Darshan (7 page)

“From where?”

“From Amarpur, ji.”

The man frowned and began to flip through some papers. “Amarpur,” he muttered. He paused, then looked up. “Already gone to Calcutta.”

“Did you see two little girls?” Desa asked, indicating how tall they were. “One of them four, the other seven.”

“I have not,” the official said, then pointed off to the left. “For lost luggage and persons, the superintendent’s office is that way.”

But the superintendent had not seen them either and suggested they buy tickets to Calcutta.

“But what if they got off?” Ranjit asked, frustrated.

The man gave him a blank look. “I do not know what you want me to do.”

“Help us,” Desa said, reaching out to the man. “Please.”

“The ticket booth is there,” he replied, ushering them out and shutting the door to his office.

They weakly looked around.

“I will go,” Ranjit finally said. “If they are in Calcutta, I will find them.”

Yashbir shook his head. “You cannot go alone.”

“One of us has to,” Ranjit replied, already stepping away from them and into the crowd toward the ticket booth. “Stay here. Look everywhere.”

“Wait!” Desa shouted, thrusting Avani’s elephant at him. “Take it.”

Ranjit took the wooden toy. “I will find them,” he said and disappeared.

The rest of them stayed in Amritsar until morning, until Yashbir told them they had to go back. They had no leads that could take them from the station into the city.

Desa refused. “
They
would not have given up,” she cried. But when she stepped outside into the madness of morning traffic, she relented with dismay. Everywhere was simply too vast. She bent her head, and Yashbir led them home.

At the hotel, opium smoke lingered in the air. Lal was in his room.

Lying on his charpoy, Baba Singh was unable to sleep. Across from him, Khushwant was in a similar state, staring blankly and unblinkingly at the ceiling. Without a word, he turned on his side to face the wall.

Dr. Bansal’s undelivered brown-paper-wrapped package still rested on the bedside table. Baba Singh picked it up and turned it over, touching the Calcutta address. He pulled on the strings and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a greasy box crammed tightly with ladoos. Inside there was a note that read:
Mother, please forgive me. Your son, Nalin

A Coconut & a Sword

1911–1914

Family Tree

There were coconuts, and there were swords to slice them open. That is what Dr. Bansal had said about Calcutta. “They thrive in the city. Coconut wallahs sell them from their street carts. ‘Fresh coconut, refreshing, fresh, fresh drink!’ they shout while lopping off the tops with machetes. Right there in front of you.”

The doctor palmed the hard, green coconut that rested in the center of the counter. He lifted it and affectionately began to pet it, like trying to mold its crown into a cone. “A man visiting from Amritsar was here recently and gave it to me. Have you ever tasted one, Baba?”

Baba Singh mutely shook his head.

“Climate here is not good for it. Too far north. But better to ask. Better never to discount the possibility.”

Baba Singh regarded the coconut dispassionately.

“Would you like to try a piece?” Dr. Bansal asked, then abruptly put up his hand without waiting for an answer. “No, you do not have to speak. Of course you do. All children are curious about the undiscovered. It is what makes them healthy. Stronger than adults, I say.” He tossed the coconut gently in the air and caught it with both hands, nearly dropping it. Still, he looked satisfied, blinking and smiling. “Let’s open it up.”

He stepped outside for a moment, propping ajar the door. Banging the coconut against a large rock outside, he grunted with the effort. There was a crunching sound, like stepping on loose gravel, and he returned in a hurry. “Oop, oop, oop!” he said as coconut juice dribbled down his hand to his wrist. Rushing the coconut over to a small bowl, he poured out a whitish liquid. “Machetes are much more efficient. Almost lost all the water.”

The doctor split the coconut, now leeched of its juice, open into two halves and sat in his chair. He paused to push a platter of ladoos toward his silent young friend, like offering a balm intended to aid healing, then began to scrape out the innards of the coconut with a small knife. “Did you know that coconut is the most complete food?” he said. “It is life and survival. Meat, milk, water, and oil.”

