by Rich Horton
“He did all this . . . for a doll?”
At this, he laughs aloud. “You know, sometimes you natives really are full of yourselves. No, the Denial of Rice Policy is so much bigger than you, or this state. It’s been a huge help to supplying the war effort. Ever heard of the Axis? No, of course you haven’t. Be glad—that’s who we’re protecting you from.”
“Protecting.”
“Yes, protecting. The Prime Minister himself has written to Sir John, commending him for his success in ensuring continued food and supplies for the Allied troops. Instead of complaining, you should be proud of the role Bengal is playing in saving the world. As is the rest of India. Anyway, enough of this. I didn’t come all the way out here to the boondocks to discuss global politics with you. Won’t you just see reason, for your own sake? Just make that damned doll and we can all be done with this song and dance. Here, McKissic, give her some more of that stuff. Maybe the taste of food will straighten her mind out.”
She feels rather than sees the bowl being thrust into her hands. All she can hear is what he’s said, echoing in her head, over and over. Once again, the white-hot rage surges through her, going from kernel to spreading flame so quickly that she scarcely remembers how it began. She raises her hand, to throw the bowl of gruel back in his face, and as she does, one particular sentence bounces around inside her mind again.
“ . . . the rest of India.”
Then the rage is gone, replaced by something else, harder, colder, so alien and frightening, so different from any feeling she’s ever known that it couldn’t possibly have come from her. But it’s inside her.
She lowers the bowl. “I need materials, and tools.”
He nods, pleased, although there’s something else there as well. Relief? “I thought you might see the light. I have jute here. What tools?”
“Lime, a needle, some thread, and a knife. Her eyes are blue?”
He stares at her. “What if they are?
“Then I will also need some indigo. For the dye.”
“You shall have whatever you need.”
Then he pauses. “You’ll have to be supervised, of course. Can’t have you using that knife to do some mischief to someone. Or yourself. Willis, McKissic, I’m afraid your vigil continues. Give her everything she wants. At least until—how long before it’s done, now?”
“I don’t know. Two days, maybe three. It is not an exact science. I need to feel the shape in the jute before I can set it free.”
“You lot and your mumbo-jumbo, I tell you. No matter. You want three days, you’ll have them. But before I go, I’d like you to understand . . . ”
He leans forward, grabbing her shoulder so powerfully she cries out. His face is inches from her own, so close she can feel his warm, moist breath when he speaks. His voice is a whisper, harsh and chilling, travelling right through her.
“When I come back three days from now, I expect to find Her Ladyship’s doll. Do not disappoint me, old woman.”
He steps back, smiling. “Three days,” he says again.
With that, he leaps back up into the saddle, and rides away, leaving behind Apa and the two soldiers on the verandah.
Apa takes a deep breath, raises the bowl to her lips with shaking hands, and slurps up the thin, flavourless gruel. She’s going to need all her strength for what is to come.
• • •
Needle, twine, knife, and lime. One fold up, one stitch down. She’d forgotten how good it feels to weave, to just be holding the jute once more, an old, lost friend, now returned home.
“I missed you,” she whispers, head bent down. From sunrise to sunset she sits cross-legged on the verandah, working, only ever stopping for food and ablutions. When she needs a break, she looks at the banyan tree. With the fields all gone, she can see further from the verandah than ever before, all the way to the tree. It used to be the sabha sthal, where the villagers congregated for Panchayat meetings under the broad, dangling roots. Now it’s something else entirely. Vultures peck at the swaying bodies hanging from its boughs, rats scurry around its base, gnawing at the bodies on the ground underneath it. It had started out as a place of punishment, where the British hung farmers who dared to hide rice from them. Then villagers took to hanging themselves there as well; the rope is more painless than the slow, pitiless grip of starvation. Parents hung their children, and then themselves; it was just easier that way. That was when the British burnt the jute fields, to ensure no one could make any rope. Or maybe they just enjoyed watching their victims die slowly. So people have taken to cutting down the bodies and reusing the rope. There are now almost as many corpses on the tree as leaves below it. Apa looks often at the tree these past few days.
