Vikram Chandra - Red Earth and Pouring Rain

‘He is dead.’

The blood dripped off the roof and made a shapeless puddle below.

* * *

At the funeral, Sanjay handed Sikander a note: ‘Come with me.’ As Sikander read it, Sanjay wrote another: ‘Bring your men; we will finish all this.’

‘I can’t,’ Sikander said. ‘I’ve eaten their salt.’

‘That’s an old excuse even you don’t believe any more.’

‘I am bound.’

‘Even after this?’

‘I cannot see any other way out.’

‘Will you oppose us?’

‘I suppose I will have to.’

‘I will kill you this time.’

Sikander said nothing, and Sanjay turned back to the pyre, which had settled into a red glow. He reached in, feeling the heat not as pain but as a foreign element pressed against the skin, and came up with a handful of black ash. As he walked away, Sikander called to him.

‘What happened to you?’

Sanjay pointed at him, meaning: exactly what happened to you.

That evening, as the sun set, Sanjay watched as Sunil cooked eight batches of chappatis, each sprinkled with black ash. The smell of the flour was sharp with memories, but Sanjay pressed them away and gave his instructions: each packet of chappatis was to be sent to one of the cardinal directions. At the first village or town the chappatis were to be delivered to those most filled with anger. They were to eat the chappatis, saving only a tiny piece that was to be crumbled and powdered over the chappatis they prepared themselves, and sent on to their neighbours in the next settlement. So the bitter taste of war would spread, multiplying at every eating, until it was rampant and uncontrollable and the hour was right. Sanjay wrote: ‘It cannot be stopped.’

Sandeep said: ‘So Sanjay prepared a fire for the English. He moved from town to town, travelling without cease by foot and often exhausting Sunil into collapse. His food appeared in every village from Bengal to Punjab, and since it was dusty, small and common no English ever noticed it, at least not until it was too late. There was always the usual, the petty intrigues of small kings, the obsequiousness of the servants towards their masters, the loyalty of the soldiers to their salt, the constant churning of the ocean of trade, and there was no Englishman who understood that everything had changed, that Sanjay walked the streets of Hindustan, which was India now. Sanjay was pale, he gleamed with a hard lustre like machine steel, his hair was white, he was silent, and he spoke to men and women about their humiliation and their rancour, he told them to think about what they loved. He showed them loss. The country grew quiet and the English thought it was peace.’

Sanjay came back to Delhi because there was one man who knew what he was and what he wanted: Sikander. Sikander knew and fought him at every turn, Sikander gathered intelligence and sent out spies and reported to the English, who never believed him. In Agra, Sanjay set up a cabal of Muslim horse traders, but three months after they began their secret work they were arrested for treason by Sikander and executed; Sanjay asked, who is his best friend? An Englishman’s name was the answer, and Sanjay said (with bitterness), kill him. This was done, and in return Sikander caused the arrest of a man who was innocent of the Englishman’s death, but who was essential to Sanjay’s schemes in Delhi, and this agent, a nobleman, was tried for the murder and vulgarly hanged. At this insult Sanjay could bear it no longer, and he sent a message to Sikander asking for a meeting. It was agreed that they would meet on black Amavas night in Hansi.

They met on the barren field where Jahaj Jung had fought his last battle. Sanjay stood, his hands folded across his chest, watching as a slight breeze kicked up dust against his thighs. Some distance away there was a doorway, an empty arch left from some long-disappeared building, and against this Sunil huddled with his men. Three of them were farmers, there was a small land-owner’s younger son from Avadh, and two grain merchants, and the other dozen ex-soldiers of all ages. They were cold, but not frightened, even of the Yellow Boys whom they were meeting, because they had seen Sanjay break a man’s neck with one shrug, and they knew his coolness and his delicacy. Sanjay felt their eagerness, and the winter’s cold against his bare chest made him keenly alive. He was only afraid that Sikander would not come, that he had in his dotage learnt care and the fear of darkness. Sanjay wanted him to come, and it was not the ruin, the door, that struck him as poignant, but the thought that whatever he and Sikander did would be the finish of a lifetime. This was sadly refreshing. The winter earth was new and wet and full of promise.

Finally Sanjay saw a skirmish line of torches curl up out of the horizon. They came slowly, maintaining a sort of patient discipline, an even distance from each other that Sanjay had never been able to get from his men, despite his appearance and their fear of him. It was a skill he found himself envying even now, this effortless military grace, so that when Sikander reined up his horse Sanjay was already angry.

