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2 A

Chapter I

Section 2

Murshidabad - Bengal - Along the River Ganges

4 April 1871

In the northern kingdoms of India the earth can be acid and dust barren, or it can be ripe with the wash from the mountains. Corruption is in the soil, where it is poor, the people are poor, and work with diligence - where it is rich, the people are poor, because the princes are ripe with greed. The golden wheat is harvested to make golden bread - which is taxed and turns the rich earth into gold that ornaments the wives and mistresses of the greater lords.

But where the earth is richest of all, the people are poorer still, not in coins, but in another sense - for their lords and masters dream, not of mere decadent pleasures - but of power.

You can tell this, not by map or intelligence report, but by smell and sound and sight.

Where there is hard earth, the women's faces are hard as well, their eyes will stare out at you as you walk down the dusty roads, you hear the buzzing of insects as the scrounge and search for any touch of sugar or wind blown food. The animals have hides taught across their ribs and hollowed across their hips. The men are gaunt, but have a strange softness to their eyes and features, as if they are stone that has been weathered by wind and rain, assuming soft curves between straight lines. The men have hollow cheeks and bony knees and elbows. It takes a moment to realize why - they do not have the look of war, for they are useless for fighting. The smell is of dust, that seems to rob all other scents from the air. There is the hollow yapping of hungry dogs - and the sounds of activity fall at slow and even pace. Nothing stirs more quickly than there is need for, and time itself becomes viscous.

Where the earth is richer, the smell is of fullness - the air is filled with moisture that jumps up from the ground in the heat, of early morning, and presses down on it during the day. The women are not hard, but soft, soft with full breasts - on the young women they seem suspended almost as if the statues of rounded stone were brought to life and walk, on older women they hang like full ripened fruit. But all the women, young and old, walk with that peculiar sway of the hips that is like the tolling of a bell - steps secure and forceful. The men are different as well - fuller of face and muscle. Where the men of the poor districts are straight - in the hollows of the cheeks, they have curved flesh - where the men of the poor districts are soft, in the eyes, they are hard. And sprinkled here and there, are the cuts and scars of knives and bayonets - for the hardness is the look of battle, which sweeps through these districts like the dry season fires or monsoon rains. For while it is clear the people eat well, it is clear too to the bandits, and the tigers. And the distance between being master and being morsel is very small. And that is why they go about without ornament, save only the red dot on the woman's forehead. Nothing that is not nailed down is safe. Nothing that can be pried loose, is nailed down.

You hear this in the sharp barking of the dogs, aggressive in staking out their territory, in the sharp braying of the donkeys, and in the buzzing of the bees. Each thing has its weapons at the hand, and the sounds have none of the weariness. Instead everything is like the american porcupine - quills ever ready to be spread.

But in the last - the smell is overwhelming, of the smell of life run riot, of weeds blooming and rotting, of young women blooming and rotting, of feces fallen and returning to the earth. The sound is pure cacophony, as every cry races out to do its work in the smallest moment it has between being released into the air, and being bludgeoned by the overwhelming throng. In jungle it is the cry of birds and the click of frogs, the roar of elephants and the rustle and tap of branches. In the fields it is the bells and chip, chip, chip, chip of hoes that turn the earth - and in the city is the roar that becomes one voice.

The women? The women are like rolling hills, each turn falling on another - the do not pad as in poverty, nor sway is in prosperity - but sidle, as if they were attempting to seduce every man they walked up against, draw every eye. They seem as if poured into their clothes - and fill them as bursting wineskin - liquid passion waiting to be drunk. The men are barrel curved - and their eyes are prying, spying and lancing, as if to attack each thing they see. No gaze is innocuous, and to navigate between them is to be a spider dancing on another spider's web.

The animals too take up this different cry, they do not whine, nor growl, but bay. For amidst all the plenty there is something lost - a heart that was ripped out years before - that no filled belly can return.

