City of Ghosts (12 page)

I hope this Uncle Tom is quick. Let them bring me from this dank hole to a place of light. Let me kiss that noose and take Death as my bride and go to wait for the freedom of my mother.

JEEVAN CONSIDERED HIS
friend's words, but not for long. Gurdial was always moaning about something.
Always
.

‘There are two types of people on this earth,' Jeevan told his friend, recalling something he had been told by Hans Raj. ‘There are those who live on their knees and those who will die standing up.'

Gurdial shook his head. ‘Those are not your words,
bhai
. They are the words of that madman, Pritam. I have seen how you have changed since you took up with his gang. It's not you,
bhai-ji
.'

‘It
is
me – can't you see that?' replied Jeevan, exasperated. ‘They are
my
words and
my
feelings and
my
wishes.'

Gurdial shook his head again. ‘I don't believe you. Talk to Bissen Singh if you want to know of these things.'

‘
Bissen Singh?
' Jeevan spat out the name in disgust.
‘That
maachord
who fought for the British in their dirty war? What does he know of freedom? He fought for the very people who keep us down. He is a traitorous dog—'

‘No,
bhai
– he is a decent and honourable man. Let us go and see him and maybe he can talk some sense into that fat head of yours,' suggested Gurdial.

Jeevan laughed sardonically. ‘Fat head? You spend your days chasing after a dream – pretending that someone as rich and beautiful as Sohni will actually have you for a husband – and I'm the one with a fat head? Look in the
mirror
, Gurdial. Your life is meaningless.'

Jeevan was aware that his words were hurtful but something or someone had to shake Gurdial out of his ridiculous fantasy world. To imagine that the daughter of a rich merchant would lower herself to take the name of an orphan . . .

Gurdial's face fell and his eyes began to water. ‘I'm going now,
bhai
,' he said. ‘I do not know what causes you to injure me so, but may the Gurus bless you anyway. My door is always open for you.'

And with that he walked slowly off down the road, leaving Jeevan standing outside the orphanage. A small pang of guilt pricked Jeevan's conscience. They had been friends ever since Jeevan had arrived at the orphanage. They were the same age, barely sixteen now, and shared the same story. Poor, rural parents, tragedy and death. But friends were like shoes, just as Pritam had said. And
losing your shoes did not stop you from walking, did it? There were always going to be more friends. All that mattered was that India should be free. That was the goal. Ordinary, everyday issues paled in comparison.

Jeevan crossed the road and headed down towards the corner where he was to meet Pritam. The air was heavy with heat and dust, and the smell of
paratha
and
dhal
made his stomach grumble with hunger. The streets were full again after the previous day's
hartal
, when most of the city had come to a complete standstill. Civil disobedience, it had been called. But what difference had it made? They had woken up to find the British still in charge; it had no effect on their power. It seemed pointless to fight bullets with slogans and strikes. That would never work. What Mother India needed was strong, resilient men, just as Hans Raj had told him; men who were willing to lay down their lives to secure freedom. It was the only way to make the British leave.

Beyond a small bookstore Jeevan spotted Pritam. Jeevan often looked at him and wished that he had the same proud bearing. The confidence, the sense of purpose. Jeevan was short and squat, with a pronounced bow in his legs, something he'd been teased about over the years. His features were nothing special either, whereas Pritam had a strong jaw line, pale skin and an aquiline nose. People noticed Pritam in a way they
didn't
notice Jeevan. And that was something Jeevan hoped to change.

‘You're late,' Pritam said as Jeevan approached.

‘I'm sorry,
bhai-ji
,' replied Jeevan, showing deference to his older friend. Pritam knew so much more of the world. He was like the older brother Jeevan had always dreamed of.

‘Don't say sorry, Jeevan,' scolded Pritam. ‘Just don't be late.'

‘I was waylaid by a friend,' he explained.

‘And never make excuses. It makes you look weak-willed.'

Jeevan lowered his dark brown eyes and silently chastised himself for his stupidity. What would Pritam think of him if he continued to make mistakes like that?

