Free City of Ghosts by Bali Rai Page B

and Sohan were wonderful, kind souls, butthey had many orphans to fend for. Jeevan was just one of the many. What he longed for more than anything in the world was to feel special. That was what had drawn him to Gurdial: they were the same age and each of them had an emptiness that they held inside. Gurdial had been at the orphanage for a few years when Jeevan arrived and had taken him under his wing. Before long they became like brothers, looking out for one another and telling each other what they held back from everyone else. When Gurdial shed tears, Jeevan thought no less of him because he knew what the tears represented.
    But now Gurdial had found Sohni, the merchant’s daughter, and Jeevan felt his place being taken. Not that it was unnatural, for what else was a young man to do but find a woman to take care of him? Jeevan felt no anger towards Gurdial and his secret love; he longed for his brother to be happy. But he no longer felt special, and that was hard to take. And then there was the small matter of Sohni’s father, Gulbaru Singh. He would never allow his daughter to marry a penniless orphan. But Gurdial was blinded by love and could not see reason, and each time Jeevan tried to open his brother’s eyes, Gurdial grew cold and sulked.
    â€˜People are like the seasons,’ Bissen had told him. ‘It is natural that things change, and that is equally true of human beings. Perhaps Gurdial is moving into summer whereas you are not yet ready to let go of spring?’
    â€˜Perhaps,
bhai-ji
,’ Jeevan had replied.
    A meaty hand took hold of his shoulder and broke into his thoughts. ‘Good afternoon,
bhai
!’
    Jeevan turned to see the giant frame of Ram Singh standing over him. ‘
Bhai-ji
,’ he replied.
    â€˜Cheer up!’ Ram bellowed.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ said Jeevan. ‘I was just lost in my thoughts.’
    Ram smiled and helped Jeevan to his feet, holding out a shovel-like hand. Two years older than Jeevan, Ram Singh was pale-skinned, a shade over six feet tall and still growing, his chest the size of a barrel and his neck as thick as the trunk of a peepal tree. Next to him stood Rana Lal, a short, skinny boy with oily black hair and acne-pitted cheeks, who was six months younger than Jeevan.
    â€˜S
at-sri-akaal, bhai-ji
,’ said Rana.
    â€˜
Sat-sri-akaal
,’ replied Jeevan.
    Ram looked across at the bridge and the army patrols. ‘
Saleh bhenchoord goreh!
’ he said. ‘Look at them eyeing us, here in our own land . . .’
    Jeevan turned and saw that the white men on the bridge were watching them.
    â€˜Perhaps they think we are rebels?’ said Rana. ‘Ghadar Party men.’
    The Ghadar Party had been created by Indian workers in a far-off land called California, or so Jeevan had heard. They were revolutionaries, and one of them, not much older than Jeevan, had been hanged by the British four years earlier for conspiring to commit terrorist acts. The name of Kartar Singh Sarabha wasknown to all the young men of the Punjab; a martyr who had been no more than a boy when he died.
    â€˜Let’s go,’ said Jeevan, remembering the rebel he had seen killed by troops a few days earlier.
    â€˜When we are ready,’ replied Ram Singh defiantly. ‘I could crush them with the fingers of one hand.’
    Jeevan shook his head. ‘But they have rifles,
bhai-ji
. Just the other day I saw them kill someone.’
    The defiance in Ram seemed to wither. He looked at Jeevan and then nodded. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s go to the bazaar.’
    As they set off for the central thoroughfare of the old city, Rana asked Jeevan what he had seen.
    â€˜It was someone with a gun,’ he explained. ‘The soldiers asked him to stop and he ran. One of them shot him in the head.’
    Rana nodded, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination.
    â€˜Their time is coming,
bhai
,’ said Ram Singh.
    Jeevan