City of Ghosts by Bali Rai Page B

am not one of them. I merely wish you to eat more oranges.’
    The soldier eyed her with suspicion. ‘More oranges?’
    She nodded. ‘Your skin is dry and your face is drawn. I know that the pain of your injury keeps you this way but fruit is very good for you.’
    â€˜My mother keeps telling me the same thing,’ he replied.
    â€˜Here – take ten oranges.’ She put the fruit in the cloth bag the soldier had given her.
    â€˜But I only wanted—’
    The woman looked into the soldier’s pale grey eyes and he stopped abruptly. Mohni, who had seen many people react to her in this way, grinned.
    â€˜There is no charge,’ she said.
    A thought passed across the soldier’s face. ‘I have a strange feeling . . .’he told her.
    â€˜A sense of
déjà vu
,’ she replied. ‘I know. Memory can sometimes play tricks on all of us. Here . . .’
    The soldier took the bag, thanked the woman and walked away, his face full of confusion.
    â€˜A special case, that one,’ the woman told Mohni.
    â€˜Aren’t they all?’ he replied.
    Gurdial and Jeevan walked through the marketplace and into the Hall Bazaar, looking for something to do. As wards of the Khalsa Orphanage, they spent theirmornings praying, going to school and running errands for the couple who took care of them. By mid-afternoon they were usually to be seen wandering the streets of Amritsar. Jeevan, who was the shorter of the two, nodded towards a unit of Gurkhas moving slowly down the street, their uniforms dusty and their faces determined. Every now and then they would stop and stare into the open shop fronts.
    â€˜What do you think they are looking for?’ Jeevan asked his friend.
    Gurdial grinned. ‘Perhaps if you put down those onions you’re carrying, you wouldn’t have to point with your head,’ he suggested.
    â€˜They
are
a bit smelly.’ Jeevan was still using the onions to practise juggling and they were beginning to rot, especially where his clumsy fingers had caused indentations.
    â€˜
Bhai
– they smell worse than the opium addicts.’
    Jeevan screwed up his face.
    â€˜Nothing smells
that
bad.’
    Gurdial looked across the street at an alleyway that ran between two store fronts. It was so narrow that only one man could pass at a time – if they could get through the overgrown weeds, which stood as high as a horse. Along the middle of the alley ran an open sewer.
    â€˜What about that
nali
?’ he asked Jeevan, pointing at the sewer.
    â€˜No,’ said Jeevan. ‘The addicts are worse than that too.’
    â€˜But not as bad as your onions.’
    Jeevan sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll get rid of them, but I have no money left to buy any more.’
    â€˜You didn’t
pay
for them last time, you fool,’ Gurdial said with a laugh.
    â€˜Will you help me to get some more?’ Jeevan asked.
    â€˜Yes,
bhai
. I know stealing is against the teachings of the Gurus but you
are
my brother.’
    Jeevan smiled.
    â€˜And besides,’ said Gurdial, ‘these merchants are making a fortune from the Rowlatt Act.’
    Gurdial had heard people talking about the Rowlatt Act but didn’t really understand what it meant. As far as he could tell, the act was making rich people richer and everyone else poor. As for its details, Gurdial wasn’t sure he’d understand even if they
were
explained to him. Not that it mattered. In the great scheme of things he was a penniless orphan and his station in life had been decided. That was the way of Kismet and it was beyond his control. It was better to live a simple existence and to know your place. Too many dreams didn’t help anyone, and besides, Gurdial had already gambled on his biggest dream: Sohni.
    â€˜Are you thinking about that girl again?’ teased Jeevan.
    Gurdial nodded. ‘I’m going to meet her later.’
    â€˜Be careful,
bhai
,’ Jeevan