The Track of the Wind. Jamila Gavin

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СКАЧАТЬ The fathers and sons strode ahead, their turbaned heads held high; while the mothers and sisters, lost among their billowing cotton trousers and veiled heads, herded the little ones along.

      He reached the top of steep marble steps. Below him, the vast pool of holy water, the amrit, the nectar of ecstasy, glittered too bright to bear.

      Suddenly, he was alone, even though hundreds milled around him. He descended the steps and on to the intricate inlaid patterns of the marble terrace. At first, he just walked, so unaware of his feet on the cool marble that he might as well have been floating. He walked between the colonnade of pillars, his eye fixed on the golden shrine which jutted out into the centre of the lake, as if the craftsmen of the temple had tried to recreate the sun.

      On and on he walked, seeing not the peaceful families and pilgrims who moved in a quiet throng but the shrieks and screams of fighting warriors, their blood spewing across the white marble, and the lake strewn with bodies and limbs. Jaspal thought of martyrs and saints and wondered what qualities were needed to be a martyr. Could he survive pain and torture and look death in the face? He had felt hatred many times, but now his hatred was mixed with a new sensation; that of ecstasy.

      He stopped and undressed down to his shorts. He unwound his turban and bared his head with his hair bound into a topknot. Hiding his knife among his clothes, he descended the steps into the pool and lowered himself into the water. It was silk-cool. Down, down he went, till the water was up to his chest – and then – immersed himself completely.

      In the refracting light he seemed to see, not the tumbling bodies of dying Muslim enemies and Sikh warriors, but other images, which try as he might, would not go away; images of those English children, their golden heads with streaming hair and wide blue, puzzled eyes, which couldn’t believe that only water poured in through their open mouths.

      And why not me, Lord? Why not me? Jaspal cried in his head. Why had he not drowned too along with Ralph and Grace when the boat went down in the palace lake? They were his friends. He couldn’t deny it. He had loved them too – even though they were English. Jaspal tried to forget the events which happened six years ago, when together they had crossed over the threshold into the realms of death. Whatever other terrible sights he had witnessed, nothing else had brought him closer to death, and he couldn’t prevent the unbidden image; the unexpected voice or sound; the glint of sun on water. It would trigger the memory, and that long sad afternoon would unwind, forcing him to live those moments again and again. He remembered the pale bodies sinking down, their arms and legs waving like strange plants. Then, just as he and the twins were about to let loose their souls for ever, Marvinder brought him back to the living and the twins were left behind in the land of death. Today it struck him. Perhaps there was a reason why he and only he had lived. Perhaps he had been saved for a purpose.

      His air gave out. He thrust himself to the surface gasping and choking.

      ‘Ha!’ A voice called from the side. ‘You were under a long time. I was just about to jump in and pull you out.’

      Knuckling the water from his eyes, Jaspal looked to see who addressed him. Night had fallen. The golden dome of the temple glowed like an eclipsed sun behind the figure, and silhouetted a man as he knelt at the side of the tank. Bending into the darkness, it seemed to Jaspal that a giant waited at the side watching him – a giant of a warrior with a high pleated turban and a great curving sword glistening at his belt.

      Jaspal waded up the steps and stood dripping and uncertain. He squeezed the water out of his hair and clothes.

      ‘Here, have this,’ said the man as if it were an order, and handed him a thin towel. He was on his feet now and towered above the boy.

      Obediently, Jaspal began to dry himself. Bending to towel his arms and legs, he stole glances at the guardian warrior. The flickering oil lamps brought colour and focus. The man’s height wasn’t an illusion. He was very tall. Well over six foot, but gaunt and thin like a ravaged tree. His high dark blue turban made him seem even taller and more imposing. But it was not just his height which was impressive, it was his thick, black, long beard; his mouth, with strangely chewed lips which, when he smiled, revealed uneven teeth with gaps, but white as pearl. His nose, which had once been broken, jutted out like the beak of a hunting bird. His cheeks hollowed into the prominent bone structure of his skull. His brow was like the overhang of a cliff, under which his eyes seemed to hide, disappearing into narrow crevices, but suddenly reappearing, wide, black and mesmerising, as if they could see and control your very soul.

      As Jaspal began to shake out his topknot to dry his hair, the warrior strolled away. Jaspal watched him patrol all the way round the pool, casual as a tiger. By the time he returned, Jaspal was combing out his hair with great care, catching the strands in the teeth of the comb and allowing the warm night air to dry them.

      ‘The priest is reading from the Guru Granth Sahib now,’ said the man. ‘You will go and listen.’

      Jaspal wasn’t sure if it was a question or a command, but he nodded and quickly knotted up his hair and rewound his turban round his head. He followed the guardian warrior towards the Golden Temple. It was like walking into the very heart of the sun. He wasn’t sure if he was being accompanied or escorted by the giant, who was both behind him and before him, for the warrior’s long, black shadow enveloped him as he walked along the causeway. He entered the brightly lit hall and sat cross-legged on a carpet before a raised platform on which a priest sat before a huge book, the Guru Granth Sahib.

      The priest’s voice droned on and on. To his side, an attendant fanned him rhythmically. Jaspal felt like a vessel which had been emptied, but was now being filled again with something new – something that his body and soul needed for survival.

      When the reading finished, the warrior beckoned Jaspal to follow. They left the main hall and went back along the causeway to the colonnade and into one of the prayer rooms off to one side. The warrior took out an old book and began flicking through the pages. ‘What brings you here so often?’ he asked, his eyes still on the pages which he turned. ‘I’ve noticed you. You come often, but always alone. Have you no family?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jaspal. ‘But they are out in the village. I come in on the train.’

      ‘Why do you come here to the temple? Has some voice spoken to you in the stillness of your heart about God and his prophets?’

      Jaspal looked up – his face so coldly blank that even the warrior flinched under the chill gaze. ‘No voice, sir!’ Jaspal answered. ‘Just a feeling . . . ?’

      ‘A feeling?’ the warrior repeated.

      ‘A sort of feeling – that there is something that has to be done. Something I have to do. I don’t yet know . . .’ his voice trailed away, embarrassed.

      ‘Can you read?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Read this.’ The priest opened a holy book.

      Jaspal ran his finger along the Punjabi script.

      ‘There is one God:

      His name is Truth;

      The All-Pervading Creator.’

      He read slowly but fluently, being more familiar with English script than Punjabi.

      ‘Do you go to school?’

      Jaspal shrugged. ‘I’m supposed to but . . .’

      ‘But?’ СКАЧАТЬ