Henry

Year: 1917, Amritsar.

Winter has only just begun, but the year is moving toward its final destination.

The white sheet of fog has gathered everything into its lap, as if the world has lost its light.

In the morning everything here seems dry and full of sorrow: the cold vapors rising from the soil, the dew settling on the leaves, and a certain ache felt in the air. The branches of the trees seem to be bending under the burden of the cold, and not many people are visible in the lanes.

Shops in the market are slowly opening; their owners, stretching, are lighting little fires to warm their hands. Some people who have sat by burning stoves all night, wrapped in blankets, can be seen slowly waiting for the morning. The creak-creak of a bullock cart’s wheels passing through the fog cuts through the air and is heard far away.

This morning in Amritsar is certainly cold and peaceful, but a strange restlessness is also felt in it. As if in every corner of the city a quiet message of revolution is waving, and someone in some corner is fixing their plans. At the same time, some officers of the British government are weaving their own clever plots to break those plans.

In this tense atmosphere I, Henry Caldwell, have arrived in Amritsar from England to take on my responsibilities as a Lieutenant Colonel in the soil of Punjab after my new posting.

There is a strange smile on my face, but somewhere in a corner of my heart this city is going to become the knock of a new destiny for me, one that even I do not yet know.

As soon as I reached Punjab, I took up my responsibilities, but my heart was still abroad. Perhaps with my mother. My restlessness deepens whenever I sink into worry for my lonely, old mother, Lily Caldwell, who lives at the home of a distant relative in America, reliant on their mercy. Because of the World War, England’s condition is dire; for that reason I sent my mother to America. My father, Thomas Caldwell, who is a Field Marshal, is fighting the First World War on the Western Front in France.

Like my father, I have been raised under the burden of loyalty and duty to the British government and the Crown.

Growing up in the shadow of my father’s high rank and his loyalty, I have always felt the pressure to live up to his expectations. Every decision of my life seems like a fragment of my father’s thinking in me, after all, I always wanted to become like him.

By dint of hard work and dedication I attained the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, but my heart cannot settle here in Punjab. I wanted to fight on the front line with my father; I had the passion to defeat the enemy alongside him. But the British government posted me to Punjab, a place far from my dreams and desires.

The soil and atmosphere of Punjab feel strange to me. The people here, their speech, their culture, everything has folded me into a peculiar sense of sadness and alienation.

I remain confined within my circle here, entangled in duties, yet in my heart this place has become a prison.

It has been more than six months since I arrived. But even today everything feels foreign.

Meeting landlords, leading my battalion, thwarting the plots of rebels, and training the soldiers of my regiment, my life has shrunk into the orbit of these tasks.

Each day passes under the shadow of the same duties and each night under the shadow of the same restlessness. There is no peace…..how could there be? Far from home and family, who finds peace? Especially when the constant fear remains that at any moment some news about my father might arrive.

War…..when does it ever let anyone live in peace?

On one such restless night, after dinner, I went for a walk with my orderly Iqbal Ali. Our intention was to meet our informant Gopal Lal, who used to give us information about the activities and plans of the revolutionaries.

After meeting Gopal Lal, Iqbal Ali and I were returning toward my bungalow via the cantonment road. Everything was wrapped in dim light and cold silence under a thick sheet of fog.

Then, from a distance, a faint lantern light appeared, and along with it a girl’s loud scolding reached my ears. There was also the sound of a small child crying.

“Now if you come out of the house I will break your legs!” A harsh, sharp voice stopped me, there was authority in it, but also a honey-like gentleness.

Yes, in these six months I have come to understand Punjabi and Hindi well because my orderly Iqbal Ali speaks them constantly.

“Sister, forgive me! I absolutely won’t do it again!” Through the fog I saw a nine- or ten-year-old Sikh boy standing there, crying and trying to beg forgiveness.

But someone had a firm grip on that child’s ear, a girl, holding a small lantern, scolding him. When that girl saw two men approaching in the night’s silence, she immediately covered her face with her shawl.

Now, in the lantern’s light, only her large brown eyes were visible, eyes that, even in the fog and darkness, seemed to shine at me like a star in the night sky. They were very beautiful eyes, as if they wished to say much. I had never seen such deep eyes before; for a single moment I felt myself drown in them.

I paused for a few moments, lost in that sight. The depth and light of that girl’s eyes seemed to draw all my attention, as if time had stopped.

Iqbal Ali’s voice brought me back to the ground; he came close and quietly said, “Sahib (sir), shall we move on?”

But my mind remained tangled in the restlessness of wanting to look once more at that girl’s face. I wanted to look nowhere else but into her lovely eyes.

