“So your father did the only thing he could think of to placate her. He agreed to meet her at a secluded spot in the forest, far from prying eyes, hoping to appeal to the love that she still bore for him. He offered her unimaginable wealth, lifetime upkeep for her child, a magnificent temple built to her goddess in the middle of Kishangarh—any price she named!—but the priestess would not relent. She was not his servant, or even his subject; she would accept nothing but marriage. Their exchange grew angry, passionate. The Maharaja feared her raised voice would attract the attention of nearby forest dwellers, though it was late in the night. The threat of tigers in the area yet remained, so he had carried his rifle.
“What happened next is not entirely certain. He thought he heard a growl, or saw a movement in the dark, and he scrambled to his rifle and fired. The bullets caught her: not one but many. She dropped to the ground in front of him, bleeding, dying.”
“He killed her,” Anjali said, amazed at the flatness of her voice. “My father killed that innocent woman, and their unborn child. And then he destroyed her corpse, like a cold-blooded murderer.”
“He didn’t, if you can believe it.” There was a glimmer at the edge of Sabarmati dai’s eyes. Anjali wasn’t sure if it was tears, or for whom. “The Maharaja was stunned, terrified by what he had done. You must not forget he was a young man too, just like your brothers, and recently returned from Vilait with a college degree. He was a renowned hunter, but shooting game is not the same as shooting a woman, much less one who is carrying your child. Besides, there were probably still tigers skulking in the dark. He backed away slowly and fled, no longer caring what might happen if his crime was revealed.
“Fortunately, the body of the priestess wasn’t discovered until some days later, by which time tigers had devoured it to the extent that there was no bullet wound to be found. No case was brought against the Maharaja to the British courts. The priestess’ following exploded, for that was how she had always predicted she would go—devoured by the beasts she commanded. If you ever visit that part of the Sariska forest, you will still find a shrine in her honour. Villagers and forest people alike lay flowers on it to this day. In her death, the priestess became a goddess.”
“And the curse…” Anjali said.
“The curse, yes,” Sabarmati dai nodded, an infinite sorrow settling at the corners of her mouth. “No one knows for sure. In his frenzy after he fired at her, the Maharaja saw many things. He thought he saw the woman turn into a tiger herself, about to bite his hand off as he crouched beside her to stop the blood. He thought he saw tigers—thirty, forty of them—emerging from the trees, surrounding them, waiting to spring as soon as her breathing would still. And then he thought he heard her last words, promising she would return to kill each of his offspring, every one born of a ‘purer’ womb that he deemed worthy to live, unlike hers. That she would see to the end of the lineage that he held dearer than her love and her child. No one knows if she actually said those words or if he imagined them in his grief, as he imagined so many things. But those words became a fever in his brain. For years afterwards, he would wake up screaming in the middle of the night: ‘She said she would kill my children! She would return to destroy my lineage!’ That’s how word of the curse got around, though few know what happened in the forest that night.”
“But Ajay and Abhay died in the same forest, killed by tigers.” Anjali held up a hand. “Don’t bother to repeat the lies Daddy has fed me already. I get out of the palace. I’ve asked around.”
“Very well,” Sabarmati dai said. “Your brothers were never much of hunters, nothing in comparison to your father. God knows what got into Ajay that he took a holiday from his job and wife in Delhi and returned to the ancestral estate, eager to hunt for big game. Your father expressly forbade him from going, but you know your eldest brother had never been the obedient kind. As for Abhay, he was only investigating Ajay’s death. A chunk of my heart went to the pyre with that boy, but he barely knew how to hold a gun the right side up. He couldn’t run up a flight of stairs without doubling over and demanding a glass of sherbat. That fictional curse has turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy for this family of hardheaded fools. I am glad that you are at least headed to Calcutta, and not into the damned forest yourself. The tiger population in Sariska has dwindled over the years, but they exist still. And an inexpertly wounded tiger would kill you, vengeful dead witch or not.”
