The Track of the Wind. Jamila Gavin

looking for a simple gift for my daughter,’ they heard the schoolmaster reply.

      ‘Didn’t you hear that? Daughter, my foot!’ exclaimed Jaspal.

      ‘Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you!’ chortled Nazakhat triumphantly.

      ‘Shut up, you idiot! You’ll give us away. Look. Now what’s he doing?’

      ‘Ah!’ The jeweller’s exclamation was dry but business-like, as if he already knew exactly what was suitable for the schoolmaster. He bent down, and from beneath the counter brought out three glass cases filled with rings, gold and silver chains, earrings, nose studs, necklaces and bracelets – of an infinite variety of precious stone. His eyes hovered over Bahadurs hands as they fingered the different items of jewellery in a tentative and inexperienced way. He noted that they were not the hands of a farmer or an artisan because they were too smooth, so he deduced that his client was a clerk or a teacher who wouldn’t want anything gaudy or too ostentatious.

      The jeweller selected a simple gold bracelet. ‘Is this to your liking?’ he asked.

      Bahadur held the bracelet in the palm of his hand. Jaspal stared at it too. Its cold metal burned in the dark, dusty air like the outer rim of the sun. Whose wrist did the schoolmaster see it encircling?

      ‘Yes, this is to my liking,’ said Bahadur Singh, getting out a wodge of rupee notes from an inside pocket.

      ‘What’s he buying?’ whispered Nazakhat.

      ‘A bracelet,’ murmured Jaspal. ‘A gold bracelet. I wonder who it’s for?’

3 The dividing sword

      The queue was already long when Jaspal and Nazakhat reached the Rialto. It was always long and it always looked as though they would never get in. But experience had taught them that they would, even if it meant squeezing through a forest of legs to get to the front.

      They burst through the curtain into the warm, pungent darkness, threw themselves into the springy seats, which squeaked if they wriggled, and with heads tipped back, stared at the big screen in front of them. Soon images and loud music overwhelmed them and sucked them out of reality into the wonderful fantasy worlds of heroes and princesses, dancing girls and warriors and treacherous enemies.

      As soon as Nazakhat saw what this film was about, he wished he hadn’t come. ‘Arreh, brother. I thought we were seeing a Hindi film. What’s this?’

      Jaspal shrugged, ‘Oh, a new one in Punjabi,’ he muttered. ‘I thought it might be worth seeing.’ The changing light of the screen flickered over his face and he looked like one in a trance.

      The film was about the great eighteenth century hero of Sikhism, Baba Deep Singh, the leader who had defended the Golden Temple of Amritsar against invading Afghan Muslims with only a gathering of peasants bearing nothing but staves. Even after his head had been cut off, the stories related with relish how Baba Deep Singh, carrying his head in one hand and a sword in the other, had continued to fight to protect the Golden Temple from desecration by the Muslims.

      Jaspal had seen many pictures depicting this event and heard many stories at the gurudwara, but never before had it come alive for him. Never before had he felt so moved and inspired as he did watching this film. He became a part of the history and the struggle. It was happening now and, overcome with passion, his thoughts spun with anger. If only he could be such a warrior. What cause was there now worth fighting for? As if reading his thoughts, Baba Deep Singh’s face filled the screen. He turned, as if searching into the soul of every single person in the dark cinema.

      Was it possible . . . ? For a moment, Jaspals credibility was suspended. He shrank away, terrified by the warriors penetrating gaze. He buried his face in his hands and fearfully peered through his fingers at the powerful head towering above them. Jaspal felt sucked into the dark pools of his eyes which stared at him and him alone; challenging him, questioning him. They seemed to say, what are you doing with your life – wasting it away as if you will live for ever? Free yourself from the bonds of desire and act, for action is greater than inaction. Then Baba Deep Singh whirled his sword against his enemies.

      The whole cinema was on its feet, Jaspal too, cheering him on – howling at these Afghan enemies who dared to defile the sacred temple.

      Nazakhat sank lower and lower in his seat. He dreaded the moment when the lights would come up and everyone would recognise him as the Muslim enemy. Before the film ended, he whispered to Jaspal, ‘I’m dying for a pee. I’ll meet you outside.’ He wriggled himself out of the row and escaped from the seething darkness of the cinema.

      For the next twenty minutes, Nazakhat hung about outside waiting for the film to end. At last the doors were flung open and the thick velvet curtains tossed aside. Usually, when the boys came jostling out, they were still part of the film. They carried on the action, chasing and play-fighting and quoting back all their favourite bits. But today was different. The men, nearly all of them Sikhs, some of them Hindus, but no Muslims, poured from the cinema, their eyes shining with excited fervour. Nazakhat, sheltering behind one of the pillars in the foyer, strained to find Jaspal. Then he saw him. Jaspal looked dazed, walking slowly, while everyone around him swirled past.

      ‘There you are!’ exclaimed Nazakhat, leaping out and linking arms.

      Jaspal turned and looked at him blankly, as if he were a stranger. He withdrew his arm and moved away – almost imperceptibly – but Nazakhat knew.

      They came out into the street.

      ‘Hey!’ cried Nazakhat playfully. ‘What’s up with you?’ and he jumped on his friend’s back and tried to tussle him into a play fight.

      ‘Get off !’ growled Jaspal.

      At first Nazakhat carried on, teasing and goading, trying to provoke him into action. Jaspal threw him off so roughly that he tumbled to the ground.

      ‘Yeah!’ laughed Nazakhat, thinking it was all in fun. Then he saw Jaspal’s face. It was frozen in anger. His eyes were narrowed and his lips tight. ‘Hey, Jaspal! You OK?’

      ‘Just leave off will you!’ Jaspal muttered vehemently and walked ahead through the bazaar.

      Nazakhat got to his feet, amazed and disturbed. Jaspal could be moody, he knew that, but this was the first time he had felt his hostility; an enmity even.

      Instead of heading for the railway station, Jaspal turned towards the old quarter of the city.

      ‘Eh, bhai! Brother!’ Nazakhat called uneasily. ‘Aren’t you going home? The train goes in ten minutes. We haven’t got too much time.’

      ‘You go,’ shouted Jaspal over his shoulder. ‘There’s something I want to do,’ and he strode away even faster, disappearing into the throng of the bazaar.

      Nazakhat stood, unable to move for a minute or two. First and foremost he longed to catch up with his friend and beg his forgiveness for whatever it was he had done to make him angry. Surely he didn’t blame him for the actions of those Afghan Muslims in the film? But the thought of his cold, unfriendly face restrained him. With an uncomprehending shrug he carried on to the station.

      Doubts overwhelmed Nazakhat. Were not he and Jaspal still the best of friends? He looked at the scar on the palm of his hand. They were blood brothers. Their history went back a long way. They both remembered – had nightmares of remembering – when their village was burned and all around them people – their own friends and neighbours and families – were massacred. Yet, how, despite the danger, first Jaspal’s family had sheltered Nazakhat’s family when a band of Sikhs came burning and driving out all Muslims; and then how Nazakhat’s family had protected Jaspal and his mother and sister when Muslims came on a murderous raid, intent on revenge, killing any Sikh they could find and burning down all their property.

      Everyone had gone mad with blood lust, but the two families, Nazakhat’s and Jaspal’s, had never betrayed each other, and their