City of Ghosts by Bali Rai Page A

it.’
    The woman nodded. ‘Be careful. You are also in great danger,’ she told him. ‘The witch will come after you. Be prepared.’
    â€˜Let her come,’ answered Mohni.



Amritsar, 13 February 1919
    MOHNI COULD FEEL his legs as he walked into the marketplace. There was a dull ache that stretched from his knees down to his ankles. He stopped for a moment and shook them but it made no difference.
    â€˜A consequence of age, you old goat,’ a woman’s voice said.
    Mohni looked at a fruit stall piled high with mauve lychees, bright red pomegranates, pale lemons darted with green, and oranges so deep and rich in colour that they seemed to glow. Each pile threw out a powerful, sweet scent, as if the various fruits were competing for the attention of the people walking past. Their colours seemed otherworldly, too bright and too vivid for Mohni’s milky, cloudy old eyes. Standing to the right of the stall was the woman who had spoken.
    â€˜There you are, daughter,’ Mohni said with a grin.
    â€˜I am always here.’ Her honey-coloured eyes sparkled. ‘And there too . . .’
    â€˜Here, there and everywhere,’ said Mohni. ‘Like a ghost.’
    The woman gave Mohni a smile so warm, so comforting, that he could have melted.
    â€˜And who are you watching today?’ he asked her.
    â€˜Everyone and no one,’ the woman replied, smiling at the warm, musky smell that emanated from Mohni and his clothes; a scent that unleashed happy memories from her own childhood.
    To most people her reply would have seemed unduly cryptic but Mohni knew her well and simply nodded his almost hairless head.
    â€˜Who are you watching in
particular
?’ he asked.
    The woman nodded towards a stocky teenage boy with jet-black hair and a thin moustache. ‘This one,’ she said. ‘He has a great duty to fulfil and I need him to stay safe until it is done.’
    Mohni squinted at the boy. There was something about him that seemed familiar. ‘I have seen him before, but where I do not know.’
    â€˜He is another who grew up in the orphanage,’ she told him, just as two boys who were also orphans walked past. One of them carried three rotting onions.
    â€˜Ah,’ said Mohni. ‘Gurdial – the love of Sohni’s life.’
    The woman smiled. ‘And the possible cause of great sorrow and danger,’ she added.
    â€˜You do not approve of their love?’
    â€˜Fate does not care for approval,’ she replied.
    â€˜There is also the small matter of your own interest in Sohni,’ Mohni reminded her.
    â€˜Yes, there is that too. Her father and stepmother must never see them together. You must protect her.’
    â€˜Until my dying day,’ he said. ‘I made a promise to her mother before she died.’
    The woman nodded. ‘Has anything happened since you told me of her parents’ plans?’ she asked.
    Mohni shook his head.
    â€˜Good. But stay vigilant: Gulbaru and Darshana are infected with evil.’
    Mohni waved his hand at a fly that was trying to settle on his long thin nose. ‘So apart from the orphans and Sohni, is there anyone else you watch over?’
    â€˜There is also a soldier who will very shortly buy some oranges from me,’ the woman said.
    Before Mohni had a chance to reply, a proud-looking young man wearing a blue turban and walking with a pronounced limp asked the woman for five oranges.
    The woman smiled at him. ‘Just five oranges, Bissen?’ she asked him.
    Surprise flooded the young soldier’s face. ‘How do you know my name?’
    She adjusted the black shawl she wore and shrugged. ‘You are well known. The soldier who fought for the British in their war.’
    â€˜But—’ Bissen began.
    She shook her head. ‘You must not think that I’m judging you, Bissen,’ she told him. ‘There are many here who dislike what you did for the
goreh
but I