Anjali wouldn’t stand a chance against a tiger. Their father had never trained her to shoot. The only thing she knew to stab with was a fountain pen, though she always suspected she did a cleaner job of it than her brothers.
“Mahesh will be happy to see you,” said Sabarmati dai. “He has always loved you as a brother, though he did not dare express it. When you meet him, tell him I think of him every day, remind him to phone more often. And return home safe.”
“Yes, dai.” Anjali bent down to touch the feet of the old woman, wiped the dust on her head for blessing.
“And, beti, try to forgive your father. He was no worse than any other king of his time. He has done his duty by you, and even by his other illegitimate child. He is dying now.”
To that Anjali had nothing to say. She took the next morning’s train to Delhi, then the train to Calcutta from there. She did not return to the Maharaja’s bedchamber to say goodbye.
CALCUTTA PUT HER in mind of a brighter, noisier, more decrepit London. Sujata’s husband picked her up from the train station. Clothing merchants did not move in the same circles as the British crown, but once Anjali was in the city, there were other connections to be found through her Oxford credentials. A few days’ socialising found her draped demurely on the arm of a young captain, headed to the Auckland Hotel in the afternoon for tea and a discourse on modern poetry.
He was surprised at her preference for the old hotel on Chowringhee Road over one of the more exclusive clubs in Calcutta. The Auckland’s star had fallen in recent months, following the gruesome murder of a young Englishwoman in the tea room that had provided local newspapers gossip fodder for weeks. The only people still frequenting the place were its sworn devotees. Anjali had to appeal for the value of privacy to make her companion agree.
Mahesh was the waiter who served at their table, bringing in tea pot, china and dainty cucumber sandwiches, but he gave no indication of recognizing her in front of the amorous Englishman. Afterwards, with the tip, Anjali slipped him a scrap of paper. They met up the next afternoon at the corner of Imperial Museum, after he took an early leave from his shift.
Anjali wanted to squeal and rush into Mahesh’s arms, perhaps dissolve into tears, but of course that would be inappropriate for a grown man and woman at a busy street corner in Calcutta. She had dressed in the plainest cotton sari she could find at Sujata’s house, oiled down and worn her hair in a long plait, turning herself into the closest imitation she could of a young working-class woman, who wouldn’t seem incongruous with a man like Mahesh. Despite her alabaster skin and his deepest brown, they could almost pass as brother and sister.
“Shall we?” he grinned, as they joined the queue in front of the Museum. No conversation in English any further; they would blend in with the hundreds of tourists who turned up to gaze at one of the largest museums in the world, the shelter of its elegant Grecian colonnades providing the most unremarkable meeting place in the city.
They walked from gallery to gallery, conversing in Hindi as they had done back home, keeping their voices below the din of the crowd. Mahesh knew of the deaths of Ajay and Abhay—his mother had phoned, and besides, the official version of the news had made it to the newspapers in Calcutta. But their deaths happened right around the time of the shooting at the Auckland Hotel, followed by weeks of rumours and police investigation. It would’ve been impossible for him to get leave to go home.
“Not that anyone missed me at their funerals.” He shrugged. “I would not have been required to light their pyres, or tonsure my head for their mourning. I am not a Rathor
e.” Mahesh’s hair was a thick brown mop, lending a roguish charm to his bony face.
They kept walking. “But the curse—whatever it is—will descend on you too,” said Anjali.
“I’ll remember to never make a trip to the Sundarbans, then! Some of the guys at the mess were planning to go.” Mahesh chuckled. “But really, Anjali, will it? Do you think I am the only illegitimate child of your father who lived? Not all of them were born of unmarried maidservants or crazy forest priestesses, either. Some of them go by names just as reputable as yours; maybe even British names. Ma never told me the details, but tigers weren’t the only thing your father was renowned for hunting in his youth. None of those other children would give a damn about the extinction of the Rathore line, even if they knew. There, would you look at that bear?”
