Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

The subedar’s composure was undisturbed.

Listen to me, Kesri Singh, he said, in his grave, steady voice. We of our family have done a lot for you. We accepted you into this paltan even though you were not one of us. Because of our generous natures we treated you fairly and encouraged you to feel at home here and helped you reach the rank that you now enjoy. We went still further and accepted your sister into our family, even though she had a dirty complexion and was past the age of marriage; as for her dowry it was not fit for a pauper. All this we did for you, but you never showed any gratitude for it; nor did you give us any sign of appreciation. Behind our backs you scorned us, and made fun of us. We know that you think that this paltan cannot get on without you. None of this is a secret to us. We have put up with it all this time, because we are by nature generous and forgiving. Why, the other day it even came to my ears that after hearing of my brother’s death you had distributed sweets in the camp-bazar, to the randis and naach-walis! But still I said nothing, knowing that your punishment would come from the heavens. And so it has — for what has happened now cannot be overlooked. It is a stain on our family’s honour — and your face too is blackened by it. The only way you can redeem your honour, Kesri Singh, is by delivering your sister to us so that she can be made to answer for what she has done. Until that day no one in this paltan — not the afsars and nor the jawans — will eat with you or accept water from you, or even exchange words with you. From now on you have no place in this paltan — if you choose to remain here it will be as a ghost. I will explain all this to the English officers in the morning; as you know, in matters of family and caste, they always respect our decisions. I will tell them that as far as we are concerned you are now a pariah, an outcast. In our eyes you are no better than a stray dog; you are worse than filth. For you to remain in this tent for another moment is intolerable: it is an insult to our biraderi. You will never set foot in any of our tents ever again. That is all I have to say to you.

The subedar hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat it on the ground.

Abh hamra aankhi se dur ho ja! Now get out of my sight, Kesri Singh! I never want to set eyes on you again.

The walk from the subedar’s tent to his own was one of the longest of Kesri’s life. Despite the lateness of the hour many men were still up, whispering outside their tents. Kesri passed a few sepoys from his own company and not one of them uttered a greeting or even looked him in the face: it was evident that they knew that he had been declared an outcaste. Everyone drew back, so that an empty space seemed to open around Kesri, following him down the path. It was as if he had become a moving source of defilement.

Kesri could feel their eyes burning into his back; he could hear their voices too, sniggering and whispering. He wished that one of them would say something to his face: he would have liked nothing better than to pick a fight — but he knew there was no hope of that. None of them would offer him that satisfaction; they feared him too much to take him on alone.

When his tent came within sight, Kesri saw that a pack of dogs had gathered around it. They were fighting over a heap of bones and offal that someone had emptied there, in his absence. Knowing that he was being watched, he skirted around the dogs without slackening his step — he was determined not to give them the satisfaction of gloating over his downfall.

Stepping inside his tent, he saw that his belongings were lying scattered about on the ground. His servant had disappeared: it seemed that the chootiya had seized the opportunity to run away with some of his utensils.

Kesri lit a candle and began to gather his things together. As he was picking through the pile he came upon a small picture, painted in bright colours on a scrap of yellowing paper. It was a drawing of a little girl, done in bold, flat lines. He recognized it immediately: it was Deeti’s handiwork; the child was her daughter, Kabutri. Deeti had given it to him at their last meeting in Nayanpur, when Kesri was on leave at home.

Kesri sat down on the edge of his charpoy and stared at the picture, with his elbows on his knees.

What had become of Kabutri? And of Deeti?

The tale of her eloping with a lover and boarding a ship for Mareech seemed like nonsense to him, hardly worth a thought. But some of the story’s details were certainly believable: that Hukam Singh had died for instance — his health had been declining for a long time so his death could hardly be counted as a surprise. Nor was it hard to believe that Deeti would try to extricate herself from the clutches of her husband’s family once he was gone.

Clearly something had happened to her, and even though Kesri had no way of knowing what it was, he sensed that it was the cause of his family’s long silence: clearly the matter was too delicate to be disclosed to the paid scribblers who usually wrote their letters for them. To learn the truth he would have to wait till he went home — which would not be for a long time yet.

Kesri fell on his charpoy and lay still, listening to the familiar sounds of the camp: the bells of the watch; the drunken laughter of men returning from the camp-bazar; the horses, whinnying in their enclosure. Somewhere a young sepoy was singing a song about going home to his village.

The paltan had been his home and family for twenty years, yet it was clear to him now that he had never truly belonged to it. He understood that his dream of rising to the rank of subedar had never stood any chance of being realized. The present subedar and his kinsmen would never have allowed it — in their eyes he had always been an interloper and they would have found some pretext for evicting him. And the worst part of it was that none of this was truly new: he had known it all along, in his heart, but had failed to recognize and act on it.

This realization brought on a wave of disgust, directed as much at himself as towards the men he had considered his comrades-in-arms. He remembered that Gulabi had often tried to warn him about his enemies but he had never paid attention. Now she too would have to sever her connections with him: if not, she would lose her place in the camp-bazar — the subedar would make sure of that.

For Gulabi’s sake, as much as for his own, Kesri understood that he would have to leave the battalion. Once a sentence of ostracism had been passed it was impossible for a man to continue in his old paltan. Kesri had seen it happen before so he knew the subedar had it in his power to make it impossible for him to discharge his duties: if he were to turn up at the parade ground tomorrow, his orders would not be obeyed.

There was no doubt of it — he would have to leave. But where was he to go? To transfer to another unit at this point in his career would be very difficult; and to retire now would mean sacrificing the pension that he would be entitled to if he remained in the army another two years. But what was he to do in the interim?

The cruellest part was that this had happened at a time when he was too tired to think clearly. He stretched himself out on his charpoy and dozed off. When he woke next it was to find Pagla-baba sitting beside him.

Arré Kesri, why are you sleeping? Haven’t you heard? Mee-sah’b is leaving for Calcutta tomorrow.

Kesri sat up with a start. What are you saying, Pagla-baba?

Didn’t Mee-sah’b ask you something the other day?

Suddenly Kesri remembered the adjutant’s offer.

Are you saying I should volunteer for the expedition?