Red Earth and Pouring Rain (23 page)

‘What, Mamaji?’ Chotta said, looking at his uncle’s drawn face; he turned, and seeing the snake, jumped to his feet, drawing
back his fist. The king-cobra arched its neck, lowering its hooded head closer to the ground, to Sikander, and opened its
mouth, revealing milky-white, delicately-curved fangs, tapering two inches to the fatal points. They stayed like that for
a moment, frozen, while Sanjay sat up, yawning,
crossed his legs, leaned his elbows on his knees and propped his chin on cupped palms, and then Chotta laughed. Slowly, he
reached over to the king-cobra, to its mouth, its jaws, a forefinger held out to touch a tooth, to run up and down its length.
When Chotta pulled his hand back, a yellow bubble of venom glistened on his finger-tip; he held it up for a moment, twisting
his finger this way and that, smiling, and then Ram Mohan scrambled forward on all fours, foreseeing exactly what was about
to happen: Chotta’s tongue flicked out and picked the liquid cleanly off his finger.

The king-cobra shivered along the length of its body and hissed a long fierce warning to stay away, stay back, and then its
head darted forward, back again, to the side, its eyes shining, and Ram Mohan thought he must die, and cowered, but he heard
another hiss, a softer one, to his right; the snake’s hood folded up, it seemed to relax, and it hissed again, a short sound
this time, somehow enquiring; Sanjay replied, his plump lips pulling back and his teeth clicking together, and what was clearly
a conversation ensued, and then the snake curled around and whipped through the grass.

Sikander stretched, raising his body off the couch with his extended limbs. ‘Oh, what a lovely dream I was having,’ he said.
‘Of lions, lions, and great cities.’

Shaking with excitement, Ram Mohan called for servants and instructed them to take the boys inside and to stay with them,
to not leave them alone; then he hurried to his room and pulled a trunk from under his bed, from which he extracted his Diwali
gifts, a silk kurta from Lucknow, a fine dhoti from Benares, and leather jootis from Jodhpur. He put on the clothes speedily,
but by the time he managed to get his turban tied his fingers ached. He stepped into the crisp new shoes, threw an embroidered
white cloth over his right shoulder, and walked out into the main hall at the front of the house.

When he asked for a closed palanquin and bearers, the servants stared and whispered to each other, and he had to look a little
irritated and snap out reprimands before the vehicle arrived; he managed to sound confident as he gave instructions to the
crew, but as soon as they had trotted out the front gate, into the road, he felt a sudden rush of bile at the back of his
throat, which made him sink back into the cushions, pulling at the curtains to open up a crack, to let some air into the
stifling darkness. The streets outside seemed strange and unfamiliar, the houses —with their shuttered and loopholed doors
and walls —mysterious and forbidding; he realized, then, that he hadn’t left his sister’s home from the day he had arrived
seventeen years ago. By the time they halted, in front of a red brick house surrounded by high walls, a vein which curved
over his right temple throbbed painfully with each beat of his heart; he cupped his hands over his eyes for a minute, then
pushed the curtains aside and stepped out onto a marble stairway lit by lanterns.

‘I would like,’ he enunciated clearly, painfully, to a mustachioed major-domo, ‘to request the honourable commander to grant
me the favour of an audience.’ The man stepped back, and Ram Mohan realized that in his eagerness to say the right thing properly,
he had forgotten not to spit on the plosive consonants. He went on: ‘I realize it is highly informal of me to appear like
this, without notice, but I hope the Commander Sahib will excuse my bad manners. I come on urgent business.’

The retainer disappeared, gesturing at a couch and nodding up bowls of water and paan-containers; a few minutes later, he
reappeared.

‘Come.’

Uday Singh was practising in a tiled court-yard, stripped to the waist, spinning a ten-foot lance slowly above his head; his
shadow loomed above, dancing on the white walls.

‘I’m sorry to receive you like this,’ he said, moving the lance from hand to hand without interrupting the slow rhythm of
his circles. ‘But as you said, Sahib, you came without notice. So I presumed that you wouldn’t take offence at my lack of
courtesy’

‘No matter,’ Ram Mohan said. ‘No matter. No matter.’ He forced himself to take a deep breath and look away from the black
point of the weapon. ‘I came, I came to ask you about the boys.’

