by Amitav Ghosh
‘Of course they do, Arjun,’ Hardy shrugged his acquiescence. ‘If it wasn’t them it would be someone else. There’ll always be someone trying to use us. That’s why this is so hard, don’t you see? This is the first time in our lives that we’re trying to make up our own minds—not taking orders.’
‘Hardy, look.’ Arjun made an effort to keep his voice calm. ‘That’s how it may look to you right now, but just ask yourself: what are the chances that we’ll be able to do anything for ourselves? Most likely we’ll just end up helping the Japs to get into India. And what would be the point of exchanging the Britishers for the Japanese? As colonial masters go the British aren’t that bad—better than most. Certainly a lot better than the Japanese would be.’
Hardy gave a full-throated laugh, his eyes shining. ‘Yaar Arjun, think of where we’ve fallen when we start talking of good masters and bad masters. What are we? Dogs? Sheep? There are no good masters and bad masters, Arjun—in a way the better the master, the worse the condition of the slave, because it makes him forget what he is . . .’
They were glaring at each other, their faces no more than inches apart. Hardy’s eyelid was twitching and Arjun could feel the heat of his breath. He was the first to pull away.
‘Hardy, it won’t help for us to fight each other.’
‘No.’
Arjun began to chew his knuckles. ‘Listen, Hardy,’ he said. ‘Don’t think that I disagree with what you’re saying. I don’t. I think for the most part you’re right on the mark. But I’m just trying to think about us—about men like you and me— about our place in the world.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Just look at us, Hardy—just look at us. What are we? We’ve learnt to dance the tango and we know how to eat roast beef with a knife and fork. The truth is that except for the colour of our skin, most people in India wouldn’t even recognise us as Indians. When we joined up we didn’t have India on our minds: we wanted to be sahibs and that’s what we’ve become. Do you think we can undo all of that just by putting up a new flag?’
Hardy shrugged dismissively. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m a simple soldier, yaar. I don’t know what you’re trying to get at. To me, it’s a question of right and wrong—what’s worth fighting for and what’s not. That’s all.’
There was a knock on the door. Hardy opened it to see Giani Amreek Singh standing outside.
‘Everyone’s waiting . . .’
‘Gianiji, ek minit . . .’ Hardy turned back to Arjun. ‘Look, Arjun—’ his voice was tired after the effort of the argument— ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Gianiji has offered to take us through the Jap lines, to Mohun Singh. For myself I’ve made up my mind already. I’m going to explain this to the men; I’m going to tell them why I think this is the right thing to do. They can decide for themselves. Do you want to come and listen?’
Arjun nodded. ‘Yes.’
Hardy handed Arjun his crutch and they went together to the communal shed, walking slowly down the gravel track. The shed was full: the soldiers were at the front, squatting in orderly rows. Behind them were the inhabitants of the coolie lines: the men were in sarongs, the women in saris. Many of the tappers had children in their arms. At one end of the shed there stood a table and a couple of chairs. Hardy took his place behind the table while Arjun and Giani Amreek Singh seated themselves on the chairs. There was a lot of noise: people were whispering, talking, some of the children were giggling at the novelty of the occasion. Hardy had to shout to make himself heard.
Once Hardy began, Arjun realised, with some surprise, that he was a talented speaker, almost a practised orator. His voice filled the shed, his words echoing off the tin roof—duty, country, freedom. Arjun was listening intently when he became aware that a film of sweat was running down his face. He looked down and realised that he was dripping—sweat was pouring off his elbows and off his legs. He felt himself growing feverish as he had the night before.
Suddenly the shed rang to the sound of massed voices. The noise was deafening. Arjun heard Hardy bellowing into the crowd: ‘Are you with me?’
There was another eruption; a huge burst of sound welled up to the roof and came echoing back. The soldiers were on their feet. A couple of them linked arms and began to dance the bhangra, shaking their shoulders and stamping their feet.
