Gil took the cork between his fingers again and tried to twist it off. All at once, the bottle slid from his grasp. He felt it falling and desperately tried to catch it. But before he could do anything, the bottle of A. K. Jaddoowalla’s Finest Indian Gripe Water fell on the rocks and shattered into a dozen pieces. Gil’s breath stuck in his throat. He wanted to shout, but no words came out. For several long seconds, he looked down in horror at the jagged blue shards upon the rocks.
Finally, with a sense of despair, he picked up the scroll of paper and read Sikander’s words.
Dear Gil,
I need your help! The war is over but we have worse news. My father and the other bodyguards are going to be executed day after tomorrow at dawn. Please do anything you can … anything! Please try! I’m waiting for your answer.
Your friend,
Sikander
The slip of paper rustled in the ocean breeze as Gil stared down at the broken bottle at his feet. He felt as if time itself had shattered—the end of the world.
40
Rewriting History
Tucked inside his envelope, Aristophanes Smith lay upon the page, contemplating metaphysical questions. At this particular moment, he was nothing more than three stanzas of poetry penned with calligrapher’s ink. Those magical ingredients that Sikander had mixed together a century ago—charred seeds of a custard apple, ashes from a water pipe smoked by a wandering dervish, soot from a genie’s lamp, and a measure of gooseberry wine—provided the only physical substance out of which he was composed. In quiet moments of self-absorbed reflection, which sometimes lasted for years, the genie often wondered who he actually was. Though the ink, from which he was made, gave him shape and form, it was the poetry that brought him to life. Am I a product of crude chemistry? he asked himself with a philosophical grimace. Nothing more than carbon residues emulsified with an adhesive that fixes itself upon the blank surface of a sheet of paper? The genie shuddered at the thought. Or … am I a product of pure language?’ he mused with a smile. The lyrical spirit within a poet’s words? A fundamental conundrum … Who am I and why am I here?
His thoughts were rudely interrupted as the paper was quickly taken out of the envelope and flattened on a desk by two impatient hands. Blinded by a bright electric light, the genie felt exposed and vulnerable. He heard a girl’s voice rapidly reading the poem aloud. “Awake! for morning in the bowl of Night …”
Gradually, he felt himself disintegrating, the particles of India ink evaporating as the voice continued. It was a bit like feeling the circulation returning to his limbs, a tingling sensation, as if the poetry were distilled through his veins.
“Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it …”
Here was the part he never enjoyed. The girl’s voice read the final line.
Poof!
Every time he materialized, the genie felt as if he were being scraped off the page. Aristo sneezed as he took on his genie’s form, then straightened his lapels and made sure his cravat was correctly positioned between the starched collars of his shirt.
“Yes, m’lady. Your wish is my command!” he said with a polite cough.
Nargis, who was holding the blank sheet of paper, set it aside and stared at him suspiciously. Gil, who didn’t look particularly happy today, seemed equally concerned. At the same time, Aristo became aware of two other people in the room. An older gentleman was leaning against the door frame of the study with a shocked expression on his face. The other person was a white-haired woman who looked equally surprised. Aristo bowed toward the two adults politely.
“We need your help right away!” said Nargis.
“Of course,” the genie replied. “But allow me first to introduce myself. Aristophanes Smith. Do I have the honor of addressing Mr. Prescott Finch?”
“Yes,” said Prescott, swallowing hard, “and this is Lenore Sullivan.”
“An honor,” said Aristo. “It isn’t every day one meets a distinguished poet. If you allow me, I shall recite Tennyson’s ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’ one of the great monuments of nineteenth-century verse.”
“Forget it! We don’t have time for that,” said Nargis.
Lenore glanced over at Prescott, her eyebrows raised.
“We need you to deliver some messages,” said Gil. “These are letters that need to go back to India, over a hundred years ago.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that!” said the genie. “We have a very strict policy about tampering with history. No interference with the past. It’s a cardinal rule. Absolutely forbidden!”
