Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  Kesri had never heard such an unlikely tale. E na ho saké – this cannot be true. He shook his head in disbelief: Subedar-sah’b, you know I have the greatest respect for you. But how can I believe all this? My sister has never been out of our zilla; how could she have planned to go across the sea? It is just not possible.

  But that is what happened, said the subedar. An official inquiry was held in Calcutta many months ago. We were not aware of it because we were in the jungle. But the conclusions and judgements have been printed and published – in English and Hindustani.

  He held up two pieces of paper.

  Here are the judgements. We have all gone through them – there can be no doubt of what happened. Chandan Singh and the other men travelled to Calcutta so that they could attend the hearings and ensure that the killers were brought to justice. But God has already seen to one part of that: Bhyro Singh’s murderer, your sister’s lover, is dead. He drowned while trying to escape from the ship. But your sister is still alive, and while she lives, neither I nor my family can be at peace, for we cannot forget the shame and dishonour she has brought on us – and on you too, Kesri Singh, for you are her brother.

  Kesri shook his head again. Subedar-sah’b, he said, there must be some mistake; it must be some other woman. I know my sister …

  Aur ham tohra se achha se jaana taani! And I know her better than you!

  Chandan Singh leapt up and took a couple of steps towards Kesri, shaking his fist. Your sister is a whore and a bitch, he shouted. She has lived next to my house these last seven years so I can tell you about her. Day after day she offered herself to me, in the fields. She would plead with me to take her, to give her another child. I would cry shame on her, and remind her that she was married to my brother – but what is shame to a whore? Finding no one else, she took up with that filthy ox-herder. We have seen that man leaving their house in the mornings – you ask anyone in our village. We have seen it with our own eyes …

  Suddenly Kesri’s feet began to move. Before he knew it, one of his hands was on Chandan Singh’s throat. Drawing back his other hand he hit him across the face, throwing the weight of his body behind the blow. Chandan Singh went spinning past his companions to collapse against the canvas of the tent.

  Kesri would have jumped on him again but before he could make another move, four men flung themselves on him. Pinioning his arms, they wrestled him around to face the subedar again.

  The subedar’s composure was undisturbed.

  Listen to me, Kesri Singh, he said, in his grave, steady voice. We of our family have done a lot for you. We accepted you into this paltan even though you were not one of us. Because of our generous natures we treated you fairly and encouraged you to feel at home here and helped you reach the rank that you now enjoy. We went still further and accepted your sister into our family, even though she had a dirty complexion and was past the age of marriage; as for her dowry it was not fit for a pauper. All this we did for you, but you never showed any gratitude for it; nor did you give us any sign of appreciation. Behind our backs you scorned us, and made fun of us. We know that you think that this paltan cannot get on without you. None of this is a secret to us. We have put up with it all this time, because we are by nature generous and forgiving. Why, the other day it even came to my ears that after hearing of my brother’s death you had distributed sweets in the camp-bazar, to the randis and naach-walis! But still I said nothing, knowing that your punishment would come from the heavens. And so it has – for what has happened now cannot be overlooked. It is a stain on our family’s honour – and your face too is blackened by it. The only way you can redeem your honour, Kesri Singh, is by delivering your sister to us so that she can be made to answer for what she has done. Until that day no one in this paltan – not the afsars and nor the jawans – will eat with you or accept water from you, or even exchange words with you. From now on you have no place in this paltan – if you choose to remain here it will be as a ghost. I will explain all this to the English officers in the morning; as you know, in matters of family and caste, they always respect our decisions. I will tell them that as far as we are concerned you are now a pariah, an outcast. In our eyes you are no better than a stray dog; you are worse than filth. For you to remain in this tent for another moment is intolerable: it is an insult to our biraderi. You will never set foot in any of our tents ever again. That is all I have to say to you.

  The subedar hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat it on the ground.

  Abh hamra aankhi se dur ho ja! Now get out of my sight, Kesri Singh! I never want to set eyes on you again.