They stood in front of a large mounted figure of a Himalayan black bear, labelled and encased in glass. Anjali had been to other museums in the world, but Mahesh was occasionally pausing in their walk to enjoy the exhibits. She did not begrudge him that. She had all evening; wished she had more, to make up for the years they had lost as siblings. They were surrounded by chattering families, children running among the exhibits, softly whispering lovers—all ordinary people out for a day in the city, with little actual care for the contents of a museum. She wondered what their lives were like, full of love, with no ominous secrets.
Glass shattered with a crash right behind them, echoed in the cries of scattering tourists, which then drowned in the unexpected roar that rang out through the narrow gallery. Before Anjali could turn, the Bengal tiger leapt between her and Mahesh, no longer a hide stuffed and mounted, but a prowling animal. It turned its face at her, eyes alive with feral menace. Then it roared again, and a warm, putrid breath hit Anjali’s face. She screamed.
From the other side, Mahesh rushed at the beast, brandishing a dagger—she had no idea where he might have found it. The blade did not even make contact. With one massive paw the tiger swatted him away like a fly. Mahesh was flung to the floor a few feet away, three straight lines of blood blooming on his chest where his shirt had been slashed. The tiger turned to Anjali again.
She backed away as it advanced, and her cheap hawai slippers slid from her feet. Something sharp stabbed her underfoot—she looked down to find the checkered marble floor littered with splinters of glass. She picked up a jagged shard and held it in front of her, suspecting it would cut her before it could even graze the tiger’s hide.
A few security guards arrived at the other end of the gallery. One of them yelled, “Ma’am, get down, get down!” and as Anjali covered and ducked, the rattle of bullets from their ancient rifles filled the room, the noise magnified by the high ceilings. A ricochet, some more glass shattering, the figure of a sambar deer tumbling from its mount. In a space so narrow the tiger should’ve at least been injured, but no bullet seemed to touch it. It turned to the guards and let out a mighty growl, and they fled, though it did not chase them. A panicked despair started coming over Anjali as she realized that the tiger did not care for anyone but her.
The same thought must have occurred to Mahesh, who had stood up, staggering, during the distraction with the guards. Now he yelled, “Anjali, catch!” as he threw his dagger across to her, its dark blade glinting as it caught the glow of the tube lights overhead. The tiger swept at the flying weapon, rearing to its full height, and it landed far across the gallery from Anjali. For a split second she was grateful, for she had ducked as the dagger arced towards her as well.
Then she made a desperate rush for the weapon, feet burning and streaking blood across the floor as more splinters dug into them, the tiger leaping at her as she turned. She had one useful skill at that moment—though she knew nothing of fighting or hunting, she had been a sprinter at school. As soon as she closed her fingers around the hilt of the dagger, marveling at the blade—as long as her forearm and almost completely weightless—the tiger was upon her, crushing her under its weight, its roar and its stench obliterating all other senses.
Pain exploded at Anjali’s left shoulder as she struggled on the floor under the animal, its teeth barely missing her jugular. She would die, she would die in a world of pain, just as Ajay and Abhay must have; she was dead already. Blindly she stabbed, stabbed, stabbed at the face, the neck, the forelimbs of the tiger, everything erased from existence in the deafening roar and the warmth that rained on her face.
Some sense returned. She could hardly see through the bloodshed, but the weight of the tiger’s grip on her had shifted, and she could sense Mahesh was near, could hear his screams. She knew he was on the back of the tiger, directly above her, stabbing away with another blade. Where did all these weapons come from? Had he swiped them from the other galleries at the museum while she wasn’t looking? “Keep stabbing at it, Anjali!” she thought she heard him say. “Don’t stop! Only you can kill it! I am only providing distraction!” Anjali tightened her grip on the dagger, plunging it again and again as if into a hardened slab of butter, almost mechanically, knowing this was what she would do to the last of her breath.
