Free I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale by Khushwant Singh

the place was packed with Sikh villagers. They obviously do not bathe every day. The smell of sweat and clarified butter was terrible.’
    Sabhrai did not like derogatory references to Sikhs and changed the subject abruptly. ‘A lot of things are going to happen this month,’ she said. ‘Beena is going to take her examination; Sher, you’ve got something on too, haven’t you?’
    ‘Yes, the election of the University Union.’
    ‘We ought to have a complete reading of the Granth Sahib. All of you must help.’
    ‘You better get a professional reader. Most of us will be busy and will not be able to do much reading,’ pleaded Buta Singh.
    ‘I don’t like hiring outsiders to do our prayers; it hasn’t the same effect. If none of you can spare the time, I will do it all on my own,’ said Sabhrai with determination. They knew they would have to come to her rescue. This was one of the ways she imposed religion on them and although they said nothing, they did not like it. Before they could pursue the matter further, Mundoo came and announced that some people were waiting to see Buta Singh. They had an appointment.
    ‘What are the orders for me?’
    This was Buta Singh’s way of getting down to business straightaway; it also had the note of humility which, coming from a man of his status, created a favourable impression.
    The deputation of Hindu merchants had been sitting cross-legged on the chairs in the verandah talking to the policeman on duty. As Buta Singh came out the policeman sprang to attention, brought his rifle to hisshoulder, and slapped the butt in salute. The visitors got up quickly, slipped their feet into their shoes, and greeted him: ‘We touch your feet. Sat Sri Akal. . . . Orders? You order and we obey. You are the emperor, we are your subjects.’
    It was a proud moment for Buta Singh. His politeness became more exaggerated. He joined his hands to greet them and escorted them to the sitting-room. They took off their shoes and sat down. After a while Buta Singh asked them whether they would like something to drink and, without waiting for a reply, asked again: ‘What are the orders for me?’
    The visitors again protested that they were the ones to receive orders not give them. After some shuffling of feet, clearing of throats, and nodding to each other, the eldest in the group spoke: ‘Sardarji, our request is for a licence to take out a religious procession next week.’
    ‘You know the Deputy Commissioner has promulgated an order banning all meetings and processions,’ replied Buta Singh without looking up.
    ‘We know that, Sardar Sahib. We will be honest with you. The Sikhs have had their procession and the Muslims have had theirs; then there was no order to ban them. When it comes to our turn, our kismet is bad.’
    ‘If it is for a Hindu procession, why do you come to me? Go and ask a Hindu official to speak to Mr Taylor. Ask Mr Wazir Chand.’
    ‘Sardar Sahib, for us you are a Hindu. What is the difference between a Hindu and a Sikh? You tell us.’
    ‘Yes, Sardarji,’ joined the others in a chorus. ‘We are like brothers. No difference at all.’
    ‘I never said there was any difference; I think we are the same community. You started by saying something about Hindus and Muslims and Sikhs.’
    ‘Please forgive us,’ said the eldest with his hands joined. ‘It was only a manner of speaking. Most of our homes have Sikh forms of worship. We give our sisters and daughters in marriage to Sikhs. We are kinsmen. Why, brothers, isn’t that the truth?’
    ‘Truth,’ protested one. ‘Why, there is no greater truth.’ The others nodded approval. The eldest started again. ‘Why should we hide anything from you! We did approach Mr Wazir Chand first but he refused to help. He said, “If you want to get anything from Taylor Sahib, ask Sardar Buta Singh.” We would not have put you to this trouble if we hadn’t been told by everyone in the world that the only man who can do it is Sardar