“Says who?” demanded Nargis. “If we can make something better, I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Who makes up these rules anyway?”
“It’s just the way we operate, our code of conduct, established by the Fraternal Brotherhood of Djinns,” said Aristo, folding his arms and fiddling with one of his cuff links. “We don’t intrude on historical events. If you change one thing, then everything else begins to change. It’s a simple matter of cause and effect. Make one thing better and a dozen other things become worse.”
“All they’re asking you to do is deliver some letters,” said Lenore.
“Impossible,” said Aristo, sniffing with disdain. “After all, I’m not a common postman.”
“I thought you were supposed to do anything we asked,” said Nargis. “My wish is your command!”
“Oh, quite!” said the genie, giving her a withering glance that didn’t have the desired effect.
“Well, if you’re not going to help us, you might as well go back into your envelope,” said Nargis, glancing across at Gil. “And we’ll toss you in the wastebasket.”
“I’m sure the spinster’s hand would be happy to crumple you up and tear you to bits,” said Gil.
The genie recoiled with alarm, turning to the two adults for help, but neither of them showed any sympathy.
“Hold on … Let’s not be hasty, please,” he said. “You’ve obviously misunderstood. I’ll take your command under advisement, consider it carefully, consult my conscience and see if I can make an exception this time.”
“What’s there to think about?” said Nargis. “All we want you to do is take these three letters back in history to the people who were supposed to get them in the first place. After that, it’s up to them to read the letters and do what they want.”
“Let me consider it for a day or two,” said Aristo. “Mull it over in my mind. You know … make sure it doesn’t infringe on protocol.”
“We don’t have any time,” said Gil. “Think carefully, because if you don’t agree, we haven’t got any reason to keep you around.”
Aristo made a sour face. “Why can’t you be like everyone else and ask for jewels, money or revenge?”
“Instead of making excuses,” said Lenore, “I think you should listen to them and do what you’re told.”
“She’s right, you know,” said Prescott, who still wasn’t reconciled to what was going on. “And there’s nothing wrong with being a postman, by the way. It’s a lot more honorable than being a genie.”
“So, are you going to deliver the letters or not?” asked Nargis.
Aristo winced at the accusing tone in her voice. “First of all, let me explain that I have considered your request …”
“It’s not a request,” said Gil. “It’s a command.” “Of course, of course,” said the genie. “But you must understand that procedures have to be followed. We can’t throw out a whole policy simply because of a sudden crisis.”
“Listen,” said Nargis. “I don’t care what you think, or what policies you want to follow, we need to get these three letters delivered right away.”
She held them out in front of her insistently.
Aristo frowned. “Unfortunately, I can’t carry all three of them. As I explained to you earlier, we’ve had to cut back on services … retrenchment, cost cutting. We’ve reduced the number of wishes I can grant from three to two. For that reason, I shall deliver two of the letters but n
ot the third.”
Gil and Nargis stared at each other, then looked over at Prescott and Lenore.
“Two?” said Gil.
“Which ones?” asked Nargis.
“That’s entirely up to you,” said the genie. “I wouldn’t want to make that choice myself.”
“But why not three?” said Nargis. “That’s not fair.”
The genie had folded his arms and shook his head decisively. Even Nargis knew he meant what he said.
“It’s beyond my powers,” said Aristo.
“They’re all important,” said Gil.
“Yes, but …” Nargis hesitated. “If we can stop a war, that’s the most urgent one of all.”
“Sure … and the ransom note. Lawrence might be rescued instead of being killed,” said Gil. “But what about Camellia Stubbs? If Ezekiel doesn’t get the letter, he’ll never know she loved him.”
Lenore had moved across to where Prescott stood and now held his arm.
“If we have to leave one out, I guess it has to be the love letter,” said Nargis. “Life and death are a lot more important than love.”
