Parents were milling around the school. The lane was now strangely altered: sorrow and sadness showed on the faces of children, vendors, cows, servants, beggars, even the shops and stalls; and though some were not yet overwhelmed, all looked deeply concerned. The rioters did not go about the lane at first but gradually their shouts could be heard. They were angry.
The shrieks of men, women and children at the windows and doors of their houses were enough to pierce the strongest heart in the world.
A Sikh man who worked in the market was dragged by the hair onto Serpent Lane near the school gate as his blue turban unfurled. A girl tried to move forward and help him but an avalanche of blows stopped her. At that moment Sunil Seth, Govinda and Tenzing rushed down from the headmaster’s apartment. They ran across the compound and arrived at the school gate.
‘Betrayed!’ shouted Sunil Seth.
An explosion echoed through the lane. A gang of armed men, dacoits wearing orange and green scarves over their faces, ran into Bedi’s shoe shop wielding iron bars, spears and pickaxes. The terrified Sikh shopkeeper, Mohinder Singh Bedi, and his family tried to barricade their shop but to no avail. The angry gang grabbed the family and beat the father after he tried to defend himself with a hammer. When Bedi refused to hand over the keys to his safe one of the dacoits lunged at him with a spear. Bedi collapsed on the floor uttering a loud yell as blood spurted from his side.
‘The country is in a state of alert,’ reported a journalist as news blared from a loudspeaker. ‘The government refuses to confirm or deny the rumours of the PM being assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards.’
Although nothing had yet been confirmed about the shooting in the Indian media, the shrill grinding of closing metal shutters could be heard on the lane. Sikh students were accosted as they hastened home and the school was going to have to be shut down. Gates were locked.
The servants were arguing when Govinda came in from the school in tears because of what the older boys said to one another about what might happen to the Sikhs.
‘The Sikhs, who betrayed us, deserve what they get,’ bellowed Ashok.
‘Innocent people have to pay the penalty for the guilt of others,’ said Gitanjali with disdain. Later she said she was not sure whether the people who went on the rampage were connected to politics or not. ‘The rioting,’ she said, ‘was done by deadly fanatics.’
At home they listened to the news on the wireless. Along the lane the story crackled that Indira Gandhi had been shot by her Sikh bodyguards, and nobody at first was sure if she was alive or dead. After witnessing the violence in the café Govinda felt unsafe and scared. When would it happen next? He knew the violence was going on even though he was not seeing it and feared for his and others’ safety. He feared for the locals in the lane. Would the man in the red tracksuit come into the school compound and demand to smash Mumbles in the face? What would happen to Mumbles, his wife and their children, if the dacoits found them? Govinda was concerned they would attack his family for protecting Mumbles and was plagued by feelings of uncertainty and insecurity. He felt scared. Had he somehow caused the violence? Had he angered the people? Could he have stopped the violence? He felt anger toward those who attacked Sikhs. He felt anger at those who did not protect themselves. Above all, he felt depressed and helpless.
Mumbles Singh refused to cut his hair. Gitanjali spoke to her husband. ‘Can he bring his family to the apartment?’
‘They will compromise everyone in the compound’ said the headmaster. ‘We could be killed for protecting them.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Gitanjali. ‘I have asked him to cut his hair but he refuses to.’
‘If they find him, they will kill him,’ said Sunil Seth with revulsion.
‘So can we hide them in our house, Sunil?’
The headmaster consented.
Later Mumbles came upstairs with his wife and two daughters. They were to stay in the spare bedroom. Govinda stood quietly nearby when the girls arrived. He had never spoken to or taken notice of Mumbles’ daughters. When he tried to say ‘Hello’, they retreated and stood between their mother and father. They were shorter and younger than he and they looked as if they had been crying. Their kohlrimmed eyes didn’t move when Sunil Seth offered them sweets. The girls said thank you in a way that moved his mother to tears, and she threw her arms around them.
From inside the house Govinda heard explosions. When he went out on the verandah he saw smoke had enveloped Serpent Lane in a murky grey haze. The jumble of rooftops and washing lines blurred and merged with the dust-filled sky. Bit by bit, he saw the clutter of wires above the electricity poles and the grimy walls of the neighbouring houses, as well as a line of abandoned and burnt vehicles. He was breathing so hard he felt dizzy and nauseated.
Five men, dressed in ordinary clothes and carrying pitchforks, knives and swords, chased two teenage Sikh boys, under the gaze of a police spotlight, down the lane. He heard the five men shouting angrily, ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai’ – Long live Mother India. The two, young Sikhs were crying and injured, cut and bloody.
‘We are friends,’ shouted one of the boys.
