* * * * *
Exiting the dirigible, Marx was instantly awash with a crippling heat. Even though the day was nearing dusk, the sun beat down upon Calcutta mercilessly. For his part, Marx was certainly not accustomed to the warmth. Living amid the German forests and French fields had not prepared him for the jungle. Even his time aboard the Questionable had not been sufficient. Although the airship had been traveling through tropical regions for weeks, being on the ground was an altogether new and rather uncomfortable experience. Truth be told, the heat alone was exhausting.
"Fresh water, sahib?" The voice, speaking in accented English, caught him unawares, and Marx jumped with surprise. Glancing down, Marx glimpsed a mousy, grinning native. His smile was missing many teeth, but his eyes bore a loving light that belied his aged years. He was certainly older than Marx's not inconsiderable age. Marx, taking pity on him, reached for a few coins, but the native shook his head.
"For the water, nothing is needed. Sahib, this is a new land, and the sun has not welcomed you kindly. Perhaps I may instead." Again, the grin crossed the native's sun-dried face as he gingerly passed a wobbling goblet of water towards Marx. Touched, Marx accepted the cup and noticed that the man sat next to a giant pitcher, also containing water.
"May I ask what you do, friend?" Marx questioned kindly.
"Certainly!" cried the man. "First, "friend" suffices, but my name is Amit. "Timeless" it means, but my friend, sometimes I feel old despite the time." The quip rolled off Amit's tongue like a practiced poem; apparently, it was a longstanding joke, so Marx laughed politely. Then, he extended his hand. Amit, aware of Western customs, shook the offered palm.
"I'm called Karl Marx, and I come originally from Prussia. What did you say you are doing again?" Amit barked a laugh. "I did not say what I was doing, Karl Marx; you've asked twice now without answer. Is it not enough?" Marx was about to protest, but Amit amiably held up a hand. "No, no, friend. I joke. I am an old man rich in years and poor in wages. But, my son and his bride care for me, so I am not destitute. Far from it, I have the freedom to sit here and hear the news of the day. So, I sit. With my water and a smile, many new friends are made. Like you!" Again, the cheerful man laughed, his toothless smile filled with the light of the darkening sun. He continued. "What news have you?"
"Amit, I could tell you news and stories and thoughts for days on end; my mind is full of theories, but none have truly listened after hearing the words."
"An interesting paradox," the old man commented.
"The term 'maddening' comes closer," persisted Marx. "But I press on. I must; without men like me, the rich would only get richer." Chuckling once more, Amit said "Do they not already? It seems that the rich are always collecting more money amid the Raj."
"Well I, for one, am here to change that." Amit simply raised his eyebrow in response. Like his previous joke, this trait seemed very practiced and called for more information, which Marx provided. Indeed, Marx sat down next to Amit, and for several hours, the political writer explained his theories, constantly thumping the ground with his fist for emphasis.
Eventually, the sun descended and succumbed to the night, but Marx was not through. Amit led him to his nearby home, and together they supped. Still, Marx had not completed his discourse. Finally, as a lone candle dwindled, the wax falling like oppressed tears upon the table, the writer finished, leaning back to await Amit's response.
For a solid minute, nothing moved and no sound was heard within Amit's small home. Indeed, it seemed all of India waited for the aged, toothless, friendly man to speak. Eventually, he breathed in deeply, and sighed. "Karl Marx, you have the knowledge of India's savior. Your ideas were born for this land, but the knowledge you carry is dangerous. Were I a factory owner, I would beat you or kill you among the hanging vines. What you say cannot exist with what now reigns. The Raj is beginning to fill with factories, but the spirit of the people fades as each new smokestack rises." Suddenly, the man grew quiet. Deathly quiet. Then, still silently, he rose and left the table.
Marx waited, not knowing what was expected of him. As the minutes ticked by, he grew uncomfortable and began to rise, deciding to go in search of the old man. Yet, as Marx stood, Amit suddenly returned; his returning was as silent as his leaving. In his wrinkled hands, the man held a small dagger. It was encrusted with jewels and look quite expensive. "Once, long ago..." started the man, but his voice trailed off. Breathing deeply, he again spoke. "Long ago, I was a soldier. My fortune smiled with me, and I found this in battle. It is my greatest possession. And my little wealth will buy India's freedom. Come. Come."
Without further explanation, the man shuffled out into the night. Completely resigned and utterly bewildered, Marx followed.
If Calcutta was warm, rancid-smelling, and overpopulated during the day, the city was unsettling at night. The occasional beggar wandered the streets, but otherwise, Amit and Marx met with no one. Indeed, it was as if the pair were alone among a town of ghosts. Nothing stirred and Marx was feeling more than a little apprehensive before Amit finally stopped. Looming in front of them was a long, low, stone building. Markings could be seen etched into the front door, and all of the visible windows were barred. The place, while intriguing, frightened Marx and reminded him of a cult temple. Unaware of his companion's trepidation, Amit stepped forward and tapped upon the door four times. Then, he dragged the scabbard of his dagger across the door. The weapon slid back and forth, and a low, scratching sound filled the night. Marx desperately wanted to cover his ears to hide the sound, but dignity restrained him.
