Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  The empty evening answered him. Smith and I, well, neither of us was intact.

  Diana frowned. “Jim, are you sure of this? You were awarded the Order of Merit. Have you read the official account?”

  I shook my head. “My time in hospital is a blur.”

  She said, “Something’s not right, Jim. I don’t know much about military affairs, but I know you, I think. If you’d just got command, after Smith’s injury, would you hand it off? I doubt that.” Sitting by me, she said, “Now this journey. Are you going for Doctor Aziz? Or because you miss the army?”

  “Perhaps both.”

  She sighed. Over her head, I saw Adi’s mournful look. It carried no condemnation. I suspected that the siblings did not really see the heart of it—a Captain must not abandon his troop. But they hadn’t been “brought up army” as I was, with tales of honor and duty.

  Was Diana right? Was that why I’d agreed to go to Pathankot? Or was it guilt that drove me to redeem myself by attempting an impossible rescue? It would not bring back Pathak and Suri, those brave Bombay boys who rode off in the dust. Would I ever forgive it, my negligence, my lack of foreboding as I sent them off, calling, “Don’t forget, hold the ship for me!”

  Would I ever cease to hear Jeet’s joking reply, “Arrey, hurry up, Huzoor! The tide waits for no man!”

  * * *

  I’d only said we’d depart tomorrow, not that we’d be gone before daybreak, so none was awake when we stole away. I did not say farewell to Diana, neither that night nor in the dawn, when, dressed as Pathans, Razak and I slipped past the gate. At the checkpoint on Simla Road, our horses and Greer’s escort would be waiting.

  Why did I not speak to Diana, tell her of my affection for her? In truth, I could not, for she’d have guessed the tenuous nature of my expedition. I would not leave fear clawing her insides while I was gone. If I was killed, let her learn of it quickly and let it be done. Still consumed by the inexplicable death of his wife, Adi looked weary. His sunken eyes told of long nights without sleep, nights that scoured him with their questions. I did not want that for Diana.

  At the Simla checkpoint, a horse huffed and snorted, hearing our approach. Two mottled grey mares stood by the magnificent brown Arabian.

  “Huzoor.” An accented voice spoke. A barrel-chested, turbaned Sikh stepped out. Although dressed plainly in brown and grey, it was the man Greer had set upon me in the mess hall. He did not approach, but watched me as one gauges a cobra, tense and ready to spring back.

  Bloody Greer. Trust him to send a man who did not trust me.

  “Sardar, I am Rashid Khan, and you are?” I spoke like a Pathan, in the thick tones Razak was accustomed to. Razak grinned and embraced me about the waist.

  I rubbed his newly shorn hair and picked up the Arabian’s halter.

  “Subaltern Ranbir Singh, sir,” said the soldier.

  “I’m not ‘sir,’” I said in English. “Call me Rashid. Or Bao-di, if you must.”

  The Sardar flinched, his stare more pronounced. In that gloomy morning, he could not tell what I was, for both Pathan and Captain were equally in my mind.

  CHAPTER 38

  A NEW PARTNERSHIP

  We cantered past the Simla border to cleave through the British guard, then my filly wanted her head so I gave in, letting her out as she pleased. I felt at home here, among these hills. Eager to reach Pathankot and find Doctor Aziz, I leaned into the mare, leaving Razak and the Sardar to speed across the curve of a hillside.

  The Arabian ran as if power and poetry were one, her hooves eager for wide ground and open skies. Each stride hit the ground and lifted. She stretched forward in a smooth arc, reaching, until she tucked hind legs under and pushed off again. Each bound curved easily, her hoofbeats punctuating the moments we were airborne. She taught me that my weight rode better toward her forelegs, that to change direction took the slightest nudge. To pull on her would be like shouting in a temple. She needed only whispers, altering her gait as though she knew my mind. I’d not ridden in months, and it felt wonderful to fly across the meadow.

  Ranbir and Razak caught up some time later as I watched the sunrise from a grassy slope. Head low, the Arabian licked dew off blades of grass. Razak dismounted Pathan-style, leaping from his horse midstride to run alongside. He dropped on the green beside me, grinning, and said that the Sardar was a terrible rider.