The genie had averted his eyes, as if he wanted no part of this decision. Gil stared down at the carefully written script on the envelope, the flowing curves and arabesques of the spinster’s hand. Just then, Nargis wrinkled her nose. The genie was already sniffing the air, and Gil wheeled around, hearing a knock at the windowpane.
In astonishment, they watched as five bony fingers pushed open the casement. A smell of lilacs and rotting flesh accompanied the disembodied hand as it hovered in front of them. Silently, the fingers moved toward the rolltop desk and settled on the piece of paper from which the genie had arisen. The knuckles cracked and the bones tapped softly, as if waiting for someone to make the next move. With a look of alarm, the genie had drawn back.
“I don’t believe this …,” Prescott muttered under his breath.
“You haven’t got much choice,” Lenore whispered as she squeezed his arm.
Nargis passed Aristo the letters one by one. First he took the coded message from Hermes. Then the scribbled ransom note. Aristo slid these into the pocket of his waistcoat. Camellia’s letter remained in Nargis’s hand. She held it out as the genie began to shake his head.
Snapping her fingers, the spinster’s hand lifted the sheet of paper on which the genie’s verses had been written. Very slowly and deliberately she began to crumple it up. The paper made a dry, rustling sound.
“Wait!” said the genie. Reluctantly, he took the third letter from Nargis and turned toward the hand. A crooked, skeletal finger beckoned the genie back onto the page. Without another word, Aristophanes Smith dissolved into ink dust and fell upon the crumpled paper. The hand then folded the poem along its original creases and stuffed it into the envelope, before carrying it through the open window.
Gil and Nargis had no time to react before it was gone. Along with Lenore and Prescott, they stepped across to the window and looked down at the yard, where dusk had settled. Below them on the lawn, they saw, or thought they saw, the figure of a postman walking across the grass and disappearing into the leafless trees.
41
Epitaph for an Unknown Postman
Trudging out of history, one slow stride at a time,
He shoulders a mailbag full of letters unreceived,
Lost missives, postcards gone astray, an errant rhyme.
Sore of foot, numb-kneed, the postman seems aggrieved.
One envelope he bears is folded neatly as a conscript’s bed,
Each corner tucked and crisply sealed—chaste sheets
Bleached with fear—last words home, written at the dead
Hour of dawn, before marching into the killing streets.
He follows his own footsteps, ashen shadows upon the snow.
A nameless wanderer, whose story is a skein of yarns.
Unlike the anonymous soldier he has no tomb. Nothing I know
Will give him rest. No one stands at his crypt and mourns.
Then let these words be inscribed in stone; may fate dictate
On the postman’s grave: “Better never than forever late.”
Setting aside the poem, which he had just finished typing, Prescott glanced up at the photograph of Camellia Stubbs on his wall. For a moment his mind drifted back to the letter Nargis and Gil had found. Then his thoughts came to a sudden halt. The photograph looked different. It was still inside its oval frame but the image had changed. Instead of the silver-haired spinster in her black lace dress, the photograph was of a younger woman standing beside a writing table.
Reaching for his glasses, Prescott got up from his chair and squinted at the picture. The woman was definitely Camellia, but thirty years younger. She wore a long white gown, and her hair was open over her shoulders instead of being drawn back into a severe-looking bun. One of her hands rested on her hip in a carefree pose. Rather than the grim expression of resignation in the earlier portrait, her lips were parted in a bashful smile, as if someone behind the camera were teasing her. Camellia’s other hand was placed on the table.
As Prescott examined the photograph carefully, he noticed something else that made him jump. On top of the table lay an inkstand. Even though it was a black-and-white photograph, he could see the glinting jewels and recognized the rich luster of gold. There was no mistaking it.
Turning quickly from the picture, Prescott rushed out of his office and up the stairs. He reached his study and shouted for Gil, who came out of his room just as Prescott was unlocking the lower drawer of his desk.
“What’s wrong, Grandpa?” Gil asked.
“It’s gone,” said Prescott, holding the drawer open.
Gil looked baffled.