“What is she doing here at this hour?” I asked Iqbal Ali in surprise, because since I arrived I have not seen a girl outside at this time; my gaze was still fixed on that girl who was scolding and dragging the child, heedless of our watching.

Iqbal Ali, suppressing a laugh, replied, “Sahib, this boy is Sahib Singh. Do you remember Baldev Singh Virk? The merchant in grain and cloth? You met him last month. A staunch loyalist of the British government.” He tried to jog my memory.

I thought for a while, every day I meet so many people, how could I remember them all? Then I strained my mind and the merchant’s face surfaced. “Hmm… I remember,” I said softly.

“Yes. This is the son of his younger brother,” Iqbal explained, “and that girl is his daughter. This child’s parents have died, and he spends the day making mischief and troubling his sister and uncle.” I simply kept staring at her.

Iqbal then turned toward them and called loudly, “Child, what are you doing here at this hour? Go home!”

The girl wrapped her shawl tighter, hiding her face with it and said in a low voice, “Yes, uncle.”

Jesus Christ! Such a sweet voice! I had never heard such a sweet and melodious voice from someone who scolds so sharply. Truly like honey, just before she would have been relentless with her brother. Then, after a slap, she pulled her brother roughly and took him away.

I just kept looking at the girl, as if the magic of her eyes had bound me. A glimpse of her large brown eyes left an imprint on my heart. It had never happened before, so why now, all of a sudden?

But Iqbal Ali’s words pulled me back again. “Sahib, Mr. Singh won’t be home today; that’s why bitiya rani (daughter) must have gone looking for this little rascal. He’s a child, he goes out to play and wanders about.” Iqbal narrated while smiling.

I simply nodded, but my heart was still entangled in those eyes that shone like a light in the dark night.

“If his mother were here she would have scolded him properly. Now if the aunt scolds too much people will talk bad about them. His father was a Subedar. He was martyred fighting the rebels, and the mother died of grief. He was just four then; since then the aunt and sister have been raising him,” Iqbal Ali continued in his manner.

But my thoughts were elsewhere. Iqbal Ali’s words reached my ears, but I did not listen closely to a single word. My mind remained caught in that girl’s eyes, which even in the night’s fog held a strange light. There was a different fire in those eyes that shone even in the pitch-black night.

Iqbal, who knew my habits, paused and said, “Sahib, you seem tired. Let’s go home.”

I simply nodded lightly and moved my feet, but inside me was a strange restlessness, as if the events of this night had kindled a new story in some corner of my heart and mind.

I have completed thirty years of age, and in these years I have met many girls, but never have any eyes unsettled me like this.

The next morning I plunged into my daily work and stepped outside. A slight chill rode the cold winds when I set my first step outside my Amritsar residence.

Heavy boots made a distinct sound on the ground, and the steam of my breath appeared for a moment in the cold air before dissolving into the fog that hung over the city.

The city was full of life everywhere: vendors in the market singing while selling, carts clacking in the distance, and the sweet chime of a temple bell.

I turned up the collar of my warm coat and looked around. My deep blue eyes inspected every corner of the city, but after all these days the place still felt as strange as it did six months ago.

Today I decided to walk instead of taking my carriage, and as I walked, my mind wandered back to the moment I had received my posting orders.

Amritsar, a city whose name I had heard only in reports had now become my home.

“Punjab,” I murmured to myself. The word felt odd on my tongue, as if it belonged to another world. “They say it is like the heart of India’s revolution,” I thought, drawing a faint cold breath, and continued my walk.

What I had heard about this city presented itself differently before my eyes: a place so full of deep culture and history, and yet giving a sense of hidden restlessness.

My steps fell on roads that stood as examples of fine British regimentment, but my mind was elsewhere, perhaps on that night’s glimpse that would not leave me.

I don’t know why, but I just wanted to see her once more.

Just once.

The air carried the aroma of spices: cumin, cardamom, and a sweet scent I found hard to place. I wrinkled my nose slightly, something unfamiliar to me.

A group of children ran past, laughing; their rose-like cheeks were reddening in the cold air. A small child stopped, looked at me curiously, and then ran on.

I smiled and shook my head lightly. Even now some people looked at me as if I had come from another world. Why? By now they should have been used to us, we have ruled here for roughly a century and a half.

I folded my gloved hands behind my back and kept a rigid posture, as if trying to protect myself from the city’s color. Despite the city’s warmth and color, Amritsar felt like an “alien land.” A place where I was entirely new, with the Union Jack fluttering above the cantonment.

But inside me was restlessness. This was not the life I had imagined when I joined the army. London, with its foggy mornings and familiar customs, had become a distant memory. Here everything was strange: the people, their tongue, and the cold air that pierced my body.