  Sardar Ranbir Singh brought the horses together, his shoulders tight and anxious. He would not meet my eyes. All right then. I sent Razak down to water the horses by the stream and asked, “Were you ordered to come as a punishment, Sardar?”

  “No, Sahib.” His mouth drooped at the corners. It would not do. This man and I must come to terms if we were to survive. I hauled myself up and faced him.

  “Ranbir Singh,” I rapped out.

  Now he had to look at me.

  “What disturbs you?”

  He shook his head, but I had no time for niceties.

  “Is it me?” I asked directly.

  He glowered, suspicious and angry. “Who are you? What are you?” he demanded. There was no “sir” in his voice.

  I nodded. “That’s better. I’m Captain Agnihotri, a soldier. Like you.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “Not like me.”

  Ah! I defied his notion of an officer, speaking to Razak in Pashto, taking off on the Arabian like an uncouth tribesman. He’d seen me as a Pathan in the mess hall, so a Pathan I must be. But I spoke English, and was called Captain, so which was I?

  I tried to explain. “Ranbir, I left the army, but I’m needed as a scout. For this action.”

  He scanned my crumpled kaftan, turban and beard. “You were a Captain of Infantry?”

  “Cavalry. Light Dragoons. Medical discharge.”

  He liked that. It matched my peculiar appearance, but he wanted to be sure. “Are you Pathan?” he asked, incredulous.

  I sighed. Indian hierarchy, dogging me again. At the top, admired, obeyed and watched, always watched, were British officers. Next came “the civil”: administrators, Englishmen regardless of education or connections. Then non-coms, followed by native officers of high caste. All high castes, Brahmins—the priestly class—and Shatriya warriors preceded Sikhs and Gurkhas. Parsees might figure with the non-coms, educated, wealthy and influential. At the bottom, ignored at best, often just despised, were the low castes: traders and tribesmen thought to be crude, ignorant carpet peddlers like the Pathans, like me. High castes could escape crimes perpetrated upon lower castes. Low castes could not hope to be promoted, since no one would follow them. Did I expect Ranbir to follow a Pathan?

  “Ranbir, I can hardly ride to Pathankot as an officer, can I?” I said. “What did they say about me?”

  “Huzoor, I was told, there is a rude Pathan coming to the mess hall. Knock him out. That’s all. But … I failed.” He blushed to have been shamed in front of his officers. “Last night General Sahib summoned me. He said, take three horses to the checkpoint. Go with Captain Sahib, find the Gurkha Company and bring back survivors. I did not know the Captain was you.”

  Ranbir’s shoulders eased. Agreeing to speak only Pashto, he said, “I heard what you did. It is noble, bringing children from Lahore. But how can we find the Gurkha Company?”

  “Ranbir, we can do this. Razak’s village is near Pathankot.”

  For the first time, he smiled.

  We made good time for the next two days, stopping only to water and spell the horses. We made cold camps after dark. My rank was no longer Captain, but scout. Forgetting that, I gave Ranbir orders. “No fire. Dry provision only. Let the horses at their nose bags.”

  Then I remembered, and apologized.

  Exasperated, Ranbir said, “Bao-di, it is all right!”

  “Bao-di?” I grinned. He’d used Razak’s name for me—a form of Babuji, meaning father.

  Soon we left the banks of the Sutlej, traveling north. The ride would get steeper, more treacherous as we neared Pathankot. We’d have to thread
narrow gorges, Afghan territory. Now I regretted not saying farewell to my little troop, and to the Framjis. Diana—it sat heavily on me, that I’d left things so unsettled between us. If I did not return, all I’d left her was silence.

  Over the midday meal, Razak questioned our story. If I was his uncle, taking him home, how could Ranbir be my friend? Although he wore native garb, his beard was neat. Like me, Ranbir wore army boots, and an army belt girded his waist.

  “Anyone can see he’s a soldier,” Razak grumbled. He did not say the same of me. Perhaps I was gaunt enough to be taken for a tribesman.

  It grew cooler as we rode north. We kept a deliberate pace, fording streams quickly, skirting settlements, stopping only to rest our steeds. Soon we must slow, lest the pounding of fast horses alert the enemy.

  I dropped to a trot, twisting in the saddle to find my companions. Unexpectedly, my horse bucked.