‘Halloa,’ Sikander said. ‘What a hellish long way for a meeting.’

He strode forward, through the wary lines of their guards, and hugged Sanjay, thumping him on the back twice. Sanjay pulled back, and he could see that he was smiling, that he was sincere in his gladness. But Sanjay had no interest in conversation, and he wrote a note and handed it to him: ‘Why do you fight us?’ Sikander took the note, but was moving his head from side to side, peering at him through the darkness. Sanjay pointed at the note.

‘Can you see in the dark?’ Sikander said, with an expression more of horror than amazement. Sanjay snatched a torch and held it above Sikander’s head, lighting grey hair, dark skin that looked porous in the red light, a jowled face. Slowly, Sikander lowered his gaze to the piece of paper in his hand. Sanjay saw a bald spot on top of the head before him, and was filled with sudden pity.

They walked a little away, into the field, and they sat next to each other on the earth, and Sanjay held Sikander’s arm and traced message after message onto it, all asking the same thing: ‘Come with us. Why will you not come with us?’ Sikander shrugged. ‘Do you understand I will have to kill you?’ Sikander nodded. ‘Why, why will you die for them?’ Sanjay told him about the English, what they were, what they had done already and what they wanted to do. ‘It is not only that they steal from us. It is not only that our grandchildren’s children will starve because they will bleed us into poverty and weakness. It is not only this. Do you remember a voice I used to hear, the voice of Alexander? They are mad, they want more than land, they want to change the world. They will not stop, not ever, when the English are gone it will be somebody else, they will kill everything in their search for beauty. They are mad. Everything else will cease to exist but their madness. Do you understand? We must fight them now or lose forever. Your brother is dead, and he was my brother. Do you remember your mother? We are all lost.’

Sikander was silent, and so Sanjay thought, no, not this, a change of tactics is necessary. He wrote again.

‘What is it? Is it what they have given you? You think they’ve given you honour and wealth? They’ve made you into a national monument, Sikander. You’ve become one of the sights of Delhi. They get here, with their children and their nannies and ayahs and dogs and picnic-baskets, and first they do the Red Fort, ladies and gentlemen, mothers and fathers, babies and babas, here please first be seeing the place where Shah Jahan used to hold court; then they go to the Qutab Minar, aunties and uncles, now we are having here the tallest tower in the world, the wonder of the continent; and then they come here, English lords and ladies, now please look at this man, this black man, this nigger man — here, in human shape and form, a mausoleum! His skin has turned into stone, his bones are timbers, he houses the death of hopes and ambitions, but he makes a serviceable shelter for the great ones of Britain. Once it was thought that an emperor lived here, a ruler who would lead his peoples, but as you can see, that was merely illusion, and what lives here now is a doddering old madman (a lunatic inhabits every tomb in this country), a few rot-odoured vultures. But don’t be scared, little ones, the old man won’t harm you, come on in, sit at his knee, he’ll tell you a story, a fine story of adventure and conquest, he has plenty of those, he’s served you well, he’s dispatched men all over this land for your fathers. Now he sits waiting eagerly for visitors, hungry for an audience, so he can smile and wag his head and entertain them; see how clownishly he acts out the episode, see how he hops and jumps, like this he rode the horse, like this he swung the sword, oh, be kind, children, ladies, reward him with a smile. And then they leave, saying, so, young Robert, did you like the shrine, wasn’t it quite amusing in a quaint provincial Indian way? Little Esther, leave that alone, no, it’s part of the mausoleum, no, you can’t take a couple of bricks with you. Roger, don’t let Rover go in those nice rose bushes, he can do it over there, against the side of the building. Now, now, Edward, don’t play in the road, watch where you’re going, don’t use that sort of language, and especially not concerning those wagons, they’re taking cotton to Manchester, and iron ore to Leeds, and gold to the Bank of England. No, Edward, all that doesn’t belong to this manor — it’s not a manor, but a memorial — it belongs to us, because this monument commemorates surrender, fatigue, cowardice. Look at this plaque — what is this shape, Edward? You know this shape. Can you read the writing? — it says, in large carved letters, that dharma is dead, the king has abdicated. That means, Edward, that they have lost, and we have won. Come on, children, hurry now, we’re going to the zoo next, to look at the animals, won’t that be nice? Grinning monkeys, and miming apes? They’ve made you into an animal, Sikander, and somehow you don’t even feel the insult.’