Pritam, sensing that perhaps he had pushed his latest protégé too far, put a brotherly hand on Jeevan's shoulder. ‘Come,' he said with a smile. ‘There is much work to do.'

It took fifteen minutes to walk to the room below the brothel where the gang met. The brothel keeper was a good friend of Pritam's father, a rich merchant, and the room was loaned to them as a favour.

‘He thinks we play chess and improve our English,' Pritam had said. ‘And besides, he's a whoremonger – what is he going to say? We could build bombs here and he wouldn't say a word.'

The shuttered room was sparsely furnished, as always, with chairs and a table strewn with papers. The walls were painted a dark shade of ochre. It smelled of dampness and dust, and darkness clung to the edges
of the room – the only light was cast by the oil burner on the floor. Ram Singh and Rana Lal were waiting for them, looking furtive.

‘Today we're going to strike fear into the hearts of these dirty dogs,' Pritam told them. He nodded towards the table. ‘That is the poster which we are going to put up on the Clock Tower,' he said. ‘An open challenge to the British in broad daylight.'

‘What does it say?' asked Rana Lal, his jet-black hair oiled and combed back.

Pritam picked up the poster. He read the words to himself, then turned to his comrades. ‘I'll show you in a moment,' he replied. ‘For now I have another surprise.'

‘What is it,
bhai
?' asked Ram Singh as Jeevan looked on impatiently.

‘There is trouble heading this way,' Pritam told them. ‘There are things being planned. Hans Raj has been in touch with our brothers in Ludhiana by telegram: the day is coming . . .'

Jeevan's heart jumped. Pritam had spoken of ‘the day' before. A day when the
goreh
would sit up and pay attention. A day when the Indian would stand on his own feet. A day that would begin with an act
so
daring,
so
effective, that the British would run home with their tails between their legs. But what would that act be, and would he, Jeevan, get to play a role in it? That was the question that swam through his thoughts as Pritam talked of renewed hope.

‘We do not live in fear,' Pritam went on. ‘It is not fear
that drives us. It isn't greed or power that motivates us. We are spurred on by hope. By the wish to see our mother free of these chains.' As he found his rage, his voice rose to a shout. ‘How dare these filthy bastards come and set foot in our land and tell us that it belongs to them! What nonsense our politicians talk of peace. I don't want peace! I want equal rights! Justice!
Freedom!
'

Jeevan tried not to stare at his mentor but he couldn't help himself. The power in Pritam was immense. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his mouth foamed with rage.

‘And if that means that we must die, then we will die. If it means that we must kill, then we
will
kill. Any
gorah
or Indian who dares to stand in our way will
die
!'

As his gang digested the words he had spoken, Pritam opened the poster and showed it to them.
PREPARE TO DIE AND KILL OTHERS
! it read.

‘Let us strike fear in their colourless hearts,' he whispered.

‘Is that
all
?' asked Ram Singh, looking disappointed. ‘A few words scrawled on a piece of paper? How will this help to free our land?'

Pritam fixed Ram with a cold stare. ‘For now, this is all,' he replied. ‘But don't worry,
bhai
. There is rebellion in the air. Their taxes are starting to bite. Food is becoming too expensive to buy. When a man is hungry, he will fight. Soon—'

‘I say we go out this evening and find a
gorah
to kill!' demanded Ram.

‘Patience!' snapped Pritam.

‘But—'

‘
Be quiet!
' Pritam's voice boomed around the small room.

Ram let his blazing eyes fall to the floor. When he looked up again, the anger was gone. ‘Forgive me,
bhai-ji
,' he said. ‘I'm eager to avenge my father, that's all.'

Pritam walked over to his comrade and placed a firm hand on his arm. ‘Be ready,' he told him. ‘There will be time enough for what you desire . . .' He held aloft the poster. ‘Come – let us nail this warning to the Clock Tower. Let the English dogs understand that we are ready to fight.'

