City of Ghosts (32 page)

‘Good. When you see Jeevan, tell him to come and see me – maybe I can talk to him.'

‘If I can
find
him,' replied Gurdial. ‘I'm going to try the orphanage but I'm not sure he'll be there.'

‘Is there anywhere else he might be?' Bissen asked.

‘I have a bad feeling,' admitted Gurdial. ‘There is a gathering at Jallianwalla Bagh this afternoon. I think he will be there.'

‘I thought all public gatherings had been declared illegal by General Dyer.'

‘They have. But that won't stop people from going.'

‘Dyer won't allow it,' said Bissen. ‘Just this morning the British warned us not to gather. When was the announcement for the Vaisakhi celebrations made?'

‘After the British warning,' Gurdial replied.

‘They won't allow it,' repeated Bissen.

‘It's Vaisakhi. People will gather like they do every year.'

Bissen shook his head. ‘After the riots?' he said. ‘There is too much tension in the city. There are too many agitators . . .'

‘That's why I'm worried. What if something happens at the Bagh?' Gurdial looked away for a moment, wondering whether to tell Bissen of Heera's warning to steer clear of the gathering, but deciding against it. He had been told in good faith, and he didn't want to break that trust. Instead he remembered the task he'd been set.

‘Oh, by the way,' he said, ‘the shopkeeper from across the road told me to give you this. It was delivered to him by mistake.'

Gurdial pulled a battered and worn envelope from his pocket, attempting to straighten it out before he handed it to Bissen. The letter hadn't come from any shopkeeper but Gurdial had been forbidden from telling Bissen the truth. Instead he tried to keep a straight face as he told his white lie.

‘It looks like it may be from overseas,' he said, fishing for information.

Bissen looked at the envelope in his hands. He tore into it, not worried about reading it all. He was only interested in one part: the words that would destroy his dreams or send him to heaven a happy man. It was handwritten, on expensive paper; four pages in all. Bissen scanned them all, quickly and quietly, until his eyes fell upon the words he had waited so long for. A single tear began to fall down his left cheek.

‘
Bhai-ji
– are you feeling unwell?' asked a concerned and slightly embarrassed Gurdial.

Bissen turned to the boy and pulled him into a bear hug. ‘
YES!
' he shouted.

‘
Bhai-ji
. . .?' began Gurdial, confused. The woman who had given him the letter had told him that Bissen would understand its provenance but Gurdial understood nothing.

Bissen let him go before wiping his cheek. ‘I have to go,' he said. ‘My wounds are aching and I need to rest . . .'

He excused himself and made his way quickly to his room. Once there he found his pipe and smoked a small
amount of
pheme
. When he was done, he lay back and read the letter over and over, until first tears and then sleep overcame him.

Gurdial knew he was in trouble the moment he saw Mata Devi on the steps of the orphanage. For a moment he considered turning back but there was no point. She had already seen him and, more importantly, he wanted to find out about Jeevan. He approached her, his head bowed.

‘Where have you come from, you dog?' she shouted.

‘I'm . . . I . . .'stuttered Gurdial.

‘Are you such a man now that you do not need to return to your own bed?'

‘Something happened,' he tried to explain.

‘Really?' she asked sarcastically. ‘Did someone kidnap you? Perhaps you fell down a well?'

Gurdial grinned. Mata Devi's sharp tongue hid her love and concern. She had been worried about him, that much was obvious. He decided that his best course of action was to tell a small, insignificant but entirely apt lie.

‘I couldn't tell you,' he said. ‘I was looking for Jeevan—'

Mata Devi's face changed immediately. ‘Do you know where he is?' she asked with genuine concern.

Gurdial shook his head.

‘He is in serious trouble,' she said. ‘Someone recognized him during the riots and now the police want to talk to him.'

‘But he wasn't there,' replied Gurdial. ‘Bahadhur told me—'

Mata Devi shook her head. ‘They were
all
there,' she explained, the sorrow heavy in her voice. ‘They say that Jeevan killed two bank managers—'

‘
No!
' shouted Gurdial. How could his friend have fallen so far? It just couldn't be true. No matter how much he had wanted to follow Pritam and his gang, to
belong
, Jeevan could not have killed anyone or anything. He simply didn't have it in him.

