The Track of the Wind. Jamila Gavin

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 to?’ Nazakhat whispered through his fingers. ‘Have you ever seen his aunt wearing anything but the silver kara on her wrist and two gold studs in her ears?’

      ‘You have a point,’ Jaspal conceded. ‘But you live there. You see everything. Come on, think. If there is someone, you must know.’

      ‘Perhaps he got her from a newspaper ad,’ reflected Nazakhat. ‘I’ll find out one of these days.’

      ‘You re wrong. You must be. He wouldn’t marry.’ Jaspal finally hacked off another piece of cane and started to strip away the outside. ‘He’s not the marrying kind. Here.’ Jaspal handed Nazakhat the white fibrous stalk, dripping with sugar, and proceeded to hack one for himself.

      A distant shriek of the train whistle made them sit up.

      ‘It’s the Amritsar train. ‘Jaspal leaped to his feet, his gloom fully vanished and his eyes now sparkling with enterprise. ‘Let’s catch it – eh, bhai?’

      ‘Are you going to school after all?’ Jaspal’s school was the intermediate college in Amritsar.

      ‘Nah! I feel like going to the pictures. Will you come?’

      Nazakhat got to his feet. He was nervous about going into town. He loved films too, but, as a Muslim, he was afraid of going out of his neighbourhood. Memories of the past were still fresh. But Jaspal grabbed his arm warmly. ‘Come on, bhai. Say yes.’

      ‘Your school though, what about school? ‘Nazakhat asked weakly.

      ‘Oh, to hell with school! Come on!’

      This was good old Jaspal. Nazakhat couldn’t resist. ‘Get a move on then,’ he yelled, pushing ahead.

      They chucked away the sugar-cane and thrashed their way out of the field. They heard the whistle again. Nearer this time. They were running full pelt. They reached the edge of the long white road, dashed over and plunged down the dyke disappearing into the waves of barley. They re-emerged on the path dividing the saffron crop from the mustard seed.

      ‘Hey, wait for me Jaspal!’ yelled Nazakhat. He clutched his side as a stitch seared through his guts. Jaspal only slowed down sufficiently to glance over his shoulder and to give an encouraging yell. ‘Get on with it! We’ll miss it!’

      A long streak of grey smoke in the sky straggled out like the hair of an old woman who shakes away the tangles of sleep. And again the siren; closer now, its pitch screaming out intervals as the train slowed down. Good old Hari Singh, the engine driver. He has relatives in this village. He does them a favour by slowing down here.

      From out of nowhere, figures came leaping up the embankment along the track and others, like the boys,