Baba Singh wordlessly watched him, absently taking one of the ladoos and pressing it between his thumb and forefinger until it crumbled into a pile of bits on his plate. They had received a telegram several days after Ranjit went to Calcutta. He told them not to wait at every train, that he would let them know when he was coming. After Calcutta he had gone to Hyderabad. Then Bombay. Then Jodhpur. Udaipur. Jaipur. They did not know how he lived, how he managed to pay for food, train tickets, or his telegrams. Perhaps he would search forever. Maybe he would never come back.

The doctor laid his knife on the counter with a clink and offered up a jelly sliver of coconut meat. “Try a piece,” he said, shoving it at Baba Singh, who feebly waved it away.

“Take it,” Dr. Bansal said. “It is life. Survival and all that. It will help.”

When Baba Singh did not reach for the piece, the doctor set it on the plate next to the ladoo crumbs. He seemed to want to say something more, but hesitated. He glanced awkwardly at the burlap sack resting on the lower shelf by the entrance. “Baba,” he said finally, “the train station master came by to see me.”

More alert now, Baba Singh’s eyes flitted guiltily to the sack. Preferring to keep the bag with him, he usually left it there when he came in; with all the rubbish in the doctor’s office, he had assumed it would be overlooked. It contained a number of brown-paper-wrapped packages, all for Dr. Bansal’s mother in Calcutta. He had been hiding them away, including the one he had opened and meticulously repackaged so many weeks ago. One for every week his sisters had been missing. After returning to work he had begun to collect them for luck, amassing apologies until Kiran and Avani came home. He had become convinced that sending the bulk of them together would mean more, that in greater number they would have more of an impact. A mother would not be able to ignore them like that. She would have to forgive her son.

Dr. Bansal pretended that he had not noticed the sack and continued scraping. “He was worried. I do not think he knows how to ask you directly. It is never easy to ask about loss.”

Miserable, Baba Singh lowered his eyes.

“You should absolutely not blame yourself,” the doctor went on. “For any of it. I know you think you could have stopped it, that you should have watched Kiran and Avani more carefully, especially after losing your mother. You think it is what she would have expected. Maybe you think that you should never be forgiven. But you should be. You certainly should be. Most importantly, you should forgive yourself.”

He paused.

Baba Singh looked at him, then tentatively reached forward and took a piece of coconut. He put it on his tongue and closed his eyes, tasting the dull sugary-ness of it before swallowing it whole.

The doctor nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now drink some of this,” he said, passing Baba Singh the coconut juice and waiting until the boy had a few sips. “Better?” he asked.

Baba Singh nodded weakly.

“Well then,” the doctor beamed, removing a note from his pocket. “Forgiveness, especially of oneself, always brings great fortune. I was at the telegraph office this morning. The operator told me to give you this.”

Baba Singh unfolded the telegram.
In Amritsar. Stop. Will be on the next train to Amarpur. Stop.

For nearly six weeks his brother had pounded the ground of India. There was no hole, no dark place in existence beyond his scope. Ranjit was a champion splash maker. He had never let them down. He flew.

He was coming.

~   ~   ~

The train hissed to a stop. The packed-in passengers stared through the windows at the Toor family, mildly curious about this small-town stop en route to bigger cities. One of the cars opened to release a handful of people, among them Ranjit, who stepped from the train and onto the platform like a stranger.

He was thinner than Baba Singh remembered, but healthy. He wore the same maroon turban, but it was tied sharply now, the material ironed smooth, creases edged like stacked knife blades with a high twist at the front, like a dancer’s flourishing hand. And his jet-black beard was tucked up neatly. His clothes were also different: a button-down shirt instead of his kurta, trousers instead of pajamas, laced oxfords instead of chappals.

Baba Singh smiled broadly, adjusting the burlap sack on his shoulder. Their good fortune was astonishing. After so much sorrow, Ranjit was here, finally standing before them with all the signs of a successful mission written on his rich clothing, the fierce glint of a warrior in his eye.

“Ranjit, you did it!” Khushwant said. “Where are they?”

His voice quiet, Ranjit replied, “I should have been more clear in my message.”

Grinning, Baba Singh peered behind his brother into the train car, wondering where the girls were hiding.

“But I could not write it.”

“Write what?” Baba Singh asked. He shot a quick look at Desa when his brother did not answer. She had paled, and he followed her eyes to see what she was seeing: Avani’s wooden elephant in Ranjit’s hand. His smile faded.