Finally, the tiger made a noise that sounded more like a long yowl—it went on and on, she felt, filling the air with the putrid vapours from its maw—and then its entire weight slammed into her, driving the breath from her lungs. She was finally dead, it occurred to her, and the thought almost filled her with relief. But then there were arms dragging at her—Mahesh’s arms again, Mahesh’s voice—pulling her out from under the animal, which no longer objected.
A few other people stepped forward tentatively—Anjali had no idea who—and soon there were more arms pulling at her, dragging the dead weight from over her body. Someone rubbed her face with a cloth and she saw more grey than red, though her vision was still swimming and her head felt like it was being repeatedly hit with a gong. Someone put a bottle to her lips and she drank, feeling grateful at the blessed coolness that spread down her gullet. Someone even fetched her hawai slippers and purse, and she accepted them, put the slippers to her feet—obedient, mumbling. People moved around and talked in inchoate words. Mahesh was holding her up; she leaned against his body through it all. When Mahesh told her to get up and walk, she walked.
“We need to get away from here before more people turn up,” he whispered in her ear as he pushed her forward. Everything hurt. “You don’t want to talk to the police right now. Let’s scram while everyone is still confused.”
There was much confusion even outside the zoological gallery, all over the museum premises. Other people had been hurt—if not as dramatically—by flying glass shards, falling debris, stampeding crowds as they spilled from the gallery before. Some had simply fainted. Everyone was busily narrating the version of events they thought they’d seen. Mahesh guided Anjali quickly through the shadows, outside the building, where thankfully the darkness of the winter evening had spread over the city. He hailed one of the horse-drawn boxcars waiting for passengers outside the museum. The driver demanded forty rupees to take them to his mess—an exorbitant sum. Mahesh was going to argue, but Anjali pressed her purse into his hands.
HER PURSE WAS further lightened at the mess—a residence for working-class men in a squalid part of the city—but finally Anjali managed to secure a room with a bed. Even a discreet local doctor was acquired—wounds were cleaned and dressed, tetanus injected, painkillers swallowed, away from the usual hospitals where the police might search.
After the doctor departed, Mahesh sat on a chair by her bed, polishing the daggers he’d produced out of nowhere in the museum. On closer inspection Anjali had no doubt they were fighting daggers—blades of a shiny black metal that she didn’t recognize, intricate carvings all along their length. No cutlery or kitchen tool these; not after they had managed to kill a demonic tiger that no bullet or shard of glass could pierce. How had Mahesh come to possess such things?
“That sahib who shot the woman at the Auckland Hotel never checked out of his room, did he?” Mahesh flashed a grin when she asked
. “I have always fancied having a blade of my own, just like Ajay saab and Abhay saab. You can keep the other. Seems like you may need it more than I do from now on.”
The reality of his words took a minute to sink into Anjali’s mind. “What will I do now, Mahesh?” Tears welled up in her eyes, the pain all over her body suddenly unbearable. If it ended right now—quietly fading to darkness on this bed—that would be the best. She could not bear to go through another of those horrors again. “Daddy thinks I’ll be safe in England, but I don’t think I’ll be safe anywhere. Strange and terrible things are happening in the world—or maybe they have always happened, we just did not have the eyes to see. And now I’m thrust in the middle of it. I don’t even know who to ask for help.”
“Surprisingly enough, I seem to have an idea!” Mahesh said, leaving the daggers on the table and suddenly leaning over her bed, an urgent look in his eyes. “A man hears a lot of odd gossip if he waits tables at a sahibs’ hotel, especially if the patrons don’t suspect he follows their language too well. What you just said—strange and terrible things happening in the world—I have heard that sentiment echoed at many tables I have served, always hesitant, always hushed, but never quite dispelled. More than once I’ve caught the mention of something called the Strange Brigade—”
The True History of the Strange Brigade Page 17
