City of Ghosts (7 page)

MOHNI COULD FEEL
his legs as he walked into the marketplace. There was a dull ache that stretched from his knees down to his ankles. He stopped for a moment and shook them but it made no difference.

‘A consequence of age, you old goat,' a woman's voice said.

Mohni looked at a fruit stall piled high with mauve lychees, bright red pomegranates, pale lemons darted with green, and oranges so deep and rich in colour that they seemed to glow. Each pile threw out a powerful, sweet scent, as if the various fruits were competing for the attention of the people walking past. Their colours seemed otherworldly, too bright and too vivid for Mohni's milky, cloudy old eyes. Standing to the right of the stall was the woman who had spoken.

‘There you are, daughter,' Mohni said with a grin.

‘I am always here.' Her honey-coloured eyes sparkled. ‘And there too . . .'

‘Here, there and everywhere,' said Mohni. ‘Like a ghost.'

The woman gave Mohni a smile so warm, so comforting, that he could have melted.

‘And who are you watching today?' he asked her.

‘Everyone and no one,' the woman replied, smiling at the warm, musky smell that emanated from Mohni and his clothes; a scent that unleashed happy memories from her own childhood.

To most people her reply would have seemed unduly cryptic but Mohni knew her well and simply nodded his almost hairless head.

‘Who are you watching in
particular
?' he asked.

The woman nodded towards a stocky teenage boy with jet-black hair and a thin moustache. ‘This one,' she said. ‘He has a great duty to fulfil and I need him to stay safe until it is done.'

Mohni squinted at the boy. There was something about him that seemed familiar. ‘I have seen him before, but where I do not know.'

‘He is another who grew up in the orphanage,' she told him, just as two boys who were also orphans walked past. One of them carried three rotting onions.

‘Ah,' said Mohni. ‘Gurdial – the love of Sohni's life.'

The woman smiled. ‘And the possible cause of great sorrow and danger,' she added.

‘You do not approve of their love?'

‘Fate does not care for approval,' she replied.

‘There is also the small matter of your own interest in Sohni,' Mohni reminded her.

‘Yes, there is that too. Her father and stepmother must never see them together. You must protect her.'

‘Until my dying day,' he said. ‘I made a promise to her mother before she died.'

The woman nodded. ‘Has anything happened since you told me of her parents' plans?' she asked.

Mohni shook his head.

‘Good. But stay vigilant: Gulbaru and Darshana are infected with evil.'

Mohni waved his hand at a fly that was trying to settle on his long thin nose. ‘So apart from the orphans and Sohni, is there anyone else you watch over?'

‘There is also a soldier who will very shortly buy some oranges from me,' the woman said.

Before Mohni had a chance to reply, a proud-looking young man wearing a blue turban and walking with a pronounced limp asked the woman for five oranges.

The woman smiled at him. ‘Just five oranges, Bissen?' she asked him.

Surprise flooded the young soldier's face. ‘How do you know my name?'

She adjusted the black shawl she wore and shrugged. ‘You are well known. The soldier who fought for the British in their war.'

‘But—' Bissen began.

She shook her head. ‘You must not think that I'm judging you, Bissen,' she told him. ‘There are many here who dislike what you did for the
goreh
but I am not one of them. I merely wish you to eat more oranges.'

The soldier eyed her with suspicion. ‘More oranges?'

She nodded. ‘Your skin is dry and your face is drawn. I know that the pain of your injury keeps you this way but fruit is very good for you.'

‘My mother keeps telling me the same thing,' he replied.

‘Here – take ten oranges.' She put the fruit in the cloth bag the soldier had given her.

‘But I only wanted—'

The woman looked into the soldier's pale grey eyes and he stopped abruptly. Mohni, who had seen many people react to her in this way, grinned.

‘There is no charge,' she said.

A thought passed across the soldier's face. ‘I have a strange feeling . . .'he told her.

‘A sense of
déjà vu
,' she replied. ‘I know. Memory can sometimes play tricks on all of us. Here . . .'

