The Track of the Wind. Jamila Gavin

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СКАЧАТЬ two boys peered out of the tea stall.

      ‘There! Look! There. He’s heading into the cloth quarter. Hey! What do you think?’ Nazakhat clutched his friend’s arm. ‘Maybe he’s got a secret assignment with his lady friend.’

      ‘Come on, lets follow him. ‘Jaspal’s curiosity was up. ‘I’ve got to see this.’

      ‘For god’s sake be careful. It’s all right for you. You don’t care about anything. But me – if he sees me – he could throw me out.’ Nazakhat hung back warily.

      ‘So what! Look how you survived before. You don’t need him. Don’t be such a chicken. Anyway – you can see he’s got things on his mind. He won’t notice us. Come on, before we lose him.’ Jaspal dragged his friend out into the road.

      A cluster of young women, chaperoned by a much older one, jostled their way down the narrow bazaar street in front of the schoolmaster. They stopped every two or three steps to peer into the sandal shop, or the cosmetic shop, or the woollens shop. Bahadur Singh could have pushed through them any time, but seemed instead to want to follow just on the edges, as if he were looking at what they looked at and listening to all their comments.

      The boys followed more boldly. They watched the schoolmaster watching. They watched too – suddenly seeing the women’s world with men’s eyes – smelling their scent and hearing the tinkle of bangles as arms lifted to hold up glittering materials, which hung from hooks outside the shop; or bales of cloth arranged in towers from ceiling to floor, ready at a mere whim to be extricated and tossed full length across the carpeted shop floor. High voices and laughter rose above the hubbub of the bazaar.

      Bahadur Singh turned abruptly. The boys ducked. When they next peered out, the schoolmaster had given up on the women and moved on to the jewellery quarter.

      ‘See? Didn’t I tell you? It’s what I saw him doing in our bazaar. This must be serious, I tell you. Why else would he come to Amritsar? He’s got money to spend.’

      They spied on the schoolmaster moving from one jewellery shop to another, glancing at the displays, listening sometimes to the shopkeepers’ patter over an offered cup of tea, then moving on. The boys hardly bothered to hide now. The schoolmaster was too absorbed, poring over the trays of bangles and earrings and necklaces.

      ‘Watch out!’ Jaspal pulled Nazakhat down behind a wandering cow. The schoolmaster had stopped in front of a jeweller’s shop. He paused a long time to gaze at something, then suddenly looked round as if checking whether anyone was watching him.

      ‘That was a near thing!’ breathed Jaspal.

      ‘Did he see us?’

      ‘Nah! He wouldn’t have gone in if he had. You’re right, Nazakhat. He’s up to something, the old devil! Let’s get a little nearer.’

      The two boys sidled up to the shop and flopped on the wooden steps in front, next to a dog and a resting holy man. A useful alleyway ran alongside, down which they could disappear when Bahadur Singh came out.

      It was dark inside the shop. On a wooden counter gleamed a pair of brass scales. Bahadur Singh sat on the stool, his back to the door, facing the old jeweller, who scrutinised him from over his gold-rimmed spectacles.

      ‘Can I help you?’ the jeweller asked.

      ‘I am looking for a simple gift for my daughter,’ they heard the schoolmaster reply.

      ‘Didn’t you hear that? Daughter, my foot!’ exclaimed Jaspal.

      ‘Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you!’ chortled Nazakhat triumphantly.

      ‘Shut up, you idiot! You’ll give us away. Look. Now what’s he doing?’

      ‘Ah!’ The jeweller’s exclamation was dry but business-like, as if he already knew exactly what was suitable for the schoolmaster. He bent down, and from beneath the counter brought out three glass cases filled with rings, gold and silver chains, earrings, nose studs, necklaces and bracelets – of an infinite variety of precious stone. His eyes hovered over Bahadurs hands as they fingered the different items of jewellery in a tentative and inexperienced way. He noted that they were not the hands of a farmer or an artisan because they were too smooth, so he deduced that his client was a clerk or a teacher who wouldn’t want anything gaudy or too ostentatious.

      The jeweller selected a simple gold bracelet. ‘Is this to your liking?’ he asked.

      Bahadur held the bracelet in the palm of his hand. Jaspal stared at it too. Its cold metal burned in the dark, dusty air like the outer rim of the sun. Whose wrist did the schoolmaster see it encircling?

      ‘Yes, this is to my liking,’ said Bahadur Singh, getting out a wodge of rupee notes from an inside pocket.

      ‘What’s he buying?’ whispered Nazakhat.

      ‘A bracelet,’ murmured Jaspal. ‘A gold bracelet. I wonder who it’s for?’

3 The dividing sword

      The queue was already long when Jaspal and Nazakhat reached the Rialto. It was always long and it always looked as though they would never get in. But experience had taught them that they would, even if it meant squeezing through a forest of legs to get to the front.

      They burst through the curtain into the warm, pungent darkness, threw themselves into the springy seats, which squeaked if they wriggled, and with heads tipped back, stared at the big screen in front of them. Soon images and loud music overwhelmed them and sucked them out of reality into the wonderful fantasy worlds of heroes and princesses, dancing girls and warriors and treacherous enemies.

      As soon as Nazakhat saw what this film was about, he wished he hadn’t come. ‘Arreh, brother. I thought we were seeing a Hindi film. What’s this?’

      Jaspal shrugged, ‘Oh, a new one in Punjabi,’ he muttered. ‘I thought it might be worth seeing.’ The changing light of the screen flickered over his face and he looked like one in a trance.

      The film was about the great eighteenth century hero of Sikhism, Baba Deep Singh, the leader who had defended the Golden Temple of Amritsar against invading Afghan Muslims with only a gathering of peasants bearing nothing but staves. Even after his head had been cut off, the stories related with relish how Baba Deep Singh, carrying his head in one hand and a sword in the other, had continued to fight to protect the Golden Temple from desecration by the Muslims.

      Jaspal had seen many pictures depicting this event and heard many stories at the gurudwara, but never before had it come alive for him. Never before had he felt so moved and inspired as he did watching this film. He became a part of the history and the struggle. It was happening now and, overcome with passion, his thoughts spun with anger. If only he could be such a warrior. What cause was there now worth fighting for? As if reading his thoughts, Baba Deep Singh’s face filled the screen. He turned, as if searching into the soul of every single person in the dark cinema.

      Was it possible . . . ? For a moment, Jaspals credibility was suspended. He shrank away, terrified by the warriors penetrating gaze. He buried his face in his hands and fearfully peered through his fingers at the powerful head towering above them. Jaspal felt sucked into the dark pools of his eyes which stared at him and him alone; challenging him, questioning him. They seemed to СКАЧАТЬ