Edward finished bathing and stood on the water’s edge, hands on hips, watching. When she finally emerged, he walked with her up the beach. She squeezed water from her hair and the drops made sand bullets where they fell.
They sat together on the sand. The skin on Edward’s shoulders and legs was daubed with salty streaks. He reached in his bag for his cigarette case and lit them both smokes.
The hot sun dried off her costume, her skin. Port Blair, Jonathan, Sanjay Krishna all belonged to another world. She was alive. Edward was beside her.
They sat in silence for some time and smoked. She thought of the work gangs in their camp on South Andaman, doggedly digging up tree roots and clearing away jungle for ever. She tried to imagine them here, trampling through the narrow paths with their armed guards and building camps near the houses of the Nicobarese.
‘How will you do it?’ she said. ‘Stop the government teams from coming to clear the jungle.’
He didn’t speak for a while. ‘I’m not sure yet. I’m praying about it.’
She gave him a quick sideways glance. He looked younger than he had in Port Blair. His features were calm. The sadness, which she had come to recognise as part of him, was no longer there.
He turned suddenly and looked back up the beach.
‘I might have known.’ He grinned.
She twisted to see. James stood under the cover of the palm trees, watching them. He shifted his feet and took a few hesitant steps towards them. Edward raised a hand and James came running towards them at full pelt, showering sand. He fell on Edward and they wrestled in the sand in a contortion of black and white limbs. Finally, he scooped the boy up, an arm round his waist, and spun him round, then tipped him onto his back in the sand. James rolled over, jumped up and flung himself on Edward for more. Isabel smiled.
Finally, he gave James a light cuff. The boy ran off to scavenge for a stick, then drifted to a rock pool.
Edward’s eyes followed him. ‘He’ll leave soon.’
‘Leave?’
‘His father’s tribe will claim him. In their eyes, he’s almost a man.’
Isabel, watching James clamber, sure-footed, over the rocks, said: ‘What about Sami?’
Edward shrugged. ‘We’ll care for her, at the Mission.’
Isabel thought of Sami’s stealthy attempt in the night to examine her.
‘Do you think Sami minds the fact I’ve come?’
He cleared his throat and stared fixedly at the sea.
‘She’s not used to sharing the Mission work. I mean, with anyone apart from me.’
She opened her mouth to ask more, then stopped. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t want to discuss it.
The days passed with increasing speed. At first, Isabel thought often of Jonathan and their life in Port Blair. She worried about when she would have to go back there and how she might bear it.
Gradually, she came to understand what Edward had described weeks earlier, when they sat together in the clearing in the middle of the virgin jungle. It began to seem as if no other time existed but the present, as if Port Blair and Delhi, and England too, were nothing more than shadows of her imagination. All that was real was the sea, the sand, the jungle and the Nicobarese.
Each day began with Edward. They swam together in transparent waters, then smoked and talked, stretched side by side on clean, white sand as the sun dried and warmed their bodies. Each day ended with Edward, always at her side as they sat at the edge of the Mission clearing to eat, the women’s cooking fires slowly smouldering and night gathering around them all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Asha
The footsteps came in the middle of the night. She woke at once. A low crick-crack of twigs and stir of leaves.
Asha had hollowed a space for them both in the depth of the bushes, camouflaged by bamboo staves and trailing creepers. She lay there now, listening. Someone moved with stealth. She reached to her side for the sharpened bamboo stick.
She had laid dried twigs near the entrance to act as an alarm. A sudden snap, loud in the silence. The sound of a man’s weight.
She crawled to Krishna-ji and shook his shoulder. ‘Wake up.’
He moaned and lifted his head. His forehead was hot, his hair caked against his skin. She rubbed his back with soft circular strokes, watching him closely as he struggled to the surface out of sleep. His eyes opened. He tried to focus on her face in the darkness but his look was blank.
‘Quiet.’ She put her lips close to his ear. ‘Someone’s coming.’
