I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Read Online Free PDF Page B

and the fair outside the walls. ‘Yes sir. I will be there in the afternoon and then with the procession.’
    ‘Well, see you later, Buta Singh. Your excellent work in the collection of war funds and in recruiting soldiers will not go unrewarded. I will speak to the Commissioner.’
    ‘Thank you, Sahib. Thank you. You are most kind.’ Buta Singh knew that this was a reference to the next Honours list. That sort of thing still mattered although other things mattered more. ‘Sir, I have a small request to make.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You know, sir, I do not like to ask for personal favours.’
    ‘Yes, yes, Buta Singh. Anything I can do for you, I will. What is it?’
    ‘Sir, my work in collecting funds and furthering the war effort has caused a lot of envy. I receive letters threatening my life. I am not afraid, but if I could get a police guard at my house for a few days, it would stop evil designs. If it is at all inconvenient . . . ’
    ‘No, no. I will speak to the Superintendent of Police; this is a very small matter. Well, goodbye, Buta Singh. And thank you once more.’
    ‘There is nothing to thank me about, sir. I thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir.’
    Buta Singh emerged from the meeting wreathed in smiles.
‘Chutti!’
he announced triumphantly clickinghis thumb and middle finger in the air. ‘Holiday! Go home or wherever you like.’
    ‘Why, what happened?’ asked his brother magistrates getting up from their chairs.
    ‘Why do you want to know? I promised you a holiday and I have got you a holiday. Haven’t I been true to my word?’
    Buta Singh extended his hand. The magistrates smacked it in turn. ‘Can I be of any other service?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness when Wazir Chand touched him with his limp hand.
    ‘Long live Sardar Buta Singh!’ answered Wazir Chand.
    Wazir Chand’s home was very much like Buta Singh’s except that it was Hindu instead of Sikh and not so concerned with religion and ritual. As a matter of fact the only evidence of religion in the house was a large colour print of Krishna whirling a quoit on the mantelpiece of the sitting-room. Wazir Chand’s wife occasionally put a garland of flowers round it and touched the base of its frame as a mark of respect. She did the same to a portrait of Mahatma Gandhi which was kept discreetly away in the bedroom.
    The real ‘god’ in Wazir Chand’s home was the son, Madan Lal. He was a tall, handsome boy in his early twenties. Being the only son, he had been married as soon as he had finished school and had become a father in his second year at college. He had not made much progress in his studies, but had more than compensated for that shortcoming by his achievements insports. His promotion from one class to another had to be arranged by the college authorities. He was doing his sixth year at the college and had not yet taken the degree which normally took four. But the mantelpiece of every room in the house displayed an assortment of silver trophies which he had won in athletics and other team games. He had been captain of the University cricket eleven for three years and had played for his province against a visiting English side. His performance at this match had made him a legend in the Punjab. There were few days in the year when the sporting columns of the papers did not have some reference to his activities. This was a matter of great pride for his parents. They gave into every one of his whims; they practically worshipped him.
    The only thing in common between the tall and broad Madan and his slim, small sister, Sita, was their good looks. He was bold and easy with strangers; she almost tongue-tied and shy. His obsession for games was matched by her aversion to any form of sport. He avoided books; she spent all her time with them. He had barely scraped through the exams he had passed; she had won the highest scholarship for girls in the University. The combination of the athletic prowess of one and the academic distinction of