Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? (23 page)

“Our
part of the world?” interrupted Bibi-ji. “No, there you have made a mistake, Mr. Longman.”

“Longbottom,” the principal corrected her.

“Mr. Longbottom. On Main Street we are
very
law-abiding citizens. Nobody carries weapons. Only religious leaders are permitted to carry the kirpan, and baptized Sikhs. Of course for children it is not allowed.”

“No, Mrs. Singh. I don’t mean Main Street.” The prinicipal sounded weary.

Jasbeer kicked the leg of the principal’s table. He recognized that tone of voice. It made him helplessly furious. Too young to know that the word to best describe that tone was patronizing, he was not too young to understand the thread of meaning that ran through it.

“Not Main Street? Then what are you meaning exactly, Mr. Longmantle?”

“Longbottom, Mrs. Singh. Why, the P
oo
njab, of course,” the principal’s left eye twitched. “I realize it is part of the
Sikh religion to carry swords—or is it knives—and grow long hair and …”

Bibi-ji watched him discreetly consult a sheet of paper on his desk. Clearly a man who liked to be well prepared for his meetings with parents. He checked his notes and forged on: “… wear a steel bracelet and underwear.” Another look at his notes to be sure that it was indeed underwear—possibly steel underwear—that a true believer wore.

Bibi-ji glared at the principal. “
Pun
jab,” she said. “As in
fun,
as in
sun,
as in
bun.”

She had decided, the very first time she met him, that this milk-faced man with his prissy mouth and the chin of a horse was not worth liking, and she realized she had not been wrong. “I don’t know where you obtained such incorrect information. We are a peace-loving people and take up our swords only when we have to protect the weak. In our scriptures, Guru Nanak-ji, our first guru, may he rest in peace, says, and I will quote first in Gurbani and then in English for your benefit—”

Longbottom raised his hand. “I believe you, Mrs. Singh, and I apologize for my misinterpretation. But that is what Jasbeer led us to understand.”

“Jasbeer, putthar, is that true?” Bibi-ji transferred her glare to her charge.

Jasbeer squirmed. “I was only
pretending
to be Shaheed Dhyan Singh. Jason said I was a wimp because I wore my hair in a bun like a lady, so I was showing him how brave Sikhs are.”

“That’s not the way to show bravery, young man,” the
principal said sternly. “I am sure Mr. Dan Singh would not have used a kitchen knife.”

“Not mister,” Bibi-ji said. “Martyr.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Longbottom was confused.

“Shaheed means martyr,” Bibi-ji said. “It was
Martyr
Dhyan Singh, not Mister.”

“I see,” the principal said although he still looked confused. “In any case, we don’t allow knives or any other such implements in the school. And if you, Mr. and Mrs. Singh, could make sure our young brave here does not arm himself for school in the future I will be very grateful. He could have hurt another child, and matters could have become very serious, very serious indeed.”

Jasbeer’s teacher, still looking uncomfortable, followed them out of the office. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Singh, Mr. Singh. But I
couldn’t
allow Jasbeer to bring a weapon into school. I hope you understand.” It was clear that the meeting had been an extremely awkward one for her.

“Yes, yes we understand.” Bibi-ji smiled wearily.

“He is a bright boy otherwise,” she continued. “A very smart boy, with great potential.”

“Thank you.” Bibi-ji felt a glow of pride, even though she suspected the teacher said this to all the parents. She watched Jasbeer give his teacher a winsome smile, his eyes bright with mischief, and looked at him sternly. But what a handsome ladykiller of a boy he was, this child who had been granted to her by the generosity of Wahe-guru, Ooper-Wallah, The One Who Knew Everything.

Once they were out of the school, Pa-ji loosened his tie and ripped it off. He shrugged out of his jacket. He
slapped Jasbeer on the back. “That’s my boy,” he said. “He is a Punjabi lion all right, he has the right instincts. I hope you showed that Jason or whatever his name was, a lesson, eh? What, putthar? You want to join the army, enh? Like who, tell me?”

“Like Theka Singh, like Udham Singh who taught General Dwyer a lesson, like …” Jasbeer shouted, swaggering behind Pa-ji as they walked to the car.