Only once does she feel herself waver. It happens in the middle of an afternoon, when the sun is at its fiercest. Like an intangible East India Company, the thought creeps into her mind, and having inveigled its way in, it refuses to leave. She glances at Willis, whose turn it is to watch her; he’s over on the other side of the verandah, cleaning his rifle. Her eyes inch to the knife lying beside her. It would be so easy to end the misery now. One quick stroke across the throat and there will be no more pain, no more of that aching, hollow feeling where her heart had been, no more anything. Slowly, her hand closes around the hilt. And then she hears it again, that awful, mocking sound, Bolton laughing at her, at Nilesh, at Bengal, and at India. And just like that, her jaw sets, her shoulders straighten, and the thought is vanished, banished away to a dark corner of her mind, wherefrom it won’t find its way back again. No, she won’t give them the satisfaction. Not while there is work to do. So work she does.
Needle and twine, knife and lime. Hands flashing, jute bending, straining, obeying her, as it always had. Dawn to dusk she weaves, reaching within to put of herself into the jute, letting her feelings and memories flow. But all she can remember is the sound of that laughter, the peals of merriment that had convinced her not to succumb, because that would be the worst way to die, to the sound of your murderer’s laughter. And all she can find of herself is that ever-growing, cold, frightening feeling that frightens her no longer, because it is not just inside her, now it is her. And all she feels, she puts into the doll.
When she pricks her finger, she no longer shakes the blood aside, but lets it drip slowly, deliberately into the jute, till it is all soaked up.
And still she hears that laughter, reverberating between her ears, bouncing around the inside of her skull, a dirge that just won’t stop. And neither will she, not until it is finished.
One stitch up, one fold down.
• • •
True to his word, Bolton returns on the morning of the fourth day, just as she finishes the last of her gruel.
“Is it finished?” he calls out, even before he makes it all the way to the verandah where she sits.
“It is.”
“Show me.”
She holds it up by the hair, a slim, European woman in a blue dress, with golden jute-hair and indigo eyes, swaying gently in her grasp.
“It is the finest work I have ever done.”
“Good, good,” he replies, reaching out for it.
Apa ignores his outstretched hand.
“It’s a Hashi’r Putul, you know.”
“A what?”
“A laughing doll. “
“It doesn’t look like it’s laughing.”
“That’s not what it means. When you press it the right way, it will laugh.”
He frowns. “You mean laugh out loud?”
“Exactly.”
“Show me.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not how it works. It will laugh, but only for the one it’s meant for, and only if you know how to make it. And there is none but me who can handle it, or teach anyone how to.”
“And you said you didn’t do magic.”
“An artist never tells all her secrets.”
“And yet you told me this one. I’ll take that doll now.”
“No, I
want to give it to Lord Herbert myself.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen, is it? The doll, please.”
“I just told you, only I can make it work.”
He narrows his eyes. “The trouble with this whole thing, old woman, is that I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe I can make a laughing doll?” She sits up very straight, pulling the tatters of her sari tightly about herself. “You have insulted my art, Captain.” Her free hand snakes down, over the hilt of the knife. “Perhaps I should just destroy it.”
“Or perhaps I should just have my men run you through and take the doll from your corpse.”
“They cannot do so before I destroy the putul. You said so yourself, your master truly wants it for his wife. Will you go and tell him that he could have had it, but you were so intent on not letting a craftswoman exhibit her craft that all he shall get today is some jute scraps? So be it.”
There is a long, heavy silence. Sensing her moment, Apa presses on.
“On the other hand, if you do take me with you, I can teach others to make them as well. Think how pleased your governor will be. As many of my putuls as he wants, for whoever he wants, whenever he wants.”
Another silence, during which Bolton frowns. Then he chuckles.
