City of Ghosts Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: The Orphan and the Rich Girl

  Amritsar, 17 January 1919

  18 January 1919

  21 January 1919

  26 January 1919

  28 January 1919

  2 February 1919

  Part Two: The Brothers

  Amritsar, 13 February 1919

  14 February 1919

  15 February 1919

  21 February 1919

  22 February 1919

  24 February 1919

  Part Three: The Revolutionaries

  Amritsar, 7 April 1919

  9 April 1919, 7 a.m.

  8 p.m.

  10 April 1919, 9 a.m.

  10 a.m.

  11 a.m.

  Midday

  4 p.m.

  Part Four: The Soldier

  Amritsar, 12 April 1919

  Neuve Chapelle, France, 9 March 1915

  10 March 1915

  11 March 1915

  Part Five: The Journey

  Amritsar, 12 April 1919

  Part Six: The Soldier and the Nurse

  Brighton Pavilion, 12 September 1915

  14 September 1915

  17 September 1915

  20 September 1915

  22 September 1915

  1 December 1915

  3 and 4 December 1915

  10 December 1915

  24 December 1915

  4 January 1916

  Part Seven: Jallianwalla Bagh, Amritsar

  13 April 1919, Morning

  Afternoon

  Lillian Palmer’s letter to Bissen Singh – excerpts:

  Author Note

  Some notes

  About the Author

  Also by Bali Rai

  Copyright

  About the Book

  It is 1919. Amritsar in India is a city on the brink of revolution.

  Innocent citizens, trying to escape ghosts from the past, are swept up in violence and tension. They are unaware that, as the fight for Amritsar reaches a terrifying climax, their lives will be changed for ever . . .

  A big thank you to everyone at

  Random House Children’s Books for all their hard

  work; and to Penny my agent for being so great.

  To everyone who helped me during the writing of

  this novel – most of you know who you are. Some

  of you may even be in this book . . .

  A big thank you to Asian Dub Foundation for their

  song ‘Assasin’; the original spark for this novel and

  a wicked tune to boot.

  Finally, to the memory of Udham Singh (aka

  Ram Mohammed Singh Azad) and all the ghosts

  of Jallianwalla Bagh.

  Prologue

  Caxton Hall, Westminster, London, 13

  March 1940

  Udham Singh (aka Ram Mohammed Singh Azad)

  Udham Singh watched the chairman of the meeting, Lord Zetland, gathering up his notes as another member of the panel answered a question. He looked at his watch and saw that it was half past four; the meeting was nearly over. The Tudor Room was packed with guests and other interested parties. Two banks of chairs sat in front of the panel, with channels through the middle and to both sides. The chairs were full, as were the channels, and Udham was standing in the perfect position, to the right of the speakers, by the first seated row. Zetland, who was Secretary of State for India, put his hand to his mouth as he let out a yawn. Two places to his right sat the man Udham had come to see.

  Sir Michael O’Dwyer was a distinguished-looking gentleman with silvery-white hair and pale skin. Age had caught up with him and the skin around his jaw line had begun to sag. But his eyes retained the steely determination that had seen him through his time as Governor of the Punjab two decades earlier – or at least that’s what he wanted the public to believe. He sat perfectly still, listening with interest to those around him. What a shame, thought Udham, that O’Dwyer hadn’t listened to the voices of the people he’d governed all those years ago.

  Lord Zetland brought the meeting to a close and the audience gave a small round of polite applause. As he heard the clapping, Udham found himself drifting back to that fateful afternoon in Amritsar in 1919; to the event that had set him on this path and given his life purpose. There he was, stumbling aimlessly through the smoke-filled darkness . . .

  For twenty-one years Udham had bided his time, travelling to many countries and planning his revenge. Eventually he’d found himself in England, in the heart of the beast that had taken hold of his motherland. Now here he was, a revolver tucked into his waistband, ready to satisfy the ghosts of Amritsar; to help those restless spirits find their peace.

  ‘So many you kill,’ he whispered, directing his remark at O’Dwyer. Not that anyone could hear him. People had begun to stand up, preparing to leave. This was his chance . . .

