Darshan by Amrit Chima

shoulder, acutely aware of the white-knuckled grip that held it, the heavy-handed surety. He remembered his own hands. A flash of light cut across Mr. Grewal’s spectacles. He clenched his fists, recalling something familiar. The nerve endings of his fingers tingled in protest. The air around him slowed. He no longer experienced the touch of the evening breeze on his face as he tried to comprehend the violence of the cane as an extension of the man who held it, the intention of the blunt force at the end of that arc. He opened his eyes, breathing hard now. The British officer made ready for another swing, even as Ratan slumped unconscious against the tree.
    It was the fist, the ferocity in the officer’s hand that made Baba Singh finally know it. He drew in a sharp breath and bent over, sick. Opening his palms, he shuddered and stared weakly at them, knowing now what they were capable of, remembering the day he had intended to return Dr. Bansal’s packages, remembering that he had stopped at Mr. Grewal’s.
    “It was me,” he mumbled, but no one heard him say it. Their legs continued to twitch rhythmically as Ratan regained consciousness and screamed again.
    Baba Singh let out a choking cry, for himself, for his wife, and for his unborn child.
    He straightened, needing to escape. He turned to Prem, his father-in-law seemingly unable to avert his eyes from Ratan. It was dread that Baba Singh witnessed in Prem’s face, the dread of what they could not control. It was dread of the day when he would be strapped to that tree, a day that he believed was imminent and looming, and which they were all powerless to prevent.
     
    ~   ~   ~
     
    The blacksmith’s shop was brighter than usual. The sun had entered through the recently cleaned windows at just the right angle, like God peering in, illuminating every surface, every curve and dent of metal, every particle of dust. From where Baba Singh sat, the two kirpans crossed above Yashbir’s apartment were flashing, frowning eye slits. Admonishing because of the lie, the one he had allowed himself to believe.
    “Where is the doctor?” Baba Singh asked.
    Yashbir was sitting at his desk. He caressed the various-sized chisels lined up in front of him with the tip of his index finger. He betrayed nothing. “This is not the time,” he said. “Think of your wife now, Baba.”
    Baba Singh clenched his fists. He squatted next to his friend. “I need to see him,” he said quietly, looking up.
    “Think of Sada Kaur,” the blacksmith said again. “You cannot go chasing phantoms of the past while she is about to give you a family.”
    “Where did they send him?”
    “He is gone,” Yashbir replied.
    “Where?”
    “I do not know.”
    Rising, Baba Singh paced the room. “You should have told me. I would have stopped them from taking him away.”
    “He did not want you to.”
    Picking up several stray nails from a shelf, Baba Singh cupped them in his palm. “You must be in contact with him,” he insisted. “You said Amritsar. I will go there.”
    “No. He does not want—”
    Baba Singh slammed the nails down on Yashbir’s desk.
    The old man did not flinch. He collected the nails, some of which had fallen under his desk. He stood and placed them in a box containing a stock of other nails. “Nalin knew what he was doing. He was not happy here. There were things he understood he could never fix. When he realized what you had done, he came to me. He said he could fix this one thing. He wanted you to move on, to be happy.”
    “Tell him it did not work,” Baba Singh said. “I have had nightmares. You know that. It was not worth it for him. Tell me where to find him.”
    The blacksmith’s face fell. “He knew you would not want to do it this way, that you were a good boy. And then you did not remember what you had done. I was glad I did not have to tell you.”
    “Where is he, Yashji?”
    The old man sighed mournfully. “He has been transferred somewhere. I have not