“Well played, old woman. Very well, you shall come back to Government House with us. Put her up on your horse behind you, Willis. Oh, and make sure you take away her knife first. Wouldn’t want her to plant one between your ribs from behind now, would you?”
“Thank you, Captain,” says Apa, handing her knife over. “Oh, one moment.”
She reaches down, quickly picking through the discarded scraps of jute, until she’s found the two biggest. As she does, she remembers Nilesh, sitting on almost that very spot, handing her two scraps just like these, and a pang twists her innards. No, she cannot cry, not now. Not yet. She blinks, forcing back the tears, and lifts her head to look up at Captain Bolton.
“A keepsake. To remind me of the best work I ever did.”
He shrugs. “Are you ready, Willis? Come along then, we must be off. It’ll take us the better part of the day to get back to Calcutta.”
• • •
The road to Kolkata is long and dusty, and every step of it is steeped in a thousand terrors. Field after field lies black and arid, within them rows of immolated crops and ashen cadavers bearing witness to the charnel house that is Bengal now. Bodies lie piled twenty high by the roadside, each gust of wind carrying with it the stench of rotting flesh and dead hope. As they ride past the banks of the Hooghly, lifeline of Kolkata, Apa sees the sunbeams bearing down, setting off a shimmer on the sparse patches of water still visible between the bodies. There are a lot more corpses than water, at least on the surface. A carrion-bird settles down on the back of one unsteadily, her talons sinking down into the flesh of the man’s back, but not very far, for even the water-rot does only so much to soften rigor mortis. Apa turns her head aside and retches, and she isn’t the only one in the party doing so.
All the way, the soldiers talk, never to her, but from what she hears, she gathers more than a bit. For instance, that the Denial of Rice policy has been declared a complete success, even though food supplies from various places she’s never heard of have been turned away or redirected to British troops to ensure it stays that way. That it goes even beyond that, there is also a Denial of Boat Policy, also suggested by London, that has to do with far more than boats—almost all forms of transportation have been burnt or seized. That there are whispers among the men that the scale of the holocaust has moved even some British hearts, but not Sir Winston’s: that Dark Lord is instead mightily pleased.
Indeed, by the time they pull up at the gates of Government House on the banks of the Hooghly, Apa has seen and heard more horrors than she could tell of in yet another lifetime, or recall any more of in this one. Until at long, merciful last, they stand within the high stone walls, where perfectly manicured lawns and picturesque blossoms neatly encircle engraved fountains, and the sweet smells of jasmine and rose fill the air. Rows of trees—neem, teak, peepal, and sal—stand looking down on them, forming a green canopy over their heads as they make their way down the winding, cobbled path to the marble steps of the main building. From somewhere up in the leaves, a koel titters.
And then they are inside the building, where Apa stands between armed guards, clutching the doll tightly in one hand, while the Captain announces their arrival to the butler, a plump, obviously Bengali man who looks Apa up and down condescendingly and then addresses himself to the Captain.
“His Lordship and her Ladyship are entertaining dinner guests tonight. But I shall convey news of your arrival.”
“Please do,” says Captain Bolton, stepping forward. “And if you would, add this message.” He mutters something in the butler’s ear, and the man blinks, looks at Apa once again, and then nods and walks ponderously away.
It is a while before he returns. “His Grace has given instructions for you to wait. When they have supped, you shall be summoned to the Reception Room. It appears His Grace’s guests are curious to see this toy as well.”
Another interminable wait, and then a liveried footman appears, asking that they follow him. They do so, under dangling chandeliers and past the portraits and busts of governors gone by, and walls covered with thick, woven tapestries, tiger skins, and mounted bison heads. One soldier marches behind her, the Captain in front, as Apa scurries to keep up, reaching into the folds of her sari for the jute scraps she’d saved. They make their way up the broad, carpeted spiral marble staircase, and into a large hall, filled with shiny ornaments, more sculptures, and several large stuffed tigers standing on wooden platforms. A massive chandelier dangles from the ceiling. There are about a dozen people in the room, men and women dressed in European finery, some holding wineglasses.
