Cracking India by Bapsi Sidhwa Page B

Singh’s broad Punjabi accent and loud voice never fail to annoy Mother. She must have indicated her displeasure with some gesture because Mrs. Singh placidly says, “Don’t shout, dear.”
    â€œI am not shouting!” hollers Mr. Singh. “I’m telling this man: Quit India! Gandhijee is on a fast,” he warns the police officer. “If
he dies, his blood will be on your head!”
    â€œThat wily Banya is an expert on fasting unto death without dying,” says the heftily moustached policeman demurely.
    â€œAnd what if he dies?” questions Mr. Singh righteously. “You mark my word. One day he will die! Then what you will do?”
    â€œI’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll celebrate!” says the Inspector General, losing his patience.
    â€œYou will not celebrate! You know why? Because rivers of your blood will flow in our gutters!” says Mr. Singh in a sarcastic singsong. He shakes his knees in and out in an engaging rhythm and bangs his fist on the table. I can tell by the swift little stabs of the Inspector General’s shoe on the wood that he too is angry.
    â€œRivers of blood will flow all right!” he shouts, almost as loudly as Mr. Singh. “Nehru and the Congress will not have everything their way! They will have to reckon with the Muslim League and Jinnah. If we quit India today, old chap, you’ll bloody fall at each other’s throats!”
    â€œHindu, Muslim, Sikh: we all want the same thing! We want independence!”
    Inspector General Rogers recovers his Imperial phlegm. “My dear man,” he intones, “Don’t you know the Congress won’t agree on a single issue with the Muslim League? The Cabinet Mission proposed a Federation of the Hindu and Muslim majority provinces. Jinnah accepted it; Gandhi and Nehru didn’t!
    â€œThey even rejected Lord Wavell’s suggestion for an interim government with a majority Congress representation! They’re like the three bloody monkeys! They refuse to hear, or see that Jinnah has the backing of seventy million Indian Muslims! Those arrogant Hindus have blown the last chance for an undivided India... Gandhi and Nehru are forcing the League to push for Pakistan!”
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    â€œAnd where will this so-called Pakistan be?” enquires our Sikh neighbor with withering and snickering sarcasm.
    â€œThey want the Muslim majority provinces: Punjab, Sind,
Kashmir, the North West and Bengal,” replies the police officer, as if coaching a backward child. I can imagine the haughty flare of his English nostrils.
    â€œThey are only saying that to be in a better bargaining position and you are stringing them along because of your divide-and-rule monkey tricks!” accuses Mr. Singh. “You always set one up against the other...You just give Home Rule and see. We will settle our differences and everything!”
    â€œWho will? Master Tara Singh?” It is a contemptuous, curl-of-the-lip tone of voice.
    â€œYes. He is my leader. I will obey him!” Mr. Singh says this so quietly and firmly that for a moment I wonder if someone else has spoken in his stead.
    The Inspector General makes a very peculiar sound. Then he says, “The Akalis are a bloody bunch of murdering fanatics!”
    Even I can tell it’s a tactless thing to say.
    Mr. Singh’s rhythmically knocking knees grow perfectly still. In one quick movement, drawing his legs to his chair, almost knocking it over, he stands up. Everybody’s feet make erratic moves. Adi and I, terrified of discovery, retract our legs and cower in hunched-up bundles.
    Father has stood up also. I hear him say in Punjabi: “Oye, sit down, Sardarjee ... I say, yaar, don’t mind the Angrez Sahib. He doesn’t know... ”
    But before Father can finish the sentence Mr. Singh cuts in: “Oh yes? He knows very well!” and one of his legs completely disappears. There is a clatter of