Phat!
A large hand landed on his back. It was Bibi-ji, who was bringing up the rear. “Bas, bas, this is not your British-times story, this is Canada! No more of this war nonsense, you understand? And you”—Bibi-ji rolled past Jasbeer and tapped Pa-ji’s back a little harder than was comfortable as she waited for him to open the car door and then lowered herself into the front passenger seat— “you stop encouraging the boy with all this nonsense, understand? Keep your soldiers and martyrs inside your stories and books. This boy is going to get an education. I promised his parents that. And he is to become a lawyer. Or a doctor. Maybe an engineer. And you better listen to me, Jasbeer, otherwise you know what will happen?”

“Yes, Bibi-ji.” Jasbeer settled into the back of the car fully aware that, whatever their differences, Bibi-ji’s anger was a temporary thing and would dissolve like mist in the sunshine of her love for him. “You will beat me until I’m inside out.” Jasbeer leaned over and kissed her neck, knowing that she would never lay a hand on him hard enough to really hurt. “So hard that I’ll fly to Timbuctu.”

“Good, don’t forget that for one instant. And your Pa-ji also will get what he deserves if he puts any more of
these stupid ideas into your head. Did you hear, Mister Khushwant Singh?”

“Bak-bak-bak, that’s all she knows to do.” But Pa-ji didn’t get any further into the argument—as Lalloo had so often pointed out, in the interests of domestic harmony sometimes it was wise to lose.

As they drove down Main Street, Bibi-ji noticed how much busier it had become since they had moved here all those years ago. Two blocks from their restaurant was Majid the Barber, the red and white striped pole outside his shop glistening with new paint. A jewellery store had opened across the road, and Lalloo had opened a travel agency beside it—a shrewd move, it turned out, as there was never a shortage of desis waiting to buy cheap tickets to India. After much thought he had named it Far Out Travels, and the customers had poured in almost from the first week. Farther on were two new grocery stores competing with Mrs. Wu’s, but all three shops appeared to have a healthy flow of customers. Lalloo had been right after all, Bibi-ji reflected—location was everything.

They passed the Bhats’ home. Bibi-ji wondered whether she ought to consult Leela on bringing up Jasbeer—Preethi was such a dependable child. Arjun seemed a little moody, but he never got into trouble at school, the way Jas did. The car stopped in their driveway just as the mailman trampled across her lawn and leapt over her prize roses to get to her neighbour’s.

“Oy!” she shouted, waving her arm wildly out of the window. After all the trouble she took, feeding her roses
with tea, crushed eggshells, manure … But the mailman was too quick for her and already two houses down the road by the time she was out of the car.

Grumbling to herself, she pulled a sheaf of envelopes out of the mailbox, shuffled through them and sighed at the sight of a flimsy aerogram, a corner of which was covered with Indian stamps. Nimmo again. Bibi-ji would have to complete that letter soon.

“Can I go over to Preethi’s?” Jasbeer asked, seeing that Bibi-ji was distracted.

He felt a clip on his ear. Bibi-ji wasn’t that distracted, it appeared. “You are
not
going anywhere, putthar,” she said, hauling him into the house. “You are going to write a letter to me—three pages—telling me why it is not a good thing to take weapons to school. In running hand.”

“But—”

“No buts. You will go up to your room and write me that letter. Are you listening to me?”

Sulky scuffing of shoes on her favourite carpet. Frothing resentment inside the eleven-year-old breast. “Yes.”

“Listening with
both
ears?”

“Yes!”

No more indulgence, she reminded herself. And, above all, she would have to keep reminding Pa-ji: no more
history.
She tore open Nimmo’s letter, and a photograph fell out. Nimmo and Satpal with their two younger children. “Jasbeer, come here and look at what your mother has sent,” Bibi-ji called.

Jasbeer stopped at the foot of the stairs but did not turn around. “What?” he asked sullenly.

“Come and see,” Bibi-ji said. “It’s a photo of your family.”

Without a word, Jasbeer stamped up the stairs. Bibi-ji bit her lip and stared after him. Then she began to read the letter. Nimmo and Satpal yearned to see their son. When would Bibi-ji be able to bring him to India?