“Ah, Bolton,” says one, a tall, thin man with a receding hairline and a long, delicate nose.
“My Lord,” says Captain Bolton, snapping to attention with a salute.
“You have it?”
“Indeed, sir. Well, she does.” He gestures towards Apa.
“Ah, yes, of course. Nigel told me of your planned performance. We are all most eager to see it, are we not?”
“Indeed we are,” says a woman, stately and fair-haired, coming to stand beside him. “Where is it, John?”
“The woman has it, my dear. Well? Where is her Ladyship’s present?”
Apa feels Bolton nudge her and she steps forward, holding up the putul. A murmur runs through the gathering.
“Ah, excellent! Very satisfactory indeed!” exclaims the Governor.
He turns to one of the others, a man with bushy side-whiskers that Apa notices still have some breadcrumbs trapped in them. “Here, take a gander at this, Hadley. I told you, these natives do some mighty fine work. Not a lot they’re good at, but spices and trinkets, they jolly well know their way about those. And it laughs, you say, Bolton?”
“That’s what she claimed, sir,” replies the Captain.
“Capital, capital. You’ve done a commendable job, Bolton. Commendable, I say.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“I am anxious to see this,” says Lady Herbert. “I have been quite charmed since you told me of it. A doll that laughs on its own. Imagine that! It sounds rather too good to be true!”
“Indeed,” says the Governor. “Well, what are we waiting for? Show us!”
Apa nods and holds up the hashi’r putul again, as they crowd around her. She runs her hands over her face, sliding past her cheeks and down her ears and the sides of her neck. Now she smiles and folds her hands together under her chin in a formal nomoshkar, making sure to meet each of their eyes in turn.
Then she takes a deep breath, filling her lungs, throws her head back, and as loudly as she can, she laughs.
And as she does, a high, shrill cackle bursts forth from the putul.
“Well,” says Governor Herber
t, looking startled. “That’s not very nice, is it? I’m rather disappointed. Stop it now, I’m really not happy with—”
He breaks off, snickers, and then does so again, until it is a steady chuckle. And now his Lordship is laughing, the sort of laughter that comes straight from the gut, strong and insistent, louder and louder until he’s doubled up, roaring in full-throated merriment. Beside Apa, Captain Bolton is leaning against a chair, tears streaming down his cheeks as he laughs. Around him, the others are laughing too, different tenors and pitches, but all laughing as loudly as they can, breaking off only to cough or splutter before they go back to shrieking in mirth. They’re on the ground now, all of them, still laughing, spittle flying everywhere. Neck muscles knot, veins bulge, first in foreheads, and then everywhere else across their pale, now-sallow skin. Some are trying to shield their ears, but to no avail, the laughter keeps spilling out of them, bursting forth, as juice from the overripe mango fallen from the tree. And loudest of all, rising above the cacophony of their cumulative cachinnations, is the cackling tone of the putul, as it forces them, one by one, to match its tempo, faster and faster.
“I hope you are all enjoying yourselves,” Apa says in Bangla.
They don’t understand her, and yet they do; she can see the terror in their eyes now, faces contorting in horror as they realise what is happening and how utterly powerless they are to do anything about it. Anything but look at her with supplication in those very eyes, as she smiles back at each of them in turn. As Apa watches, a crimson stain slowly spreads out across the carpet; one of them has hit his or her head. Another has stopped laughing, Hadley, his eyes now staring sightlessly up at the chandelier. One down. Everyone else to go.
Apa takes a step back, then another, as the Governor hauls himself to his knees, hands clasping at his chest, still laughing, gasping, straining to speak, so Apa has to read his lips.
“Make—stop!” he chokes out between roars of mirth. “Please!”
Apa shakes her head and turns away, walking towards the door, stepping over the convulsing figure of the butler on the ground.