  Seven

  The walk from the subedar’s tent to his own was one of the longest of Kesri’s life. Despite the lateness of the hour many men were still up, whispering outside their tents. Kesri passed a few sepoys from his own company and not one of them uttered a greeting or even looked him in the face: it was evident that they knew that he had been declared an outcaste. Everyone drew back, so that an empty space seemed to open around Kesri, following him down the path. It was as if he had become a moving source of defilement.

  Kesri could feel their eyes burning into his back; he could hear their voices too, sniggering and whispering. He wished that one of them would say something to his face: he would have liked nothing better than to pick a fight – but he knew there was no hope of that. None of them would offer him that satisfaction; they feared him too much to take him on alone.

  When his tent came within sight, Kesri saw that a pack of dogs had gathered around it. They were fighting over a heap of bones and offal that someone had emptied there, in his absence. Knowing that he was being watched, he skirted around the dogs without slackening his step – he was determined not to give them the satisfaction of gloating over his downfall.

  Stepping inside his tent, he saw that his belongings were lying scattered about on the ground. His servant had disappeared: it seemed that the chootiya had seized the opportunity to run away with some of his utensils.

  Kesri lit a candle and began to gather his things together. As he was picking through the pile he came upon a small picture, painted in bright colours on a scrap of yellowing paper. It was a drawing of a little girl, done in bold, flat lines. He recognized it immediately: it was Deeti’s handiwork; the child was her daughter, Kabutri. Deeti had given it to him at their last meeting in Nayanpur, when Kesri was on leave at home.

  Kesri sat down on the edge of his charpoy and stared at the picture, with his elbows on his knees.

  What had become of Kabutri? And of Deeti?

  The tale of her eloping with a lover and boarding a ship for Mareech seemed like nonsense to him, hardly worth a thought. But some of the story’s details were certainly believable: that Hukam Singh had died for instance – his health had been declining for a long time so his death could hardly be counted as a surprise. Nor was it hard to believe that Deeti would try to extricate herself from the clutches of her husband’s family once he was gone.

  Clearly something had happened to her, and even though Kesri had no way of knowing what it was, he sensed that it was the cause of his family’s long silence: clearly the matter was too delicate to be disclosed to the paid scribblers who usually wrote their letters for them. To learn the truth he would have to wait till he went home – which would not be for a long time yet.

  Kesri fell on his charpoy and lay still, listening to the familiar sounds of the camp: the bells of the watch; the drunken laughter of men returning from the camp-bazar; the horses, whinnying in their enclosure. Somewhere a young sepoy was singing a song about going home to his village.

  The paltan had been his home and family for twenty years, yet it was clear to him now that he had never truly belonged to it. He understood that his dream of rising to the rank of subedar had never stood any chance of being realized. The present subedar and his kinsmen would never have allowed it – in their eyes he had always been an interloper and they would have found some pretext for evicting him. And the worst part of it was tha
t none of this was truly new: he had known it all along, in his heart, but had failed to recognize and act on it.

  This realization brought on a wave of disgust, directed as much at himself as towards the men he had considered his comrades-in-arms. He remembered that Gulabi had often tried to warn him about his enemies but he had never paid attention. Now she too would have to sever her connections with him: if not, she would lose her place in the camp-bazar – the subedar would make sure of that.

  For Gulabi’s sake, as much as for his own, Kesri understood that he would have to leave the battalion. Once a sentence of ostracism had been passed it was impossible for a man to continue in his old paltan. Kesri had seen it happen before so he knew the subedar had it in his power to make it impossible for him to discharge his duties: if he were to turn up at the parade ground tomorrow, his orders would not be obeyed.

  There was no doubt of it – he would have to leave. But where was he to go? To transfer to another unit at this point in his career would be very difficult; and to retire now would mean sacrificing the pension that he would be entitled to if he remained in the army another two years. But what was he to do in the interim?

  The cruellest part was that this had happened at a time when he was too tired to think clearly. He stretched himself out on his charpoy and dozed off. When he woke next it was to find Pagla-baba sitting beside him.