Behind them the workers were shouting too—men, women, children—throwing things in the air, clapping, waving. Arjun looked at Kishan Singh and saw that his face was flushed, joyful, his eyes alight.
Arjun noted, in a detached and almost disinterested way, that since the time he’d entered the shed, everything seemed to have altered. It was as though the whole world had suddenly changed colour, assumed a different guise. The realities of a few minutes before now seemed like an incomprehensible dream: had he really been surprised to look over the bluff and see an Indian flag in the coolie lines? But where else would such a flag be? Was it really true that Kishan Singh’s grandfather had won a decoration at Flanders? Was it true that Kishan Singh was the same man that he had always taken him to be—the most loyal of soldiers, descended from generations of loyal soldiers? He looked at the dancing men: how was it possible that he had served with those men for so long and never had an inkling that their acquiescence was not what it seemed to be? And how was it possible that he had never known this even of himself?
Was this how a mutiny was sparked? In a moment of heedlessness, so that one became a stranger to the person one had been a moment before? Or was it the other way round? That this was when one recognised the stranger that one had always been to oneself; that all one’s loyalties and beliefs had been misplaced?
But where would his loyalties go now that they were unmoored? He was a military man and he knew that nothing— nothing important—was possible without loyalty, without faith. But who would claim his loyalty now? The old loyalties of India, the ancient ones—they’d been destroyed long ago; the British had built their Empire by effacing them. But the Empire was dead now—he knew this because he had felt it die within himself, where it had held its strongest dominion—and with whom was he now to keep faith? Loyalty, commonalty, faith—these things were as essential and as fragile as the muscles of the human heart; easy to destroy, impossible to rebuild. How would one begin the work of re-creating the tissues that bound people to each other? This was beyond the abilities of someone such as himself; someone trained to destroy. It was a labour that would last not one year, not ten, not fifty—it was the work of centuries.
‘So, Arjun?’ Suddenly Hardy was kneeling in front of him, looking into his face. He was beaming, glowing with triumph.
‘Arjun? What are you going to do then? Are you with us or against us?’
Arjun reached for his crutch and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Listen, Hardy. Before we think of anything else—there’s something we have to do.’
‘What?’
‘Bucky, the CO—we have to let him go.’
Hardy stared at him, without uttering a sound.
‘We have to do it,’ Arjun continued. ‘We can’t be responsible for his being taken prisoner by the Japs. He’s a very fair man, Hardy, and he’s been good to serve under—you know that. We have to let him go. We owe him that.’
Hardy scratched his chin. ‘I can’t allow it, Arjun. He’d give away our position, our movements . . .’
Arjun interrupted him. ‘It’s not a question of what you’ll allow, Hardy,’ he said tiredly. ‘You’re not my senior, and I’m not yours. I’m not asking you. I’m letting you know that I’m going to give the CO some food and some water and then I’m going to let him find his way back across the lines. If you want to stop me you’ll have a fight on your hands. I think some of the men would take my side. You decide.’
A thin smile crossed Hardy’s face. ‘Look at you, yaar.’ His voice was acid with sarcasm. ‘Even at a time like this you’re a chaploos—still thinking of sucking up. What are you hoping for? That he’ll speak up for you if things don’t turn out right? T
ake out a little insurance against the future?’
‘You bastard.’ Arjun lurched towards Hardy, reaching for his collar, swinging his crutch.
Hardy stepped away easily. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Theek hai. Do what you want. I’ll send someone along to show you where Bucky is. Just be quick—that’s all I ask.’
thirty-eight
Alison and Dinu spent an hour clearing out the dark room. There was no electricity and they had to work by candlelight. They took down his enlarger, stacked his trays, packed away his prints and his negatives, wrapping them in old cloth and laying them in boxes. When they were done, Dinu snuffed out the candle. They stood still in the airless warmth of the cupboard-like room, listening to the night-time buzz of cicadas and the croaking of wet-weather frogs. Intermittently they could hear a distant, staccato sound, a kind of barking, as though a pack of dogs had been disturbed in a sleeping village.