‘What boys?’

‘Our boys. Skinner’s boys, and my sister’s boy.’

‘Why would I know anything about them?’

‘You brought the laddoos.’

‘What laddoos?’

‘You know. You brought them. I was there.’

‘I must have forgotten.’

‘You have to remember. How could you forget? You brought the laddoos that enabled their birth.’

‘What a strange idea. Even if it were true, what then?’

‘Where did they come from? Who was the man who sent them? What were they?’

‘Too many questions. I haven’t any answers.’

‘You do.’

‘I don’t, really.’

‘You must tell me. You must.’

Uday stopped moving and straightened up, and as if by chance the lance angled towards Ram Mohan’s chest.

‘Why must I?’ Uday said.

‘You must.’ Ram Mohan stepped forward. ‘You must. For her. For the sake of Sikander’s mother.’

‘Her? Is that why you came? For her?’

‘I saw today, in the garden behind my brother-in-law’s house, a king-cobra spread its hood above Sikander, shielding him from
the sun and weeping at the same time. I saw today Chotta Sikander reach out and take poison from that same cobra’s mouth like
one takes water from a spout, and drink it like other children drink cow’s milk. I saw today Sanjay speak to that cobra as
if they were old friends exchanging greetings or a couple of versifiers comparing couplets. That’s why you must tell me who
and what these boys are.’

‘A cobra?’

‘A king-cobra, black and flecked with gold and with a hood as big as this.’

‘You look after these boys?’

‘I am with them day and night.’

‘All right,’ Uday Singh said, laying down the lance and sitting on a stool. ‘Sit, please. You should know. I don’t know how
you’ll feel about all this, but you should know. Listen…’

I first saw her (Uday Singh said), the woman who is now Skinner’s wife and the mother of Sikander, during the siege of Bejagarh,
when we had finally blown up the East Gate and were in the city, in the palaces. All around us the shells were still falling
as we chopped up their defences. I served then, as I do now, under this Skinner, a careful, stolid man, without much in the
way of dash or daring, but a soldier, nevertheless, in a monotonous, determined way. So we broke into the city at the first
hint of light, and struggled up the hill, coming up against little knots of
resistance every so often and taking casualties, but we were already certain that we had won, and finally, with whoops of
joy we plunged into the palaces, eager for the rubies and gold inside that were ours for the taking.

And in a certain palace, a richly-appointed place, we saw, down a corridor, what seemed like a few men running, and we decided
we had caught up with some stragglers, so we rushed on after them, losing sight of them, then spying them again, like jungle
dogs after antelope; a shell landed then, tearing through the roofing, and wood and masonry flew everywhere, and I saw a gap
open ahead of me, and without thinking, in my momentum, you understand, I ran through it, and saw instantly my old friend
and once-comrade, George Thomas, known to the world as Jahaj Jung, and he was standing as if stupefied, in front of a woman
of beauty.

Even as I ran towards them her loveliness began to work on me, and I felt the sounds of war fade away, and my breath left
my body, and I wanted to weep, so it was as much to release myself from this as to warn him that I was coming that I shouted,
JAHAJ JUNG!’ and he turned, stiffly, still not seeing me, and me, I was trying not to look at her, trying to keep my attention
on my weapon, and on him, because I knew I must face him. Then Skinner said something, with the arrogance he must have been
born with, and I spoke to Thomas, but he jumped at me, came at me instantly, you see, without a word of greeting or recognition,
as one expects from an old comrade, even if the circumstances of fate and combat should pit one against the other, and so
he surprised me, surprised me not only by the quickness of his attack but with the mad strength of his blow, which threw him
off balance and open to my thrusts, had it not splintered my sabre and sent me stumbling back. So I picked myself up and chased
after him, angry beyond words at his rudeness and insensitivity —you see, after all, one does not expect such behaviour from
friends —but in the crowd and confusion of fighting, I quite lost track of him, so on the street outside the palace, I was
obliged to give up the chase.

