“It was fine,” I said, my tone curt.
He raised his eyebrows, but passed smoothly to the next thing. “Has Ramchand brought you something to drink?” he asked. “Ah, there he is. Thank you, Ramchand.”
The slender man came back in bearing a tray with a sweating glass of ice-cold orange juice. He set the glass down in front of me and went to stand in the corner of the room.
“After your journey, I can only imagine that you’re in need of a little refreshment,” the brigadier said in his musical, low-pitched voice. “I’ll join you, but I hope you don’t object if I opt for something slightly stronger. It’s a vice, I know, but I’m perfectly useless without my evening peg.” He signaled again to Ramchand, but the man was already moving, clearly used to anticipating the brigadier’s needs. He opened a dark rosewood cabinet, which turned out to contain several gleaming bottles and a row of glittering cut-crystal glasses. He poured a deep amber liquid into one of the glasses and handed it to the brigadier, immediately retreating to his corner.
“Your father, if I recall correctly, is a devoted rum man,” the brigadier said pleasantly.
“Yes,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was make conversation with a soldier, any soldier, but his tone was so courteous, the room so warm and pleasant, that further rudeness seemed like it would be egregious. “I prefer whiskey, though.”
The brigadier’s face brightened. “Oh, then why didn’t you say so? You must try some of this. No, please, I insist. It is wonderful stuff, just wonderful. Ramchand, would you—”
But even before he finished the sentence, the capable Ramchand was already setting a glass of whiskey beside my untouched glass of orange juice. I raised it to my lips. The first smoky sip was like a match being struck inside my mouth. I could not remember the last time I’d had a drink.
“Thank you,” I said, a little less grudgingly than before.
“Damned good, isn’t it?” The brigadier held his glass up admiringly. “A present from a former Japanese cultural attaché. He brings one every time he visits. Brilliant man, but a bit of an eccentric. An expert puppeteer, of all things. We had him over for dinner once, and he put down his napkin in the middle of the meal, went over and took those two puppets off the wall, and gave us an impromptu show.” He pointed to the two Rajasthani puppets on the wall. “It was the first time I’d heard Indian puppets speaking English with a Japanese accent. It was really quite alarming.” He smiled. I tried to smile back, but the whiskey was spreading its warm fingers in my chest, and, after my hours of travel, I was too depleted to respond.
The brigadier must have seen this in my face, for he sat up and said, his voice a little sharper, “Of course, this isn’t the time for my silly stories, as my wife would no doubt remind me if she were here. You’ve had a long day. Ramchand has your room ready, doesn’t he?” He glanced at Ramchand, who nodded. “If you’d like to follow him, he’ll take you there.”
In the corridor, Ramchand gave me a quick, assessing glance. “Luggage?” he murmured. I shook my head. He betrayed no reaction.
The room he took me to was decorated with the same sophisticated, well-traveled sensibility as the living room. A tall four-poster bed stood against one wall, covered by a block-print bedspread. Two curved antique swords were mounted above the headboard, along with a round, rusty shield. A series of delicate painted Chinese vases lined the top of the rosewood dresser.
Ramchand pointed to a door. “That is the bathroom,” he told me. “The hot water is ready. I will go and bring you some clothes to wear. Then you will have dinner with the brigadier.” With a last professional look around the room, he left me alone.
I went into the adjoining bathroom and locked it. It smelled of perfume and soap, honeyed, feminine smells that belonged to another world. I looked at my face in the mirror above the sink. There had been no mirror in the house in the village, and this was the first time in weeks that I had looked at myself. I felt a brief shock of recognition, followed by an obscure disappointment. I was thinner, yes, my hair a bit longer, but other than that, I had not changed at all. But, then, what had I expected? A manic, holy gleam in my eye, as in the eyes of those ragged, hippie Westerners I sometimes saw around Bangalore, with bare feet and billowy clothes, matted blond dreadlocks, consecrated by their first exposure to yoga and the poor? Prayer beads around my wrist, a curly Om tattooed on my shoulder, and a cache of photos in which I smiled next to a pair of gaunt village women, to whom I would later casually refer, at dinner parties or in bed with new lovers I wished to impress? They have so little, you know, but that just means they’re more connected to the things that really matter.
