will be free.’
‘Then what will happen? What sweetmeats will we get?’
Sher Singh could not answer simple questions like these; at least not in words his illiterate mother could understand. He became lyrical —- ‘Spring will come to our barren land once more . . . once more the nightingales will sing.’
Chapter III
In June the sun scorches
The skies are hot
And the earth burns like an oven.
The waters give up their vapours,
Yet it burns and scorches relentlessly.
When the sun’s chariot passes the mountain tops,
Long shadows stretch across the land.
The cicadas call from the glades,
And the beloved seeks the cool of the evening.
If the comfort she seeks be in falsehood,
There will be sorrow in store for her.
If it be in truth,
Hers will be a life of joy.
Spake the Guru: My life and life’s ending are at the will of the Lord
To Him have I surrendered my soul.
T he Guru had left out reference to the dust in his description of the month of Asadh (May/June). First there were the devils spiralling their way across the parched land. They were followed by storms which came with blinding fury, flinging dark brown earth in fistfuls in people’s faces. Some summers, as in the summer of 1942, there were no dust-devils or duststorms but only dust. The sky turned from a colourless grey to copper red and a fine hot powder started to fall. It fell gently day after day and covered everything under a thick layer of khaki. It got into the eyes till they hurt; it got into the mouth and one felt the grit between the teeth; if one turned the end of a handkerchief on one’s fingertip inside the ears or nostrils, it came out muddy. Trees stood in petrified stillness with the weight of dust heavy on their leaves. There was neither sunshine nor shadow. The sun had become a large orange disc suspended in an amber sky; its light was dissipated in the atmosphere. It was intensely hot without even a suspicion of breeze anywhere.
Sabhrai wiped her forehead with a towel and pressed it on the Holy Book. She spread the cover on it and looked up at her family. They were all there including the dog and they were all well and happy. That was enough for her.
Her husband ran his hand gingerly behind his neck and remarked: ‘I’ve never had prickly heat like this before. It feels like a thousand thorns stuck into the back.’
Sabhrai took no notice of the complaint. They had spent several disturbed nights and everyone’s nerves were a little frayed. ‘Will you say the supplicatory prayer?’ she asked, heaving herself up. ‘Don’t forget to thank Him for Sher’s success at the elections. Also mention Beena’s examination: if the Guru wills she will pass even if her papers have not been good.’
The family stood up. Buta Singh stepped in front. He shut his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling. With his hands joined across his navel he recited the namesof the ten Gurus, the important shrines, and the martyrs. He thanked the Guru for his son being elected President of the Students’ Union and invoked special assistance for his daughter and blessings for the rest of the family. They all went down on their knees, rubbed their foreheads in front of the Holy Book once more, and sat down in their places. Shunno stirred the prasad with a dagger.
‘Last night it was like an oven,’ commented Sher Singh. ‘I could not sleep at all. I must have drunk at least twelve tumblers of water but the thirst would not go.’
‘It can’t last very long. The monsoon has broken in Bombay and it should be reaching the Punjab in another fortnight. As a matter of fact, Mr Taylor, who is a keen bird-watcher, told me that he had heard the monsoon bird calling. He said this bird comes all the way from Africa with the monsoon winds and wherever it goes the rain is sure to follows Now the college is closed, why don’t you go to the hills for a few days? Sher, you should take Champak and Beena to Simla. You can rent a house for a couple of
‘Then what will happen? What sweetmeats will we get?’
Sher Singh could not answer simple questions like these; at least not in words his illiterate mother could understand. He became lyrical —- ‘Spring will come to our barren land once more . . . once more the nightingales will sing.’
Chapter III
In June the sun scorches
The skies are hot
And the earth burns like an oven.
The waters give up their vapours,
Yet it burns and scorches relentlessly.
When the sun’s chariot passes the mountain tops,
Long shadows stretch across the land.
The cicadas call from the glades,
And the beloved seeks the cool of the evening.
If the comfort she seeks be in falsehood,
There will be sorrow in store for her.
If it be in truth,
Hers will be a life of joy.
Spake the Guru: My life and life’s ending are at the will of the Lord
To Him have I surrendered my soul.
T he Guru had left out reference to the dust in his description of the month of Asadh (May/June). First there were the devils spiralling their way across the parched land. They were followed by storms which came with blinding fury, flinging dark brown earth in fistfuls in people’s faces. Some summers, as in the summer of 1942, there were no dust-devils or duststorms but only dust. The sky turned from a colourless grey to copper red and a fine hot powder started to fall. It fell gently day after day and covered everything under a thick layer of khaki. It got into the eyes till they hurt; it got into the mouth and one felt the grit between the teeth; if one turned the end of a handkerchief on one’s fingertip inside the ears or nostrils, it came out muddy. Trees stood in petrified stillness with the weight of dust heavy on their leaves. There was neither sunshine nor shadow. The sun had become a large orange disc suspended in an amber sky; its light was dissipated in the atmosphere. It was intensely hot without even a suspicion of breeze anywhere.
Sabhrai wiped her forehead with a towel and pressed it on the Holy Book. She spread the cover on it and looked up at her family. They were all there including the dog and they were all well and happy. That was enough for her.
Her husband ran his hand gingerly behind his neck and remarked: ‘I’ve never had prickly heat like this before. It feels like a thousand thorns stuck into the back.’
Sabhrai took no notice of the complaint. They had spent several disturbed nights and everyone’s nerves were a little frayed. ‘Will you say the supplicatory prayer?’ she asked, heaving herself up. ‘Don’t forget to thank Him for Sher’s success at the elections. Also mention Beena’s examination: if the Guru wills she will pass even if her papers have not been good.’
The family stood up. Buta Singh stepped in front. He shut his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling. With his hands joined across his navel he recited the namesof the ten Gurus, the important shrines, and the martyrs. He thanked the Guru for his son being elected President of the Students’ Union and invoked special assistance for his daughter and blessings for the rest of the family. They all went down on their knees, rubbed their foreheads in front of the Holy Book once more, and sat down in their places. Shunno stirred the prasad with a dagger.
‘Last night it was like an oven,’ commented Sher Singh. ‘I could not sleep at all. I must have drunk at least twelve tumblers of water but the thirst would not go.’
‘It can’t last very long. The monsoon has broken in Bombay and it should be reaching the Punjab in another fortnight. As a matter of fact, Mr Taylor, who is a keen bird-watcher, told me that he had heard the monsoon bird calling. He said this bird comes all the way from Africa with the monsoon winds and wherever it goes the rain is sure to follows Now the college is closed, why don’t you go to the hills for a few days? Sher, you should take Champak and Beena to Simla. You can rent a house for a couple of
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