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KHUSHWANT SINGH I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale PENGUIN BOOKS Contents About the Author Dedication Preface Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Copyright PENGUIN BOOKS I SHALL NOT HEAR THE NIGHTINGALE Khushwant Singh is India’s best-known writer and columnist. He has been founder-editor of Yojna, and editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India, the National Herald and the Hindustan Times. He is also the author of several books, which include the novels Train to Pakistan, Delhi, The Company of Women and Burial at Sea; the classic two-volume A History of the Sikhs; and a number of translations and non-fiction books on Sikh religion and culture, Delhi, nature and current affairs. His autobiography, Truth, Love and a Little Malice, was published in 2002. Paradise and Other Stories is his most recent work. Khushwant Singh was a Member of Parliament from 1980 to 1986. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974, but returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the storming of the Golden Temple by the Indian Army. For Manjushree Khaitan The narration in this novel is set in 1942–3 from April to April Chapter I here should be a baptism in blood. We have had enough of target practice.’ ‘T The trunk of a tree thirty yards away bore imprints of their marksmanship. Its bark was torn; in its centre was a deep, yellow gash oozing a mixture of gum and sap. From one branch dangled a row of metal heads of electric bulbs; their glass was strewn on the ground and shone like a bed of mica. Littered about the tree were tin cans and tattered pieces of cardboard sieved with holes. ‘What about it, leader?’ asked the smallest boy in the party slapping the butt of his rifle. ‘We should sprinkle blood on our guns and say a short prayer to baptize them. Then they will never miss their mark and we can kill as many Englishmen as we like.’ Sher Singh smiled. He tossed his revolver in the air and caught it by the handle. He took careful aim at an empty sardine can and fired another six shots. The bullets went through into the earth kicking up whiffs of dust. His Alsatian dog, Dyer, began to whine with excitement. He leapt up with a growl and ran down the canal embankment. He sniffed at the tin and pawed it gingerly to make sure that it was dead, then picked it up in his mouth and shook it from side to side. He ran back with it and laid it at his master’s feet. ‘Why waste good bullets on tin cans and trees? What have they done to us?’ asked another member of the party. That is why I say we should have a baptism in blood,’ repeated the little boy. ‘We will have our blood baptism when the time comes,’ replied Sher Singh pompously. ‘Let us be prepared for action. When duty calls, we will not be found wanting.’ ‘Brother, it is an old Hindu custom to baptize weapons before using them. Our ancient warriors used to dip their swords in a tray of goat’s blood and lay them before Durga, Kali or Bhavani or whatever name the goddess of destruction was known by. We should keep up the tradition.’ known by. We should keep up the tradition.’ Sher Singh could not make up his mind. He had never killed anything before. Even the sight of a headless chicken spouting blood as it fluttered about had made him turn cold with horror. He had been full of loathing for the cook who had wrenched off the fowl’s head, and had given up eating meat of any kind for some months. But this was different. They were training to become terrorists. They had to learn how to take life — to become tough. He, more than the others, because he was their leader. ‘My gun is thirsty,’ went on the little boy. ‘If it can’t get the blood of an Englishman or a toady it must drink that of some animal or bird.’ There was a general murmur of assent. Only Sher Singh was reluctant. ‘You don’t want to smear the blood of a jackal or a crow on your guns, do you? What else can you find this time of the year? The shooting season closed two months ago.’ ‘We will find something or other round about the swamp,’ assured Madan. ‘There may be deer coming to drink. Perhaps a duck or two which could not migrate.’ That decided him finally. Madan was the strong man of the University. He had won his colours in many games and had played cricket for his province. His performance against a visiting English side — he had carried his bat after scoring a century — had made him a local hero. He had brought the other boys with him and would have been the leader of the band except that he knew little of politics. And it was Sher Singh, and not he, who had arranged the smuggling of rifles and hand-grenades from across the frontier. Although Sher Singh had assumed the leadership of the group, Madan was its backbone. He was both Sher Singh’s chief supporter and rival: one whose presence was an encouragement and a challenge at the same time. ‘O.K., brother, O.K.,’ said Sher Singh in English and stood up. ‘We must be quick. It will be dark in an hour.’ He collected the empty cases lying on the ground and put them in his pocket. The boys also stood up and brushed the dust off their clothes. They put their guns in the jeep. One of them volunteered to stay back. Sher Singh loaded his rifle and led the party down the canal bank towards the marsh. Dyer ran ahead barking excitedly. They crossed the stretch of chalky saltpetre and got to the edge of the swamp. There were no birds on the water. On the other side was a peepul tree on which there was a flock of white egrets. Right on the top was a king vulture with its bald red head hunched between its black shoulders. Beneath the tree were bitterns wading in the mud. The birds were over a hundred yards away; well beyond Sher Singh’s range of marksmanship. The party surveyed the scene and considered the pros and cons of taking a shot from that distance. The vulture stuck out its head and the egrets began to show signs of nervousness. Suddenly there came the loud, raucous cry of a Sarus crane followed by another from its mate. They were in a cluster of bulrushes not fifty yards away. The boys sat down on their haunches and stopped talking. The cranes continued calling alternately for a few minutes and then resumed their search for frogs. The vulture and the egrets on the opposite bank went back to sleep. ‘Kill one of these. They are as big as any black buck,’ whispered the small boy. ‘Who kills cranes?’ asked Sher Singh. ‘They are no use to anyone. And I am told if one of a pair is killed, the other dies of grief.’ ‘If you are going to funk shooting birds, you will not do much when it comes to shooting Englishmen,’ taunted Madan. ‘You will say, “Why kill this poor chap, his widow and children will weep,” or “His mother will be sad.” Sher Singhji, this is what is meant by baptism in blood; get used to the idea of shedding it. Steel your heart against sentiments of kindness and pity. They have been the undoing of our nation. We are too soft.’ That was enough to provoke Sher Singh — particularly as it came from Madan. ‘Oh no! nothing soft about me,’ he answered defiantly. ‘If it is a Sarus crane you want, a Sarus crane you will have. Come along Dyer — and if you bark, I’ll shoot you too.’ Sher Singh got down on his knees and crawled up behind the cover of the pampas grass, his dog following warily behind. He stopped after a few yards and parted the stalks with the muzzle of his rifle. One of the birds was busy digging in the mud with his long beak; the other was on guard turning its head in all directions looking out for signs of danger. Sher Singh decided to be patient. He wanted to get a little closer and also get enough time to take aim. Missing a bird of that size would be bad for his reputation.