Darshan (9 page)

Khushwant sighed. “You do not have to be cruel, Baba. He only just got here.”

Ranjit stood and pushed back his chair.

“It is not time already, is it?” Desa asked. “Sit down and finish your tea.”

“I really tried to find them, Baba,” Ranjit said. “But I am just like you. I am no different. That is the reason I could not bring them back.” He bent to kiss Desa’s forehead. “Thank you for the tea,” he murmured and left.

Baba Singh went to his room conflicted by the mixture of fury and sorrow weighing heavily in his chest, wishing he had the courage to ask his brother to stay. He opened the top drawer of his bedside table, and pulled out the vial of mint extract the doctor had given Harpreet. He had the habit of rolling it between his palms when he was upset, but now it did little to comfort him. He took a deep, shaky breath, clutching the vial, squeezing it tightly.

He found himself walking to a place that he had frequented these past few years. Everyone was scared of it, this particular building located on Suraj Road, scared of the ghosts that lived there, of the stories it told. Settling down on the pavement, Baba Singh leaned against the black, dust-coated façade, his knees pulled to his chest, finding solace in memories of Dr. Bansal. “Hey, hey, Baba, don’t drop those tins. The odor released will cause a burst of hair to sprout from your nostrils. I tell you, long enough to braid. It happened to me once.”

Baba Singh smiled, feeling the smooth glass glide between his hands. He would stay for a while, until night fell, until it was time yet again to go home, to climb in bed and be consumed by his dreams, one in particular that had taken clearer shape, and which he would never forget.

Whatever the doctor had done, it had not been with malice. It had been an accident. Yashbir had said so. “An unfortunate mess,” the blacksmith often told him, “But the doctor looked as though he had made his peace with it. He was not scared, Baba. He was very brave.”

~   ~   ~

Baba Singh clutched the edges of his charpoy. He was tumbling from a great height, tumbling from the black dome of the night sky until finally he landed hard in the dust on his hands and knees. Fear made his limbs tremble, made him sweat. Rivulets of it ran down his backside beneath his kurta. Far away down the path a man approached him in the dark, deliberately and slowly. Closer now Baba Singh could make out the man’s rumpled dhoti, his chappals, his turban, and his well-defined naked torso.

The man continued forward. Closer and closer until Baba Singh could see that he was faceless. Shadows eclipsed his eyes, nose, and mouth. No longer advancing, the man waited. Panic pounded Baba Singh’s insides. Dirt and rocks ground into the flesh of his palms and knees. He could see the musculature of the man’s forearms, holding aloft a large coconut in one hand and a sword in the other.

Then Baba Singh understood, and he was no longer afraid. He rose from the dirt, his body imbued with renewed strength, his own muscles developed and powerful. Eying the coconut greedily, he knew with infinite certainty that it was his salvation. Quickly he sprinted toward the faceless man. With one quick jerk of his wrist, he snatched the sword away. Eerily still, the man made no resistance and remained motionless as Baba Singh ran the sword into his naked chest. Staring curiously into the shadowy face, Baba Singh heard a gurgle as the man choked on his own blood and slumped to the ground.

Fear returned.

Alone now he stood in the faceless man’s place, sword in one hand and the coconut on the ground before him. Desperately he began to hack at the coconut, striking it as he did metal on the anvil, over and over, again and again. But the coconut would not open. Something was wrong. Weeping, he continued. Blow after blow after blow that, had Khushwant not woken him, could have continued in perpetuity.

The Mighty Champion Splash Maker

1915–1919

Family Tree

From the edge of the pond, splashes resembled temporary soaring twigs of ice crystals. They were dewy, glimmering bubbles. A commotion. A shattering of smooth, reflecting surfaces, like bombs kicking cities up into dust. It was a grand spectacle that ended so quickly, leaving behind nothing of substance, nothing to show for such a build-up of spirited effort, the height of the jump, the warrior cry. Baba Singh thought it had always been so with Ranjit.

Off saving Indians from the world, his brother gained nothing for his efforts. He had gone to Amritsar a fully-fledged affiliate of the Ghadarite party to conspire with revolutionaries, but the police foiled every scheme his leader of the revolution, Mr. Rashbehari Bose, had formulated to derail trains and blow military posts sky high. The Ghadar party, with their grand promises, had yet to aid a single one of their countrymen. While striving for a momentous impact, trying to atone for a long-ago mess he had not been able to clean up, Ranjit had recklessly made a new one.

