The Tiger Claw Read Online Free PDF

when a relative died, and once, a parcel had sailed across the Atlantic from an aunt in Boston.
    “Right now, I must get to Munich,” he said, showing the sergeant his photograph of Noor. “I’m searching for my sister. I know she’s still alive.”
    “Amen, sir. She’s about your colour; don’t you worry—she’ll be just fine.”
    The spire and bell tower of the village church came into view. The Jeep closed in on its destination, dust barrelling in its wake.
    “Can I ask you a question, sir?” said the sergeant as they turned into the village and bumped into the central square. “You have any trouble with the white folks in your unit?”
    “In the beginning,” said Kabir, “but after a while the important thing is flying, fighting and bombing, and how well you do it.”
    He wanted to add, “You have to fly better, do everything better, be more anxious, show more courage, and shout louder for King and Country,” but he was an officer, and such confessional remarks would establish an equality he wasn’t sure he wanted.
    Kabir never imagined himself, and certainly not Noor, fighting for England. England was too full of lords and ladies still posturing and preening in clubs while mocking the French for their defeat and betrayal of democracy, and Indians for their nonviolent struggle for independence. His equal presence in the officers’ mess had required an effort of mental inclusion that was beyond his fellow British citizens, the normal hazing, mocking and teasing that would have broken formality becoming an extension of imperialism in the hands of the hazer, so that they and he all found themselves playing roles in a very old script.
    It didn’t help that he couldn’t fit their image of an Indian—too tall, too fair, not Hindu, not Gurkha, not even Sikh. A Muslim. A Sufi Muslim, they sniggered—“sounds delicious.” And Kabir would explain earnestly and proudly. Uselessly, too, for not one, if questioned, could have repeated anything he said over tankards of beer. He became accustomed to this. It gave him the freedom to indulge in reverie out loud, to reminisce, pontificate, even pray, without concern his words would change anything or be remembered by his mates. In place of friends he gathered followers, as Abbajaan once did, prolonging his own life and career by showing unstinting appreciation to his flight crew and those who maintained his aircraft.
    “You’re right, sir—I always say, if you’ve got the grits, serve ‘em.”
    Kabir pointed the way to the alley behind the church. The sergeant shifted to second gear and turned. The Jeep approached the motorcycle against the church wall.
    “And the white misses, sir? Would they go out with you if they find out you ain’t really white?”
    Actually, the few English girls he knew would do what their mothers never dreamed of. Especially Angela. She listened to Kabir, loving his strangeness—his dark, wiry moustache, slim hands with tapering fingers, his straight white teeth. Angela listened as he vowed, when the war was over, to return to France and spend the rest of his life like a travelling curator, exhibiting Abbajaan’s Sufi ideas: peace, love, tolerance. Above all, tolerance—the simplest idea, the most difficult to teach.
    And damned difficult to learn.
    “No,” he replied. “But it made no difference to my girl.”
    “You got a picture?”
    Kabir snapped the catch of the locket on his watch, showed him Angela’s rose-touched, dreamy smile. Angela’s coquettish eyes, so unlike Noor’s direct gaze. Kabir could all but see those lashes fluttering. Fine rippled locks—light grey in the photo, but the sergeant had made a mental correction to gold.
    “She gonna marry you, sir?”
    Kabir closed the locket with a broad smile. “Haven’t the faintest idea, sergeant. I’ll ask her when I return to London.”
    The sergeant grunted sceptically. Kabir jumped off the Jeep as it slowed to a stop. The sergeant heaved his bulk out and took