  Perhaps something startled her, a snake or rabbit. Had I not glanced back, it might have cost me nothing, a tight grip on her reins and a low word would suffice. Without these to calm her, she reared—an enormous wave that flung me off her back

  I landed on my right with a blinding shock. Pain speared my shoulder—filling my mind. I recalled Jameson’s admonition, “it will heal if you don’t get into any more scrapes,” and feared he was right. This time I’d surely broken it. My right arm hung heavy and useless under that searing agony.

  That night, Ranbir proved his worth. He found me doubled over, speechless, and took charge, setting up camp. My pain numbed both hearing and sight. Would it not ease? Feeling drunk and lightheaded, I longed for the oblivion of sleep. I ran my fingers around the bone, felt no sharp edges. While I crouched by the campfire, Ranbir strapped up my shoulder. With the practical manner of the Punjabis, he unbuckled his leather belt and bound my arm to my waist.

  That helped. When I groaned about my previous injury, Ranbir grumbled, “Why, Bao-di? Why take this job, if you were already hurt?”

  “I have to take Razak back.”

  Dark eyes in a pale face, Razak looked anxious. I had to tell him about our mission. Thus crippled by my injury, a greater part would fall to him.

  I said, “Razak, tell no one. Our soldiers are trapped in Pathankot. If it was me, I would want someone to get me out. Will you help?”

  Eyes wide, he agreed. The night was long. Why had I spoken to Greer so, claiming the Gurkhas could be rescued? Did I want his praise, his respect? I didn’t even like him. I just needed to find Doctor Aziz, and determine who killed the Framji women.

  * * *

  Ranbir the Sardar was strong. I didn’t know how strong until the next morning. Aching and dull-headed after a tortured night, I tried to mount, one-handed, a foot in the stirrup. I hopped, groaned, tried again, until Ranbir grabbed my waist and hoisted me into the saddle: I did not plummet off the other side, but it was a near thing.

  Since I was little use, Ranbir and Razak conferred upon a hilltop, scanning the crevices, and settled upon a winding path. My right arm bound to my waist, wearing a poultice that Ranbir produced out of herbs that smelled suspiciously like horse dung, I slumped in the saddle. Low cloud spilled over rocks, hiding us from the valley, yet making the ride more treacherous. We rode slowly. As though she knew the price I’d paid for her foolishness, the Arabian walked softly along the edge of the mountain.

  Around midday, we climbed an outcrop and there it was: Razak’s village. He broke into a lope, and clattered across a wooden bridge toward the houses.

  Shouts erupted. Boys, turbaned men, women in dark shalwars ran toward us in surprise. “Razak?” someone cried. I pulled to a halt and drooped over my horse, smelling woodsmoke and cooking and cool mountain air.

  “Come, Bao-di,” said Ranbir. I lifted a leg across her withers and slid down the Arabian’s flank. Ranbir caught me, carrying me like a child.

  I heard Razak, questioning. A voice creaked like an old leather saddle. Then darkness.

  * * *

  Razak’s voice, pitched high with worry, woke me. “Dac-tar, will he wake?”

  My shoulder had eased to a dull throb. A neatly bearded young man by my side wore a shirt, collar and vest, a white prayer cap atop his head. Seeing he wore a stethoscope, I breathed in relief.

  An educated voice asked in Pashto, “Does he understand English?”

  Ranbir’s dry voice replied, “A little.”

  Let him have his joke, I thought. My chest was bare, and a dozen or so bearded faces peered down at me.

  “Why is he so pale?” someone asked.

  “He may be Kashmiri. They are pretty.” The creaking leather voice belonged to a wrinkled man with broken teeth.

  “This will bring trouble,” grumbled a thin man with a pointed beard.

  I moved, heard a collective sound of approval and grimaced. My audience pulled back.

  The young doctor continued in Pashto, “Your shoulder was dislocated. I have put it back.” His hands made a twisting motion. I’d been incredibly fortunate.

  “Is he awake?” asked the village elder with broken teeth. He spat to one side, limped up and touched my forehead with the backs of thin fingers.

  I croaked, “Salaam.” Damn, I could barely speak.

  My greeting delighted the old man. He clucked and patted my arm with a leathery hand. “Salaam, Salaam, my guest.”

  “Bao-di, my father went down to Pathankot”—Razak’s voice swelled with pride—“and brought the dac-tar.”