Life was not a pond back in Harpind, Baba Singh would have told his brother if Ranjit had not already been arrested and sent away to prison with his fellow cohorts.

But it was not only the revolution that was devastating the Punjab. Turmoil had spread to every corner of the globe, a great war, of which Great Britain was a central player, or so the townspeople and villagers of the region had heard. Royal British army recruiters made off with their sons like loot, like commodities stuffed into their back pockets. They had taken Baba Singh’s cousins, Ishwar and Tejinder, offering a high wage in exchange for the risk to their lives, which was at least more than Ranjit had accomplished.

But, although his brother may have been a failure, he was apparently no traitor, even under duress, and it had saved his life. Residents of Amarpur searching for sons and cousins who had also joined the party reported that after its fall, many—particularly the informants—had been hanged in Amritsar for collaborating to create civil unrest. Because of Ranjit’s silence, investigators had not been able to confirm his Ghadarite involvement, which was fortunate. Now he would simply need to wait, finish his sentence in penitent disgrace before someday returning home.

Desa packed a bag as soon as they discovered Ranjit was still alive. In her room, working efficiently and quickly, she folded a kurta and shoved it in, followed by some stale rotis and a tin of spinach.

“Where are you going?” Baba Singh asked from the doorway.

She regarded him with astonishment. “To see him. Aren’t you coming?”

“They will not let you simply walk in for a visit. It is not so easy.”

“How would you know that?” She found a small piece of rope and tied the bag shut. “Khushwant,” she called out.

“The train does not come today,” Baba Singh told her.

“We are taking a tonga.” She stepped past him and crossed the hallway into his and Khushwant’s room.

“What about Bapu?” he asked, following her. “Who will feed him?”

“Khushwant,” she said again, ignoring Baba Singh. “Are you ready?”

Gathering some things together, Khushwant nodded.

“But we do not even know if the information is accurate,” Baba Singh said. The tailor, who had just left, had relayed the news but had not been entirely positive. He merely told them that his son, who had also joined the party and later escaped, had a source.

Desa turned sharply to Baba Singh. “He is there. In that prison.”

“I am not going,” he said. “Ranjit has not done anything except make things worse.”

Angry, she shoved him, hard. He hit the wall behind him. “You are too old to believe a person can be perfect,” she said. “You are now his age when he went on a train to go find them. Would you have had the courage? He did not know what the world was like. None of us had ever left this place. You would blame him for the whole war if you could, for everything that has gone wrong. But he has done more than you or I. At least he tried.”

~   ~   ~

The sky looked like rain, a sheet of it in the distance drawing nearer as Baba Singh sat on the edge of the train station platform, allowing his legs to dangle over the tracks.

Desa’s words ate at him like moths chewing on stored winter blankets. He pictured Ranjit’s jail cell. It was a place he had imagined many times before, a place where Dr. Bansal had been lost. The dankness must have been the worst of it. Seeped of warmth and wet like clammy, fever-ridden hands. Baba Singh did not want to go there. He was scared of being trapped and forgotten. Awful, awful memories would be loosened and freed. Avoidance was out of the question in a place like that. It was impossible to skirt around fears when alone for the duration of your life. Perhaps only at first, but sooner or later, the shameful things always made a stand and demanded to be noticed.

He glanced again at the rain, still far off. Cocking his head to the left, he dug a finger under the rim of his new turban, attempting to stretch it out. It was too tight, his ears pressed too firmly into his head, like he would need to peel them off later. Yashbir had insisted that he wear it. There was no specific age for wearing a turban, yet he was getting older and beginning to look absurd walking about with only a topknot. Even Khushwant wore a turban. He had for several years now, because Ranjit had taught him, as he had once tried to teach Baba Singh.

Watching the rain move closer, shame pressed a hard hand against Baba Singh’s chest, because Desa was right. His brother had always tried.