  He pushed his way through the crowd, past chatting white men and women, until he was in front of the panel. His eyes hardened and his heart raced. He pulled out the gun, looking directly at O’Dwyer. The old man seemed unable to understand what was going on at first. The skin around his eyes began to crease, however, when the truth dawned. His mouth opened and formed a perfect O.

  Udham said a silent prayer, and fired.

  Amritsar, 17 January 1919

  GURDIAL WATCHED JEEVAN as he tried to juggle three onions. They were sitting on a low wall within sight of the Golden Temple, watching people go about their business.

  ‘I can do it!’ Jeevan insisted.

  Gurdial smiled and shook his head. My best friend is a buffoon, he thought to himself. Jeevan had always been the same, ever since they’d been thrown together as children at the orphanage. He was never beaten, never wrong. Once he got an idea in his head, stubbornness and a degree of vanity meant that he had to act it out. However many people told him he was wrong, he would spend the entire day insisting that he was right. Most people considered Jeevan spoiled and irritating, but for Gurdial, who knew him better, it was part of what made him who he was.

  Everyone at the orphanage assumed a mask and Jeevan was no different. It was how they dealt with their past misfortunes. Gurdial knew that beneath the front, Jeevan was warm-hearted, kind and loyal, and whenever his friend played up, Gurdial simply ignored him and talked about something else.

  ‘The postmaster is having an affair’ – Gurdial was repeating two-month-old gossip.

  As Jeevan picked up his onions once again, he pulled a face. ‘Tell me something new, bhai,’ he said. ‘That old goat has been news for weeks.’

  Gurdial yawned. They had been up since dawn, beginning their day with a wash, followed by prayers and lessons. Now, in the warmth of the afternoon sun, his eyelids felt heavy and sleep was on his mind. But there was no way he could head back to the orphanage for a nap. The couple who ran it, Sohan Singh and Mata Devi, would have a hundred and one chores waiting for him, and Mata Devi in particular would beat him for being so lazy.

  Instead, Gurdial turned his attention to the busy street. The myriad colours and sounds and smells made him smile. Amritsar was a wonderful city, constantly changing yet always familiar too. A city of tall, inward-leaning buildings and narrow alleyways where the sun never shone; of wide open spaces too, bathed in sunshine and filled with numerous brightly coloured trees and plants and flowers. White marble buildings ringed the pool of amrit or holy water that in turn surrounded the Golden Temple.

  People of all religions lived in the city. Each afternoon, after their chores were done, Gurdial and Jeevan would head down the streets and alleyways, looking for fun. The people they met were Muslim an
d Sikh, Hindu and Christian. Some were as dark as the night sky; others had yellow skin and hair. There were green eyes and blue eyes and brown eyes. The goreh were pink – their women were often tall and wore dresses and sun hats, many of them showing off their arms and legs, constantly smoking cigarettes. The men wore far too much clothing and strutted around like peacocks, forever puffing on pipes or cigars, their faces red and their hair and moustaches always perfectly oiled.

  Today, the streets were as busy as ever, and across the road from where they sat Gurdial saw two soldiers talking to an old man in a white turban. He was wondering what they were discussing when a hand clapped him on the back. He turned and saw Bissen Singh standing by his side, smiling at him.

  ‘Here you are again, idling away the hours,’ Bissen said to them.

  Jeevan put the onions in his pocket, hoping to disguise the fact that one of them had begun to rot and smelled.

  ‘Bissen-ji – where have you been?’ Gurdial asked.

  ‘I went to visit my family,’ he told him.

  Bissen Singh was in his twenties but had already done more than Gurdial and Jeevan could have imagined in a lifetime. He had fought in the Great War – the one that had just ended – alongside the British. He’d been injured in a country that Gurdial had never heard of, called France, and been sent to England to get better. He still walked with a slight limp, and on certain days Gurdial had noticed that his gaze grew distant, as though he was dreaming of faraway places and different people. Gurdial often dreamed of fighting alongside Bissen Singh and wondered if he would ever experience even half as much during his own lifetime. As Bissen ruffled Jeevan’s hair, Gurdial asked how his family were keeping.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘And what about you two – keeping out of trouble?’

