A Taste of Love
A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of Love.
The Pity of Love
W.B. Yeats

 

    SERGEANT Sher Khan wiped an oily hand on the side of his trousers, and spat. This was dirty work, but he was used to it. Having been inducted into the mechanical section from the very beginning of his ten years with the Pakistan army, he handled many kinds of machine parts; bathed them lovingly, like babies, in petrol or lubricating oil; dried them with various kinds of cleaning-cloths; and generally come to regard them with almost motherly affection. To him, engines were complete beings in themselves. They seemed to respond with almost intelligent understanding of their defects, and the best thing about them was that they could not talk back! As far as his vehicles were concerned, he was their commanding officer, and they had to bear his lightest touch, or fiercest wrench, with tacit obedience.
    Sher Khan was thirty, a clear six feet in height, of lithe Pathan body, and simple Pathan mind. He saw things in terms of black and white, bad and good, easy and difficult. He understood enough of his Muslim faith to be a reasonably good man. He had never been called upon to make great decisions, and he had never had to engage in the military business of killing. His chaces of survival behind the lines, at depots or headquarters, was good. He was basically a brave man, but his bravery had never been put to the test. Drinking he considered an offense to Islam, but occasionally he smoked a cigarette. Because he had never remained in his village in the mountains of the NWFP long enough to be trapped in any matrimonial net, he was unmarried. Circumstances had not conspired to lead him deviously to the charms of women, and so in that sense he was a virgin. But army life being what it is, and the calls and wiles of nature what they tend to be, and opportunities abounding, he had tumbed about with lads now and then, but did not lust after them. He enjoyed his encounters as they came. It is therefore obvious that Sher Khan was not an emotional man. He could be roused to fury, he could be dangerously annoyed, but he did not know what it was to experience the root causes of emotional experience: greed, envy, love, or jealousy. But then these tormentors of the human spirit are usually dormant, waiting to pounce!
    In the mess where he ate his meals, Sher Khan had noticed a slim boy of about sixteen, handsome to the point of beauty, with a light brown complexion, gentle, plaintive eyes, and a finely shaped and proportioned body. The sight of this boy, dressed in a thin lungee, bare from the waist up, had become familiar at each meal-time, and Sher Khan had often held him in conversation, finding that the boy had picked up quite a few Urdu words. From time to time Sher Khan slipped him a rupee, and had also given him a shirt bought from the canteen-stores. These were innocent gifts, prompted by a generous nature.
    The boy, on his part, regarded Sher Khan as just another face in the mess. The others also tipped him occasionally, for they had little to use their money on. True, Sher Khan had given him a shirt, but he resented the look he sometimes caught in the Pathan's eyes. Well, shirt or no shirt, he was not having anything of that kind!
    The boy's name was Shahjahan. His father was a farmer, who somehow managed to maintain a family of six, from the produce of only two acres of land, on which paddy and some low quality jute, flourished seasonally. Shahjahan had spent four years at a village primary school, and so was not exactly illiterate. The tips he received, together with his monthly wages, enabled him to carry welcome money home at the beginning of each month. The mess job had added to his experience of life, and in a general sense he was content with the way things were. He was honest, hard-working, and, in this simple scheme of things, virtuous. Apart from school-boy pranks, he was a virgin.
    One afternoon, leaving his machines in good order, Sher Khan sought Shahjahan, and watched him washing his body at a pump outside the kitchen. He invited the boy to accompany him to the cinema that evening. Shahjahan's eyes narrowed. What lay behind this invitation? Should he refuse? But if he angered the Sergeant he risked trouble. For a moment he calculated the tall Pathan: hard eyes, soft mouth, gentle expression. Why not? He accepted. Without his realizing it, a chord had been struck, two fates had become entwined, a journey had been started.
    The film was a coloured affair about wild cavortings in the hilly state of Swat in west Pakistan. The beautiful scenery made up for the appalling story, and the car chases and comic interludes made the treat quite enjoyable for Shahjahan. At one stage he whispered to Sher Khan:
    "Is this the place you come from?"
    "Yes," the Pathan lied, not wishing to confuse the boy. It was near enough anyway.
    The hero and heroine were engaged in a love duet, following each other around a stunted tree. Suddenly the girl tripped and fell. Soon she was in the arms of her lover, who continued singing by himself, as she was apparently too upset by her fall to accompany him!
    Sher Khan reach for the boy's hand and held it, gently playing with the fingers, pressing, caressing. Shahjahan did not mind this. His eyes were glued to the screen and the soft kneading of his hand was not unpleasant. But the song ended, and the villain appeared, and after a short scuffle with the hero, bundled the girl into a waiting car, and drove away. The hero gnashed his teeth, jumped on a motorcycle which was conveniently handy, and pursued the speeding car. Soon both were swallowed up by the horizon.