The soldier took the bag, thanked the woman and walked away, his face full of confusion.

‘A special case, that one,' the woman told Mohni.

‘Aren't they all?' he replied.

Gurdial and Jeevan walked through the marketplace and into the Hall Bazaar, looking for something to do. As wards of the Khalsa Orphanage, they spent their
mornings praying, going to school and running errands for the couple who took care of them. By mid-afternoon they were usually to be seen wandering the streets of Amritsar. Jeevan, who was the shorter of the two, nodded towards a unit of Gurkhas moving slowly down the street, their uniforms dusty and their faces determined. Every now and then they would stop and stare into the open shop fronts.

‘What do you think they are looking for?' Jeevan asked his friend.

Gurdial grinned. ‘Perhaps if you put down those onions you're carrying, you wouldn't have to point with your head,' he suggested.

‘They
are
a bit smelly.' Jeevan was still using the onions to practise juggling and they were beginning to rot, especially where his clumsy fingers had caused indentations.

‘
Bhai
– they smell worse than the opium addicts.'

Jeevan screwed up his face.

‘Nothing smells
that
bad.'

Gurdial looked across the street at an alleyway that ran between two store fronts. It was so narrow that only one man could pass at a time – if they could get through the overgrown weeds, which stood as high as a horse. Along the middle of the alley ran an open sewer.

‘What about that
nali
?' he asked Jeevan, pointing at the sewer.

‘No,' said Jeevan. ‘The addicts are worse than that too.'

‘But not as bad as your onions.'

Jeevan sighed. ‘Very well. I'll get rid of them, but I have no money left to buy any more.'

‘You didn't
pay
for them last time, you fool,' Gurdial said with a laugh.

‘Will you help me to get some more?' Jeevan asked.

‘Yes,
bhai
. I know stealing is against the teachings of the Gurus but you
are
my brother.'

Jeevan smiled.

‘And besides,' said Gurdial, ‘these merchants are making a fortune from the Rowlatt Act.'

Gurdial had heard people talking about the Rowlatt Act but didn't really understand what it meant. As far as he could tell, the act was making rich people richer and everyone else poor. As for its details, Gurdial wasn't sure he'd understand even if they
were
explained to him. Not that it mattered. In the great scheme of things he was a penniless orphan and his station in life had been decided. That was the way of Kismet and it was beyond his control. It was better to live a simple existence and to know your place. Too many dreams didn't help anyone, and besides, Gurdial had already gambled on his biggest dream: Sohni.

‘Are you thinking about that girl again?' teased Jeevan.

Gurdial nodded. ‘I'm going to meet her later.'

‘Be careful,
bhai
,' Jeevan warned. ‘If her father finds out, I will be arranging your cremation.'

‘I'll be fine. Gulbaru Singh is too busy making money.'

Jeevan was unaware that Gulbaru Singh also knew exactly how Gurdial felt about his daughter. Even though he felt bad for hiding something from his brother, Gurdial knew that telling him would do no good. For now, he told himself, the problems he had were best kept hidden.

Jeevan nudged Gurdial and nodded towards the Gurkhas once more. The patrol was outside a food shop that served thick, crispy
paratha
, deliciously fiery lentil
dhal
and hot, spicy tea. It was a place where young men gathered and had sparked the Gurkhas' interest. The two boys watched as the patrol leader questioned a tall, thin man wearing a black fedora hat. The soldier seemed to be pointing at the man's waistband and asking a question. Very quickly a crowd began to gather. Gurdial took Jeevan's arm and pushed through to the front, eager to get a ringside view.

The tall man was protesting to the soldier. ‘It's nothing!' he shouted at the Nepali.

‘There!' replied the soldier. ‘Take it out slowly!'

He was pointing at a bulge at the man's waistband, a bulge that was covered by his shirt. To Gurdial it seemed obvious that the man was concealing a pistol.

‘
Leave him be!
' a voice from the crowd shouted.

‘
British dogs out!
' another cried.