Bibi-ji walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the familiar chorus of gossiping voices and blaring television. She settled down at the table to finish the letter she had started writing to Nimmo two days ago.
“We have just returned home from a meeting with Jasbeer’s schoolteacher, who says that he is a bright boy with great promise. I know that you will be proud to hear this. But you will see for yourself how smart your son is when we come there in December this year.”

A
hot morning in March. The gulmohur trees were in full bloom, the flowers like flames against the silver sky. Nimmo stood at the side of the road, as she had done for so many years, and watched Pappu trot down the alley.

“Be careful when you cross the road,” she called, and her son, taller and thinner at nine, turned around and waved. Nimmo thought of other mornings when two little boys had made their way to school, and her heart clenched with pain. What was Jasbeer doing at this very moment, she wondered? She wanted to see him so badly. A letter had arrived from Bibi-ji two months ago with news about how well he was doing at school, but there
was nothing from the boy. Nimmo suspected that all was not as wonderful as Bibi-ji made it out to be, but was nevertheless pleased to hear that Jasbeer would be home in December.

She continued to watch Pappu until he merged into the many tributaries of people emptying on to the main road. A small truck backed up towards her, and she moved aside hastily. The general election campaign was in full swing, and every day brought another truck with yet another political party’s posters and banners. The city’s walls were plastered with them. They hung down from trees and were strung across narrow streets from upper-storey window bars.
Garibi Hatao!—
Remove Poverty, urged Indira Gandhi’s party banners.
Indira Hatao!
shouted her opponents’ banners, urging the public, with equal fervour, to remove Indira instead. Nimmo smiled at the wordplay and returned to her house. There was no doubt in her mind who she would vote for. She loved Mrs. Gandhi for her stubborn strength, her refusal to be pushed aside by all the powerful men who surrounded her in cabinet and in the opposition parties, and for the sense that she gave to women across the country that if she could survive so could they. They could survive anything at all and triumph, it just needed conviction and persistence. Nimmo had already cast her vote.

As she re-entered her home, Satpal emerged from the bedroom carrying their three-year-old daughter, Kamal.

“Here, hold her,” he said, handing the child to Nimmo. “She won’t let me put her down.”

“You’ve spoilt her by picking her up all the time, and
now it’s become a habit.” She nuzzled the little girl’s face and said, “Your daddy has spoilt you, hasn’t he?” She put the child down on the ground and said firmly, “Come, let’s have some milk and halwa, okay?”

The child nodded and toddled towards the kitchen, where she settled down on the floor and crossed her plump legs. Nimmo sat in front of her and fed her small balls of sweet semolina halwa, making sure there was a raisin in each mouthful.

Satpal gathered his lunch box and his raincoat. “Will you be at home this afternoon? Or is this the day you teach at the gurudwara?”

Their temple had started a small nursery school and Nimmo volunteered as a teacher there twice a week. She liked the change in her routine, and Kamal enjoyed playing with the other children.

“No, not today,” Nimmo said. “Why? Are you coming home for lunch?”

“Perhaps,” Satpal replied mysteriously.

“Then why are you taking your lunch box?” Nimmo asked.

“Just in case I can’t come home.” He grinned, and for a moment Nimmo thought he looked like Jasbeer used to when he was up to mischief.

“Well, I have to go to the Ram-Leela field at five o’clock. If you come home while I am away, get the keys from Kaushalya’s house,” Nimmo said.

“You are going to listen to your Indira Gandhi again?”

“Yes, today she is giving an election speech. Everyone is going. You should also come to this one.”

“Sunny was telling me that she is creating a lot of trouble in Punjab,” Satpal said. “People are getting angry there. All these politicians play games with us and we, like fools, keep voting for them again and again. She takes away our river water and gives it to Rajasthan, she cuts up Punjab and creates a Haryana for the Hindus, and now she is planning to give them Chandigarh as well. That city belongs to Punjab. First it was Partition and half our land disappeared. Now our own leaders are chopping it up like a piece of meat. How much more are we supposed to give away? Without Punjab this country would be starving, and look how we are treated—like stepchildren! Is it fair?”