His mind came back in a rush from whatever dream had taken it, she read the change in his eyes. He remembered first who she was, then where they were, hiding out in the jungle.
She held her breath, strained to listen. Silence. He was there, the unknown man. Just feet away from them, hidden by the foliage that surrounded them. She sensed him peering into the blackness. He was so close, she could smell him.
Sanjay Krishna’s breathing was ragged. She kept one hand on his back as a comfort, the other gripped the bamboo spear. When he inhaled, the air rattled through his lungs, catching there. His spine was hot and wet with fever. I can’t move him, she thought. Not now.
A sharp snap and the soft rustle of branches. Whoever it was, he knew they were here. She lifted her hand from Sanjay Krishna and felt her way forward, pressing herself softly on hands and knees through the dense undergrowth, the bamboo spear in her hand. The leaves were wet with night dew and slapped against her face, arms and legs as she moved. She peered out through the branches, which formed black bars in the darkness.
‘Bhai? Brother?’
A stranger’s voice. Cautious. She held her breath. If the man were an enemy, if he were leading the Britishers to them, they were finished.
It came again. ‘Krishna-Sahib? Are you there?’
‘Who are you?’
He hesitated, then said: ‘A friend.’
A rustle. A branch pulled aside and against the lesser darkness of the night jungle, the broad, black silhouette of a man loomed, bent low. Behind her, Krishna-ji let out a low sigh. Could he see this man? Did he know him? She moved a fraction, peering through the mesh of leaves, and lifted her spear.
The man saw her, nodded to himself as if satisfied, then settled. He was a gangly fellow, stooped and thin and he folded up his legs like a penknife.
Her heart banged in her chest. ‘Who told you we were here?’
‘Our friends.’ He set a parcel, wrapped round in a large leaf, on the ground in front of her. ‘It is rice and subzi only. I am poor man.’
Asha nodded. The food she brought from Port Blair had long since gone. She fed Krishna-ji one meal a day, made up of whatever she could pick from the trees and bushes or catch with her own hands.
The man said: ‘How is he?’
She made a face. ‘He has fever.’
‘Can he walk?’
She blew out her cheeks. The leg which the bullet had entered was swollen and hot. ‘A little, only.’
The man frowned, leant forward to speak softly to her. His breath was sour. He’d spoken the truth, then, he was a poor man with an empty stomach.
‘The Britishers are making some deal with the tribals here,’ he said. ‘If the Britishers pay them, they will betray you.’
Asha looked round at the lattice of leaves and branches, a poor defence from powerful enemies.
The man said: ‘The Britishers have dogs to sniff you out.’
Asha twisted back. They must leave at once. Krishna-ji lay still as if he had slipped again into sleep. ‘Uncle, where can we hide?’
The man put his head on one side, considering. ‘Not in the village. It’s too dangerous. The Britishers will kill us, our women and children, also.’
‘So? What to do?’
For some time, neither of them spoke. Behind them, Krishna-ji let out a sudden cry in his sleep. The man jumped, nervous as a cat.
‘There is one place,’ he said. ‘A long sea-cave in the cl
iff with a narrow mouth. At high tide, it fills quickly. Many men have drowned there and the tribals fear it. They say the spirits of dead men live there. Maybe, if you can make it there, you could hide for some hours, while the tide is low. Not even dogs will find you there.’
Asha picked up the leaf parcel. The rice inside warmed her hand. Her tongue became wet but there was no time to eat.
‘May the gods bless you and your family.’
Something stirred out in the jungle and he looked round, full of fear.
‘I must go.’ He explained to her how to reach the sea-cave, then unfolded his long legs and crawled back out into the night. She packed the food into a bundle and went to rouse Krishna-ji. She had to help him even to crawl. He dragged his swollen leg behind him, biting his lip with pain. Sweat pooled at his temples and ran down the sides of his face.
‘We have food,’ she said. ‘First we must reach a safe place. Then we will eat.’