  Gurdial nodded as Jeevan spoke up: ‘When you were in the war,’ he said, just as he always did whenever he saw the soldier, ‘did you have to cut your hair?’

  Bissen laughed but his thoughts were elsewhere for a moment: back in England, sitting in front of a mirror as a young nurse cut his locks away.

  ‘No, no!’ he replied, snapping back into the present. ‘They let us wear our turbans, although in the trenches it was very difficult to keep them clean.’

  ‘Did the rats try to eat it?’

  Bissen had told them a story about the English soldiers. How some of them would be woken during the night by rats licking their hair, attracted by the taste and smell of the creams they used to keep it in place.

  ‘Not my hair,’ he said patiently. ‘I kept mine under my turban.’

  ‘Did you have to eat the rats?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bissen. ‘We just shot at them.’

  As a farmer trundled past on a wooden cart pulled by two huge bullocks, Gurdial wondered whether to tell Bissen Singh what was really on his mind. The problem was that Bissen would react exactly as Jeevan had. Gurdial was in love with a merchant’s daughter – a rich girl from a well-to-do family. He spent each night dreaming of her, hoping to find the courage to ask for her hand in marriage. But deep down, he knew that his dreams were hopeless. There was no way her father would consent to the marriage – Gurdial was too poor and from a lower caste. People like him did not marry girls like Sohni. Ever.

  ‘You look as though the troubles of the world are upon your shoulders,’ Bissen told him.

  Jeevan smirked. ‘He is in love, bhai-ji.’

  ‘Shut up!’ demanded Gurdial, turning red with embarrassment.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Bissen. ‘Have you found yourself a nice young girl?’

  Gurdial groaned.

  ‘Tell him, bhai,’ urged Jeevan mischievously.

  ‘It’s nothing!’ insisted Gurdial. ‘It’s just a girl I’ve seen—’

  Jeevan snorted. ‘The daughter of a rich man, bhai,’ he told Bissen.

  ‘Oh. Which man is this?’

  Gurdial shrugged. ‘It is Gulbaru Singh’s daughter.’

  Bissen raised an eyebrow. ‘The cloth merchant?’

  Gurdial nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. It is nothing – a dream – and it won’t ever come true.’ His heart broke as the words left his lips.

  ‘But what’s the point of dreaming?’ Bissen asked him. ‘What’s the point of hope?’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ said Gurdial.

  ‘If everyone thought like you, then no one would ever achieve their dreams,’ explained Bissen. ‘Dreams do come true – not all of them, I agree, but they do sometimes.’

  Jeevan shook his head. ‘But Gulbaru Singh is an evil, nasty man,’ he told Bissen. ‘He hates poor people. There is no way he’ll allow Sohni to marry a penniless orphan.’

  ‘Then perhaps Gurdial needs to go and find his fortune,’ said Bissen. ‘No one knows what Fate holds in store for them. No one.’

  ‘I know,’ Gurdial replied. ‘But Jeevan is right. Sohni is just a dream . . .’

  Bissen put his hand on Gurdial’s shoulder. ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  Gurdial nodded. ‘We meet in secret sometimes, when she can get away. Her mother died when she was young and her father remarried. His new wife does not allow Sohni to do anything. We have to be careful.’

  ‘And is your love mutual?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gurdial replied with a shrug. ‘She tells me it is, but how can she want someone like me? I have nothing and I will never have anything.’

  ‘We are orphans,’ added Jeevan. ‘We are of a lower standing than her.’

  Bissen frowned. ‘When I was in Europe fighting for the English I learned a great lesson,’ he told them. ‘At the end of the day, when it really matters, there are no higher or lower people. When Death comes to call, he doesn’t ask if you have money. He does not care if you wear rags or are dressed in the finest cloth known to man. No one has the right to regard themselves as better just because they have money. The Gurus teach us that we are all equal.’