Where in poor lands there is pallor of dust, and in richer lands the patina of dirt - here there is a shield of filth that covers all. The flies do not buzz, but swarm, the birds do not peck here and there, but mercilessly plunge their beaks into the furrowed ground. The sun does not shine, it pours its rays upon the land. The air seems ever laden with rain yet to be, or rain, or rain just past. The first clings and cloys like clothes too tight, the second cools as if to expose naked flesh to the world, the third oozes up from the darkened red soil, reaching tendrils into every pore.

This is Bengal. and Bengal is to India, as India is to the whole world. What makes India, India in comparison to all else, is found in every degree higher in Bengal. Where India seems to move with deadly slowness, in Bengal all moves with the powerful sinister slowness of the constrictor or the cobra - where India seems hot and oppressive, Bengal seems to bear a crushing weight, and yet stand beneath it like a pillar. Where India seems filled with wildness just beyond the reach of town or hamlet - Bengal is the tiger tracks left by river at night.

Of the last there will be time to speak of it anonce - but it is to Bengal that the narrator turns his gaze, and hopes that you can see its patchy pattern of jungle and tilled field, with the jungles clinging to the labyrinth of rivers, and the fields spreading out like crystals of sugar growing on a glass - spikes that rip into the jungles, and then are devoured in turn as they age.

Above the buildings seem a clutter of lesser ants that surround a queen - the central houses just somewhat larger and prouder than the rest - and the temples only slightly prouder still. But the cities are not like this at all - but huge and sprawling clutter of buildings that have grown and grown from the centre, until they seem to choke the rivers like weeds. And in them there is a constant slow motion to and fro - everywhere in cool morning and evening, and from shadow to shadow in thick of afternoon.

This is Bengal, turn your gaze to a small boat upon the river, one as thin as a sliver, and driven only by the muscles of one oarsman - a small canopy of white linen set in its middle, and beneath it, a face the colour of chai and milk, his eyes neither hard with war, nor soft with acceptance, but like a magpie - bright with the lust for acquisition. His nose, too, is sharp and beaklike - almost hooked. His fingers fat and stubby though, as if that which the eyes crave, and the beak pecks at, cannot quite be grasped by the talons. He flexes them constantly as he sits, his body quivers. He shuttles his hands over newly bought clothes, and a pouch that is half hidden in his sash - his hands ignore the knife attached to that sash, as he has not the smallest idea of how to use it on anything more aggressive than a mango. He is impatient of the waiting to meet the girl he has bought for his pleasures, since he finds his wife unsatisfactory - and the money in his pouch was given to him for this express purpose by his lord, who intends to taste the fruits as well.

Who is this man, and why should we care about this turn of the great dance? Out of so many turns that weave and wind around him - this man is of interest because he is the hand of Gayatri’s husband, and he has other business in addition to a concubine’s acquisition. But let us focus our ears like the mouse upon him, as we have already focused our eyes like a hawk.

“I can see her now, so tender and yet frail.” He mumbled to himself, in a rather wheezing way. There was sweat rolling down from inside his arms, he could feel the beads slowly traverse downward. It was hot outside, but that is not why he was sweating. Even he was aware of the rank scent he exuded - there was hot sweat on his forehead, and a cold sweat across his back and on his hands. He brushed them repeated against his cotton jerkin, that hung loosely over a dirty shirt, but it had done no good. So finally he accepted the eel like feeling of the skin.

“I can feel her now.” He looked at the dock, he hoped to see her, but knew in the back of his mind he would only see someone who would lead him to where the exchange would take place. At this he moved his hand over the money sewn into his shirt and then he relaxed again.

The boatman pressed to one side on the tiller, and the vessel began to glide toward one of the floating docks in the water.

His eyes moved over the crowd - the Moghuls had, some time ago, set stone barriers between the street above and the river - the floating docks were crowded with people holding their hands out. Some were rail thin porters hoping to be the first to carry a person’s bag. But the discerning eye would see that some of those who seemed like porters were a bit too well fed to live on the scattering of copper that a porter would make, and would note the scars which a humble porter would not likely have. But his eye was not discerning - so busy was he looking for the go between, that as he pushed...

