Lahore. 18 March 1947. Dusk brings with it stray breezes from the north, dispelling some of the day’s oppressive heat. Summer has begun early this year, as if to make up for the cold winter we just had. A wheeling flock of pigeons fills the amber sky. Kicking my motorcycle to life, I can smell wet earth, where a bhishti with his goatskin waterbag has laid the dust in the forecourt of the Masonic Lodge. My worthy companions tried to persuade me to stay for another drink before curfew, but their conversations were full of rumours about Radcliffe’s Boundary Commission, cricket, and the cost of a passage home to England, none of which I cared to discuss.
The Norton’s engine sounds ragged but after I adjust the timing lever, it settles into a steadier, throaty roar. Switching on the headlamp, I circumnavigate a crescent of flower beds bordering the driveway and head out the gate, turning left across Charing Cross and onto the Mall Road. There is no traffic, only an empty tonga going in the direction of the walled city. Those who heed the evening call to prayer are in their places of worship, while followers of other creeds know better than to wander about at this hour, because of the recent violence the city has seen. Studying me with regal omniscience is the late, lamented empress Victoria, beneath a domed pavilion, her statue cast in bronze.
Seconds later, a sharp clang of metal rings out and the Norton shudders as I feel a burning sensation crease my thigh. The crack of a .303 follows an instant later. It’s true what they say: you’ll never hear the gunshot that kills you. Instinctively, I shift gears and give the Norton full throttle, as a second shot is fired. This one passes over my right shoulder, drilling the air just south of my ear. Lowering my head, I swerve back and forth across the empty road. A third bullet comes after me, but by now I am well out of range and all I hear is the distant report of the rifle, fired in frustration. The shooter must have positioned himself behind a hedge to the left of the Victoria Memorial, somewhere in the shrubs and shadows.
Heading towards Regal Crossing, I race past a line of European shops. Their display windows are lit up for evening customers, though the road remains deserted. Ranken & Co., Civil and Military Tailors, where I got an ill-fitting suit made some years ago. Cutler Palmer & Co., Wine Merchants, whose prices I can’t afford. Smith & Campbell Chemists, offering cures for everything from hangovers to syphilis. And JD Bevan, who sells grand pianos, of which I have no need. They all go by in a blur, as I accelerate away from my would-be assassin, dodging a pariah dog that foolishly tries to cross my path. Nobody is in pursuit and the gunman must have escaped in the opposite direction, though I’m not taking any chances. By now, I can feel blood on my trousers and, glancing down, see a dark wet patch, six inches above my knee. The bullet grazed my leg and struck the air filter mounted on the Norton’s petrol tank. All of this, I will confirm later, but for now I am grateful to be alive and happy to be heading into the familiar labyrinths of Anarkali Bazaar.
Here the shops are busier, as people hurry to buy provisions before the 7 pm curfew. Unlike the larger, European shops with their bright windows and neatly painted signs, most of the stalls are open to the street and lit by kerosene lanterns. Selling dry goods out of gunny sacks and heaps of vegetables, the merchants haggle with their customers. A goat’s carcass, flayed and partially dismembered, hangs from the rafters of a butcher’s shop while the aroma of roasting kebabs wafts out of the shadows where a charcoal brazier glows and sends up clouds of fragrant smoke. Gearing down, I weave through the cyclists and pedestrians, as well as a few stray cows. Though some of the people glance in my direction with hostility in their eyes, I feel safer here than anywhere else in the world.
Up ahead, an arched gateway is plastered with Congress posters bearing pictures of Mr Gandhi, appealing for peace. An advertisement for a magician, The Great Mustafa, is also pasted there, and other notices offering the best prices for dried fruit and nuts from Kabul. A colourful hoarding announces a new film at Imperial Talkies – Abida, starring Noor Jehan. I drive through the gateway, manoeuvring between a handcart piled high with onions and a woman in a faded black burqa, who seems to be deaf to the insistent carping of my horn. A few electric bulbs glimmer inside open doorways and a subtle yet cloying perfume fills the air, the mingling odours of incense, opium, and tobacco. Turning into a narrow gulley, I circle around to the back of a decaying brick building and park the Norton beneath a canvas awning. As I swing my leg off the motorcycle, a stabbing pain makes me wince, though I know I’m not badly hurt. Blood trickles down the inside of my thigh, while I fumble with my cigarette case and find a match. Lighting a Cavender’s Navy Cut, I can see that my hand is shaking, the flame wavering in the dusty gloom at the foot of the stairwell.
I’ve been shot at three times before and wounded twice but never like this, without any warning, an anonymous bullet at twilight. Lahore has always had its dangers but until recently, it was a peaceful city. Ever since last August, when Mr Jinnah put out a call for direct action, the troubles started and now it’s hard to know whom you can trust. Of course, there’s always been resentment towards the British, and anarchists of all stripes have targeted policemen, army officers, and other officials. As I make my way painfully up the stairs, favouring my injured leg, I wonder who the shooter could have been and whether his motives were personal or political.
Champa is in her chambers, curled up on a divan and painting her toenails a livid pink. When I enter through the curtained doorway, she smiles indulgently but her expression changes as soon as she sees the wound on my leg.
“Hai bhagwan! What happened?” she cries, swivelling around and getting to her feet.
“Someone tried to shoot me,” I reply, the cigarette still clamped between my lips, as Champa calls out for help and lowers me onto her divan. “Bring another lantern,’ she instructs the two young women who appear, ‘and a chilamchi of water.”
After pulling off my shoes, unbuckling my belt, and opening the buttons on my fly, she removes my trousers.
“Slowly, slowly,” I try to reassure her. “It’s not that serious.”
Holding a lantern in one hand, Champa examines the wound, where the bullet has ploughed a neat furrow through meat and skin. Blood is seeping out and several drops fall on the patterned floor tiles.
Before I’ve finished my cigarette, however, Champa has cleaned me up. Taking a small glass vial, she breaks the neck and pours a yellowish liquid into the wound. The pain makes me curse and for a moment my head spins like a phonograph. Folding a wad of cotton wool inside layers of gauze, she presses it down on the wound and tightly wraps another roll of gauze around my thigh. Then straightening the injured leg, she places my foot on a silk cushion and makes me lie back.
Excerpted with permission from The Greatest Game: Being the Further Adventures of Kimball O’Hara, Stephen Alter, Aleph Book Company.