I went back inside and found Skinner organizing a guard around the few women who were left, the few who were seated on the
black-and-white floor of the great hall we had found them in, their heads bowed in shame, and I felt pity for them, because
now, denied death, they had
nothing left but dishonour; Skinner was strutting about, looking busy, and I noticed he was paying particular attention to
one of the women: he knelt down, next to her, and said, in his abominable Urdu, his face ruddy, a smile on his lips, ‘Don’t
worry. You’re safe now,’ and she said, her voice muffled by the dupatta, ‘Just let me kill myself.’ He said, ‘No, no, nonsense.
Nothing of the sort,’ and she glanced up quickly, and the veil moved, and I saw her eyes flash with hatred, but again my heart
moved for her loveliness and I cursed myself for not having the courage to kill her there, then. But she lived and Skinner
took her in marriage, and what could she do? —her city was dead, her people were dead, her family was dead, her time was dead.

So I thought I would never see her again, but as you know, some years ago she summoned me, and I thought of the danger of
going to your house, of the suspicions of plotting and treason floating in the air like poison, but I tried to remember her
face and could only bring back the ache it caused me, and I thought 1 must go, even if it’s only to see her again, once again
before I die.

I came to your house in the early morning, to sit at her feet, and she was as beautiful as ever, only now she looked like
a radiant young girl, eager and flushed; now there was no longer that ache. She smiled at me and said, ‘You were there when
Bejagarh fell, when that man tore off my dupatta? Yes? And you called him Jahaj Jung? Is he that one? The warrior from the
seas? The one with the cannon? The conqueror of cities?’ And I said, ‘Yes, it was him, for some reason, in disguise, or at
least incognito.’ And she said, ‘As long as it was him. Listen, Uday Singh. I have decided. I have been insulted, but that
was in my fate. My karma is bad, so I must live. But if I must have children by a firangi, let it be that one. If I must have
sons, let them be fathered by Jahaj Jung. Go to him. Find him, wherever he is. Tell him I said, if I must have sons, let it
be you.’

I looked at her happy face, and I thought of the terrible anger that must have driven her into this madness; I cursed this
age, when the cow of morality stands tottering on one leg, when the only love that stands between men and women is passion,
when the only virtue is greed, where honour is forgotten, but I said, ‘I will tell him.’ I said this because then and now
I would have done anything for her, because like all those who have seen her I too loved her.

What was it? Her beauty? That was there, but perhaps it was too fragile; was it her grace? That was there, but even that is
an artificial, temporary thing, which excites only need; what was it? I will tell you: You and I, Ram Mohan Sahib, and the
others, have loved her for her innocence, for that genuine thing, like a child’s, which makes it seem that she comes to us
from some earlier age, from a time when the use of power had not made us cynical, when there was no distance between what
was said and what was felt, when all actions had consequences. Now there are only causes and results, but I said, ‘Yes, I
will tell him,’ and I rose to go, and she smiled, saying, ‘Tell him that he was the first to raise the veil.’ I understood.

I bowed and left the same way I had come, and contrived to be released from my duties, even at the risk of being suspected
of plotting; the same day, I rode out on my strongest horses, money stitched into my coat, my bamboo lance couched firmly
beside my stirrup, repeating to myself, ‘If I must have sons, let it be you.’

After several weeks of chasing rumours, of frustration in small villages and towns and nameless hamlets frequented by bandits,
I found him. I found him in an abandoned town, to the north and somewhat to the west of Delhi, amidst walls shattered by the
patient weight of trees, among crumbling wells; and when I found him he was dressed in women’s clothes, and in the process
of having his face painted by a cluster of giggling houris, while nearby, three badmashes —the sort, you understand, who carry
a dagger in their belts, a smaller one in the top of a boot, a still smaller one behind the shoulder, and a tiny blade up
a sleeve, and another one or two secreted elsewhere —three scoundrels heaped flowers before an image of a woman made of wood
and mud and chanted:

HRING, O destroyer of time!

SHRING, 0 terrific one!

KRING, You who are beneficent!

Possessor of all the arts,

You are Kamala,

Destroyer of the pride of the Kali Age
,

Who are kind to him of the matted hair
,

Devourer of Him who devours

Mother of Time

You are brilliant as the fires of the final dissolution
,