‘Guns,’ she whispered.
Dinu reached for her in the darkness, pulling her towards him.
‘They’re very far away.’
He held her, his arms tightening round her body. He opened the palms of his hands and ran them over her hair, her shoulders, along the concave curve of her back. His fingers snagged in the strap of her dress and he peeled the fabric slowly away, picking it off her shoulders, tugging it back. Sinking to his knees, he ran his face down the length of her body, touching her with his cheek, his nose, his tongue.
They lay on the cramped floor, pushed up close, legs intertwined, thigh on thigh, arms extended, the flatness of their bellies imprinted on each other. Membranes of sweat hung cobwebbed between their bodies, joining them, pulling them together.
‘Alison . . . what am I going to do? Without you?’
‘And me, Dinu? What about me? What will I do?’
Afterwards, they lay still, pillowing each other’s heads on their arms. He lit a cigarette and held it to her lips.
‘One day,’ he said, ‘one day, when we’re back here together, I’ll show you the true magic of a dark room . . .’
‘And what’s that?’
‘When you print by contact . . . when you lay the negative on the paper and watch them come to life . . . the darkness of the one becomes the light of the other. The first time I saw it happen I thought, what must it be like to touch like this? . . . with such utter absorption? . . . For one thing to become irradiated with the shadows of another?’
‘Dinu.’ She ran her fingertips over his face.
‘If only I could hold you in that way . . . so that you were imprinted on me . . . every part of me . . .’
‘Dinu, there’ll be time.’ She took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘We’ll have the rest of our lives . . .’ Rising to her knees she lit the candle again. Holding the flame in front of his face, she looked fiercely into his eyes, as though she were trying to bore into his head.
‘It won’t be long, Dinu?’ she said. ‘Will it?’
‘No . . . not long.’
‘Do you really believe that? Or are you lying—for my sake? Tell me the truth, Dinu: I’d rather know.’
He gripped her shoulders. ‘Yes, Alison.’ He spoke with all the conviction he could muster. ‘Yes. We’ll be back here before long . . . We’ll be back at Morningside . . . Everything will be the same, except . . .’
‘Except?’ She bit her lip, as though she were afraid of hearing what he was going to say.
‘Except that we’ll be married.’
‘Yes.’ She burst into delighted laughter. ‘Yes,’ she said, tossing her head. ‘We’ll be married. We’ve left it too long. It was a mistake.’
She picked up the candle and ran out of the room. He lay still, listening to her footsteps: the house was quieter than he’d ever known it to be. Downstairs, Saya John was in bed, exhausted and asleep.
He got up and followed her through the dark corridors to her bedroom. Alison was unlocking closets, rummaging through drawers. Suddenly she turned to him, holding out her hand. ‘Look.’ Two gold rings glinted in the candlelight.
‘They belonged to my parents,’ she said. She reached for his hand and pushed one of the rings over the knuckle of his ring finger. ‘With this ring I thee wed.’
She laughed, placing the other ring in his palm. Then she extended a finger, holding her hand in front of her.
‘Go on,’ she challenged him. ‘Do it. I dare you.’
He turned the ring over in his hands and then slipped it into place, on her finger. ‘Are we married now?’
She tossed her head, laughing, and held her finger up to the candlelight. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In a way. In our own eyes. When you’re away you’ll still be mine because of the ring.’
She shook free the mosquito net that hung down from the ceiling, draping it over the sides of her bed. ‘Come.’ She blew out the candle and drew him into the net.
An hour later, Dinu woke to the sound of approaching planes. He reached for her hand and found that she was already awake, sitting up with her back against the headboard. ‘Alison . . .’
‘Don’t say it’s time. Not yet.’
They held each other and listened. The planes were directly overhead, flying low. The windows rattled as they went past.
