Land of Five Rivers by Khushwant Singh Page A

lived in a house close by the Nishat. He lived alone because he did not have a relative in the world to share his home. He had employed a fifteen year old lad, Bachana Singh, to cook his meals for him. Bachana Singh gave his master the morning and the evening meal and spent the rest of the day parading through the streets sandwiched between cinema placards. For this he was paid Rs. 25 per month — all of which he gave to his widowed mother who lived in a refugee encampment.
    The procession of the film ‘The Blood of the Lover’ started from the Nishat cinema at 8 a.m. Sundar Singh wore a bright red turban with starched plumes flaunting in the air. He carried a flag in his hand and ran up and down the procession shouting instructions. Heading the procession was Master Raja Lal’s brass band. Following the band was a truck bearing mammoth-size portraits of the stars of the film; one picture showed a fountain of blood pouring out of the heart of the lover and falling at the feet of his sweetheart. Following the truck were a row of bullock-carts decorated with hoardings; following the bullock-carts were sandwichmen; and last of all were little urchins carrying sticks with placards stuck to them. Amongst the urchins was Bachana Singh.
    Bachana Singh wore a clean shirt and pyjama; he had even polished his shoes. But there was no sign of joy on his face. He trudged on silently in the last rank with his eyes downcast and an age-old melancholy in his drooping visage. And there was his employer Sundar Singh, strutting about with the airs of a Field Marshall now commanding the band to play another air; now ordering the bullock cart drivers to keep in line; and again bellowing at the little boys to march in step.
    It was a grand spectacle. Although the procession had been organised by the rich, the people who marched in it were poor — the poor who had agreed to tramp through dusty streets to be able to fill their bellies. Anyone pausing to see their pale, emaciated faces would have concluded that the procession was intended to advertise poverty — poverty which had celebrated a hundred thousand silver and golden jubilees.
    The procession entered the city. It went along the main thoroughfare, the Mall, past the city’s biggest bakery. The bakery bore a large sign-board picturing a giant-size loaf with the legend ‘Delbis.’ Bachana Singh’s eyes fell on the picture; his mouth filled with saliva; he ran his tongue over his lips. He stopped in front of the bakery and stood entranced gaping at the board. Sundar Singh’s harsh voice pierced through his eardrum. ‘
Oi Bachania! oi,
you son of a witch! keep moving.’
    Bachana Singh ran to catch up with his rank. But his thoughts stayed behind with the loaf of bread. He marched on with the procession; his mind stuck to the hoarding; his feet went one way, his heart the other. He pondered over the hard life he led.
    Bachana Singh got up at six every morning to give his master breakfast consisting of tea, toast cut out of a small loaf of Delbis and half a pat of butter. Sundar Singh used up all the butter and the bread leaving only the crust of the toast for his servant — this Bachana washed down with his own cup of tea. It was Bachana Singh’s dream that one day he would eat a whole loaf of Delbis with a pat of butter. Since he gave his wages to his mother, there was nothing to spare for luxuries such as these. Once when Sundar Singh had felt a little under the weather, he had taken only one toast and given the rest of the loaf to his servant. Bachana still cherished the memory of that day and prayed that his master would again be indisposed and the entire loaf and the pat of butter would fall to the servant’s share. The picture in the bakery made him so ravenously hungry that he imagined himself swallowing the entire loaf in one big gulp.
    After breakfast Sundar Singh used to stroke his paunch and repeat: ‘Great Guru, Emperor