   

Interval

    Sher Khan took the boy outside the cinema and helped him into a cycle-rickshaw.
    "That film's no good. IÕm going to give you something better."
    The rickshaw wound through the crowded road, and was directed to turn left into a lane. On and on it went, until the Pathan ordered it to stop outside a small house which passed as an hotel. He led Shahjahan to a room at the back. On a table, plates, glasses, and a jug of water were set. "Tonight," said the Sergeant, "you shall be served by me. I am your servant. And when a Pathan says that, he rally means it!" Shahjahan looked from the table to a large bed in the corner. It was decorated with two bright garlands. His eyes clouded a little with tears. He was not afraid. He sat down on the bed and gazed vacantly at the opposite wall. Then he smiled.
    Sher Khan bolted the door and put out the light.

    * * * * *

    A week had passed, and sher Khan for the first time in his life was experiencing a strange feeling of contentment. As he lay under a truck and worked his spanners, he sang a Pushto song softly to himself. He washed carefully, and dressed with a new sense of elegance. Clean white shirt, stiff shalwar, and a grey army cardigan. At the evening meals he shouted greetings to his comrades, and joked with them. And all the time his eyes followed Shahjahan as he performed his duties, moving from table to table. Once, a jawan playfully smacked his bottom and told him to hurry up with a glass of water. Sher Khan noticed this, and his eyes blazed. He had already begun to feel those sharp stabs of jealousy against which no lover is immune. In a Pathan it can be but one remove from murder. The jawan had come as near to death as he was ever likely to on a battle field!
    After Shahjahan had cleared away the tables, and stacked the clean plates, glasses and cups, he changed into a new pair of pants, and bid goodnight to the Mess Sergeant. But the Sergeant did not dismiss him.
    "What is going on between you and Sher Khan?"
    Shahjahan looked bashfully at the ground. "Nothing," he murmured.
    "Don't lie to me. I have no objection. But in the army we share everything. Food, danger, pleasure... it's my turn tonight. Wait outside for me."
    Shahjahan walked slowly from the room, and then jumped into a rickshaw. Soon he was at the hotel, and Sher Khan was waiting in their room. This was the last time they would ever sleep together.

    * * * * *

    The Indian government was fed up to the teeth. The influx of refugees from East Pakistan continued unabated. From Rawalpindi, President Yahya Khan stormed and thundered. Mrs Indira Gandhi made meek noises, and sent emissaries around the world complaining about the burden of the refugees, and begging for money and food. The Indian army continued to pound East Pakistan with continuous shelling. The Freedom Fighters made deeper and deeper thrusts across the border. Their great moment with destiny was near at hand. The victory for which they had fought and struggled with such tremendous courage and spirit was soon to be won.
    And then the inevitable happened. President Yahya Khan decided to act. He ordered the Pakistan air force to carry out surprise raids on Indian airfields. The phoniest of "wars" now entered a formal phase. The Indians were delighted. The kill was in sight.
    Keeping in mind the need not to antagonise the people of East Pakistan, who now dreaded a bitter fight to the finish between the Indian and Pakistan armies on their bloodstained soil, the Indian air force was sent on small missions across the border, and they carefully selected their targets.
    One morning, soon after breakfast, two fighters roared over the town. Outside army headquarters, and near all the bar racks and messes, slit-trenches had hurriedly been dug, and these were soon filled with sprawling figures, as officers and men ran out of buildings, scrambling for safety.
    Sher Khan had lingered in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and informing Shahjahan that he had been posted away from the town for maintenance work at one of the fronts. This was war now, real war!
    The planes roared and swooped, opening up with machine guns, and the town was in the grip of its first serious air-raid.
    Sher Khan caught Shahjahan by the hand and the two of them ran out of the mess towards a slit-trench beside a tree behind the kitchen. They lay down, Sher Khan protecting Shahjahan with his body.
    Squinting through his target-lens at the huddle of small buildings in line with his plane, the Indian pilot released a rocket. The kitchen exploded like a fireworks, scattering bricks and mortar into the air. Sher Khan felt a heavy blow on the head, and the body below him pushed upwards. Then it was all over. When Shahjahan finally managed to wriggle free, he dragged the dead body out of the trench and sat down beside it. He sat there for a long time.

    * * * * *

    Shahjahan had tied all his possessions into a neat bundle, which he carried under an arm. The town was in seething confusion. People were streaming out of it, on bullock-carts, on cycles, and on foot. Danger had appeared in the sky. The birds of death were flying, and would swoop down again and again. It was time to leave the town once more. The business of this war was now in the right hands. They knew how to settle it.
    Shahjahan left the road and set out across the fields. He had shed his months with the army like an old lungee for which there was now no use. he was too young for memories. Ahead lay some kind of future. The problems of growing into manhood would confront him. Perhaps he would know how to tackle them. Perhaps he would not. Meanwhile he had a bitter-sweet taste in his mouth. A taste of love.

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