  Arré Kesri, why are you sleeping? Haven’t you heard? Mee-sah’b is leaving for Calcutta tomorrow.

  Kesri sat up with a start. What are you saying, Pagla-baba?

  Didn’t Mee-sah’b ask you something the other day?

  Suddenly Kesri remembered the adjutant’s offer.

  Are you saying I should volunteer for the expedition?

  Yes, Kesri, what else?

  Kesri jumped to his feet and lifted the canvas flap of his tent. It was well past midnight now, but across the parade ground, in the adjutant’s tent, a lamp was still burning.

  Go, Kesri – go now.

  Kesri caught hold of Pagla-baba’s hand. I’ll go, he said, but listen – tell Gulabi to come to me tonight. I want to see her – one last time.

  Theek hai.

  A moment later, Pagla-baba slipped away, as softly as he had come. Kesri stepped out of his tent, stiffened his shoulders and began to walk towards the officers’ lines.

  Had the adjutant been anyone other than Captain Mee, the thought of intruding upon him at this hour of the night would not have occurred to Kesri. But his bond with Captain Mee was different from the usual relationship between sepoy and officer: looking at the lamp in the adjutant’s tent he had the distinct feeling that Captain Mee was expecting him.

  ‘Sir? Mee-sah’b?’

  ‘Yes? Who is it?’ The flaps at the tent’s entrance parted and Captain Mee’s face appeared between them.

  ‘Oh it’s you, havildar. Come in.’

  Stepping inside, Kesri saw that Captain Mee was in the process of packing. An overfilled trunk stood beside his cot and a heap of papers lay piled on his desk.

  ‘I’m leaving early tomorrow,’ said Captain Mee curtly, ‘for Calcutta.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ said Kesri. ‘That is why I have come.’

  ‘Yes, havildar. Go on.’

  ‘I also want to go, sir. With you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I want to go as balamteer.’

  Captain Mee’s face broke into a wide smile. He stepped up to Kesri with his hand outstretched: ‘That’s the barber, havildar! Knew you’d come up trumps. Don’t know why you’ve changed your mind, but I’m fizzing glad you have!’

  Kesri flinched, for he knew that the captain was probably lying in order to spare his feelings. In all likelihood Captain Mee was well aware of the exact reasons for his change of mind. As with any good adjutant, very little happened in the battalion without the captain knowing of it. Scuffles and quarrels; thefts and arguments – nothing evaded his attention. Having himself served as Mee-sahib’s first and most trusted informer, it was no secret to Kesri that the captain had sources in every company and platoon. News of the meeting in the subedar’s tent would have reached him within minutes of its conclusion and he would have grasped immediately what it meant for Kesri. Sentences of ostracism had been passed before in the paltan, not just among the sepoys but also among the officers: when they did it to one of their own they’d say that he had been ‘sent to Coventry’; among them too it amounted to a sentence of expulsion.

  Kesri understood that it was not out of ignorance but tact that the captain had made no reference to his plight and was deeply touched: ‘Thank you, Kaptán-sah’b.’

  Captain Mee brushed this aside. ‘Well it’s settled then,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the CO will object, but still, I’d better get you to sign the papers right now so that he can see them first thing in the morning.’

  Through the rest of the interview Mr Mee’s demeanour remained crisply matter-of-fact. But at the end, when all the paperwork had been completed, his manner changed: he stepped out from behind his field-desk and placed a hand on Kesri’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m glad you’re coming along, havildar,’ he said in an unusually sombre voice. ‘It’ll make things much easier – we’ve always understood each other well, haven’t we? I doubt there’s another pair of men in the battalion who know each other as well as you and I.’

  The directness of Captain Mee’s words took Kesri aback. He would not have expressed himself in this way, but it struck him now that the adjutant was right. It was a fact that after having spent two decades in the paltan, none of his fellow sepoys had uttered a word of sympathy; the only man who had put a friendly hand on his shoulder was not someone of his own caste and colour, but rather an Angrez on whom he had no claim whatever. The thought caused an unaccustomed prickling in Kesri’s eyes and he realized, to his shock, that he was near tears.