‘It's true,' Mata Devi insisted, her eyes beginning to water. ‘The assistant postmaster saw it with his own eyes.'

Gurdial's stomach churned. The assistant postmaster, Gurpal Singh, was a devout Sikh and would not have made it up. It had to be true.

‘I need to find him,' he said. ‘To help him.'

‘He hasn't been here,' Mata Devi told him. ‘The other boys haven't seen him either. He could be anywhere.'

‘What should I do if I find him?'

‘Bring him here,' she ordered. ‘If he is in trouble then we can help him. Perhaps we can save him from the gallows.'

‘And what if he won't come?'

Mata Devi held her hands up to the heavens. ‘Then his fate is in the hands of a higher power.'

‘I'll try the market first,' said Gurdial, only for Mata Devi to shake her head.

‘Everyone is going to the Bagh,' she told him, ‘to celebrate Vaisakhi and protest to the British.'

The thought pounded inside Gurdial's mind. He knew Jeevan's so-called revolutionary friends would want to be at Jallianwalla Bagh. Where else were they guaranteed to find yet another conflict with the
goreh
? There was no way the British would allow the protest, not after the violence that had started three days earlier, not when people had been murdered. He considered Heera's warning for a moment before putting it out of his mind.

Gurdial's heart began to pound as fast as his head and he said goodbye to Mata Devi, then turned and ran for the Bagh.

AFTER THREE DAYS
of lying on a mat on the floor, trying to get images of dying men out of his head, Jeevan's whole body ached. He stretched himself out, pushing his arms up; as his muscles relaxed he heard little pops in his shoulders. The rest of the gang had left earlier, on another round of Pritam's ‘revolution'. Jeevan had complained of feeling unwell and told them he'd join them later, at Jallianwalla Bagh. Pritam, perhaps out of pity or anger, had agreed that he should remain behind. But Jeevan had no intention of joining them. Instead he wondered what he could do to stop Pritam before he killed other innocents. Now, as he stood opposite the Golden Temple, he knew that he had to find the priest. There were so many thoughts flying around his head, so many emotions fighting for space in his chest. He
had
to tell someone and could think of no better person.

The complex was busy for mid-afternoon – people
had thronged here for Vaisakhi and the ensuing celebrations. Everywhere he looked, Jeevan could see rural families, lining up to pray inside the temple or simply strolling around. He pushed his way through the crowds, hoping he'd be able to find the priest before he got too busy. As he turned a corner he saw Udham Singh. Unwilling to stop, he tried not to make eye contact but a sudden surge in the crowds pushed him into Udham's path.

‘Careful,
bhai
!' said Udham with a smile. ‘What's the rush?'

‘Nothing,' replied Jeevan. ‘How are you,
bhai-ji
?'

‘Very well.'

Udham's black eyes danced with light and his smile was warm. He clapped Jeevan on the shoulder with a strong hand.

‘I have not seen you in a very long while, Jeevan,' he said. ‘Are you keeping out of trouble?'

Jeevan nodded. ‘It's always the same,
bhai-ji
. Mata Devi has us working our fingers to the bone.'

Udham laughed. ‘Are you coming to the Bagh today?' he asked.

Jeevan shrugged. ‘I have some things to do first. Perhaps when they are done . . .'

‘It is important that you come along,
bhai
. We must protest at the British and their actions.'

‘They won't allow it,' warned Jeevan. ‘Not after the riots.'

Mentioning the events of three days earlier made him
gulp down air; his hands grew sweaty and his scalp prickled.

Udham didn't seem to notice. ‘It will be peaceful,
bhai
,' he said. ‘Even the British will be able to see that.'

An image of Pritam snarling, eyes filled with bloodlust, sprang into Jeevan's mind. If Pritam had his way, there would be no peace at all.

‘I must go,' he said. ‘I'll see you there perhaps.'

‘I'll be near the well,' replied Udham, ‘helping to serve water.'

