say this gathering will be peaceful,’ he spat. ‘I say we will make some more traitors pay.’
‘Where is Hans Raj?’ Jeevan asked.
Pritam gestured towards the stage. ‘He’s over there. I’m waiting for him to give us our orders.’
Jeevan looked across at the wooden platform but couldn’t see Hans Raj. Instead he saw Pandit Durga Dass, raging against the Rowlatt Act. He held back a smile as he remembered the Pandit’s visits to the orphanage. For a moment his thoughts turned to Gurdial, but then he heard shouts coming from the crowd. He looked over to the source of the commotion: the goreh were coming through the western entrance, carrying guns.
Pritam, who had also seen what was happening, did the last thing Jeevan expected of him. His face changed colour and his eyes melted until they held only fear. They turned this way and that, as though looking for the nearest escape route.
Jeevan realized the time had come. ‘What are you looking for, Pritam?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ muttered Pritam. ‘I think we should make our way over to the stage.’
‘But the goreh are over there,’ Jeevan pointed out.
‘Let’s attack them!’ suggested Rana Lal.
Sucha and Bahadhur looked from Rana to Pritam and then Jeevan.
He grinned. ‘Do you want to die today?’ he asked them calmly.
They shook their heads.
‘Well then, run!’ he commanded. ‘Run and don’t turn back.’
‘What are you—?’ began Rana, but Jeevan ignored him. Rana looked to the others and then, his eyes beginning to water, he ran. Sucha and Bahadhur followed seconds later.
‘Well, Pritam – what are we waiting for?’ Jeevan asked.
Pritam’s cold stare was once more in place, but Jeevan had seen the fear in his eyes, could almost smell his desperation.
‘Are you scared?’ he asked, taunting the other boy.
Pritam squared his powerful shoulders and threw a punch. Jeevan ducked it and buried his own fist in Pritam’s midriff. It caught a rib and made him gasp for air. All around them the crowd began to panic and run as Pritam threw more blows at Jeevan, smashing the bridge of his nose. As Jeevan wiped away blood, he saw again the contorted faces of the men he had killed, smelled their skin and fat as it sizzled and popped. He glared at Pritam, the loathing burning in his eyes. And then the Pandit’s voice rang out from the speakers.
‘They won’t shoot,’ he told the crowd. ‘Stay calm . . .’
Jeevan turned, knowing that the soldiers would be taking aim. He heard the whistles sound. Realizing that everything he had seen in Heera’s eyes was about to come true, he uttered a prayer before grabbing Pritam and holding him tight.
‘Come, bhai,’ he spat. ‘Help me to free my mother!’
Jeevan waited until the first gunshot cracked out before surging forward into the fray, taking Pritam with him . . .
Rehill was sitting in a car that was trundling along behind General Dyer’s. Dyer, in his open-topped car, had Sergeants Pizzey and Anderson with him to serve as bodyguards, with two armoured vehicles at each side, and troops marching to the front and rear. Rehill had been given Plomer, much to his dismay. The man spent the entire journey parroting General Dyer – talking of teaching the Indians a lesson – Punjabis in particular. He didn’t have a clue – he was more likely to chew off his own foot than engage a native in conversation. The man was a buffoon, and the most dangerous kind at that; a fool with a uniform and a gun.