  “Janab, welcome,” a deep voice said behind me. Razak’s father, I thought distantly. The voice of a leader, a voice that inspired confidence said, “You brought our son Razak, at some cost to yourself.”

  Hazel eyes curious, but not demanding, Razak’s father, a thickset man in white turban and clean khamiz, grey scarf rolled around his neck, was in his forties. White flecked his dark beard. I’d need his help to find the Gurkha troop. Yet his formal tone held caution. The Afghan army was a militia, assembled from villages spread throughout the mountains. Some villages were at war with the Pakhtun tribe, others allied to it. Was the enemy here?

  “Are soldiers here? Pakhtun soldiers?” I choked. A reasonable question, surely? Don’t most travelers fear soldiers? If the village, or Razak’s father himself, were friendly with that principality, now I’d surely hear of it.

  Ranbir stood at my side, scarcely breathing. Did he fear that in my delirium, I might give us away?

  “No, they have gone,” Razak’s father replied, rubbing his chin.

  So they had been here. I said, “I regret to burden you, Janab. May we stay … a few days?”

  He grew concerned. “Are they searching for you?”

  He did not like the soldiers. That reassured me. “No. We’ve had no trouble. My arm…”

  “You are my guest, Bao-di to my son. You are safe.”

  I wasn’t sure all the curious tribesmen behind him agreed. Would Melmastia—the Pathan tradition of hospitality—protect me if they learned who I really was?

  CHAPTER 39

  EXPLORING PATHANKOT

  I woke each dawn to the Muezzin’s distant call to prayer. Ranbir tended me, then accompanied village men on their forays through the hills, taking goats to pasture or down to Pathankot market. In this way, he gathered intelligence while I recovered. Three days passed.

  Working the doctor’s noxious-smelling medicine into my shoulder, I sat outside a hut, leaned against a wall and greeted passersby, practicing Pashto with local children, much to their shrill amusement. In this way, I too gathered intelligence.

  “Look, Bao-di!” A round-faced boy in an oversize khamiz showed me his cupped hands.

  Admiring the beetle on his palm, I asked, “Were there strangers here, some days ago?”

  “Hah, Bao-di!” an older boy said eagerly, his features already angular, but open. The habitual narrowing of eyes would come later. “They went to Pathankot.”

  I let the beetle advance to my hand, its touch tickling as it crawled over my knuckles.
r />   “How many were they?”

  “Many! Maybe twenty!” Another said, “Fifty!

  “How many horses?”

  They agreed there were eight horses for riders, and four pulling wagons. A week ago Afghan soldiers had confiscated most of the village’s grain, but the livestock had been hidden in time, so they were not found. Children know far more than most adults realize.

  Following Pathan custom, women did not enter our hut. At mealtimes, late morning and after sunset, we ate with Razak’s family. Thick roti, meat and root vegetables simmered on wooden platters, savory and delicious, spices that lit my mouth in a burst of fireworks. In recompense I winched up buckets of water from the river below and carried them, one-handed, to Razak’s hut.

  Feeling stronger, I walked to a cliff at the edge of the village, a few boys trailing me. They ran ahead to the bridge to await the menfolk’s return. Blue-grey woodsmoke drifted from low thatched houses. I sat on an outcrop, snow-draped mountain slopes at my shoulder. My cliff perch offered a view of the barren road to Pathankot, white stones of the pass brilliant in the sunlight. It wound to a narrow bridge, the entrance to the village, turning it into a perfectly defensible qila—a fortress. There was no sign of any enemy.

  Far below, a boy with a long stick herded sheep over a crest. The wind came through mountain crags with a soft, shrill whistle, a warning, ever present. Almost a week had passed since we left my little brood with Diana. We had yet to find the Gurkha troop.

  Next morning Ranbir and I prepared to depart for Pathankot. When I told Razak’s father I was looking for someone there, he drew in the dust to show us landmarks.

  A heated exchange caught my ear. Young Razak, mutinous, argued with his mother.

  “I will go! You can’t stop me!” he cried, tearing from her grasp. Catching sight of me, he stopped, shaking with emotion. “They won’t let me go … to Pathankot with you.” His voice broke, reminding me that, despite his bravado, he was only ten.