“The inkstand,” his grandfather said. “I locked it in here for safekeeping.”
“Do you think it’s been stolen?” Gil asked.
“No,” said Prescott under his breath.
“What happened?” said Gil.
“The genie has granted your third wish.”
Still not sure what was going on, Gil’s eyes traveled from his grandfather to the etching on the wall—the old picture from the London Illustrated News, of the siege of Ajeebgarh. But instead of a battle scene, the artist had drawn a peaceful picture of tea pickers with baskets on their backs. They looked as if they were walking through a maze of bushes that spread down the slope of the hill. In the background, Gil could see a placid river snaking out of the mountains, with the town along its banks, a cluster of rooftops, domes and minarets. The caption read
AJEEBGARH
Plucking the Finest Tea in the World
42
Erasing Fate
Sikander is dreaming. It isn’t exactly a nightmare, though it isn’t particularly pleasant either. He’s on a battlefield with cannons firing, and smoke fills the air. Somehow, in the middle of all this, he finds himself fishing in a broad trench full of muddy water. He has cast his line into the middle, where a float made of peacock quills bobs up and down. As a cannonball screams overhead, the white bundle of feathers dips beneath the surface. He pulls back on his fishing rod and feels a tug at the other end. Moments later, three horsemen come galloping out of the smoke and he recognizes their tattered uniforms and broken teeth. One of them swings a sword at him as Sikander jumps aside. The three Tommies go riding off into the smoke. Sikander begins to reel in his line, but instead of a fish, he has snagged the blue bottle. The hook is embedded in the cork. Peering inside the bottle, he can see no message. Instead, a centipede crawls from of the mouth and onto his hand. Crying in panic, he drops the bottle …
Just then, Sikander wakes up. The sun has risen, glazing the windowpanes with a yellow sheen. He lies there for a moment, a cotton quilt pulled over his head. He is disturbed by the dream, not only because of the centipede, but because the day before, he’d gone down to the river, hunting for the bottle. Hoping to receive an answer from Gil, he had searched the muddy banks of the Magor, all the way from the
railway bridge to the washermen’s huts. Though he saw plenty of objects floating in the water, soldiers’ boots and charred splinters of wood, there was no sign of the blue bottle. Despondent about his father’s fate, Sikander had gone home. The bazaars were empty and his mother had made a gruel of barley flour, the only food she could find, but Sikander had no appetite and went to bed hungry that night.
Now, as he stares at the first light of dawn filtering through the windowpane, he realizes that something has changed. All of the windows in their house were shattered during the battle, but now they are intact. Slowly, he gets up from bed and peers through the glass. Instead of the blackened shells of neighbors’ homes, the street has been restored. Sikander gasps with delight, wondering if the war was nothing but a terrible dream, something he will gradually forget. Yet he knows it happened. He has seen the death and destruction with his own eyes. He has heard the cannons and smelled the smoke. He has seen the post office in ruins and remembers his father being marched across the parade ground with the other prisoners of war.
At that moment he hears a soft shuffle of footsteps overhead. Scrambling out of bed and through a curtained passageway that opens into the kitchen, Sikander races up the staircase leading to the roof. He takes two steps at a time and leaps onto the terrace. A whistle blows, and he sees a trail of smoke as the Himalayan Mail sets out on its weekly journey. He can see the mountains rising to the north and tea gardens spread across the lower slopes. In the other direction lies the palace, with its gleaming white dome and the pennants of Ajeebgarh rippling in the breeze.
As he rushes toward the pigeon coop, there is a flutter of wings, and a tall figure stands up, his beard brushed out from his cheeks. Mehboob Khan holds a handful of millet seeds with two white pigeons on his arm. Sikander runs across and throws his arms around his father, scaring off the birds and spilling the seeds. His father holds him tight, then lifts Sikander up, laughing with surprise.
“What’s this?” he says. “Why are you awake so early?”
“I thought you were …” Sikander begins to speak but stops himself. “When did you get home?”
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