It was obviously some time later when he awoke, his first instinct, being a fool, was to rub his head. His second instinct, being a bigger fool was to move his hands to where his money pouch had been, thus telling everyone in eyeshot where it was, and being a larger fool still, he checked the hem where some few additional coins had been stored in the event of theft. Having practically shouted his position, location of valuables and condition, he found he still had a head on his shoulders, he did not have a gold pouch, and he did have the coins, which he fingered momentarily and let drop. Moments later two hands reached down, and he instinctively reached up to grab them. By the time he was standing, a knife had slit the hem, and he was without coins, though he did not know it yet.

It finally occurred to him that since he was not dead, he had been kept alive for some reason, feeling again for his hem, he realized the coins were gone. Finally the few molecules of sense which he held within him made him realize that he should not stand there like a complete idiot, and should, instead, make his way to where he was supposed to be going - to a safe house where he was to deliver a message, and, perhaps, receive further instructions.

Once away from the water, the streets here were very closed and tight together, in places barely the width of two men with outstretched hands. The grey stones that made the streets, combined with the canopies draped from windows made the entire coursing movement of people a perpetual jostle. Now that he had been thoroughly robbed, his heart pounded and his eyes flitted about, first landing on an emaciated beggar, then on a couple copulating under a drape of canvas, then to a dog barking from a door frame. All around him were smells - urine, defecation, death - this last pungently pressing on his nostrils - but also the sweet smells of baking, and the heady scent of vegetables roasting, fresh out of clay pots and giving birth to steaming breath that laden the air. And spices, such spices as few could afford.

He very slowly realized that this was far beyond the means of the people he saw around him, the honey and bitter smell of saphron. He must be near where he was destined to go. If he had been craftier, he would have realized that everyone else knew that there was one door, which though as humble as any to either side of it, was the entrance way to far more sinister inhabitants, and that its riches did not just extend to the sweetness of spices.

But, being the man he was, he was oblivious to all of this, and knocked upon the door. It opened without any formality or delay, and before he could do anything, two strong hands, far lighter in colour than his parched skin, dragged him in, and unceremoniously dumped him on a carpet in a heap. He was dizzy for a moment, and then the rich smell, now overpowering, revived him.

He stared upwards at a gaunt figure, with cold blue eyes, and a richly tanned skin that made the whites of them seem to glow. At his side was a long l shaped knife, such as was carried by the Gurkas - elite troops from the north, but it was clear that he was not one of them, but instead, an Englishman. This had not been expected. The scowling features, and the accessibility of a cane - propped up against a great teak desk, that dominated the back wall of the room - made the messenger wince, he expected to be beaten like a dog. It was a treatment he was familiar with. He tried to crumple himself even smaller, as if to work himself into the luxuriant wool of the carpet, which had a bristly touch, but was also softened by use - and to block the line that a blow would come down with his hand.

He was in this twisted position for almost a minute, when he realized that the man was not going to hit him, nor was he about to be berated with words. Finally, in accented, but acceptable, hindi, the man began.

“You have been extremely careless.” The words were soft, not a rebuke, but a statement of fact - “and have made your presence quite visible to all concerned. Everyone knows you came here, and everyone knows what you were sent here for, and everyone knows that you came here.”

It was at this point that an older woman, wrapped in a common, but serviceable, sarong, walked out with mincing steps, carrying a bronze platter with a thin bronze vessel that could only contain coffee. There were small round coffee cups in the turkish or arabic style. She held the tray with one hand, poured with the other, and then gently bent down to hand him the cup of steaming sweet elixir. He had gone from cowering, to a relaxed seated position, one leg bent upwards, the other on the ground. He was comfortable for the first time, as he sipped the deeply boiled coffee, laden with sugar. She then left and exited into the courtyard.

“I would like you then, to wait here, and leave at sundown.”

The messenger blinked.

“That is all? You do not want my message.”

The leather tanned Englishman did not even blink.