He turned and threw open the door. Light flooded into the room. Jeevan's stomach somersaulted with anxiety and anticipation. What they were about to do could lead to imprisonment or even death. The Rowlatt Act allowed the British to hold anyone they wanted to – without charge. Jeevan was frightened by this but that wasn't going to stop him. There was a revolution to fight. Fear could wait. For some reason that he failed to grasp, Gurdial's face flashed across his mind's eye. And then he was in the narrow alleyway, heading out into the street, following his gang.

DR SATYAPAL URGED
the young men to remain calm. It was far too early for such nonsense. He hadn't even taken tea yet, and here were these men – honest, good men, but confused and desperate too. He hoped to calm them quickly and send them on their way so that he could go back inside and begin his breakfast. But their anger was great and their patience worn thin. There were seven of them, Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs, standing in the courtyard of the doctor's home, demanding action.

‘It is not enough that the Mahatma calls for strikes,' shouted one of them, a young Muslim with an unusually long and thin nose.

‘We can't feed our families!' cried a Sikh. ‘What will my children eat – dust?'

Dr Satyapal raised a hand and quietened the men. Birds sang in the early morning sunshine and insects
buzzed incessantly. It felt as though the day would be hot and long.

‘There will be action,' the doctor reassured them. ‘There are delegations being sent to the British. Gandhi is this very day arriving in the Punjab. We shall overcome, my brothers.'

‘But we cannot speak,' said the Muslim man. ‘We cannot gather or debate and no one listens to us anyway.'

‘Calm down, gentlemen,' replied Dr Satyapal. ‘Am I not entrusted by you to lead?'

Some of the men nodded.

‘Then let me lead. I will speak with Doctor Kitchlew later this morning, and we will perhaps pay a visit to the deputy commissioner, Miles Irving—'

‘Irving is a dog!' shouted one of the men. ‘He will not listen to you, Doctor-ji. He has even banned you from protesting—'

The unexpected sound of breaking glass turned their heads. Someone had thrown a bottle over the wall. It had landed barely five feet behind the doctor.

‘What the—!'

Two of the men ran to the wall and looked over. There, in the lane, stood four young men.

‘It is a gang of youths, Doctor-ji. Come quickly!'

Dr Satyapal hurried to the gate and threw it open. Angrily he confronted the men in the lane. ‘What is this? How dare you throw bottles over my wall? I demand an explanation!'

He searched their eyes. In three of them he saw signs of shame. But in the fourth pair of eyes he identified only darkness and hatred. The youth in question stood proudly, his glare never once leaving the doctor's face. Realizing that he couldn't outstare the boy, Dr Satyapal lowered his own gaze.

‘That's right, old man,' said the youth, his tone mocking.

The doctor looked up again, anger rising like a tidal wave in his chest. His heart began to thump. ‘Who are you?' he demanded as sweat began to tickle his scalp.

‘Nothing to you!' spat the youth.

‘What do you want?'

A crowd of neighbours and passers-by had begun to gather. They stood and gawped at the commotion; ordinary, everyday arguements often drew crowds in the city, but
this
was Dr Satyapal – a widely respected leader of men.

‘I'm here to tell you that your time is over,' said the young man. ‘People like you have silenced the masses for too long. You suckle at the breast of the
goreh
. Well, no more.'

‘I cannot say that I agree – Gandhi-ji tells us to—' began the doctor.

‘
Silence!
' The young man's voice boomed through the lane. All observers stopped and paid attention.

‘
Gandhi?
' continued the youth. ‘A dreamer and a coward; a man just like you, with plenty of talk but precious little else. We listen each time you tell us to
disobey in a civilized fashion. And what happens? We rise to greet the new day and find a meaty fist wrapped around our throats, squeezing the life from us. We walk into our yards to find our beautiful Mother India raped!'

‘He's right!' shouted someone from the back of the crowd.

One of Dr Satyapal's supporters glared at the mob. ‘Who said that?' he asked.

When no one spoke, the doctor turned to the youth. ‘And what are
you
doing to save our country?'

‘More than you,' replied the youth calmly.

‘What is it that you want?' repeated Dr Satyapal.

‘To end this charade. This pretence that a few delegations and strikes and mass sit-downs will set us free. Never!'