The Assassin's Song Read Online Free PDF

my prize residence, are no doubt the cause of a little resentment among the other scholars. I am regarded by this elite—specialists in the human sciences hailing from across India—as somewhat of a screwball. I catch the occasional amused, if discreet academic smile on a passerby and realize that I have been talking to myself, or worse, humming from my repertoire of the songs of Pirbaag; I know I do this in my anxiety to snatch at the scraps of forgotten melody and verse that still come back to me after so many years' absence.
    Sunday morning I took a walk towards the back of the Guest House. It is not on the usual walking or tourist path. The lowlier servants of the Institute live there. As I strolled past the house and into a modest residential area, a few men and women sitting idly around and children playing, I saw one of the kitchen helps from the Guest House. He grinned in a friendly manner and said, “Are you going to the church?”
    “What church?” I asked. “Is there a church here?” Let alone Christians.
    “There,” he pointed to a barnlike building nearby ahead, to which I curiously proceeded.
    Outside, under the sloping roof, hung an old sign that announced it as the Anglican church, diocese of Boileau Ganj. Above the door, on a patch of flattened tin containers, was a red Christian cross. I stepped inside and a depressing sight met my eyes. The cement floor was littered and broken, the beams were rotting, the white plaster had peeled off in sections. Two naked bulbs provided dim light from the beams. By way of decor, about twenty potted plants had been placed against one wall; against the opposite wall leaned the remains of the original wooden panelling. Service was in progress and a congregation of three, seated on the floor, were singingdevoutly but tunelessly. In front of them was a podium covered by a white cloth with a black cross. The priest stood behind it, and when the occasion demanded, would hit his tambourine. When he saw me, he hesitated, then motioned to someone among the flock, who stood up and brought a chair for me. I sat down. A black Bible and hymn books in Hindi and English were brought for me. The singing had stopped and the priest read from Genesis, the story of Abel and Cain, in Hindi. In English, he translated at the appropriate moment, “Am I my brother's keeper?” and looked, it seemed, for an answer from me.
    When the sermon was over, the priest, having explained the story he had read, gave his blessings and came over and shook my hand. He was called Yesudas, he said. Please would I come again to his church? I would do so, I replied. He reminded me very much of a favourite teacher I once had, who was also a Christian. At this moment a few more people arrived, among them two of the servers from the dining room, who looked delighted to see me.
    Since then the dining staff has indulged me. Morning chai, which had been irregular, now arrives punctually, brought by a young man called Ajay, and accompanied by a treat. In the dining room I am served first, and if I am disinclined to eat with the others, I am served in the Flat. Ajay is the priest's son.
    The phone rang late one night recently. It was Mansoor, my brother; and what a relief it was to hear from him, whatever the nature of our relationship these days. Naturally I was the concerned big brother, and played right into his hands.
    “Arré Mansoor, where are you? Do you know how worried I have been?”
    “I am well. I need some money urgently, Bhai.”
    The voice hurried and furtive, not to say dismissive; he could never hide his resentment, even when little. Car horns impatient, incessant in the background. Who was he with? In what city? Always the impetuous one, the dangerous one; sent to test him, Bapu-ji once said.
    “What kind of money? And where are you?”
    “I'll tell you, but send me some money there.”
    “I have very little, Mansoor—”
    “There must be money that Bapu-ji left behind—and you must have