  Fortunately, the interview was almost at an end.

  ‘All right then, havildar,’ said Captain Mee. ‘Please report to the officers’ mess after choti-hazri tomorrow.’

  Ji aj’ten-sahib. Kesri snapped off a salute and stepped outside.

  It was very late now and the campground was empty. Back in his tent Kesri packed a few of his things before lying down. For a while he listened for footsteps thinking that Gulabi might come, although in his heart he knew that she wouldn’t. He could not find it in himself to blame her for staying away; if she were found out the subedar was sure to visit some dire punishment on her: to risk her livelihood, and that of her girls, would be foolhardy.

  Even though he understood her situation, the thought that he would never see her again filled him with sadness. No one knew his injuries as well as she did. Her touch was so deft that she could make the sensitive edges of old scars pulsate with feeling; her fingers worked such magic that it was as if old wounds had been miraculously transformed into organs of pleasure. Now it was as if all his scars were weeping for her touch.

  He remembered the very first time he had lain with Gulabi, as a raw recruit, and he recalled how a voice in his head had warned that he would pay for his pleasure one day. Now that the day had come, he resolved that he would go back to practising the disciplines of celibacy that he had abandoned on joining the Pacheesi: to return to the wrestler’s state of brahmacharya would be his penance for the years he had wasted as a sepoy.

  Kesri thought of his years with the Pacheesi – the battles and skirmishes, and the pride he had taken in the paltan – and a bitter, ashen taste filled his mouth. He remembered that it was Deeti who had conspired to get him into the battalion, and he wondered if it had been written in their shared kismet that she would also be the cause of his leaving it. Yet he felt no rancour towards her. He had only himself to blame, he knew, not just for having cherished a vain hope, but also for sacrificing Deeti to his own ambitions and sending her into the family of Subedar Bhyro Singh, knowing full well what those people were made of.

  If Deeti had willed this retribution on him, he would
not have blamed her.

  *

  For Zachary, the consequences of his night with Mrs Burnham were even worse than she had predicted: not only did he have to deal with a heavy burden of guilt and remorse, he also had to cope with the bone-chilling fear of her husband’s vengeance. Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of Mr Burnham’s power. What would the Burra Sahib do if he got a whiff of his wife’s infidelity? The thought sent shivers through Zachary and he cursed himself for having taken such a senseless risk, merely for a single night’s gratification.

  Yet, strangely, contrition was not enough to expunge the night from Zachary’s memory. Even as his head was aching with apprehension other parts of his body would stir and tingle as they exhumed, from their own storehouses of memory, recollections of the explosive pleasures that he had experienced. Then his self-reproach would turn to regret and he would curse himself for not having made the night last longer; involuntarily his head would fill with imaginings of what he would do if he could but relive that night, just one more time.

  But that was impossible of course. Hadn’t she said, with absolute finality, ‘this is the last and only time’? He often repeated those words to himself, for they offered a kind of comfort when his burden of guilt and fear weighed most heavily on him. But there were times also when the sound of the words would change, even as they echoed through his head, and he would wonder whether they had been said with as much conviction as he had imagined. Sometimes one thought would lead to another and he would begin to dream of receiving another message from the boudoir, heralding another assignation and another sprint across the garden.

  But that message, at once dreaded and hoped-for, never came. Week after week went by, and not only was there no note or chitty, he did not even properly set eyes on Mrs Burnham – all he saw of her was a shadow on the purdahs of her buggy, as it rattled down the driveway, ferrying her to some levée, lecture or burra-khana.

  Her silence, as it lengthened, grew increasingly frightening. He could imagine that having repented of her adultery, she might now seek to absolve herself of all guilt by making up a story about him; back in Baltimore he had heard tales of great ladies who had seduced their slaves and then accused them of unspeakable things.