‘When I was little,’ Dinu said, ‘my father once told me a story about Mandalay. When the king was sent into exile, the palace girls had to walk through the city, to the river . . . My mother was with them and my father followed, keeping to the shadows. It was a long walk and the girls were tired and miserable . . . My father put together all his money and bought some sweets . . . to lift their spirits. The girls were guarded by soldiers—foreigners, Englishmen . . . Somehow he—my father—managed to slip through the cordon . . . He gave my mother the packet of sweets. Then he ran back into the shadows . . . He watched her open the packet . . . He was amazed . . . The first thing she did was to offer some to the soldiers who were marching beside her. At first he was angry; he felt betrayed . . . Why was she giving them away . . . especially to these men, her captors? But then, slowly he understood what she was doing and he was glad . . . He saw that this was the right thing to do—a way to stay alive. To shout defiance would have served no purpose . . .’
‘I think you’re trying to tell me something, Dinu,’ she said quietly. ‘What is it?’
‘I just want you to be careful, Alison . . . not to be headstrong . . . not to be the woman you are, just for a while . . . to be cautious, quiet . . .’
‘I’ll try, Dinu.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I promise. And you too: you have to be careful as well.’
‘I will—it’s in my nature. We’re not the same in that way . . . That’s why I worry about you.’
Another flight of planes went by. It was impossible to keep still any longer, with the windows rattling as though they would break. Alison swung her legs off the bed. She picked up the handbag in which she carried the Daytona’s keys. It was unexpectedly heavy. She opened the clasp, looked inside and raised an eyebrow at Dinu.
‘It’s your father’s revolver. I found it in a drawer.’
‘Is it loaded?’
‘Yes. I checked.’
She shut the clasp and slung the bag over her shoulder. ‘It’s time.’
They went down to find Saya John sitting on the veranda, in his favourite wing-chair. Alison dropped to her knees beside him and put an arm around his waist.
‘I want your blessings, Grandfather.’
‘Why?’
‘Dinu and I are going to be married.’
His face broke into a smile. She saw to her delight that he had understood; that his eyes were clear and unclouded. He motioned to both of them to come closer and put his arms round their shoulders.
‘Rajkumar’s son and Matthew’s daughter.’ He swayed gently from side to side, holding their heads like trophies, under his arms. ‘What could be better? The two of you have joined the families. Your parents will be delighted.’
They
went outside and found that it had begun to rain. Dinu buckled down the Daytona’s hood and held the door open for Saya John. The old man gave him a pat on the back as he stepped in.
‘Tell Rajkumar that it’ll have to be a big wedding,’ he said. ‘I shall insist on having the Archbishop.’
‘Yes.’ Dinu tried to smile. ‘Of course.’
Then Dinu went to Alison’s side and knelt beside the window. She would not look at him.
‘We won’t say goodbye.’
‘No.’
She started the car and he stepped back. At the bottom of the drive, the Daytona came to a stop. He saw her leaning out, her head silhouetted against the car’s rain-haloed lights. She raised an arm to wave and he waved back. Then he ran up the stairs, racing from window to window. He watched the Daytona’s lights until they disappeared.
The shed in which Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland had spent the night was a small red-brick structure, surrounded by trees. It was about a quarter of a mile from the coolie lines. Arjun was led there by a fast-talking young ‘contractor’, dressed in khaki shorts: it was he who carried the water bottle and the cloth bundle of food that had been prepared for the Lieutenant-Colonel.
The contractor showed Arjun a track that led southwards through a range of low hills. ‘There’s a town a couple of miles away,’ he said. ‘The last we heard it was still held by the British.’ They came up to the steps that led into the building. The contractor handed over the water bottle and the bundle of food that he had been carrying.
‘The colonel will be safe if he keeps to this track. It won’t take him more than an hour or two to the town, even if he walks very slowly.’
Arjun went gingerly up the steps to the door. He knocked and when there was no answer, he used the tip of his crutch to push the door open. He found Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland lying on the cement floor, on a mattress.
‘Sir.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland sat up suddenly, peering around him. He said sharply: ‘Who is it?’
‘Lieutenant Roy. Sir.’ Arjun saluted, leaning on his crutch.