I sat down on the closed toilet lid. I thought of Amina. I thought of Riyaz’s mother. I thought of Aaqib and Sania. I thought of Riyaz. And I waited for something to happen, for tears to come, but they did not, so I stood up, took off my clothes, and stepped into the shower.
The water that gushed from the showerhead was nearly scalding, battering the back of my neck, the top of my skull, but I welcomed it. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner had been set out for me, and I liberally used them on my tangled hair, which smelled like woodsmoke. I scrubbed my body three times with the bar of white soap, which shrank to half its size, and then I wrapped myself in the thick blue towel that was hanging on a hook.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I saw that Ramchand had laid out a set of clothes for me on the bed. A kurta, a salwar, and a dupatta, all in pale pink chiffon. I recalled the brigadier’s mention of his wife; these must be her clothes. The kurta was a little short in the arms, but the feeling of the clean cloth against my skin nearly undid me. I glanced longingly at the bed, wanting nothing more than to fall into it, but the brigadier was expecting me to join him for dinner.
He was already at the dining table, which was covered in a white cloth, an absurd array of dishes around him—peas and potatoes, a steaming tray of rice, palak paneer, fried okra, two kinds of dal—all of which, I couldn’t deny, smelled very good. The brigadier glanced up as I came in. A strange expression crossed his face at the sight of my new clothes, but he said nothing.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” he said, seeing my eyes roam the loaded table. “I’m a poor eater, but Ramchand insists on this display every evening. Befits my status or something like that. I don’t complain, because he takes all the leftovers to a poor family in Udhampur. As long as he does that, he can make a maharaja’s feast every day, as far as I’m concerned.”
As we ate, he talked easily, clearly practiced in the delicate art of conversation. Not once did he press me to make more than a perfunctory reply, as though he sensed that I was not overeager to talk. He asked me nothing about where his soldiers had found me, and he showed no curiosity about what I’d been doing there. And despite my initial prickliness, my distrust of him as a soldier, I found myself starting to relax in his presence, listening to his lilting voice telling amusing, inconsequential stories about people he’d known. He ate very little, as he’d said, just two rotis and a tiny cup of dal, but I could not stop eating. Ramchand had left my glass of whiskey by my plate, and I sipped at it between mouthfuls of food, feeling myself sinking lower and lower in my chair.
The brigadier and I were almost done with the meal when Ramchand returned carrying a cordless phone on a tray. He held it out to the brigadier. “Bangalore,” he murmured.
The brigadier glanced at me, inviting me to pick up the phone. Unthinkingly, I shook my head. I could not bear the idea of talking to my father, of listening to his anger and hurt relief, of answering his questions. The brigadier appeared taken aback, but quickly recovered. Taking up the phone himself, he said in his pleasant way, “Well, good evening, sir. Yes, it’s me, I’m afraid. Always a pleasure to talk to you, as well. Oh, yes, yes, everything’s fine. I was just about to call you, in fact.” He listened for a few seconds. “Not at all. I perfectly understand. The thing is she dropped off to sleep as soon as she got here. No, no, she’s fine, don’t worry; she was just
tired. Yes. I’ll have her call you first thing tomorrow.” My father spoke again, and the brigadier listened, his eyes fixed on me. On his lips there was a hint of a smile, youthful and conspiratorial, which suddenly sent a wave of warmth through my body, separate from the warmth of the whiskey. At his shoulder, Ramchand stood like a wax statue, betraying none of what he thought.
“Yes, yes,” the brigadier was saying, still watching me. “That’s true. No, she is traveling at the moment, but I’ll be sure to give her your regards. Yes. Oh, don’t mention it. Yes, goodnight.”
He set the phone back down on the tray and Ramchand took it away. For a moment, we sat across from each other in perfect silence.
“Thank you for talking to him,” I said.
He nodded.