“It is not of any importance. You were simply sent to draw attention away from the real messenger.”

It was at this moment that fear struck the messenger, after all, why would he be told this, if he was not to be killed? If he were supposed to live, the Englishman would have listened and then sent him away, none the wiser.

“But, but I was sent here...”

“You were told a lie, the only one that would motivate you enough to come. Your master thinks nothing of you, in fact, he thinks you are a dog, to be whipped and sent to lie offal at night.”

It was at this point the Englishman straightened up, and turned away from this messenger. And turned to the desk. With a deliberateness, he turned a key that was on a chain around his wrist, and opened the lock of iron that sealed the desk. He then slowly lowered the lid, which squeaked with the humidity, and revealed several carefully arranged envelops and papers. He took one, of brown paper, clearly containing more than paper. He then turned, the letter held firmly in one hand.

“I however, have a use for you. You see, while you are careless, and while you are not wise in the ways of cities, you have a saving grace as far as I am concerned.”

The messenger nodded his head up and down.

“And what is that, how may I be useful to sahib?” Using a word that he never, ever, ever, ever used otherwise. And added to it that broad grin which he thought foreigners associated with stupidity.

“You are single mindedly greedy. And I believe, that if you are offered a suitable reward, that you will be far more careful in your natural place - which is in a household.”

The messenger nodded with his head, and reached out to accept the envelop.

“From now on you are to be careful, and you are to write to me once a week, with the instructions in this envelop. For your services, in 10 years time, you will receive a sum of money, in silver and gold, that will keep you for the rest of your life, along with a consort of your choosing. For these 10 years you will be mine. I shall, of course, provide you with a certain amount of money to defray expenses. You are to keep any that you do not spend on what I tell you to do, and return it to me.” The messenger had, for a moment, thought he could chisel on the expenses and keep the excess, but realized that his payment in the interim would be in some other form. “And once a year you are to return here with it. And then I shall pay you in a more portable form.”

Ten years is a very long term of service, but suddenly he went from being a sweating lackey, and a poor one, to being a man in service, with a goal.

“But this, this is far to generous. Why should I be worth this much to you.”

The Englishman looked at him and smiled.

“Because you are regarded as stupid, you are trusted. The time will come, one day, when I will tell you to murder your master, at any risk, any expense, and any danger. When that day comes, you shall do it. If you fail to, I will have you killed by the most painful way imaginable.”

The messenger looked, and blinked, and in that moment, enlightenment reached him. He no longer was trapped in the front of his head, by the picture book that men call their consciousness, but was guided, instead, by a deeper conviction, that could feel how tumblers fit together in the world. He felt himself falling into place, and felt how, before, he had been used in the most worthless of ways, played like a fool.

He was a foll no longer. He sat, sipping his coffee, and for the first time spoken in a new tone, lower, more bitter, more brutal.

“It shall be so.”

The Englishman blinked, and then smiled, he had not misjudged the man - for, you see, the Englishman had served in the great rebellion with the man’s father - who had been a brave fool - and had known the mother - who was as cunning as a fox. He had hoped that the fox bred true, even if it had been hidden for many years.

“You are of course, not to change your behaviour in any outward way.”

“I shall wear my old self like a filthy cloak.” But in the dim voiced way he had used before. “Let me sleep here a while. And then I shall go, troubling you no more.” With this he slid the envelop into the hollow under his arm, taking care to make it seem merely the gathering point for his cloths. He searched about grasped a cheap walking stick, and grasped it.

“To disguise my package, if I may.”

The Englishman nodded, turned, closed the desk, locked it deliberately, and then walked out. Of course the messenger could feel eyes upon him, though he knew not from where, but that did not matter, he slept, half slept.

And awoke a different man. He rose without uttering a word, fixed his attire so he was hard to recognize, and slid into the crowd, taking great pains to land each step quietly, and always, always, always looking in every direction.

There was a blood red moon rising, and its light tinged the early twilight that painted the buildings in hues that have no proper names. He had been reborn here, and he now walked like a Bengali.