hot blue haze tinged the whole countryside around – she shut her eyes and imagined she was playing to old Dr Silbermann down in his dark, basement flat where the sun hardly got beyond the windowsill.
She read Patrick’s letter once more. This time, the words ‘stay in touch’ gave her hope. ‘At least he wants me to stay in touch. I will. I’ll write.’ She put away her violin with the letter tucked inside.
In one of the empty rooms below, where the dust drifted in the sunbeams – a vast cosmos of golden stars – the watcher sat on his haunches with his back against the wall, waiting like a weather-worn stone statue; featureless but solid. He didn’t move when Marvinder descended the stone steps, hurrying. He heard the rustle of her clothes – like angels’ wings.
They were king and queen in this ruined palace, moving like chess pieces; silently avoiding each other – for the moment.
‘Aren’t you going to school today, Jaspal?’
Nazakhat glanced at his best friend who hacked at a piece of sugar-cane with his knife. The two boys lay side by side in the middle of a dense sugar-cane field – thick enough to hide a tiger. They often helped themselves when the farmer wasn’t looking.
‘Nah! School’s boring. I hate it. Besides, I can read and write already. What’s the point of more?’
‘Hey man! Your dad will beat you. Remember last time? I thought he’d kill you.’
‘I can take it,’ shrugged Jaspal.
‘Everyone said you were going to be big. Get an important job. Live in the city one of these days. Don’t you care? He wanted so much for you.’
‘He doesn’t know. He thinks I’m there now. Besides, why should I care what my father wants for me – all those diplomas and degrees and bits of paper from his time in England – fat lot of good his learning did for him.’
Nazakhat glanced sideways at him. Jaspal’s face had hardened and he became deeply silent. Jaspal was not an easy friend – not like the old days. His mood could change so fast. One minute he could be laughing and joking about like a clown and the next as darkly gloomy as a soldier back from the war.
A final hack severed the cane and Jaspal got to his feet to break it in half across his knee. He gave one half to Nazakhat then flopped down again into the warm earth and chewed on his bit. The fibres burst a flood of sweet sugar into his mouth and he sucked hard. After a while he said, ‘Besides, I can’t stand sitting with all those goondas – idiots – while this mumbling half-wit tries to teach us useless things which mean nothing. Why, I know more than he does.’
A silence fell between them once more, and Nazakhat could tell that Jaspal would not be the first to break it.
‘You know what,’ Nazakhat nudged Jaspal in the ribs. ‘I think that old devil, Bahadur Singh, has a secret woman somewhere.’ He elbowed him in the ribs and shaped a female form in the air with his hands.
‘What? Bahadur Singh? You must be crazy!’ Jaspal grunted with mild disbelief at the thought of that old fogey, the village schoolmaster, having a secret romance.
‘I live under his roof. Wouldn’t I know if something was going on?’
Jaspal didn’t respond for a while, but sucked on the sugarcane. At last he said, in a determinedly bored voice, ‘Does that mean his aunt knows?’
Nazakhat grinned to himself as he won at least a fraction of Jaspal’s attention. ‘Oh no! She’s deaf and blind to anything like that. She’s too busy praying and being holy. She probably doesn’t even know where babies come from! Aiee, aiee!’ Nazakhat burst out into infectious giggling and even Jaspal couldn’t prevent a smile.
‘But what makes you think Bahadur Singh has a woman?’ asked Jaspal, sceptical but curious.
‘I saw him in the bazaar.’ Nazakhat leaned forward confidentially. ‘He was looking at women’s things – you know, cloth pieces, sarees and jewellery.’
‘Is that all? ‘Jaspals face fell. ‘I thought perhaps you’d seen him with someone – you know – ’ He gave a wry smile.
Nazakhat, triumphant now at having thoroughly engaged Jaspal’s attention, slapped him on the back and rolled about laughing. ‘You know, you know!’ he mocked raucously.
‘Looking at sarees is hardly enough evidence,’ shrugged Jaspal.
‘Since when would the teacher, a confirmed bachelor, be looking at sarees?’ demanded Nazakhat. ‘Books – yes. Writing materials – yes. But sarees? I ask you! Wouldn’t you wonder who for, if not for a woman?’
‘For his aunt?’
‘His aunt!’ Nazakhats voice rose with hilarity. ‘She’s no woman!’ He was really enjoying himself now as Jaspal began to snigger too, despite himself. ‘She never wears sarees – only salwaar kameez – and only ever grey.’
‘Blue,’ corrected Jaspal.
‘Call that blue?’ cried Nazakhat. ‘It’s not the blue of the sky. It’s not the blue of peacock feathers or of kingfishers or even of your turban. Anyway, I should know. My father made that outfit for her before . . .’ before he was killed along with the rest of my family ‘. . . and he called it grey. He used to make all her outfits – and they were all grey or some colour so dull it might as well be grey. Anyway, Bahadur Singh was looking at really glittery sarees and cloth pieces: red and pink, and silks with embroidered borders and lots of gold and silver threads, so it wasn’t for his aunt – you can be sure of that.’
‘Perhaps she’s make believe.’ Jaspal began to forget his troubles. He sat up, fantasising. ‘You know – wishful thinking. He feels deprived. He wants to love. He has invented a beautiful woman all bumps and curves like that film star, Devaki Rani. He can’t have her for real – but he pretends – what do you think, eh, Nazakhat? He whispers her name into his pillow at night. “Oh, Devaki, Devaki! I can’t live without you . . .” ’
The boys rolled about shrieking with laughter as their jokes got more and more vivid. ‘Don’t you think I have a good theory?’ cried Jaspal. ‘Perhaps Bahadur Singh has a whole secret store of sarees and jewellery. He realises that he’s spent too much time with his books and that crabby old aunt. That the world and all its women are passing him by and he hasn’t yet lived!’
‘I’m serious, bhai!’ insisted Nazakhat, when their laughter died down. ‘He has been looking in jewellery shops – no kidding. I’ve seen him. I’m not making this up. There is someone, I know it.’
‘Well then, it is his aunt,’ said Jaspal with mock seriousness. ‘He loves her thin scraggy arms and her hatchet face and her beautiful body as shapely as an ancient camel. Or . . . or . . . !’ Jaspal got to his knees and looked deeply serious. ‘His aunt has been made an offer she can’t refuse and Bahadur Singh is providing her dowry!’ The boys’ hilarity rang out through the sugar-cane.
‘Shut up, shut up! The farmer will hear us!’ hissed Jaspal, and they clamped their syrupy mouths.
‘But I ask you, bhai, who would he give jewellery