She tied up the filthy blanket and the food and strapped them across her body, then laced her arm under Krishna-ji’s shoulder, taking the weight off his injured leg. His breath was laboured and his body hot and wet against her side.
The path through the jungle was overgrown. Creepers reached in loops for their feet and made them stumble. Once she knocked against him, banging his leg and he cried out in pain. She stood, bearing his weight, and clamped her lips to stop from weeping as he breathed hard, in, out, summoning his remaining strength to carry on.
There had been so many stumbling night walks through jungle since the fishermen first set them on the shore of this small island and they felt their way, joined at the shoulder, blind in the darkness, hearing danger in every sound. She tried to loosen her mind from her body and let it fly free above her, looking down at the girl and man, who struggled together from one step to the next. She felt now what she had known since that first night when Amit helped her climb into the boat to cradle Krishna-ji’s head in her lap: I love this man. He is all I have left in this empty world. Whatever the gods require me to give to save him, I will give it gladly. It is a blessing.
The path slowly became steep and led them down the hillside. The air, forcing itself in through the canopy, grew salty and cool and the soft song of the waves on the shore grew louder.
They reached a bluff. Krishna-ji was panting now, his arms running with sweat. She set him on the ground and took a few steps further to the edge of the land. Far below, light glimmered on the sea, which swirled and shimmered round a cliff face.
It took them a long time to find a way down the cliff. Loose stones clattered ahead, making her stop and wait for silence to settle before they continued. The rocks became slippery with spray and the air changed from the sultry heaviness of the jungle to the chill from the ocean. The sea roared against the rocks. If either one of them slipped, they would plunge together.
This was the place the man described, she was sure of it. The jagged cliff face, the inlets that made the foam suck and surge. The cave must be somewhere here.
Krishna-ji seemed hot with fever, despite the breeze. The path became so steep that they had to turn to hug the rock face and lower themselves, step by step. She straddled him and guided his weak leg, placing it on one rock, then another. Pebbles peppered the water below.
Finally she saw a crack, just feet above the waterline, and helped him across the rocks towards it. The opening was narrow, a black split in the rock. Asha reached her arm inside, trying to judge the width. If it were the wrong place, she risked being swallowed up by the cliff. She stood for a moment, considering. Beside her, Krishna-ji slumped against a boulder.
His eyes were closed. She stooped, shook his shoulder. Already the sky on the horizon was lightening.
‘Come. We’re almost there. Then you can rest, nah?’
His lips parted. ‘Ah, little sister.’
She reached her hands under his arms and heaved him upright, then dragged him to the crack. She closed her eyes, pressed herself into it and pulled him sideways after her. The stone scraped against her back, her arms, winding her. The gap was so narrow that she had to battle to keep squeezing through, to stop it from holding her fast. She tried to turn her head back to see Krishna-ji and found she didn’t have enough room to twist it. Her body juddered in a flash of panic. Rock bulged against her face. A scream rose inside her. She stood still, her blood pulsing in her head, trying to swallow it down. The weight of Krishna-ji’s body, plugging the space behind her, made it impossible for her to retreat. She could only press forwards, further into the cliff.
‘Follow me.’ Her voice was deadened by stone. She forced herself to wriggle onwards. Every breath swelled her chest tight against the rock. The sides of the tunnel narrowed and she hung there, stuck fast. Then, in a sudden movement, she shifted, her feet stumbling, and staggered sideways, losing her balance as the ground sloped sharply downwards, grazing her cheek as she fell into darkness, banging at last against a sandy floor.
She lay, winded. Brightly coloured streaks of light streamed through her eyes. She clambered up and groped around to find the gap through which she had just fallen. Her hand touched Krishna-ji’s elbow and she seized his arm, tugged at him until he came crashing down on top of her. They lay, heaped, fighting for breath.
We will die here, she thought. It came to her with calm certainty. The sea will rise and fill this place and drown us and we will be powerless to escape. We will die here together, as if we had never been. She lay still, crushed by Krishna-ji who sprawled, moaning, across her back and legs, and prayed for them both.