Next, Amit stood back and waited. Endless seconds ticked by as the two stood there, alone together in the dark city. Finally, another creaking sound was heard, and the giant door before them swung open. Without hesitation, the old man shuffled forward; lacking alternatives, Marx followed.
Inside, Marx's uneasiness continued, for the hall that greeted them was empty. Nothing coated the walls; no furniture dotted the perimeter. In place of these, a simple circle of men sat in the middle of the empty, expansive room. Each wore elaborate robes that gleamed in the poorly lit room. Additionally, a simply attired attendant waited to usher them forward. Amit turned and whispered quietly "Do not speak sahib. I will talk." Walking, Amit confidently moved into the room. Marx eventually followed, and when Amit bowed to the men of the circle, the writer did as well. Next, Amit spoke. Abandoning English, his native tongue rolled through the room in a beautiful, poetic cadence. Although Marx had attempted to study the language in his long voyage to the Raj, he grew instantly lost. Instead, he simply took in the beauty of Amit's voice. Thankfully, the beauty of the language was engrossing, for Amit's speech went on at great length. Eventually, after more than an hour, Amit bowed again and then sat. Marx, groggy from the entire experience, sat down as well.
He desperately wanted to question Amit as to what was occurring, but honoring the old man's previous instructions, remained silent. For a minute, everyone else present was silent as well. Then, one man in the circle spoke. Another answered. Soon, conversation and what seemed to Marx like heated discussion was flowing from the encircled men. Finally, after another two hours of incomprehensible talk, one of the robed men turned to Amit. He spoke, and, although Marx could not understand his words, his tone carried finality. Then, Amit stood, bowed again, and began exiting from the room; he walked backwards, still bowed and facing the circled council; Marx mirrored his moves.
Finally, the pair was once again among the deserted streets. By then, dawn was breaking over the horizon. Once there, Amit turned to Marx. "Well, sahib. That went well." Bewildered by the entire scene, Marx could only shrug, chuckling at the strangeness of it all. Then, with shock, Marx saw that Amit was no longer carrying his prized dagger. Registering the shock on his companion's face, the old man waved a leathered hand. "It is truly a trifle. And the exchange it bought will be worth the future of this nation." Then, the old man turned to return to his house.
> "But Amit!" cried Marx. The old man turned. "What just occurred? Who were those men? Why did you leave your dagger, and what did you converse about?" The questions spooled quickly from his voice like yarn, and, like a spinster, Amit gently crafted them into his story.
"When the English came, India was a war-like collection of tribes. Each warlord controlled his swath of land, and death was common. Then, Wellington conquered and, eventually, the Raj was formed. Yet, the subjugation of Hindi land did not mean the subjugation of the Hindi spirit. No; we endured, and we resisted. In various ways we fought back. The uprising twenty years ago was one such method. The circle of men we just left is another. They are known simply as the Council of Philosophers. The English believe them to be peaceful thinkers. I suppose, in a way, they are. Yet, these men think thoughts of peaceful self-rule, and the thoughts they ponder all directly relate to Indian independence."
Marx interrupted briefly. "But it's the middle of the night; isn't such a group suspicious?" Amit snickered. "They meet like this for 'spiritual' reasons; it's hard to contemplate such weighty, holy matters during the day. At least, that's what the British are told; truthfully, it is easier to perform dark deeds in the dark.
"For decades now, the Council has pondered and implemented ideas to bring about a revolution. The uprising in '57 was not supported by the Council. Knowing how deadly the English army was, the Council was not willing to risk an outright rebellion just then. Given how disastrous that conflict became, perhaps a collection of old men, whose sole purpose is to ponder revolutionary thoughts, can indeed be worthwhile. In any case, the Council continually seeks worthy ideas that might save their people. Yet, thinking is not their only attribute. The Council possesses a massive collection of contacts - students, workers, beggars. These operatives are willing to support the Council's orders; many would even die for their leaders. To pay these agents, as well as provide food for themselves, the Council must charge for its consultations. Thus, my dagger was given." Marx nodded in understanding; even revolutionary leaders needed to eat, and loyal staff could often only be purchased.
"Your ideas inspire them, sahib. Indeed, they have been so taken with them, that they are willing to act." Amit spoke these word with reverence. "What does this entail?" asked Marx curiously.
Amit breathed quietly. "We will now have a revolution. Unlike '57, we will have an uprising that succeeds."
The Questionable Tales: A Steampunk Quintet Page 5