“How did he sound?”
“Worried.”
I turned my face away, aware that the brigadier was still watching me. He coughed, and I thought he was finally going to interrogate me, but he did not.
“What I’m about to say,” he said, “might sound a little presumptuous. If it is, feel free to tell me to mind my own damn business. I don’t know what happened between you and your father, or how, exactly, you ended up in the village where my men found you, and frankly, it’s not my place to ask. But I do know when someone has been through a hard time, and I can see that you have. So here is what I’d like to propose: if you wish to rest a little before returning to Bangalore, my house is at your disposal.” Seeing that I was about to speak, he raised a hand. “This isn’t any kind of grand gesture on my part, whatever you may think. I’m away for most of the day, and Ramchand, as you can see, is not a reluctant cook.” He smiled. “I have a modest library, there’s a TV in my study, and Ramchand will get you anything else you need. You’ll have no obligation but to relax.”
I stared at him, wanting instinctively to refuse. He was a soldier, no different from the others, and I wanted nothing to do with soldiers ever again. But my eyelids were heavy, and he had been so tactful and gracious, nothing like the others. I thought of the bed waiting for me, then of what he was offering—the promise of suspension, however brief.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s a very kind offer. If you really don’t mind—”
He smiled, clearly pleased. “I really don’t. I’ll see that Ramchand provides whatever you need. In the meantime, please think of this place as your own.”
We rose from the table. I wished the brigadier goodnight and went back to my room. Lying on my back on the bedspread, I looked up at the two crossed swords, the rusted shield. I expected sleep to elude me, expected to miss my room in the village, but the softness of the bed was devastating after all those weeks on a mattress on the floor, and I was asleep within seconds.
My first thought on waking was that I was late. Amina would be waiting by the barn, impatient to get on with her day. Then, as I slowly took in my surroundings, the muslin curtains blowing at the window, the crossed swords, the comfortable sheets that smelled of laundry detergent, I remembered where I was. There would be no more milking, no more Amina.
The brigadier had already left for his office. Ramchand showed me out to the table on the lawn, then brought out an endless parade of breakfast dishes, tea and eggs, toast and idlis, poori and bhaji. At one point, I stood up and tried to help him, but the look he gave me was pitying and faintly scornful, the look one gives to a person unschooled in the proper codes of behavior, and after that I gave up and let him serve me.
After breakfast, I wandered through the house. One of the doors, which I assumed led to the brigadier’s bedroom, was closed. I browsed through his study, where glass-fronted cases held ramparts of books, and a small TV was bolted to the wall. Behind the wide mahogany desk was a framed map of Kashmir from the 1930s, its contours unrecognizable. I sat in the brigadier’s leather chair and looked up at it, knowing that I would not find the name of the village I was looking for, but unable to help myself. On the desk were photos: one of the brigadier in uniform, chest dripping with medals and badges, standing next to the smiling, twinkly-eyed Dalai Lama; another of him with a very serious-looking Japanese man in a black suit, perhaps the former cultural attaché he’d told me about. I noticed there were no personal pictures of the brigadier, none of the wife he’d mentioned, nor of any children. As I sat there, the phone on the desk rang loudly. I heard Ramchand answer it from another part of the house. I wondered if it was my father, wanting to talk to me, but Ramchand obviously had instructions that I was to be undisturbed, and I was grateful for it.
The brigadier returned around five thirty in the evening, going straight to his room to wash up. He came into the living room, dressed in dark slacks and a blue shirt, his hair glistening wet and neatly combed. He sank down with a sigh in his armchair and smiled at me.
“How was your day? Feeling a little better?”
I nodded.
Ramchand served our drinks and the brigadier leaned forward. We clinked glasses and the sound hovered in the air for a second like the clear bell tone of a tuning fork.
“You’ve changed costume, I see,” he commented, leaning back, his eyes running up and down me. I was wearing my own clothes again, my jeans and T-shirt, which Ramchand had earlier left on the bed, washed, ironed, and folded. Beneath the odor of detergent, the fabric still held the faint memory of woodsmoke, reminding me of Riyaz’s mother. I had remembered too late about the sheet with Zoya’s phone number tucked into the pocket of the jeans, and all I’d drawn out was a pebble of white paper, which had refused to unfold. “This suits you much better.”