The man had called this a cave. It was a hole. The air tasted stale and fetid. It was a dank, black fissure, which was barely wide enough for them to sit shoulder to shoulder. She managed to sit Krishna-ji up beside her, his head on her shoulder. She took his hand and held it between her own.
Slowly his body stopped trembling. The boom of the waves receded to a dull thud. As her eyes adjusted, the darkness became tempered by weak light from outside, which filtered in tendrils through the narrow entrance.
‘We are safe here.’ She stroked the back of his large hand. ‘Now we can eat.’
She untied the blanket and wrapped it round him. As she opened up the leaf parcel, the rich smell of cooked rice and vegetables made her stomach grumble. She fed it to him, pinch by pinch between her fingers, cajoling him to chew, to swallow.
Afterwards, they sat in silence. Below, deep in the cliff, the sea rushed back and forth in a muffled heartbeat. She didn’t know how long it would take for the waters to rise and claim them. She thought of the walls of rock that had pressed against her body, crushing it, and terror seized her again.
He slumped forward and she squeezed his hand. If he slept now, she feared he would never wake again.
‘Talk to me,’ she said.
‘About what?’ She sensed his smile in the darkness.
She felt the comfort of the warmth of his shoulder. ‘Tell me about your family.’
‘Ah. My family.’ He shifted his weight and they sat, one against the other, in their world of rock. His voice rasped in his throat as he began to talk. His story seemed to take him far away into the past as he remembered.
‘My baba was a good man. He moved to Delhi, to the bustee, when we were children and made business there, buying and selling cloth. He worked hard, day and night, and saved everything he earned and sent it home to us in the village. We were seven children. Every one of us, boy and girl, he sent to school, as my uncle and your baba sent you to school. Education is the best weapon, he used to tell, and I was wondering: why are we needing weapons? Who are we needing to fight? I was young then.’
She squeezed his hand to remind him that she was listening. He paid her no heed. His story was for himself. He was summoning his life to say goodbye to it.
‘My baba had a kind heart. He gave money always to his brothers also and helped them make business. He helped my uncle, sahib, who later gave his life for our freedom, as you are knowing.’
He paused. His voice softened. Ahead of them, the first dullness of sunrise expanded the narrow line of light in the rock.
‘Finally news came that my baba was very sick. My mama sent me to Delhi to bring him home. I was maybe ten years old.’ He paused. ‘I was afraid. I found him lying on a charpoy in a dark room. So many books were there and papers also. He had the face of an old man, not the baba I remembered. His skin was grey and his legs were thin as sticks.’
Slowly, as he talked, the darkness in the cave eased.
‘He could barely walk. I helped him to the railway station and bought first-class tickets. The station was teeming with every kind of person and my baba looked so frail in the midst of it all. The first-class carriage was empty and I settled him there with water and a blanket. I was only a boy but I loved my baba. Soon, he slept.
‘The train was ready to leave the station when a young man came, a Britisher. A loud, arrogant fellow. He was barely twenty years old and he spoke Hindustani badly. He peered in the carriage and saw us there, a sick man and a boy. Then he started to shout at the stationmaster. All manner of insults. “Get these damned natives out.” His words were ugly, like his ruddy, shiny face. “This is first class. Europeans only.” He screamed and banged on the door of the carriage with his cane and a crowd gathered on the platform, jaws hanging, to stare.’
‘So what happened?’
He shrugged. ‘The stationmaster poked his head through the window and I showed our tickets and said: “See, we are paying to go first class. My baba is sick.” No use. He turned us out and sent us to the third-class carriage, which was already spilling over with passengers. My baba spent the final journey of his life crushed against the side of a carriage by farmers and day-labourers, his face streaming with sweat, his eyes closed.’
He fell silent.
Asha said: ‘At home, in the village, did he get well again?’
He shook his head. ‘I vowed then that, whatever might come, I would devote my life to fighting these people who treat us like animals in our own land.’
Daughters of India Page 18