Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

When they arrived at the island there was not a man among them who did not regret having come. The encampment was a stockade on a sand-spit, hemmed in by jungle and marshland, river and sea. A sizeable Burmese force had already assembled on the far side of the Naf River, with obviously hostile intent.

Kesri did not have to wait long for his first taste of combat. One day, while out on patrol, his company was ambushed by a Burmese raiding party. The sepoys could only get off a single volley before their attackers closed on them: after that it was every man for himself, with the sepoys’ bayonets pitted against the spears and cutlasses of the Burmese.

Kesri found himself facing an onrush from a man with a fear-somely tattooed face and a huge, flashing cutlass. He dropped to one knee, as he had so often done in drills, and took his bayonet back, in preparation for the thrust. His lunge, when he made it, was perfectly executed. The attacker was evidently unprepared for the length of the weapon and was caught in mid-stride. The bayonet went right through his ribs and into his heart.

This was the first time that Kesri had killed a man. His attacker’s tattooed face was so close that he could see the light dimming in his eyes — but to his horror the head kept coming towards him, even after the eyes had gone blank. He gave his rifle a savage thrust, trying to extricate his bayonet from the dead man’s ribs. But he succeeded only in shaking the corpse, so that the head whipped back and forth: a ribbon of drool curled out of the dead man’s mouth and hit Kesri in the face. He realized now, in mounting panic, that his bayonet was trapped between the man’s ribs.

Meanwhile, from the edge of his vision he could see another man bearing down on him with an upraised cutlass. He tugged on the butt of his rifle again, but it wouldn’t come free. The impaled corpse clung stubbornly to the bayonet, with the eyes wide open, staring into Kesri’s face.

The other attacker was so close now that there was no time to lower the corpse to the ground and coax out the blade. Kesri had no choice but to use the dead man as a shield. When the attacker’s cutlass began its descent, he torqued his body, as he had learnt to do in the wrestling pit, and levered the corpse up to absorb the blow.

The first stroke hit the corpse on the back, pushing the tattooed face against Kesri’s and knocking him to the ground. The strike was blunted, but not entirely deflected. Kesri knew he had been hit, because he could see his blood spurting over the dead man’s face.

Then the attacker came at him from the other side. Kesri had the full weight of the corpse on him now. Again he waited until the blade had begun its descent and then he heaved on the butt of his rifle, using the corpse to block the slashing cutlass.

Again the strike was only partially deflected. It hit him in the arm this time, glancing off an amulet that Pagla-baba had given him. At the same time it somehow also jerked loose his bayonet. Still covered by the corpse, Kesri pulled the blade free, taking care to keep it hidden from his attacker. He waited for the man to close in for the kill and only then did he make his thrust, shoving his bayonet through the gap between the corpse’s arm and flank. This time he aimed for the stomach, and was lucky to hit home. The second attacker collapsed upon the first and the impact of his fall knocked the breath out of Kesri, who was now buried under both their bodies. His head began to spin and the last thing he was aware of was Hukam Singh’s voice, shouting at him, telling him to get up.

After that Kesri spent a month in the garrison’s field-hospital, recovering from his wounds. Lying in bed, he promised himself that when it was his turn to put recruits through bayonet drill, he would teach them always to aim for the stomach: it was the softest part of a man’s body and there was no danger of getting your bayonet trapped between any bones.

A few months after Kesri had returned to active duty the whole garrison was evacuated from Shahpuri, by ship. Back at the military cantonment in Barrackpore, Kesri found a letter waiting for him, from his village: his brother Bhim had dictated it to a letter-writer.

In the intervening years Kesri had regularly sent money home, through sepoys who were going on leave. Through them he had also received news of his family: he knew that after his departure, Bhim had stayed back to look after their land.

Now Bhim was writing to say that it was time for Kesri to return to the village for a visit. Their father had forgiven everything and was eager to see him, for many reasons. One was that he was involved in some litigation over a piece of land and had been told that the magistrate, who was English, was more likely to rule in their favour if Kesri was seen in the courtroom, dressed in the uniform of a Company sepoy. Another reason was that they had received a splendid proposal of marriage for Kesri: it was from a family of rich landowning thakurs. The girl’s brothers were also Company sepoys, so it was a perfect match in every way.

Bhim ended with the observation that he was himself eager to see the matter of Kesri’s marriage settled so that he could start thinking of getting married himself.

Kesri was in no hurry to find a wife: he had thought that he would do what many sepoys did, and wait till he had left service. But he was also keen to be reconciled with his parents, so he took leave for four months and went home.

On reaching Nayanpur, he was astonished by the stir that was created by his arrival. It turned out that in his absence he had become a figure of some note in the village. The money he sent home had provided his family with new comforts and had also allowed them to hold pujas at the local temples. All of Nayanpur turned out for the prayashchitta ceremony that his family held, to remove the stain of his overseas travels. When he appeared in court with his father, the English magistrate took special note, and the ruling did indeed go in his favour.

As for Kesri’s doubts about getting married, they were quickly swept aside by his family. The dowry that had been offered was so substantial that there would have been no question of saying no to the alliance, even if he had wanted to, which he didn’t, since there were no grounds for objection: the bride was plump, fair and quite amiable; and she also got on well with his mother and sisters — especially Deeti, who doted on her. Kesri saw immediately that his family had chosen well, and he, for his part, was prepared to do his best to live up to all that was expected of him, as a husband. The wedding was a grand affair, attended by hundreds of people. His in-laws had wide connections, so all the zamindars of the district came, as well as the mukhiyas of the nearby villages.

With things going so well, Kesri briefly contemplated retiring from service and moving back home permanently. But a couple of months of playing the householder resolved his doubts. He found, to his surprise, that he missed the orderliness of his life with the Pacheesi; he missed the regularity of knowing exactly when he would eat and sleep and bathe; he missed the cheerful camaraderie; he missed his hut, where everything was within reach and in its place; he missed the straight, well-swept streets and lanes of the cantonment — the galis of the village he had grown up in now seemed to him chaotic and dirty.

After a few months of family life even the oppressive hierarchies of military rank seemed more bearable. At least you knew exactly where you stood with everyone around you — and coping with the petty tyrannies of naiks and havildars was no more difficult than dealing with his father. And compared with the complications of the marital bed, his transactions with Gulabi were vastly more satisfying.