It had only been a few weeks since Baba Singh learned how to tie a turban. Yashbir had resolutely directed him into his apartment, closing the curtain with the finality of a steel door. “Who will marry you like this?” the blacksmith asked, gesturing at Baba Singh, an overall gesture meant to suggest the pitiful tiptoe pace his young friend was making into manhood. His gaze ended somewhat reprovingly at Baba Singh’s head. “Marriage is something you should begin to think about, Baba,” he said as he unwound the sky-blue fabric of his own turban.

The old man’s head appeared much smaller without the pillow of cloth, seemed fragile and wizened. His expression softened, and Baba Singh felt uneasy. Opening a drawer, Yashbir then pulled out a green turban, the color of spinach. “Marriage can be a new beginning,” he said.

Taking the turban from Yashbir, Baba Singh removed the cloth of his topknot. Looking to the blacksmith for guidance, he bit the end of the six-yard-long cloth between his teeth as instructed, and together they practiced winding and folding, creasing and tucking until Baba Singh could manage it by himself.

When they were done, he scrutinized his reflection in Yashbir’s small hand mirror. The turban was a little heavy, making his neck feel thin like a chicken’s. It would take some getting used to. Gently placing his hands flat against the cloth to press the padding tightly against his head, he tried to get comfortable with the image. Staring at himself, he wondered who would wed their daughter to a young man who had been so often seen sitting outside Dr. Bansal’s haunted building, who only had an empty hotel and a shrunken, withered family to offer his bride.

But Yashbir had already seen to that, perhaps had someone in mind all along.

Feeling the air grow brisk as the rain crept upon the edges of town, Baba Singh stood, ready for his new beginning. The sky darkened as he stepped down off the platform and onto Suraj Road toward the blacksmith shop.

~   ~   ~

Prem Singh had wary eyes circled by weathered lines. They were watchful hawk’s eyes, and Baba Singh felt like prey beneath that hard stare. The man wore a cream-colored kurta and dhoti. He was tall and thin, like a rail, with lean calves, his feet bare, cracked and dirty. He possessed the ashy-skinned look of a farmer. A widower with no sons and four daughters—three of whom had moved away with their husbands—Prem Singh had only one unwed daughter remaining, his youngest, Sada Kaur.

“It was good of you to come, ji,” Yashbir said, offering Prem a seat.

Lowering himself into the chair, the farmer regarded Baba Singh disapprovingly. “You did not mention he is so short.”

Yashbir smiled easily. “Come, let us have tea.”

Prem frowned dubiously and crossed his arms. “Where is his father?”

The blacksmith appeared relaxed when he spoke, but Baba Singh could see that he was irritated. “We have already talked about what has happened to Baba’s family. Lal Singh is not available.”

“For this I thought he would try to collect himself.”

Embarrassed, Baba Singh could not meet Prem’s eye. Yashbir’s expression hardened.

“And what of the others?” Prem asked. “Where is his family?”

Yashbir stood abruptly, angry.

Instantly apologetic, Prem uncrossed his arms in a gesture of contrition. “Please, sit.”

“As a farmer, you have likely witnessed similar misfortune befall your fellow villagers,” Yashbir said. “In your position, it is not wise to interrogate Baba. He can help you.”

Curious, Baba Singh now looked directly at Prem.

The farmer took a breath. His mouth tensed. “Has Yashbir mentioned that I may soon need to borrow?” There was a bitter edge in his voice. “I do not have much land, but I cannot manage it on my own. I need a son, and all the young men of my village have disappeared to the war. If I marry my daughter to someone of another village, she will go there. I will have no one. I have not found any family willing to help.”

Baba Singh glanced at Yashbir, who had begun to pour tea into earthenware mugs. “It is a good match, Baba,” the blacksmith said. “I have met her. You will like her very much.”

Distant memories, filed away these past years, unfurled anew in Baba Singh’s mind: the scent of rosewood and neem trees, soft clay under his feet, the whisper of wind gliding through wheat crops, the smell of burning molasses in the afternoons, Ranjit, Khushwant, Ishwar, and Tejinder sprinting with him through the village to the pond. He wanted to kick off his sandals, air the sweat off, feel the breeze between his toes, the clay of earth under his nails. There were things he could not get back, things lost forever, but some of it, a small piece, might be possible to reclaim.