My thoughts were interrupted by an orderly who approached, a thin man in khaki uniform with a neatly tied turban. He gave a sharp salute.

“Sahib, need any help?” the orderly asked, respectful and confident, rightly so, for I am no ordinary man.

I knitted my brows. The word “help” echoed in my mind. Perhaps it meant “assistance.”

“No,” I replied a bit sternly, but the orderly’s earnestness softened me. “I am just… acquainting myself with the area.”

The orderly nodded and stepped back while saying in urdu. “At your command, Sahib.”

A slight formal smile touched my lips. There was a strange beauty to Urdu words, a softness contrary to the army’s harshness, and I secretly wished to learn Urdu.

I took a deep breath and looked toward the city again; my breaths dissolved into the air like dust.

At that time I did not know how this place would tangle my life. Amritsar was not just a posting; it would become a field of loyalty, secrets, and a love I had never imagined. For now it was a strange, cold city, and I was a man trying to find his place here.

After attending to the day’s work, the afternoon sun was pleasant, so I again set off on foot toward my residence. As I walked I heard a sweet voice from afar, as though someone were humming a song.

Drawn to it, I reached an open field away from the market, where I saw the most beautiful sight of my life.

A girl was humming something in Punjabi, swinging on a swing hung from a tree trunk. I did not understand a single word she sang, but her lovely smile and honeyed voice drew me. She was not alone; other girls of her age were there, but my gaze was fixed only on her.

She was the same one I had been maddened thinking about since last night.

But in truth, she was more beautiful than my imagination.

Innocent.

Yes, it was her, how could I mistake her? Even in sunlight those eyes shone just as they had in the moonlit night.

Swinging, she looked like a beautiful picture, as if a dream-night had stepped out of old tales. Her red dupatta fluttered in the air as though holding the colors of earth and sky within it.

Her hair gleamed in the slight rippling sunlight, as though it had captured the golden light over the city, and the locks that waved in the air could sting any heart like a serpent.

Her smile at that moment shone more brightly than the sun. A new softness in her eyes stirred an odd flutter in my heart. With each swing she adorned her innocence with the colors of life; in every arc she seemed to become a dream, somewhat apart from the real world.

I had never seen such a pure dream before.

When she, hiding her innocent smile within her humming, swung on the swing, I felt as if I had become part of the most beautiful moment in the world.

I stood where I was, watching her swing. Talking with her companions, laughing, she looked very lovely.

Then suddenly, children of some English officers came into the field with cricket bats and balls. There was a taunt in their smiles, as if they belittled those girls with their Englishness and status.

“Look at them! Who are they? Nothing. Go away from here, you are nothing more than illiterate cows!”

When they mocked the girls, I felt angry but could do nothing because one of them was a general’s son, and sometimes our hands were tied before our officers.

But the girl, who until then had only been smiling to herself suddenly straightened a little. There was a sparkle in her eyes as if the moment to answer had arrived. Then, without hesitation, she placed a small smile on her face and said something to her companions that gave them new strength.

“Excuse me, boys.” Her voice was clear and measured, as she were fully fluent in their tongue though not British. In such clear English she replied.

‘Damn! Do Indian girls speak such fluent English? I didn't know that. She is something else.’ I wondered.

“You think your language and status give you the right to mock others? Let me remind you that being rude does not make you superior; it just makes you ignorant.” She replied sharply, and I swear my heart almost applauded, though I held myself back.

Because no one has the right to mock another, especially when you are incompetent and misuse your father’s rank.

There was a depth in her words that was enough to silence the English children. I, standing a little distance away, was astonished to hear her English. Her voice, perfectly correct in English, gave me a strange sensation.

‘Feisty! She is a deadly combination of beauty with brains.’

That girl was capable of coloring everyone in her own shade, not just through her appearance and thoughts, but also through the power of her words.

I was a little stunned, mostly impressed. She seemed very innocent, but after hearing her commanding voice last night I had understood there was something about her that maddened me.

This girl… she is not just beautiful, she knows how to make others understand her words clearly, and she also knows how to stand up for her own rights.

I was engrossed in the scene when, I don’t know from where, Iqbal Ali arrived. “Sahib! You here? That too on foot?”

“Just taking a walk,” I replied and asked, “Iqbal, who is she?”

“Oh Sahib! This is Heer, Baldev Singh’s daughter who was dragging her brother away last night. Remember? When we were returning after meeting Gopal Lal?” In his habit, Iqbal Ali began his long stories again.

But among all that he did one good thing: he told me her name.

Heer.

“Heer,” I softly repeated her name, as if I wanted to see how it would feel on my lips.

But when I turned back to look for her again, she had already left with her friends.