  Gurdial saw a bead of sweat breaking on Bissen’s forehead. ‘Are you feeling hot, bhai-ji,’ he asked him.

  Bissen wiped his brow and nodded. ‘Just a little under the weather,’ he lied. ‘I need to go and take some medicine.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gurdial was a little disappointed. He loved to listen to the soldier, to learn of new things. Bissen was like an older brother – a wise head to ask for advice.

  ‘Perhaps you can come and see me tomorrow,’ Bissen suggested. ‘We can talk some more.’

  Gurdial smiled. ‘I’d like that,’ he said.

  As Bissen walked away, Jeevan shook his head. He removed the onions from his pocket and noted that the rotten stench was gone.

  ‘What’s the matter, bhai?’ asked Gurdial. ‘Why are you shaking your head?’

  Jeevan grinned. ‘He is lying to us.’

  Gurdial looked shocked. ‘About what?’

  ‘He’s not ill, Gurdial,’ teased Jeevan. ‘I can’t believe you could be so stupid—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Pheme,’ replied Jeevan. ‘He is a drug addict.’

  Gurdial frowned. ‘I know we are brothers,’ he told his younger friend, ‘but if you ever tell lies about Bissen-ji again, I’ll slap the skin from your face!’

  ‘But—’ began Jeevan.

  Gurdial didn’t wait for him to finish. He slid off the wall and walked away, heading for the crowds in Hall Bazaar.

  18 January 1919

  GULBARU SINGH’S HOUSE sat in the centre of a walled compound, three storeys high and painted a light, minty green. The pale yellow wall was five feet high, and inside it were thick hedges that grew up half a foot higher than the wall. The front of the house had two verandas that flanked a heavy wooden door. The gardens were mature, with tall plants and well-established evergreen bushes. To the left of the house were eight mango trees and a single peepal with a thick trunk and a high canopy; to the right stood a majestic old banyan tree, its gnarled trunk looking as though it had been twisted by the hand of a giant.

  Around the back,
the garden had two plots, divided by a well-worn dirt path. On one side was a vegetable patch and on the other, more bushes and plants. A single narrow gate in the back wall led to the dark alleyway beyond. It was at this gate that Gurdial stood patiently, waiting for Sohni. A single pale blue butterfly fluttered around his head, a rare sight during a Punjabi winter. Gurdial was wondering where it had come from when he saw Sohni coming down the garden path. He smiled and waved, his heart jumping madly inside his chest.

  Sohni reached the wooden gate and threw back the bolt. The ancient rusty hinges squeaked, the gate opened and she stepped out into the tree-shrouded alleyway. The sun was high in the sky but the trees did their best to stop the light from penetrating. What little there was created a dappled effect on the dusty ground, as though the earth had caught yellow measles. Caper bushes grew along the edges of the path, their inward-curving spines like claws. The path led off into almost total darkness in one direction and out into the narrow street in the other. The young lovers chose the darkness.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be able to come,’ Gurdial said to Sohni, taking her hand.

  ‘I was waiting for my stepmother to leave,’ she replied.

  Gurdial grinned.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You didn’t call her a witch for a change,’ he replied.

  ‘She was throwing plates around earlier,’ Sohni told him. ‘Screaming at the walls as though they’d eventually answer her.’

  ‘Where is your father?’

  Sohni shrugged. ‘At the shop. He is hardly ever at home, and when he is, all they do is fight.’

  Gurdial pulled her to him; the heat from her body sent his senses wild. Her skin was as smooth as a pebble that had been washed in holy water and her light blue eyes were full of life. He leaned forward and kissed her, hoping that she wouldn’t pull away. She didn’t.

  ‘I can’t believe you are mine,’ Gurdial said after their kiss.

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Sohni as they made their way down the path, heading for the privacy of the trees and the fields of tall grasses beyond.

  ‘Because you are so beautiful, and I am so ordinary.’

  Sohni let go of his hand and stroked his cheek. ‘You have such a warm smile,’ she told him. ‘And your eyes make me feel safe. No ordinary person could make me feel that way.’