The priest nodded sagely as he listened to Jeevan. The boy was lost and confused, it was clear. The words that fell from his mouth were unrehearsed and hurried, colliding with each other in random patterns that made very little sense. He let the boy exhaust those words before he spoke up.

‘Calm down,' he said, ‘and tell me, slowly, what it is that you are talking about,
beteh
. Try to think about what you want to say
before
you say it.'

Jeevan, flustered and red in the face, nodded. ‘I was at the riots,' he repeated, watching the pace of his words this time. ‘I
killed
people . . .'

Saying it out loud sent a shudder through his body. He put his hands to his face and wept. The priest sat and watched him as he stood in the doorway. When the boy had finished, he asked him why he had come to see him.

Jeevan shrugged. ‘I wanted to talk to someone. I have
no parents and no family and I just wanted to try and explain that it was . . .'

The priest stood up and came over. He put a hand on Jeevan's shoulder. ‘Why did you kill those people?' he asked softly.

‘Because he told me that I had to,' whispered Jeevan. ‘He told me that India was my mother.'

‘Who?'

‘Pritam – the one who leads the gang.'

The priest said nothing.

‘I stood there, over those men,' continued Jeevan. ‘I lit a match. I set them alight . . .'

‘Which men were these?'

‘The bank managers . . .'

As the boy began to sob again, the priest shook his head. The men he had killed had died as gruesome and frightful a death as it was possible to imagine. Nothing about them – not the colour of their skin or their position in society – warranted what they had endured. They had been innocents, caught in a vicious storm. And now here, in his presence, was one of their killers. The question of what to do with the information reared its head. Should he let the boy go or call for the police? Either decision, the priest knew, would weigh heavily upon his shoulders.

Half an hour later Jeevan stood outside Bissen Singh's door, knocking for all he was worth. The priest had told him to go, informing him that he himself had a duty,
legal and moral, to summon the police and pass on everything that Jeevan had told him. ‘But I will allow you to leave before I do so. God is willing to forgive all, but you
must
pay the price . . .'

Jeevan had nodded his understanding and promised to turn himself in. ‘But there are some things I need to do first,' he'd said.

Now here he was, hoping to talk to a man he had cursed and been told was weak. A man who had killed out of duty and understood the toll that it took on a person. Jeevan did not understand why he sought out the soldier and had no idea what he wanted to say; all he knew was that he needed to talk to him. But Bissen wasn't answering his knocks and there was no sound from within. In despair, Jeevan slumped down on the step that he and Gurdial had sat on so many times in the past.

At the end of the lane he saw a woman walking towards him, her eyes fixed on his. He lowered his gaze and looked away, hoping that she would walk on by. Instead she stopped in front of him, removed her shawl and then took a seat at his side.

‘Hello, Jeevan,' she said, her voice warm.

Jeevan looked up at her, wondering how she knew his name.

‘There is very little I
don't
know,' the woman told him. ‘I know your friend, Gurdial, for instance, and I know that you sit outside the residence of an ex-soldier, a man whom you once admired; a man who is enslaved by
pheme
.'

Jeevan's eyes widened, filled with shock and fear.

The woman laughed. ‘You have nothing to fear from me,' she said, reading his mind. ‘I have been sent here to help you. My name is Heera.'

‘How can you know anything about me?' he asked. ‘Are you a witch?'

Heera shook her head. ‘No, not a witch – a ghost.'

‘I do not believe in ghosts,' replied Jeevan.

‘Your face is filled with sorrow,
beteh
,' continued Heera. ‘There dwells within you anger and guilt.'

‘No . . .'said Jeevan.

‘You killed two men—'

‘
NO!
' he screamed. ‘You can't know! How can you know?'

Heera placed her hand on his and told him to remain calm. ‘I
am
a ghost,' she repeated. ‘And I am here to save you.'

Suddenly Jeevan felt a sense of calm descend over him. He looked into the woman's eyes and saw that she meant him no harm. Instead, deep in her amber eyes, he saw what Fate held in store for him. He looked away, feeling nothing. All he had ever wanted was to belong, to be part of a family. And now the ghost had shown him where he would find that family.