Mohinder's War by Bali Rai

Mohinder's War by Bali Rai

Author:Bali Rai
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing


ELEVEN

Our next concern was Mo. His appearance would make us conspicuous and easy to capture. I feared that some collaborator might see us and tell the Germans. However, I respected Mo’s beliefs and knew that he would not cut his hair, nor shave. There had to be some other way.

‘There is none,’ Mo said eventually.

‘We are wasting time,’ Beatrice told us. ‘We need to leave now!’

Mo glanced towards my parents’ graves from the kitchen door.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘hair will grow back. You have lost something far more precious.’

Realising what he meant, I shook my head.

‘But you said that Sikhs must not cut their hair,’ I reminded him.

He shook his head.

‘It is an outward show of Sikhism,’ he replied. ‘The truth of my faith lies within my heart. Besides, we Sikhs believe in fate – we call it kismet.’

‘Kismet,’ I repeated.

‘If our survival means that I must cut my hair, then it is meant to be. What other alternative do we have?’

Beatrice was pacing the kitchen by then, muttering under her breath. I could tell that she was scared and anxious.

‘Do you have scissors and your father’s shaving kit?’ Mo asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then fetch them, Joelle. Let us get this done and be on our way.’

I paused for a moment.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

Mo smiled and stroked his beard.

‘Please,’ he replied. ‘Before I change my mind.’

Mo sat at the table and unwrapped his pagri, before unwinding his long hair.

‘I would like you to cut it,’ he said to me. ‘It will be our pact. Our seal.’

I nodded yet part of me felt sad. The length of Mo’s hair signified his faith, his absolute trust in all he believed.

‘Please,’ he said again.

I started slowly, cutting off small sections at a time. Meanwhile, Beatrice used another pair of scissors to shorten Mo’s beard. Once it was more manageable, she used Papa’s razor to shave him smooth. When we were done, Mo looked younger and even more handsome.

‘Do you have a mirror?’ he asked.

I handed one to him and he smiled ruefully.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘I quite like it.’

Beatrice’s impatience grew once more.

‘Mon Dieu!’ she cried. ‘Do you wish to get caught?’

We packed a few belongings – food and water, a knife and some other things – and Mo dressed in some of my father’s clothes and put on a peaked hat. He pulled it low over his face, then wrapped a scarf around his neck. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do, and we set off. I didn’t even close the door behind me. Everything I loved was gone. I no longer cared who took the rest.

That was the last time I saw our little house, on the edge of our little town, in the country of my birth. I would never return.

Our second concern was in getting across town, to the planned Resistance meeting. The Germans were on high alert and the streets might be dangerous. Beatrice told us of a few families she could trust, but I was not convinced. If Vincent knew about her contacts too, then they would be prisoners by now, or worse.



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