“It is such a big country,” Ranjit said sadly, “and they are such small girls. I am sorry.”

A short gust of wind blew gritty dust from the plains into their faces, stinging Baba Singh’s eyes, causing him to stumble backwards. Ranjit reached forward to steady him, but Baba Singh turned away and began to run, staggering down the platform stairs and onto Suraj Road. The echo of his family calling his name dimmed behind him. All sound faded entirely. His thoughts stumbled.

He had not quite made it to Dr. Bansal’s, hurrying past India Quality Cloth, when he saw the door to Mr. Grewal’s money-lending establishment propped open by a steel chair. He halted, skidding in the dirt at the entrance in the dark shade of the building. His throat constricted. Confused and scared, he kneaded his forehead as though molding mud or clay, quickly glancing up and down Suraj Road. Practically empty, he observed, feeling unnoticed and alone. Everyone has gone home for lunch, he thought with detachment, then grimaced and began to cry.

Collecting himself, wiping his eyes on his kurta, he entered to see the moneylender.

“Mr. Grewal,” he called out, glimpsing the shelf of debt ledgers behind the store counter. He had seen those ledgers before. He had been here once, with his father, just before they were forced out of Harpind.

Lal had been worried that day, anxiety all over his face as he hovered intently over one of the books. “But, Mr. Grewalji, these numbers are not right. There has been a mistake.”

“No mistake,” the moneylender replied, snapping the book shut and replacing it on his shelf. “The numbers do not lie.”

“But I do not have enough,” Lal said.

“No problem at all, ji,” Mr. Grewal had assured him. A lie until he could arrange to send some men over. “For you, my friend, of course we can work something out.”

So many lies.

Baba Singh firmed his grip on his sack of ladoos and circled around the front counter, searching for the ledger he thought might contain his father’s debts.

“Is someone there?” Mr. Grewal said, stepping out from behind a shelf at the back. For one so cruel, the moneylender was such a miniscule, unassuming man. Bald and bony. He secured his spectacles higher up on the bridge of his nose and peered around the shop.

Baba Singh pulled one of the ledgers down from the shelf and came out from behind the counter. “I do not know what you did, but the numbers were not right.”

Turning toward the voice, Mr. Grewal frowned. “What are you doing here? You do not belong back there.”

“These numbers are lies.”

“I am not sure I know what you mean, young man,” Mr. Grewal said placidly, taking a step forward, eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as though trying to place the boy standing in the middle of his shop. Then he lifted his head in a slight nod of recognition.
Ahhh
, he seemed to say with a hint of disdain. “You could not pay.”

“It wasn’t done fairly.”

“Those books will not help you,” Mr. Grewal shrugged. “Everything is recorded precisely.”

Baba Singh rubbed his eyes, but despite all his efforts, he could not stop himself from crying. The burlap sack of ladoos was a lead block in his hand. Moving forward, he let it fall to the floor.

Several packages came loose, skidding across the linoleum towards Mr. Grewal.

~   ~   ~

Running home, his lungs searing, Baba Singh was beset with flashes of something horrible. His hands. He could recall his hands, the sensation of his fingers closing around his sledgehammer, but as he ran he knew he had not been to Yashbir’s that day.

Clutching his chest, he pushed open the hotel door, sprinted down the hallway to his room past Lal’s opium smoke, and flung himself on his charpoy.

He closed his eyes, recalling a glint of light reflected in Mr. Grewal’s spectacles. He covered his face. In revulsion he tried to shut the image out. “Fix the numbers,” he was saying, holding the bald little man against the wall, shaking the ledger at him. “Make it right!”

The moneylender scowled at the packages scattered about his feet. “Pick those up,” he said with irritation, struggling to free himself. He began to cough and sputter, a sudden panic behind the glint of his spectacles, unable to break loose as fingers closed around his windpipe.

Pushing aside the image, Baba Singh rocked on his charpoy, his hands pressed against his face, his nose crushed under his palm.

Sounds of a commotion came from the hotel lobby, and Baba Singh quickly looked up.

“Baba?” Khushwant called as he, Desa, and Ranjit rushed into the room. “Where did you go? We came here looking for you, and when we didn’t find you, we—”