The soldiers began to look nervous. The crowd was swelling and they were hopelessly outnumbered. The patrol leader put a whistle to his lips, ready to call for reinforcements. As he did so, someone threw a stone at
the Gurkhas. The man with the pistol saw his chance and ran. But the patrol leader was too quick for him. He blew on his whistle and then took aim with his rifle. A single bullet tore through the man's hat, shattering his skull, and he was dead before his body hit the ground.

The crowd began to scatter, shouting and screaming. More soldiers ran down the street towards them.

Gurdial grabbed Jeevan. ‘Come on!' he shouted. ‘Down the alley!'

Behind them, the soldiers arrested and handcuffed three of the dead man's friends and bundled them into a patrol van. As the last of the men was forced in, he turned and shouted for India to be set free:

‘
INDIA ZINDABAAD!
'

BISSEN SINGH SAT
on the steps outside his lodging house, watching the world go by. The entire right side of his body felt numb and his scalp itched beneath his royal blue turban. The morning sun was weak, its rays watery, and there was a chill in the air. The narrow lane was crowded in on both sides by two- and three-storey buildings painted in burnt sienna and ochre and vibrant pink. Bir Singh was sitting on a wooden stool outside his shop across from Bissen, adjusting his orange turban. As far as Bissen could tell there was very little that Bir Singh didn't sell, and as a result his business was popular. Bissen raised his hand in greeting and Bir Singh replied in kind. In the middle of the lane a gang of children were playing catch with a small blue ball, shouting and screaming at each other.

Further along, a two-man army patrol stood at the corner where the lane joined a main street, watching for
trouble. There had been an increase in incidents since the turn of the year; incidents that had been branded as terrorist by the British. The clamour for an end to British rule over India grew with each day, and Bissen, for one, did not understand it. The
Engrezi
had brought much that was good, and India had prospered as a result. Having spent time in England during the war, Bissen longed to see his own country modernize in the same way. Not once in all his time in England had he seen an open sewer or packs of stray dogs. The poor were apparent but they did not sleep by the sides of the roads and there was no caste system – although social class was another matter. But at least the poor of England could eat. In India, to be the lowest of the low meant starvation and disease, and infant mortality was like a cancer, eating away at the very core of the country.

But then again, thought Bissen, perhaps he could also understand the revolutionaries who were rising against their masters. The British did not help themselves with their taxation and their reliance on the gun. The Rowlatt Act in particular had led many people to the door of the militants. Prices were rising as the cost of raw materials soared. All around the city, Bissen had seen the effects of the new law, and the army patrols had doubled in number. Amritsar was like a cooking pot, full to the brim with water and simmering dangerously.

A small butterfly, as blue as the most beautiful
summer sky, fluttered about Bissen's face. He watched it closely, wondering why it had come to life so early in the year, when his senses were suddenly filled with the scent of mangoes and fresh cream. Someone sat down at his side.

‘Good morning, Bissen.'

He turned to see the woman from the marketplace at his side. A black shawl with silver threaded through it was draped over her head.

‘How did you—?' he began.

She turned to him. Her skin looked as though it was sculpted from marble, smooth and flawless. Her lips were bright red and full and her face perfectly symmetrical. Bissen felt himself getting lost in her butterscotch eyes. His thoughts took him back to England, back to the woman who had nursed him through his injuries. He shivered.

‘Your eyes tell me many things,' the woman said to him.

The lane seemed to brighten and the chill in the air disappeared. Bissen felt himself warming, relaxing.

‘This is not the place for you, is it?' she asked.

Bissen shook his head.

‘Where is it you wish to be?'

‘With her,' Bissen replied, unable to control what came out of his mouth.

‘She is beautiful,' the woman continued.

‘How can you know this?' he asked.

She put her delicate hand on his shoulder. ‘You have
looked at her so many times that her reflection has become imprinted on your eyes.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘When I look into your eyes, I can see her face,' she explained.

Bissen's head told him that this could not be. But his heart told him to trust the woman. Even though he had only met her once before, he felt as if he'd known her his entire life.