Everyone – Bengali, Muslim, Hindu, Communist, Congressite, Christian – seemed to be deep in the violence. Govinda stared at the scene below until Gitanjali came and told him he was not to go outside again.
The rioting got worse later that night. Dacoits bearing weapons came to the gate and asked if there were any Sikhs in the compound. The dacoits wore bandanas to cover their faces. Sunil Seth and Tenzing confronted them and told them to go away.
‘There are no Sikhs here,’ insisted the headmaster.
‘Liar,’ said one of the men carrying a large knife. ‘We will burn this school!’
‘Listen, no Sikhs here. Instead of burning the school burn this,’ said Tenzing as he handed the man a cigarette. This took the men by surprise, and they moved on.
‘They will be back,’ said Tenzing. ‘But you have some time, Sir.’
That night, Govinda’s parents spoke to all the servants and informed them that they would be leaving them soon. ‘We are going to Australia,’ said the headmaster. ‘I did not expect to leave you like this and under these circumstances.’ The servants stood in a row and cried. Sunil Seth gave each of them an envelope with money.
‘This is not a final goodbye,’ said the headmaster in an attempt to console Ashok and Nitesh. Govinda cried. More packing was still to be done and the preparations were incomplete. Their flights had been booked in advance but now they deliberated about how to make it to the airport. Sunil Seth tried calling the airline company; the phone lines were down. Mumbles and his family remained hidden in their apartment.
Mumbles decided it would be safer if he disguised himself. Govinda watched Mumbles cry as his wife cut his hair and shaved his beard.
‘In Sikhism,’ Mumbles said, as his hair fell to the ground, ‘allowing one’s hair to grow naturally is a symbol of respect for the perfection of God’s creation.’ More of his hair fell. ‘I combed my hair twice daily with a Kanga and tied it into a Joora. For me to use the razor is as sinful as incest.’
Later that night, Govinda got up to go to the toilet, and he heard his mother, whispering to someone in the kitchen. Govinda stood near the kitchen door and peeked in.
‘We are about to go to the airport,’ she was saying to the cook. As they sat, he saw her hand lying near Mumble’s leg. ‘He knows nothing and wants you to hide here until it is safe for your family to leave.’
Govinda heard Mumbles say, ‘I have betrayed my faith and my family. I will pay for this.’ Govinda almost did not recognise him with his hair cut. He looked small and in need of protection. He looked up and noticed Govinda.
‘Come here beta,’ the cook said gently to the boy. ‘I made some jalebi for you.’
‘I’m not your son,’ said Govinda. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’
‘You are leaving us. We will miss you,’ Mumbles hugged Govinda. The house was quiet and dark except for the headmaster’s snoring.
As Mumbles prepared lunch the next day, he asked Govinda if he would remember him in Australia. Govinda told him to mind his own business. After lunch all the servants came to say their final goodbye to the family. Was this really it? For a moment Govinda forgot about the violence taking place outside. He imagined never seeing his home again and felt very sad. The servants brought presents. Ashok’s trousers appeared to sit on his waist better than they normally did. He arrived with incense. Tenzing appeared sober, his eyes were not bloodshot, and his wife brought cauliflower and potato, for Mumbles to make into a curry. Govinda shook hands with them all except for Mumbles. He did not like the secret understanding they had, the way Mumbles seemed to get so much of Gitanjali’s attention. The flowing tap, the lowered voices, the accidental hand brushing. His mother was not supposed to be so open with the cook, and in front of him, but Govinda said nothing. Instead he sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. Hahhhh! The servants flung themselves before his family and begged them not to leave, crying that if they left they would be without a good household. Govinda’s father was clearly distracted as his eyes searched into the distance. ‘C’mon, let’s go,’ he finally said.
They all drank tea together and then their cups were refilled and left standing as a symbol to bring about a quick return. The servants and their families stood weeping. Govinda hated saying goodbye, but his mother consoled him saying they would all meet again one day. No one mentioned the riots taking place outside.
Before they left, Ashok lit a coconut and circled the car three times with the smoking husk before smashing it on the concrete. At that Nitesh appeared. He looked different. He appeared older. He was without his glasses. He said he had new contact lenses when he hugged Govinda. He then bowed before the headmaster and draped a garland of yellow flowers over the steering wheel. Govinda hugged his friend. The chauffeur sprinkled holy water from the shrine of Ganesh over the car’s bonnet while reciting a mantra from the Hindu Vedas. He finished by flicking droplets of red kumkum, an extract of turmeric, over the front of the car and dabbed a bit on the forehead of everyone taking part in the ritual. Then under the front wheel he placed a lime, which was crushed when the car rolled forward on its auspicious journey.