“The kurta I wore yesterday was your wife’s?”
“One of her many, yes. She has a weakness for them. A set for every day of the year.”
“Where is she?”
“Visiting her relatives,” he replied. “In Coimbatore.”
He said this with every appearance of frankness, but I noticed his eyes briefly tighten. And he must have realized that I’d noticed, for he sat up in his chair. Changing the subject, he said, “I wanted to say this last night, but I didn’t want to be indelicate. I heard about your mother, and I’m very sorry. It is the most insufficient thing a person can say, I’m aware, but I’d like to say it anyway.”
I was about to give him the perfunctory thank-you I’d perfected, the one I gave to all strangers who offered condolences about my mother, when he added, completely unexpectedly, “It’s a damned thing, I know. My father committed suicide when I was twelve.”
I looked up, all of a sudden short of breath. “Your father?”
He nodded. “He was in the navy. Rank of captain. Threw himself off the ship one night, a hundred kilometers off the coast of Myanmar. He was thirty-eight years old.”
I could not find an immediate response. He was looking at me, serious but not stern. His eyes, I suddenly noticed, were rimmed by attractively long, feminine lashes.
“My mother was forty-five,” was all I could say.
He did not reply, and, strangely, it was his silence, rich with unspoken sympathy, that made me go on. Not to fill the vacuum of speech, I realized with some surprise, but because I wanted to.
“She took poison,” I said. “It burned her up from the inside. I’ve never told anyone else.”
His eyes did not stray an inch from my face. He did not gasp or feign shock. He did not click his tongue or murmur something inane. He only asked, “Were you close with her?”
“Yes,” I said, then hesitated. “Well, at least I thought I was. I thought I knew everything about her, but it turned out I was wrong.”
“You can never know everything,” he replied gravely.
I raised the glass to my lips, to realize my hand was trembling. “It’s funny you should say that,” I said. “My mother said the same thing to me once.”
“Well,” he said, holding my gaze, “your mother was a wise woman.”
Right then, Ramchand came to summon us to the table, so we rose and went to the dining room, where another feast had been laid out.
“You know, I had an idea,” the brigadier said, after we’d taken our seats across from each other. “I was thinking, if you want, I could take the morning off tomorrow and show you around the cantonment. It doesn’t sound terribly exciting, I know, but I thought you might like the change. Only if you want, of course,” he added quickly. “I understand if you’d rather be left alone.”
I looked at him. Faint blotches of pink had risen in both his cheeks, though he didn’t seem aware of it. I found his shyness unexpectedly poignant.
“That sounds nice,” I said, and saw his face light up.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Just wonderful.”
He was at the table on the lawn the next morning, reading a newspaper, which he folded and put aside when I came up. He was wearing his uniform.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling. “Ready for the grand tour?”
After breakfast, which was as extravagant as all the other meals had been, I laced up my battered shoes and joined the brigadier on the road. We walked at a leisurely pace, the brigadier with one hand tucked into his pocket, the other gesturing toward various buildings, whose names and purposes blended together for me, except when he pointed to a high-walled complex and said, offhandedly, “The army pool.”
“Pool?” I asked. “You mean a swimming pool?”
“Yes,” he said. “Do you swim?”
“Not really,” I said, and he asked nothing more.
We walked on, and other soldiers started to appear, younger men with strong bodies, with mustaches and beards trimmed, or clean shaven, each of them stopping in his tracks to salute the brigadier. He spoke with them, his tone distant but pleasant, asking after their health, their families. But once, he frowned and rebuked a soldier about my age on the state of his boots. I watched the soldier’s face crumple with terror, watched his hand tremble as he struggled to salute, and for the first time I really understood the absolute power the brigadier possessed over them.
“What?” he said, noticing that I was watching him.
The Far Field Page 36